I don’t get the appeal of human or domestic AU’s. It’s basically just taking everything that made the original piece of media interesting and stripping it away, and in it’s place we get characters working shitty minimum wage jobs, taking college classes while dealing with students who’re walking stereotypes, and watching TV on the coach with their significant other, snuggling and complaining about life. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I read, watch, and play media to escape from my boring and mundane existence, visiting fantastic worlds and witnessing awe inspiring events. Now I’m not saying that it has to be the most earth shattering stuff imaginable, I’m just asking for something a little more interesting than normal people living normal lives, because god knows I get enough of that from life itself.
Fucking colours, how do they work. I don’t understand how some people can just churn out the graphic design equivalent of a Van Gogh or a Picasso, while I sit here painstakingly piecing together Macaroni and Glitter Glue Art Therapy by Inmate at an Institution for the Criminally Insane.
I spent my afternoon crawling on my hands and knees in used book stores and picking up various delightful things. I’m particularly excited to peruse What Jane Austen Ate and Charles Dickens Knew – whenever I get my hands on something pertaining to 19th century British culture I can’t help but feel how I did as a child when someone bought me a book on dinosaurs or deep sea fishes. “COOL, I AM GOING TO EDUCATE THE SHIT OUT OF MYSELF NOW AND IT’S GONNA BE AWESOME.”
Things I am doing right now: eating chocolate truffles, drinking martinis (extra dry), rolling on the floor hysterically.
I got an 87 on my poetics term paper! My intelligence has been acknowledged with a numerical value! Who needs to function well in the real world when you can flourish in the Protective Womb of Academia?
Pictured above: my existence summarised succinctly.
Name: Rowan Age: Not Jailbait Location: Canada Occupation: Student Major: English literature Do you want to be chronically unemployed: Yes Favourite drink: Gin and anything that contains gin – and also whisky Mental state: I will direct you towards thesetags and allow you to decide for yourself TL;DR: Why I Am Not That Mentally Stable also comes in a handy chart form Favourite books: Here is a link to my Goodreads account Spirit animals: Sebastian Flyte, Bernard Black, Sherlock Holmes when he’s being a moody wanker Anything else: Hit the “random” button on my Tumblr at least ten times and then decide if you still want to follow me
TODAY ON “THE PSYCHOLOGY OF ROWAN” – THE VALLEY OF DESPAIR
Valley of Despair:the state of negative emotions that arises from the awareness of one’s personal limitations, and the knowledge that one will never obtain an idealised intelligence; characterised by hoarse screams of envy directed toward the Gregory House Pinnacle.
In an attempt to reduce my total number of hours spent molesting the f5 key whilst wondering if it is possible to drown oneself in a martini glass, I have decided to restrict my internet time. And while this means I am already reading more and pursuing more productive forms of writing, I am beyond terrified that I will now have less time for the mindlessly unproductive things I so enjoy, such as writing terrible poetry on the nature of Benedict Cumberbatch’s eccentric beauty – and what am I without that. THAT IS MY WHOLE WORLD.
A great deal of my time is spent thinking about what a spectacular Victorian I would make, happily ignoring the fact that, if I were born in any era other than this one, I would totally be dead by now because natural selection would have taken one look at me and fucked me over grandly. In reality I would be some sickly deformed thing, addicted to laudanum, writing terrible poetry, forever wearily complaining of my ailments until I finally wasted away from consumption. But that’s okay, because in my Magical Land of Delusions™ I would be a dashing young gentleman, gallivanting about, attending various raucous music halls, drinking absinthe, readjusting my monocle, smacking the working class around with my mighty sword cane and telling the orphans to get back in the factory where they belong.
When my Reality Allergies are really acting up I just like to retreat into the Make-Believe World where I wake up in a posh London flat and Martin Freeman is baking apple blueberry muffins for me and we knit and play scrabble and there are cats everywhere and we knit sweaters for the cats.
Good evening, my name is Pretentious Douchebag and tonight we will be discussing the profundity of Molière’s satire, the merits of homemade white wines and, if time allows, the following debate: does this buffalo plaid shirt make me look like a bigger cunt than I already am.
I don’t think it’s fair that I am superbly awkward looking but not so awkward looking that I approach the So-Awkward-I-Am-Beautiful levels that Benedict “Secretly a Hammerhead Shark” Cumberbatch achieves.
My brother watched the last episode of Sherlock the other night and, upon hearing that it would be several months before the grossly unfair cliffhanger would be resolved, asked me to just kill him. So I thought I would cheer him up by introducing him to Misfits, which he thought sounded “fucking stupid – they get superpowers from a freak storm?” but then I told him to shut the fuck up and sit the fuck down and watch the first couple episodes and now he thinks Nathan is the second coming of Jesus or some shit.
The moral of the story is that I am a God at recommending television and my taste is impeccable and anyone who questions me is a cunt.