museum of accidents

my niche fic i always adore reading is like this weird hyperbol of rom com hijinks coupled with a random backdrop setting

  • mermaid must save their coral reef from a beachfront hotel but falls in love with quirky architect who can’t swim
  • rich socialite is mistaken for substitute high school teacher and keeps coming back because they actually enjoyed teaching and can’t stop thinking about the charming school nurse 
  • fiddle playing busker saves hot shot lawyer’s life before christmas - as thanks they invite them to their family’s christmas - they happen to be werewolves and the lawyer’s sibling is suspicious and begrudgingly charmed 
  • museum volunteer accidently awakens 1000 year old viking and finds love, adventure and a longboat 

am i the only one? i am all for reading all these, btw

“I am not a flower, but a body with rules and predictable, cellular qualities.
My eyelashes and fingernails and skin and spit are organized by proteins
 designed to erode at a pre-encoded date and time, no matter what you do or do
 not do to me -
I am remakably like an animal.
More like a heifer than a sunrise, I want to bite, stroke, swallow you so stop lying
 there trying to think of something to say and trying to understand me.
I am the body next to but unlike yours.
You already know me. You already know what I’m made of.”

- Rachel Zucker (from “Don’t Say Anything Beautiful Kiss Me”)

Anyway,
if my lips were rose petals they’d taste too bitter.
If my cheeks were apples they’d crawl with apple worms.
If my eyes were stars they’d be dead by the time you saw them.
If I moved you like the moon I’d disappear once a month.
If my teeth were Chiclets you’d want to chew on them and spit them out.
If my hands were birds you couldn’t hold them; they’d peck you bloody.
Is my skin alabaster? Then it’s cold and hard and one day someone will skin me,
make me into a cold hard box tinged with pink or yellow, to hold unguents, then
how will you love me?
If my vagina is a cool, dark forest you’ll certainly be lost, you have no sense of direction.
If my vagina is a cave—watch out! It’s prone to seismic shifts and avalanche.
If my vagina is a river of honey: orange, lavender, fine herbs, hazelnut, all too sweet.
If my ears are shells I can’t hear you, only the ocean anyway.
And if my voice is music, it is unintelligible.
Don’t say anything.
I am not a flower, but a body with rules and predictable, cellular qualities.
My eyelashes and fingernails and skin and spit are organized by proteins
designed to erode at a pre-encoded date and time, no matter what you do or do
not do to me—
I am remarkably like an animal.
More like a heifer than a sunrise, I want to bite, stroke, swallow you so stop lying
there trying to think of something to say and trying to understand me.
I am the body next to but unlike yours.
You already know me. You already know what I’m made of.
—  Rachel Zucker, “Don’t Say Anything Beautiful Kiss Me,” Museum of Accidents