I will write a book one day about how I feel about every aspect of Emily Stone. She’s a full genius or she has found her genius and she’s given it so fully and beautifully. I think everyone who works with her, everyone who, you know, brushes shoulders with her or even kinda makes eye contact with her gets a shot of sunshine.

So, I have this headcanon in which Roadhog retains some habits and love for his culture. For me, he was born or at least has part of his family from Polynesia.

For me, he keeps with care, some handcraft accessories, as well as a small token hidden in his pocket, to brink luck and hope during his many days in the middle of a devastated town.

In my head, his tattoo is more than simply aesthetic. Subconsciously even, it has a light resemblance (in meaning, not appearance), to those marked in polynesian men. It’s a symbol of man hood.

Maybe his hook was specially crafted/chosed to remind him of that emboldened by his father.

Maybe he remembers some moves from his cuture’s dances.

Maybe he knows a word or two of his native tongue (which he doesn’t want to teach Junkrat, despite many pleads from the skinny man).

Maybe one day, while Junkrat was distracted, he murmured “Aloha au ia ‘oe”.

it’s 1:30 am and I can’t stop crying

one of my most beloved aunts, after just 2 days ago being given a wonderful prognosis for her cancer died last night from cardiac arrest

I just can’t believe it, she was almost more of a grandma to me than either of my real grandmothers - we saw them almost every year, versus every few years

and we picked blueberries and hiked the michigan dunes and went jewelry shopping and browsed through finnish knickknacks and talked about mythology and history and french

and she never, ever made you feel strange, or like you were too young to have a valid opinion

and my heart just hurts so impossibly much, I can’t imagine how my uncle or cousins feel, especially the babies who only got 5 and 3 years with their wonderful, warm, sincere grandma

I just wish it wasn’t real