being an eighth doctor adventures fan is so hard. how do i explain to people that i want them to read an unfinished postmodernist series of 73 pulp science fiction novels from the early 2000s that's made up of a bunch of writers arguing about how to best fundamentally deconstruct dr who as a concept
deeply unlikeable and unpleasant female characters are actually so important for the ecosystem and also as a good litmus test over if a person is Weird about women or not
have this thing i edited to preface this ask, because i find it (somewhat) funny and i think you'll like it.
tumblr user pacificovertures? you're cool. the only other fosca-coded person i know, and someone who is probably as insane about passion as i am. (something something i read about the joys the world dispenses to the fortunate...)
having someone who relates to the same agonising spiritual and emotional dilemmas that i too (occasionally) face is... comforting, to say the least. i am fascinated by what you have to say in relation to my long and tangential passion posts where i extrapolate about doomed narratives or something other–or even when you offered your own counterpoints and insights when i discussed passion and the tragedy of youth motifs it has. to have someone who approaches such a multi-layered piece of media to a similar degree of scrutiny as i feels deeply refreshing, because you just Get It.
i also love seeing you pop up in my notifications every now and then, or even when you post your FFXIV art or about a new thing in the discord. it's nice to have someone as sondheim pilled as i am, truly.
one day we'll be able to talk about passion and video games in person - i'm still so sad i missed you by a couple of days in NY. (may we be diseased and fosca pilled in spirit, until then.)
and yes, i will finish the passion fanfic (soon) and you will be the first one to read it.
My handwriting is the same style as the teacher’s who I had when I was nine. I’m now twenty one and he’s been dead eight years but my i’s still curve the same way as his.
I watched the last season of a TV show recently but I started it with my friend in high school. We haven’t spoken in four years.
I make lentil soup through the recipe my gran gave me.
I curl my hair the way my best friend showed me.
I learned to love books because my father loved them first.
How terrifying, how excruciatingly painful to acknowledge this. That I am a jigsaw puzzle of everyone I have briefly known and loved. I carry them on with me even if I don’t know it. How beautiful.