I’m in such a funk over the start of the upcoming new term (new students! uncertain classroom vibes! balancing my dissertation and teaching and my research job!!) so of course I handled it all like a responsible adult by turning in my syllabus for inspection and then playing Rimworld until my eyes got irritated from staring at the screen.
(I keep meaning to draft up a “how to do well in college English” post at an appropriate time of the year. I have so many Thoughts about it…)
“I think that I’m more in touch with my innocence now, than I was before when I was so terribly naive. I think I can answer your question best by saying, I don’t know if I’ll ever be as naive as I once was. But I think I’ll always be, til the day I die, as innocent as I am.” - Gene Wilder
Samuel L. Jackson first met Marlon
Brando when he sneaked up behind
Jackson and started reciting his
famous speech from Pulp Fiction.
They exchanged numbers, Jackson
called, and he discovered that Brando’s
calls were always filtered by someone
pretending it was a Chinese restaurant,
because only people who were supposed
to have the number would think to
ask for Brando. Source
The op of this post said i could write something based on their headcanon so here it is. to me the story has to go on for this to be anything like interesting but I DON’T HAVE THE TIME OR BRAINSPACE TO WRITE IT so here’s what i wrote, just for fun
How he can wear flannel in this weather is anyone’s guess.
But Bitty doesn’t mind the way he sweats as he moves carts of ripe tomatoes and bulbous squashes from truck to table. A bead glistens at his forehead, slides down the slope of his nose to linger on the tip of his chin. His arms stretch taut, muscles bunched, around the crates as he hefts them. The mop of dark hair above his eyebrows is damp, misshapen from the press of his baseball cap, discarded at the side of the register. As Bitty watches, a tuft of bangs becomes unmoored from where he’s combed it aside and flops down almost to his eyes. He doesn’t move to dislodge it. Bitty itches to cross the aisle and slide in behind the Zimmermann Farms table, lift one hand and brush it out of the way without a single word.
He bites his lip and looks down at his own table. Really, he should be rearranging the scones or sorting the loaves or something, but every single week, as this “Mr. Zimmermann” (Bitty has no idea of his first name) unloads his wares, Bitty’s reduced to a staring, flushing mess. Nobody ought to look like that. Nobody especially ought to look like that when they’re toting vegetables. It almost makes Bitty want to eat a healthy diet. Or grow green beans. Or something, some excuse to have a conversation with this square-jawed, droopy-eyed farmer who, when he smiles at a customer, makes Bitty’s toes curl up in his sandals. Maybe he should pick up some rhubarb for a pie.
Yes, rhubarb… and it’s a little early in the season for pumpkins, but when fall rolls around maybe he’ll have pumpkins and … and oh dear Bitty is staring isn’t he.
At first Bitty thought that Johnson was into superhero comics, but then he started hearing familiar names. Like, “Hey, Jack’s in the next update,” or, “’Can’t wait ‘til we meet the frogs, but that’s a lot of comics in the future.”
And now, sitting at the kitchen table as Bitty works on a batch of chocolate chip cookies: “Man, it’s gonna be weird making a cameo soon. I mean, it’s just dibs, but I’m finally making a plot contribution, you know?”
Bitty stops mixing his cookie batter for a second and ventures hesitantly, “Johnson, are you… writing a comic about the team?”
“–What? Oh, no, man, no. We’re all characters in the comic that’s the world, like, all the world’s a stage– that kind of thing.”
“Oh, really?” asks Bitty, playing along. “And what’s the story about?”
“Dunno if I should tell you, Bits. The hero’s not supposed to know all the details beforehand. He’s supposed to figure it out as time goes on.”
“And I’m the hero, am I?”
“Obviously,” says Johnson. Bitty turns away from his mixing bowl just in time to catch Johnson’s wink.
Bitty laughs at that, and the laugh catches in his throat. –Is this flirting? he thinks suddenly. It feels like flirting.
One in four, one in four, one in four, he thinks, and then, Put a cork in it, Bittle, he’s not flirting with you, just think about your damn chocolate chip cookies.
It doesn’t help that Johnson comes up behind him and says, “But it’s gonna end really well, I promise. Lots of hockey butts,” right before leaning over his shoulder to steal some of his cookie batter.
Two days later, Bitty’s back in the Haus kitchen, having a conversation with Coach that flows so easy Bitty feels like he could just open his mouth and say “Coach? I’m–” but Coach changes the subject and Bitty’s courage leaves him, again.
Bitty says his goodbyes, hangs up, and pockets his phone. His pecan pie is gonna need twenty more minutes in the oven, and his phone’s at five percent, and he can’t stop running worst-case scenarios through his head.
The door creaks open and Johnson is swinging his backpack onto the counter. “Hey Bits,” he says, “A little bird told me there’s gonna be an update in two wee–”
Bitty blurts out, “Johnson? Are things really turn out okay?”
Johnson blinks. “Sure, bro, it’ll all be alright in the end. But I’ve told you that before. It’s just a little act 1 conflict.”
“I don’t mean in your comic,” says Bitty. “Oh– forget I asked, it’s not important.” He turns back to the sink, fully intent on busying himself with scrubbing pans until his hands go raw. He shouldn’t have said anything.
A hand lands solidly on his shoulder; Bitty has to catch himself halfway through the instinctive flinch, turning instead to meet Johnson’s eyes. Johnson’s usually such an upbeat guy, but right now Bitty can see a deeper understanding in the set of his face.“You mean in the end, right?”
Bitty nods, not trusting himself to speak.
“Yeah, Bits,” says Johnson. “Don’t worry about it. You definitely get a happy ending.”
still making my way through Golion and i want sincline to have that sort of redemption arc where he goes from “mortal enemy” to “weird uncle who hangs awkwardly around the good guys because he’s got nothing better to do (and makes good egg salad)”
obviously the sign of team membership is chibi sticking you with a family honourific, but like every other respectable 12-year-old he’s been taught Stranger Danger and they don’t come stranger than this guy