purposefully misspelling

SpockFact #97

Every crew member gets a name tag attached to their spacesuits during missions into hostile terrains. This is for the purpose of identification in the event of low-visibility or fatalities. Being the chief science officer, Spock very often partakes in such trips, so much so that he has his own helmet on which the label is routinely changed so that it will not wear out with use. In an unfortunate turn of events, a label was once misprinted resulting in Spock being labeled as “Spack.” This began a long sequence of purposefully misspelled nametags such as Spook, Spork, Slick and Shrek. The crew thought it was hilarious. Spock did not.

To Sherlollies out there (and I am purposefully not misspelling because I am actually wondering), I know most of you don’t expect Sherlolly to be canon. But, my question is, if Molly were in John’s place, would you? I was thinking last night about what if John and Molly switched roles. John is the pathologist in the lab and Molly is Sherlock’s partner. The stuff that has happened between Sherlock and John in the show instead happens with Sherlock and Molly. What if Sherlock restarted his heart bc she was in danger after Tom shot him? What if Sherlock googled Molly’s ex “friend”? What if Sherlock had a two inch thick file on Molly with a page where her head is pasted to the Birth of Venus? What if Sherlock looked up Molly’s birth certificate in order to find out her middle name? What if Molly planned her and Tom’s wedding but the whole time acting “terrified”? What if CAM threw Molly in a fire and Sherlock rescued her? What if CAM said “look how you care about Molly Hooper, your damsel in distress”? What if Sherlock left Molly’s wedding early looking super sad? What if Sherlock relapsed after she got married, like…would you all not read those things as romantic? And furthermore would you still not think sherlolly would end up being canon?

I guess my point is whether or not you think Johnlock will happen, we aren’t pulling these things out of our asses, they all canonically happened between these two men. All we are doing is not allowing the fact that they share the same gender keep us from reading typically romantic tropes as romantic.

Anyway I do often wonder about that, I mean you guys see Sherlock congratulating Molly on her engagement as romantic so like if he planned her wedding and then left it early looking devastated I wonder what you would think?

You don’t have to reblog if you don’t want I would be fine with DM as well. Thanks!

y’all friendly reminder that every time someone purposefully misspells / mispronounces a poc’s name i lose ten years off my life

10

Closing down my dA account, but I wanted to upload some of my older drawings/sketches here. They’re marked with their dates in their captions.

I feel like I used to put a lot more effort into my artwork- which I guess makes sense on some level; I didn’t get headaches back then like I do now and could focus for a lot longer.

Second up from the bottom on the right is the very first finished drawing I did of Oliver back in 2009. <_>

There are some others I wanted to upload but I wasn’t going to make two photosets.

Lindsay Lohan's Last Fan's Last Post

Lindsay Lohan’s Last Fan

           

            “So….what’s new with Lindsay?”

             I looked directly at Allen, my best friend for maybe nine years, and realized that he had run out of things to talk about with me. I responded with a neutral head nod. 

            “A new nip slip? Rehab? Comeback? Freaky Friday sequel named Strange Saturday? So Daniel…?”

            I took another sip of my iced-chai and then replied in a monotone voice. “She’s going to star in a David Mamet play in London or something, right now she is wasting away on a yacht in Ibiza surrounded by handsome dudes who wear Rolexes.”

            “Oh.”

            I don’t know when I became this assumed scholar in all things Lindsay Lohan for all of my friends and family. Almost once a week, someone references Lindsay Lohan to me, either through interweaving a Mean Girls quote in a casual conversationor explicitly asking me for the latest update on the fallen starlet.

Nearly three years ago, on a random Freshman year night in a crowded dorm room, I told my pop culture savvy friend Monica about some half-baked conceptual Tumblr idea I had. Lindsay Lohan’s Last Fan creates the fan blog to end all fan blogs: an aggressively pink aesthetic with bright yellow Arial font, content strictly consisting of photos and memes of Lindsay Lohan that would be interspersed with purposefully misspelled ramblings fearlessly defending the star. A few moments later, Monica pushed aside the cluttered mess of empty 40s bottles on her desk and whipped out her MacBook. The first photo uploaded was of a naked Lindsay clutching an acoustic guitar on a sandy beach, captioned with “If I coood be ther with her, if I coood touch her AURA.” Lindsay Lohan’s Last Fan the character was officially created.

            When I started the blog in the fall of 2011, there was an odd sense of hope for Lindsay Lohan and her career. She was showing up to court-mandated community service. She had landed the cover of Playboy. Even the most scathing of gossip columnists were noting how “happy” and “healthy” she looked in recent photographs. In the early stages of this persona, a typical Tumblr session for me would consist of messaging other Lindsay Lohan fan blogs asking if they wanted to join forces, reblogging every image under the #LindsayLohan or #LiLo Tumblr tag and going on manically apologetic rants defending her latest misbehavior: “nooooo she’s $tumbling out of B00000tsy Belllows cuz of THE PRESSURE of the #FAME not cuz $HE WAS drunk”. I was the L’enfant terrible of the Lindsay Lohan fan community; overeager, overzealous and typing with a sense of entitlement that I and only I, Linday Lohan’s Last and only true Fan, truly understood the star. A series of questions from other “genuine” Lohan fan blogs started piling up in my Tumblr inbox: “Why are you so creepy? Why do you misspell everything? Why are you so OBSESSED with Lindsay Lohan? Who are you? Are you a boy or a girl?

            At first I was adamantly opposed to answering any of these questions, thinking that this persona of Lindsay Lohan’s Last Fan, being so warped up in her obsession, wouldn’t feel any desire to assert any sense of selfhood. I randomly replied to a few questions with the 2007 “not my cocaine” in her pocket era Lindsay Lohan mug shot or a Freaky Friday GIF; my glossy pink mystique remained in tact. When I showed my friends the blog, they either would tell me it was funny, reply with a shrug or question if perhaps my liberal arts college had made me go manic: Daniel, do you even like Lindsay Lohan? Are you okay? The project was admittedly aimless; the same joke of an anonymous Lindsay Lohan jihadist repeated over and over again. In January 2012, I was about to quit and get a new hobby.

Then Lana Del Rey’s SNL performance happened.

 I was fascinated by her self-pitying lyrics, the permanent sadness in her eyes and her shameless embrace of being society’s victim. I spontaneously copied and pasted the chorus of “Video Games” to a photograph of a 2010 “I’m going to Cannes Film Festival to party on yachts” Lindsay gracelessly falling on her face: Heaven is a place on Earth with you. The Tumblr response was ecstatic: HAHAHA, GURL wtf is this! I transitioned to creating memes with my own cheesy musings of what Lindsay Lohan’s Last Fan thought about her emotionally abusive parents, loneliness and her painful obscurity. Lindsay Lohan had alcohol and cocaine to escape the “painful misery of daddy and reality”. Lindsay Lohan’s Last Fan had well, Lindsay Lohan. I stopped obnoxiously misspelling words and reblogging generic Lindsay Lohan GIFs and photos and embraced a new direction. I put on the guise of a crying teen girl in her bedroom, using this Tumblr persona to express some inner-darkness that could only be articulated through hyperbole: We both hate daddy, we both have fake friends and we both are on the edge of the abyss, forever isolated, forever shackled to this life! Over time, Lindsay Lohan’s Last Fan became less about the idea of obsession and more about the idea of what it means to truly connect with a specific celebrity. Lindsay Lohan’s last truly culturally relevant movie was Herbie Fully Loaded. For years now her actual Blockbuster, enticing body of work was her fragile existence. Her life, filled with arrests, rehab visits and lesbian romances, was ripe and ready to be part of a grander tragic meta-narrative. There was nothing more to her than her latest fuck up; everything snowballing into the inevitable TMZ headline: Lindsay Lohan DEAD followed by the inevitable Dina Lohan or/and Michael Lohan “up close and PERSONAL” account of their daughter’s life. Nothing about Lindsay Lohan and the cult of her celebrity is necessarily unique. If anything, her life has become a self-actualization of a Valley of the Dolls-level of triteness.

As my Tumblr popularity increased, I noticed that the other blogs reblogging my memes had been sandwiching my content in between photos of the late Anna Nicole Smith dressed as a clown, Paris Hilton mug shots, Britney Spears scarfing down Taco Bell and a crack head Amy Winehouse. I was being embraced by the #Camp #2005 niche sub-culture of Tumblr, with blogs that had a flashier and glitterier design praising my work and calling me “BB”.  It was all too silly. I had to go back to the drawing board; I tapped deeper into the depths of this inner sad girl. I made Lindsay Lohan’s Last Fan question her own obsession and write epic poems about the increasing sense of alienation she felt between herself and the star: When Lindsay cries, it’s BREAKING NEWS, when I cry, Daddy just laughs and suggests waterproof mascara. The more invested I got, the more Lindsay Lohan’s Last Fan became about how one individual amongst a sea of internet trolls, journalists, gossip magazine readers and fans, had found a unique connection with someone who invoked such ubiquitous disdain. Dr. Drew Pinsky using Lindsay Lohan as an example of the dangers of alcoholism was no different than when Lindsay Lohan’s Last Fan related the critically panned Liz and Dick to her own personal experience of stuttering during a Bat Mitzvah speech. She didn’t need the TMZ obituary; Lindsay Lohan had been up for grabs for a while now.

In the fall of 2012, I woke up from a nap to a Facebook message: “OMFG. Check BuzzFeed…”

A handful of my memes that I uploaded during my “Live-Meme viewing session” of Liz and Dick had been incorporated into a list of “21 People Who Genuinely Loved Liz and Dick”. My images were interspersed between Tweets from unassuming, “genuine” Lindsay Lohan fans that actually liked her critically panned Elizabeth Taylor Lifetime bio-epic. Immediately after the BuzzFeed post, my viewer stats hit records high, got a ton of new Tumblr followers and hundreds of more reblogs. If any of my friends and family didn’t know that I had this second Internet persona, they now knew and they now could count on me as their handy-dandy Lindsay Lohan expert. A few days after experiencing a manic rush from achieving a minor-level of notoriety, I revisited the BuzzFeed article. I had a painful epiphany: my blog was fucking evil.  

This persona I created of someone being whole-heartedly sincere had come under attack by a snarky blog, being lumped in with actual fans who were deemed naïve and stupid. The character was given exposure not on her terms, but on the fucked up power dynamics of irony and mockery perpetuated by some presumptuous arbiter of good taste. This project had become a monster. Lindsay Lohan’s Last Fan had also started becoming all consuming: My MacBook Desktop was now completely covered in memes and photographs of Lindsay Lohan, I woke up everyday Googling Lindsay Lohan, Facebook had started trying to sell me Amazon discount DVDs starring none other than…. Lindsay Lohan.

After the BuzzFeed existential crisis, I started making darker, more tragic memes. I thought that there was no real point in ending the blog because Lindsay Lohan’s life had yet to reach a true moment of catharsis. Perhaps the #comeback was going to actually happen in two, three months or a year and what a fucking shame if Lindsay Lohan’s Last Fan missed it. And so I continued. I even started making deeply disturbing Youtube videos in which I paired distorted recordings of the persona’s obsessive thoughts with glitched out, pixelated images of Lindsay: I woke up and thought about Lindsay Lohan, Lindsay Lohan also woke up and thought about Lindsay Lohan.

            I had come to discover that maybe the concept of “performance art” is rendered meaningless on the Internet. I was creating a specific artifice for myself, this crazed, manic-depressive fan and was being engaged directly on the aesthetic of my work. Without the confines of a gallery space, there was nothing to potentially differentiate this performance project from the other fans on the next “21 People Who Actually Like Lindsay Lohan” list. It didn’t matter when I submitted it to a Dis Magazine contest or when “Tumblr Teen Girl” artist/expert Kate Durbin reblogged my work for her Womans as Objects project. It never and still doesn’t matter because Lindsay Lohan’s Last Fan the Tumblr page is out there waiting for people to stumble upon it and not even question it’s alleged inauthenticity: What’s wrong with you? Are you okay? Looking back at old memes, it’s hard to say whether the “I am so lonely” was real at the moment or not; the well-worn cliché of method acting is admittedly a lived experience for me. At this point, I want Lindsay Lohan to win an Oscar, I want Lindsay Lohan to get married, I want Lindsay Lohan to start her inevitable Long Island nuclear- family and finally be clean and sober for good. Not necessarily because I care about her as a person, but more because I want her to do anything that could liberate her from the creepy and firm grasp of Lindsay Lohan’s Last Fan. She has now reached a point of nicotine-induced malaise, wasting away on a yacht in Ibiza surrounded by handsome dudes who wear Rolexes. Analogously, Lindsay Lohan’s Last Fan floats along, feeling neither a sense of closure or the same captivating connection of yesteryear. Thousands of memes later, the superstar and fan have both reached a period of indefinite mediocrity.  It’s time for the blog to end.

 If I learned anything from this project, it’s honestly just the objective truths about Lindsay Lohan that can be verified by court records, IMDB, Wikipedia and photographs.  Yes, I am a Lindsay Lohan expert. And so, this January, I will teach a run-of-the-mill introductory course on Lindsay Lohan for my college’s experimental learning week. I won’t bring up Warhol or Koons, Baudrillard or Adorno. No, this will be a cut and dry course covering the facts of Lindsay Lohan’s life: She did star in The Parent Trap in 1998, she did date Wilmer Valderrama in 2005, she did get two DUIs in 2007. After the class, I will tell the students to discuss the content and collectively decide what to make of my boring PowerPoint presentation: What’s the narrative here, if there really is one? Then and only then, will Lindsay Lohan’s Last Fan would be allowed to finally die.  

            It’s you, it’s all for you, everything I do, I tell you all the time, heaven is a place on Earth with you

Okay but ‘I’m a busy businessperson and my barista keeps misspelling my name in increasingly disrespectful ways, honestly, who does this person think they are AU’ where Octavia is always on her phone while she orders talking to different clients for her personal training gym and Raven is the barista who’s sick of taking her order and having to wait for Octavia to stop talking about her newest fitness routine, or which company she thinks sells better ellipticals. So she starts purposefully misspelling her name. At first it’s mostly just annoying. The misspellings are subtle and Octavia only notices because every time she gets to the gym Lincoln refers to her by whatever the misspelling of the day is. It isn’t until she’s running on minimal sleep and Raven calls out loudly, “Octagon” that she finally snaps and confronts the hot barista about her spelling abilities. Octavia expects the leave the coffee shop feeling smug after scolding the girl. Instead she gets a five minute lecture on the proper etiquette when ordering a coffee, and with the barista’s number with the promise of a date the following Saturday.  

me: *purposefully misspells words in order to emulate a shitposting effect, is actually unable to keep Fresh Quality, Natural shitposts produced regularly and is forced to make synthetic shitposts in order to keep up with the growing demand of today’s meme economy*

clack coffeeshop au where cloud is a somewhat-regular and zack is the barista with a crush that purposefully misspells cloud’s name every time he comes in just to get a reaction out of him

e.g. ‘clue’ ‘clot’ ‘clover’ ‘chris’ and cloud’s like “listen zack ohmygod there’s not even an ‘h’ in there at all” and zack goes “well then maybe u should write down your name so i don’t forget. and also ur number in case i do forget so i can call u hAha im joki-” “okay” “-ng wait what

meanwhile kunsel is zack’s fed up roommate who can’t believe his loser friend’s plot 2 ask the cute blond out actually worked. he’s in a constant state of disbelief all the time around the two of them afterwards

Korrasami: Venti Sized Crush

Thanks to jaggedviews I finally cracked a wrote a fanfic… Or the start of a fanfic, depending on… things… 

Okay, based on the Tumblr prompt: I’m a barista and you’re the obnoxious customer who comes through and orders a venti macchiato while talking on the phone the whole time so I misspell your name in increasingly creative ways every day AU. If you wanna read it on FFN x.


………

There she was again, last one in line in her fancy red and gray business suit. Talking on her cell phone, like Korra knew she’d continue to do even as she ordered her venti macchiato. She did the same thing every morning. Showed up in the middle of morning rush and refused to hang up whatever important business call she was on even while she ordered. It didn’t really slow the line that much, but it was so awkward interrupting serious talk about ‘product launch’s and ‘board meeting’s with ‘hi, what can I get for you?’

At first Korra stopped asking what the woman wanted and just stood there, waiting until she got a pause in conversation, put her hand over the phone, and whispered the order over the counter. It didn’t matter much that the woman gave an apologetic smile as she whispered. Or that she had flawless black hair and incredible green eyes. Or that her smile was both gorgeous and cute. Okay… she was hot. Really, really hot, and clearly successful. But rude. Hotness was no excuse for talking on the phone while you’re supposed to be ordering your coffee.

So Korra started messing around and purposefully misspelling her name. Asamee. Uhsami. Asamay. Samamy. She actually started looking forward to it, and spent all morning trying to come up with another clever name. So when the woman finally arrived at the back of the line, she actually got excited instead of being annoyed, because Korra was prepared. She was prepared enough that while the person at the head of the line pondered their order she grabbed a venti cup, prematurely writing Asami’s ‘macchiato’ with the name ‘Salami.’ She set the cup aside and took the order of the next handful of patrons, already so amused she was smiling.

But then as Asami reached the second place in line Korra heard her say, “got to go, see you in a bit,” and actually hung up the call. That’s not what was supposed to happen, because then Asami reached the front of the line and flashed that smile and it wasn’t apologetic this time. It was… crap. It was smug. “Morning,” and she glanced at Korra’s nametag as if she hadn’t been coming here for months and just been too oblivious to look at it sooner, “Korra.” It was so unexpected, such a deviation from the routine that Korra just blinked at her for a few seconds while one of Asami’s eyebrows steadily rose, waiting for a response. When Korra failed to spit the usual greeting Asami said, “I’ll take a venti macchiato please.”

She said please. Politely. Korra snapped back to it and reached not for the pre-arranged cup, but for a fresh one. She couldn’t possibly enact revenge. Not when Asami had hung up and had that coy smile like she knew Korra had been messing with her for weeks and why. And she said please. But just when Korra reached for a new cup Asami glanced down, catching a glimpse of the one she’d set aside.

“Isn’t that mine?” she asked, probably catching a glimpse of the ‘ami,’ and reached for the cup before Korra could snatch it. Asami pulled it close and spun it in her hand to see what was written, and as her brilliant green eyes ran back and forth over it Korra’s cheeks burned hotter and hotter. Asami wasn’t being rude now. It was Korra. Korra was being rude because she’d purposefully written a lunch meat instead of the customer’s actual name, and oh god Asami’s eyes read the name and then left the cup to meet Korra’s. “Well,” she said, setting the cup back on the counter and putting a hand on her hip, “You got the order right.”

“I’m so sorry,” Korra blurted. Her hand shot out to grab the cup and without looking she threw it backwards over her shoulder. She heard it land on the cluttered tea counter behind her and knock something down. She winced at the loud clutter that hit the floor, cheeks shading darker as she said, “That was unprofessional and stupid and-”

“Here,” interrupted one of the other baristas, and he set the cup Korra had thrown back on the counter with an indignant glare. “You dropped this.”

Asami laughed. Like, an actual giggle, and she wasn’t smug anymore but genuinely amused. She reached out to take the stupid offensive cup and pulled it to her, but then she stretched across the counter again to grab a fresh one and she took the pen right out of Korra’s hand. Korra was confused and embarrassed and so put off when Asami’s fingers brushed hers. She was flustered, legitimately blushing and flustered.

“I think Asamay was my favorite,” Asami said lightheartedly, scribbling on the fresh cup and then handing it back. She’d written her own order with her name spelled correctly. “But it’s getting increasingly hard to recognize when they call my name.” Korra set the cup aside for another barista to grab and make Asami’s drink, too embarrassed to say anything. “Not sure I’d have ever guessed who Salami was.”

“I’m sorry,” Korra said again, distractedly punching the order into the register while Asami started to scribble on the offensive cup. “It’s just you always come in earlier when it’s busy and you’re on the phone so I didn’t think you noticed and-” as she bumbled Asami finished writing and handed the pen back. “Thanks.” Korra couldn’t see what she’d written, the inked side of the cup was facing the opposite direction, and so she read off the register, “Four dollars and fifty cents.”

As Asami handed over her card her phone started ringing. Korra expected her to answer it, but Asami simply looked at the caller ID, glanced at her watch, and let out a soft sigh as she hit decline.

“You’re running late this morning?” Korra asked, returning the card and finally feeling the heat in her cheeks returning to normal.

“I almost didn’t come in for coffee,” Asami confirmed, and her lips curled into a teasing smile. “I didn’t want to miss out on your latest misspelling though.”

“I’m sorry,” Korra whined, but when Asami laughed at her she couldn’t help but chuckle. Asami was nothing like she would’ve expected. She was late but she wasn’t rushing anything, and she didn’t take herself seriously enough to be angry about Korra’s stupid revenge. “You keeping that as a souvenir?” Korra nodded toward the salami cup.

“Asami,” called one of the other baristas, holding up the venti macchiato.

“This is for you, actually,” Asami said, pushing the cup across the counter. She flashed a parting smile, saying as she went to retrieve her drink, “See you tomorrow, Korra.”

Korra watched as Asami grabbed her macchiato and hurried out the door. It wasn’t until she was gone that Korra picked up the cup to see what was different. At seeing the seven digits written beneath ‘Salami’ her cheeks flushed again. Her phone number. Weeks of purposefully misspelling Asami’s name had earned Korra her phone number? She hadn’t even considered the fact that her casual revenge might seem flirtatious, but if it did she definitely wasn’t complaining. She was so unexpectedly delighted she let out a quiet squeal and spun in a happy circle, blushing darker as she faced forward again to meet a bewildered customer.

“Hi,” Korra greeted the customer, distractedly hurrying to write the number down on a piece of receipt that she could shove into her pocket. “What can I get for you?”

It took everything Korra had to wait until the end of the day to put that number to use. When it came down to it, she really only had the patience to wait until the end of her shift. She’d hardly hung up her apron when she punched in Asami’s number and a text that said, ‘I’ve got a venti macchiato for Salami. When’s she free?’ It was only early afternoon, but maybe they could grab a coffee later tonight when Asami got off work…

Korra didn’t live far, so as she walked home she held her phone in her hand, waiting for a text back. It didn’t come, not the entire twenty-minute walk, and by the time Korra reached her apartment she was panicking. Stupid. She shouldn’t have purposefully misspelled Asami’s name again, in a text to her. So stupid. She got home and didn’t bother saying hi to Mako or Bolin and sank into the couch. She put the phone on the couch next to her and sulked while absentmindedly watching TV. So dumb.

It took an hour. A whole torturous hour during which Korra considered how stupid it was to sulk like this when she’d never even thought about a date with Asami. Then the phone vibrated next to her. It was in her hands and unlocked in the blink of an eye.

‘Sorry,’ the message read, ‘crazy busy at work. I don’t suppose you deliver?’

One of Korra’s eyebrows ascended to her hairline. Deliver? As in Asami was actually asking if Korra could come to her place of business with coffee… did that count as a date? She punched in her response, ‘I’m a dedicated barista who is willing to make an exception.’

It didn’t take nearly as long to get a reply this time, and a minute later Asami had texted back. ‘Future Industries, ask for Asami.’ Before Korra could reply a second message came in, ‘Make sure you’ve got a drink too. IOU, on me.’

Korra grinned, flying off the couch and heading for the front door. ‘See you soon.’