I fucking love people’s fan designs for GLaDOS, because they almost universally fall into one of two (2) categories:
a) “What if we made a haggard, jaded 50-something milf into a vocaloid idol and made her a virulently toxic lesbian”
or
b) “What if we made a horrifying mechanical abomination of twisted cable and polymer with no resemblence to the human form and made her a virulently toxic lesbian”
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the choir: *chatting*
penny: *starts bobbing her head*
ocean: what... what's she doing
noel: oh my gosh why is her neck... dislocating???
ricky (via an aac system): it's fine that just happens :)
mischa: what is wrong?
constance: is she breathing????
penny: *deep breath*
penny: COME ON EILEEN-
ocean: NO
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I figured out what I want to be when I grow up-
The kind of woman that all the 70s-80s artists sing about. (Stairway To Heaven, Mrs. Robinson, Layla, Tiny Dancer, She's Always A Woman, Come On Eileen, etc etc etc)
She seems cool.
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I really need someone to photoshop Taylor Hebert into the background shots of Across the Spiderverse
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Four Vignettes
I don't know what this is. Maybe it was inspired by my Spotify Wrapped? I'm still not sure I'm using the word "pastiche" correctly. I pulled at a few different threads and I wove this, whatever it is.
One.
Robert Sheehan is outside my window again. Lucky for me, I'm on the 2nd floor, in my writer's studio above the corner bodega and he's standing on the sidewalk.
The window is open.
"Eileen!" he shouts up. "Come on, Eileen."
I leave my chair, push aside the pink-and-gray buffalo check curtain and peer down at him.
Putting his Irish accent on thick, he sings, "Believe me, if all those enduring young charms..."
"I'm dreaming," I say, interrupting his croon. "This is because I said you should play Kevin Rowland in a movie about Dexys Midnight Runners."
"Not a dream," he half-says, half-sings. "Don't you want to come down and go for a walk with me, just around the neighborhood?"
"No." The smell of hot tortilla chips warming in the bodega below makes my nostrils flare. I imagine the salt crystals on their flat surfaces. Craving the warmth and salt, I feel a hunger pang.
"Why not?"
"I've got things to do."
"Like what?"
I gesture at my laptop. "I have to write things. Legitimate things, fresh things, not just this Joyce Carol Oates pastiche."
"Eileen, you ain't telling the truth."
"Not my name," I remind him.
"Eileen, Erin, whatever. This is your day set aside for going for a walk with me and you know it."
I feel threatened. I close the window and go back to my laptop.
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