Favourite narrative tropes:

  • “That was ONE time!”
  • “Due to an administrative error”, or any major plot point which is caused almost entirely by bureaucratic fuckups
  • “Contrary to popular belief” appended to something that’s either really obvious or completely subjective
  • A character makes an assertion, then cut to the narrator contradicting it (‘“Everything’s fine!” Everything was not fine.’)
  • First-person narrators who call a specific character by a series of increasingly convoluted nicknames
  • Unusual narrative euphemisms. I still hold that describing around a curse word is almost always funnier than just using the word.
  • Establishing character moments which subvert your expectations right from the get-go. The best example is in the Brooklyn Nine Nine pilot, where Jake’s fooling around at the crime scene before revealing that he’s already solved the case.
  • Montages. Just montages of any kind, for any reason, anytime. I actually think they work better in text form because you can do so many creative things with them.
  • Side characters with a level of fourth-wall awareness / quasi-supernatural ability which is never quite certain, like the janitor in Scrubs.
  • Double meanings in narration that take a while to make themselves clear.
  • Really, really specific similes.

Ti farà male,
però imparerai.
Imparerai a dimenticarlo.
Imparerai a dimenticare
come cammina.
A dimenticare
come si muovono
i suoi capelli
con il vento.
A dimenticare
la sua voce.
A dimenticare
come gesticola
mentre parla.
A dimenticare
il suo colore preferito.
A dimenticare
come gli piace il caffè.
A dimenticare
gli orari
del suo pullman.
A dimenticare
dove gli piace
sedersi al cinema.
A dimenticare
di che colore
mette il costume d'estate e
in che spiaggia
ama andare.
A dimenticare
la sua musica preferita.
A dimenticare
i messaggi
alle quattro del mattino
che dicevano
‘Giulia Ghironi sei la MIA vita!’.
A dimenticare
come salutava te.
A dimenticare
gli sguardi e
le occhiate.
A dimenticare
le domande assillanti.
A dimenticare
come strizza gli occhi
al mattino appena sveglio.
A dimenticare
come ti urlava “Giulia, ti amo!”.
A dimenticare
come ride.
A dimenticare
le facce buffe che fa per prenderti in giro.
A dimenticare
le date dei giorni che avete passato
e ogni dettaglio e particolare di questi.

A dimenticare tutto.

Farà male,
te lo giuro,
farà male ma
a non cercarlo, 
a non guardarlo,
a non pensarlo,
a non parlare di lui,
a non riguardare
le vostre vecchie foto,
a non incrociare
la sua strada,
a non sederti al suo posto al cinema,
a non indossare il suo colore preferito,
a non prendere un suo pullman,
a non rifare le sue facce buffe,
a non fare battute che lo avrebbero fatto ridere.

Farà male.
Farà male da morire,
da non farcela più,
tanto che sentirai
il tuo cuore scoppiare
e straboccare
che vorrai
strappartelo via,
insieme a tutto
il dolore.
Farà talmente male
che ad un certo
momento dirai
e vorrai andartene via.
Farà tanto male
che vorrai
solo gridare nel buio
e piangere
sotto le tue coperte.

Farà male,
te lo assicuro.
Più volte ti sentirai morire,
oppure ti sentirai
cedere le gambe
mentre sali le scale
per andare in classe,
oppure ti verrà
da nasconderti
in un vicolo
appena vedi uno
con lo suo stesso
o vorrai evitare
chiunque beva il suo stesso caffè,
o non sopporterai
più quando ti chiederanno di lui
e come è andata
tra voi.

E sai perché farà così male?
Perché non puoi,
non puoi dimenticarlo.

Te lo giuro,
potrai fare tutto quello che vuoi ma
non ci riuscirai.
Potranno anche passare giorni,
persino anni,
che sarai certa
di averlo lasciato
nel tuo passato
per sempre,
sarai certa
di averlo cancellato
dalla tua memoria. 

Ma ti basterà
la canzone
che ascoltava sul pullman,
conoscere qualcuno
con lo stesso
ripassare davanti
ad una vetrina
con in mostra
la stessa felpa
che gli hai regalato per natale,
e che usavi tu
perché era comoda,
grande e calda
come i suoi abbracci,
o magari
cambiando canale
ti fermerai
davanti alla televisione
a fissare
una scena del film
che siete andati
a vedere insieme,
o risentirai
una risata
alla sua.

E lui sarà di nuovo in te.
Lo sentirai
di nuovo.
Lo risentirai
nelle vene,
nelle ossa,
nel profumo
di caffè,
nel vostro
film preferito,
nella sua musica,
nelle mani
che ti tremano,
nelle gambe molli che cedono,
nel giorno e nella notte,

E sai perché non ce la farai?
Perché non potrai
chi hai amato
in quel modo,
non potrai
dimenticare mai
chi hai amato così.


GIULIA GHIRONI. - (via @queitaglisuipolsisporchi)

Ho passato molto tempo a scriverlo, per favore non togliete la fonte, ci tengo tanto.

Se prendi questo testo, ricorda di aggiungere il mio nome.

Seguimi anche su Instagram, se ti va:
@giuliaaghironi ✨

All he knows is heaven
and all she’s ever known is hell.
He’s got a smile like holy
a voice like prayers
and a kiss like salvation.
She’s got a smile like sin
a voice like curses
and a kiss like damnation.
But when they look at each other
they think the same word:
—  blessed.

if you think about it dan and phil are like strawberries and creme

dan is the strawberries; he’s bright and vibrant, a little tart at times but at the perfect moments he has a satisfying sweetness

phil is the creme; he’s more lighthearted, softer, paler, and makes everything he accompanies sweeter

when you put them together, you have the perfect balance of brightness and softness, of tartness and sweetness

and just like strawberries and creme, both are good on their own, but they’re always better together


To Whom It May Concern:

A lot of people have expressed a desire for an update on President Donald J. Trump’s health since his inauguration. I have been the personal physician of President Donald J. Trump since 1980 and I am here to say that Mr. Trump’s health is absolutely better than ever.

Since being sworn in, Donald Trump has lost 50 pounds and gained 17 inches of height. He’s the longest president who has ever lived. His livers are both functioning flawlessly. His blood sets an all-time record for the state of New York for “most” and his blood pressure was rated “excellent” by seven different Fox News Twitter polls. He doesn’t even have one cholesterol.

I can say this unequivocally: Donald Trump has the most bones. Scientists estimate that he now has around 900 bones in his body and more are being discovered every day. Some of those bones have never been seen before. They allow him to be really good at presidential things like signing executive orders and making love nightly to his wife who wants him to.

Mr. Trump’s test results have been astonishingly excellent. He actually has a blood type we’ve never seen before: “All.” It’s both the universal donor and universal recipient, and sprinkling it on your penis makes your penis bigger. Mr. Trump’s blood is gorgeous. It has a rich color that’s hard to describe, but if I had to put it into words, I might call it “red.”

President Donald Trump has no family history of cancer, diabetes, or death. The president’s family members are immortal beings that walk the earth without end, craving the sweet release of death that will never come unless they make a deal with a cool witch. Donald Trump will never die, he will just keep growing vertically forever until he lives in space. It’s really astonishing.

His physical strength is extraordinary. He can lift as much as a mother whose child is trapped under a car, but he’s more attractive than that mother and he hasn’t let himself go like she has. Have you seen the way she dresses lately? The hypothetical mother in this simile is a total chunk. 4 at best. As the famous doctor Hippocrates once said, “Would not hit.”

Since the Inauguration, Mr. Trump has kept an extremely active lifestyle. He starts every morning by walking straight up into the sky and then walking down again. He also visits me regularly for checkups. Mr. Trump doesn’t let me touch him because of gay, so I just eyeball it and give him a once over. I can usually tell just by looking how much blood is in him that day or which liver has taken the lead, so it’s not a super intensive process.

Mr. Trump is not only the healthiest president that has ever served, but also the most handsome. I usually want to kiss President Trump when I see him, but I would never break the doctor-patient trust, so instead I kiss the portrait of him I drew on my little note pad. There have been no presidents that even come close to President Trump in terms of overall health and hotness. Franklin Pierce was pretty hot, but his body wasn’t great. James Garfield was more cute than hot. President Trump is the total package. I know this because of my stethoscope.

Just to give a little more background on me, I’ve been a doctor for years. I got into medicine the same way a lot of doctors do: I once took an unmarked pill that I found under a toilet in a public restroom, and the next thing I knew, I was blacked out doing surgery on a man on a Benihana table with the big knives they got over there. I flipped this guy’s appendix right into my hat. And that’s when I caught the bug, for surgery and for tetanus!

Now, I want to address some of the slanderous things that have been said about me. It’s just like these coastal elites to say I’m not qualified as a physician. They think you need fancy things, like a diploma from Harvard Med School or a diploma from a med school or a GED or a car or medicine or clean hands. You don’t need those to be a doctor! All you need is the right attitude and a good sense of humor and to be Jewish and a blank death certificate just in case!

This is America. We’re not “fancy” here. You’re supposed to be able to pull yourself up by your bootstraps and put a bunch of clamps in a guy and see what tubes you can clamp up without making him sleep forever. My grandfather was a blue-collar worker, and so was my father. I am a red-collar worker because my collar is always covered in spurting blood. I may not know art or science or what a “lung” is, but I do know that I love America and am a lung-doctor!

Because of my love of America and Donald Trump, it is an honor to be his physician. Donald Trump could teach us all a thing or two about health. Not only is he the healthiest human ever, but also the healthiest dog, house and Faberge Egg. I wish him luck as he continues on his endless journey.


“Doctor” Harold N. Bornstein, M.D. (Mostly Doctor)

I really like metaphors and similes.

Like a bookworm adores the scent of printed pages. Like an introvert enjoys their alone time. Like an empath lives for helping people.

Take it from me, that’s a sea of love that never knows low tide.

Vincent Van Gogh era solito mangiare la pittura gialla perché pensava avrebbe potuto portare la felicità dentro di lui. Molte persone pensavano fosse pazzo e stupido per fare una cosa simile poiché è risaputo che la pittura sia tossica, non importava fosse ovvio che ingoiarla non avesse alcuna possibile correlazione diretta alla felicità di un individuo. Io però non l'ho mai vista in questo modo.
Se sei infelice al punto che anche la più folle delle idee possa in qualche modo funzionare, come colorare le pareti dei tuoi organi interni di giallo, allora lo farai. Non c'è poi molta differenza dall'innamorarsi o dal drogarsi. C'è un rischio maggiore di farsi spezzare il cuore o di andare in overdose, ma le persone lo fanno comunque ogni giorno perché c'è sempre quella possibilità che le cose potrebbero migliorare. Tutti hanno la propria pittura gialla.

OKAy so I was just thinking about drarry and  thought like which one of them would use nicknames

On the one hand you have Draco, who has grown up being called darling and sweetheart by his mother and Pansy, but it somehow doesn’t feel right to call Harry that. Harry is not formalities and long words and he’s not precious or fragile - he doesn’t need to be coddled. So Draco thinks about it, and decides that maybe he should just call him ‘babe’. 

Imagine, if you will, how shocked Harry would be. Dudley grew up with pet names and showered in love and Harry wasn’t

So, when Draco shouts up from his place on the sofa going: “Babe, if you’re going up to the dorm can you bring me the book on the desk please?” Harry just stutters. The dirty cup he was holding shatters as it hits the wooden floor beneath him; his feet shuffle to a halt and he just blinks at the back of the sofa. Meanwhile, Draco feels his heart slide as there’s no response. Has he crossed a line? He shifts over so he can see Harry from over the tattered sofa. He notes how flushed Harry’s cheeks are, and how his eyes are glazed with something akin to tears and he just realises and immediately jumps off the sofa and hurries round to take Harry in his arms and hug him while Harry just buries himself in Draco’s chest and grips him tighter. Harry just keeps holding him, the one boy who loves him for him and is open enough to declare it and not be ashamed of loving him. His arms snake around Draco’s waist and he mutters very softly, “I love you”. 

Draco stills; and then lifts Harry higher into his arms and says back, tears spilling from both their eyes: “I love you too”. 

On the other hand, there’s Harry, who has just decided that post war, its time to be himself. Life is too short to not tell people what you really think. So, he waltzes down to breakfast with Ron and takes his place at the eighth year table next to Draco, who is having an animated discussion with Hermione about the advantages of using time altering spells on potions. He stretches his arms above his head and feels Draco tense up for a second before a familiar yet tentative hand comes to rest on Harry’s thigh. Harry smiles, and lets his own fall on top of it, giving a gentle squeeze. He takes a deep breath and then, with a hint of mischief says, “Babe, do you want to go to Hogsmeade today?, I need to get some more quills.” 

Draco stills before he lights up, his eyes and body radiating happiness as he turns to his less-secret and about to be not-at-all secret boyfriend. He turns on the bench and meets Harry’s eyes which are also alight. The fellow eighth years are all still, some similing, some smirking and some outright shocked. Draco gazes at Harry, with his bright green eyes and messy hair and just can not help himself from kissing him. The whole hall might have been looking, but maybe no one even noticed. But they’re happy.

“All I know is that I’ve wasted all these years looking for something, a sort of trophy I’d get only if I really, really did enough to deserve it. But I don’t want it anymore, I want something else now, something warm and sheltering, something I can turn to, regardless of what I do, regardless of who I become. Something that will just be there, always, like tomorrow’s sky.”

Kazuo Ishiguro, from When We Were Orphans (Alfred A. Knopf, 2000)

As plaster crumbles like cake crumbs

and tornado of ash and dust
coat her world in a quiet grey

she rises
brushes the destruction
from her knees
and sings. 

Climate Change is like Pancake Batter

The chaos in the kitchen: how ecosystems are like pancakes. (Yum?)

To put this not-so-eloquently, Earth’s ecosystems are like grandma’s famous pancakes: her recipe, when followed correctly, produces the fluffiest, tastiest, most golden-brown pancakes of anyone in town. That’s where Earth’s ecosystems have been for millions of years. Before her recipe—that is, before Earth had stable ecosystems—too little or not all of the ingredients existed to make that perfect batter. No matter how hard you tried, it couldn’t be done.

Now imagine grandma’s recipe was so good that your family opened a restaurant. For years, it was the talk of the town. Now you’ve taken over, but other breakfast restaurants have opened in recent years, and some of them serve breakfast food 24/7. 

To stay in business, you’ve adopted a new strategy: you turn off your water supply and every day, customers bring their own water to help you save money for better advertising. Today, you have all the ingredients to serve 1,000 people. All your customers come in, and one by one, you add their water to the mixture—the mixture that everyone is eating from, mind you. At first, as you’re adding water to the mixture, it all seems to be going fine. It’s almost to the right consistency when you get a phone call, so you step away. While you’re gone, everyone in line pays your assistant, who is lazy and just lets whoever brought water dump it in the batter…without filtering it. Worse yet, some people didn’t measure how much water they actually had; they just filled glasses of different sizes and dumped them in.

When you get back from your phone call, you look inside the vat and see that the batter is soupy, watered-down, and has dust and dirt from people’s unfiltered water. But it’s too late now. Most people are sitting at tables, eagerly waiting for their stack of grandma’s famous pancakes. There are a few people left in line waiting to pay, and a few of them brought glasses of water. In anger, you take their money, but tell them to dump their water in a flower pot and go sit down.

To compensate for the soupy batter, you cook the pancakes longer than grandma’s recipe says to, hoping the excess water will cook out and save the pancakes. But no: they spread out until they’re thin as paper. So you turn up the heat—and the pancakes start to burn.

Outside, people are getting restless. They paid good money for grandma’s famous pancakes, and they all have places to be and things to do. Several of them come back to the kitchen to ask what’s taking so long, only to see you scrambling around and yelling at your assistant for being so negligent. When the small band of customers asks what’s going on, you angrily tell them the pancakes will be out soon.

Unconvinced, the customers go back to the dining room and explain what they saw. Some of the first-time customers leave; they like the other restaurants anyway. The long-time customers—those who have been loyal for years—refuse to believe that the pancakes could be ruined, and tell other customers how grandma’s pancakes are the best they’ve ever had, and how, if people leave, they will never find better pancakes anywhere in the world, ever. The customers who witnessed the chaos in the kitchen argue with the long-time customers, but are called out as liars who are trying to promote competing restaurants. In the confusion, some undecided customers peek inside the kitchen, see the chaos, and sneak out of the restaurant. One stays behind and manages to convince a few loyalists to go see the chaos in the kitchen for themselves. Those who refuse, say, “We’ve never gone back to see it before, and the pancakes always come out fine. Why should this be any different?”

By this time, you have managed to produce a couple good-looking pancakes and threw them on top of the pile to cover them up the terrible ones. Still, a majority are coming out ruined, and there’s no way you’re going to feed everyone in the restaurant. Then the door opens, and a few of your most loyal customers see the good-looking pancakes you threw on top. You just smile and assure them their pancakes will be out soon. Some, however, notice you covering up the burnt and watered-down pancakes, and leave the restaurant. Some switch sides and say the restaurant is clearly failing and needs to be shut down, while others say that nothing like this will ever happen again.

When you finally manage to cook a few dozen good pancakes and several hundred bad-but-edible ones, you roll them out to the dining room—only to see that, of the 1,000 people who were in your restaurant this morning, a mere 300 remain. You force yourself to smile and start serving them. Only the first ten customers get the best pancakes of the batch, and don’t notice the ruined ones underneath, and promise to bring even more water the next day to compensate for the idiots who walked out. They go on eating breakfast happily, their consciences clear. But then the best pancakes are gone, and other customers pick at their pancakes in disgust, or throw them in the trash, refusing to accept the pancakes at all. And when all the pancakes are gone, there are still 100 people who haven’t been served at all, and demand refunds, or storm out and vow never to eat at your restaurant again.

The point of the story is this: fossil fuels were once the best-of-the-best. Yes, they provided the foundation society needed to get its feet off the ground, but then they got too big, and started doing long-term damages. Some people turned to more sustainable energies and grew their own niche markets that provided energies around-the-clock, which was attractive to an even larger market. Now that fossil fuels are being proven to have adverse effects on Earth’s ecosystems, people are switching to the sustainable resources, which are becoming cheaper and more abundant every day. Only the loyalists, the people who have been in the business their entire lives, refuse to see what’s going on behind the scenes and keep supplying the necessary economic resources. Only by educating the general public, showing them the damages for themselves, and converting them to cleaner, ever-cheapening, and near-infinite energy sources can we begin to heal Earth’s damaged ecosystems.

“But it’s tradition” is no longer a valid excuse. There will always be a better recipe.

On Ke$ha’s hit 2010 song, Blah Blah Blah, she says “zip your lip like a padlock”. I never even questioned this 7 years ago but I’ve been thinking about it lately. It makes no sense. Padlocks don’t zip.