so Friday night I took my husband to see the ballet of Frankenstein
we got all dressed up and everything and the show was just as phenomenal as opening night
but midway through the second act he got a work call and we had to leave at intermission so he missed all the really spectacular dances
said work call had him up until 1:30 in the morning
which meant he was sleep-deprived when he drove to St. Charles for a robot event the next day and left our garage door open
so some asshole happened by and carted off (literally, it was sitting on the cart) my massage table and supplies
and on the one hand, it was eight years old and starting to show some wear, so having to replace it isn’t the worst. But on the other, that’s $730 I could really have stood not to spend right now
also I’m headed up to Alaska to visit my mother…just in time for her mother to be put on final stage palliative care (morphine, no food or water unless she asks for it, which is unlikely as she’s very rarely aware)
so what was going to be a chill writing retreat is looking increasingly like it’ll involve a lot of emotional support and possibly family drama depending on how my aunt is(n’t) coping
meantime our car’s developed a slow leak in one of the tires so Brian’s off to try and find someone to patch it…in the middle of winter tire changeover season
all in all, not the best weekend
(It hasn’t all been shitty—pole class on Saturday was a particularly fun one, Brian had a great time at his robot event, and he and I are both actively making progress on creative projects that we enjoy but had been burned out on earlier in the year. But damn, this has been a bit of a “can we get a goddamn break please” weekend.)
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in my mind dean was always supposed to get older and become the new bobby. like ok you're a hunter, maybe a little new to the scene and still figuring things out. and you're tracking down a werewolf, easy case. except some things don't line up quite right and now you're thinking it might not actually be a werewolf. so you ask around a hunter's bar and they all say the same thing. go to this one bunker in the middle of nowhere in kansas
and you're like sure what the hell. you're stumped anyway, might as well check it out. maybe it's a weapons storehouse or something. but then you get there and there's a doorbell and a bee-shaped welcome mat out front and you're starting to think you've got the wrong place. the door swings open and there's this middle aged guy with a robe and batman pyjama bottoms. and he laughs at the look on your face and tells you to come in, he doesn't bite. not since he got that vampire cure, anyway. you're not sure what to make of that last part but he winks at you when he says it so you figure he's joking. maybe.
he gives great advice about hunting everything under the sun and if you stick around long enough he'll go on and on about how he saved the world at least five times. ok sure. you don't want to be rude so you just sit there and sip your coffee politely while he talks about some guy called chuck and how much of a bitch he is. and another guy who's aged a little more gracefully comes padding down the hallway in a metallica t-shirt and rolls his eyes. has he told you about tvland yet? ('i was just getting to that part!')
if you go to the basement you'll find shotguns filled with salt, wooden stakes, holy water, and demon-killing bullets for sale. and if you're lucky the witch who sells hex bags might be around. low-grade curses only, of course. you better leave the powerful stuff to the professionals. and she'll get in trouble if she gives you anything stronger, not that she can't be persuaded. a girl's gotta make a living after all and she's always encouraged eager new witches. it's worked out pretty well for her so far. and then a guy you swear is twice your height will raise an eyebrow at her and insist she only sell the weaker hex bags, please. you don't need any more witches in your coven, rowena. you've got plenty
pagan god giving you trouble? there's a man who swings by every once in a while who knows how to deal with those. give him some candy or a fun magic relic and he might help you out. it depends. he's a little picky about dishing out advice and he likes to play favorites. and if you've got a demon problem they can give you the number of a guy who swears up and down that he used to be the king of hell. but you've seen him walking around with a purse-sized terrier tucked under his arm and a dozen more following him so you're not really sure if you believe him
idk i like to think that dean got to grow old and retire. that doesn't mean he stops helping people, it just means he hangs up his coat and becomes an old man who rambles on and on about 'back in my day' and makes a dent in his leather armchair. there's a foosball table where the dungeon used to be and sam complains about beer bottles being everywhere and it becomes a safe haven for anyone still fighting the good fight. it's just that for dean and the rest of team free will the fight is over. they're done hunting now
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ik some people dont like considering the fact that minecraft is a game into their interpretation of lore but tbh i really like lore that acknowledges that their lives adhere to video game mechanics and thats a part of why i like that tubbo doesnt shy away from including his knowledge of game mechanics in his roleplay. it adds to his character and story and tubbos knowledge of how the game works directly translates to his character being extremely intelligent and skilled
and i think a big part of why people dont like acknowledging that tubbo isnt fail rping by using the game mechanics to his advantage is because they dont like admitting that hes intelligent. they dont like him being more than just the dumb bee boy. they dont like him being able to get a one up on their faves even though their faves are using game mechanics to their advantage too, hell because their faves are doing it too.
using game mechanics to his advantage isnt fail rp. being intelligent and skilled in his own way isnt fail rp. the admins keep him in line when they need to and when they dont they let him do his thing because no matter how many people get upset about it, tubbos knowledge of how the game works is fun and its cool to see.
a good roleplayer knows how to use the medium to their advantage. tubbo isnt failing rp or breaking the no metagaming rules in any way that actually ruins anyone elses enjoyment. hes just using the medium to his advantage. minecraft is a video game and there are literally plot points that depend on acknowledging that. tubbo is intelligent and on top of that he is a good roleplayer and its fine that he roleplays in a different way than some other ccs do because that makes him interesting. if you dont like it then theres a very easy solution: dont watch him
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⸝⸝ ˙˳ ⑅ first piece of marginalia ( of many , hopefully :3 ) about eremite!al haitham && akademiya student!reader ♥︎ f!reader + not proofread + subtly implied trauma on both reader n haitham's end
you first meet the eremite who's to serve as your bodyguard throughout your research expedition on the day of your departure, at your designated meeting spot under the pavilion in pardis dhyai. its stone pillars cascade with vines of sumeru roses that shine a sweet lavender hue under the morning sun— one of which you've plucked and tucked into your hair earlier, leaning over the railing to gaze at your reflection in the pond and smile at the beauty of it.
(and a petal which has unknowingly slipped off and fallen to rest ever so delicately within the dip of your clavicle.)
“al haitham, yes? um, hello!” you greet the eremite as he walks into the pavilion with a quiet waver to your voice, bow respectfully, try to still the timid pitter-patters of your heart that only seem to worsen the longer you're in his presence.
because this man standing before you is large— tall, broad, as stunning as the pale blue moon. his upper body is strapped with tough sinew and yet his waist remains lean, torso mostly bare save for the pashmina shawl draped about his neck and the worn leather holster slung across his chest.
and he's silent. offering you only a small bow in return before giving you a quick once over, gait unhurried as he takes one, two long strides to stand by your side. it's an arduous task to bring yourself to look up at his face, but you do— lips parting in awe when you realise he's unlike any other desert eremite you've met before.
the trimmed red silk tied around his head shelters only one of his eyes.
how interesting, you think to yourself, for what you know of desert eremites is that they are convinced all things betray, even their own sight.
you bite your tongue to stop the questions that bubble and ebb at the forefront of your throat from tumbling past your lips, the innate scholarly need to learn and dissect and digest and know. a surprised little squeak escapes you instead when he turns his head and catches you staring, meeting your curious eyes with technicoloured cyan.
“is something the matter?”
“no, not at all! i'm sorry, i didn't mean to stare,” you flush hot under the intensity of his gaze, play with the flouncy sleeve of your blouse while you giggle nervously. you're unsure whether it's his size, or his beauty, or his quiet dominance that makes you feel much more shy than you'd like to feel, far too giddy— as if you're a little girl back in grade school.
“alright. shall we get going then? we're losing daylight with each second that passes.” al haitham holds a hand out in front of you, waiting expectantly.
you tilt your head in confusion and pout. what's he asking for? a tip? your hand?
“your bags?” he heaves a sigh, rests his other hand on his hip. you feel a hint of irritation in his words, and your heart wilts a little, “did you want me to carry them?”
“oh!” you exclaim in realisation before hoisting your travel bags further up your shoulders, force a reassuring smile on your lips. “it's okay, i couldn't possibly ask that of you. i can handle it myself, really!”
that couldn't be further from the truth, and al haitham sees right through it, with your shoulders hunched forward from the leaden weight of your bags slung atop them, the wince in your step as you walk towards the pathway, how you nearly topple over when you lose the slightest bit of balance.
“hey,” he pinches his brow, a certain roughness in his voice when he calls out to you that withers into something more gentle, tender after you turn to look at him. sweet and innocent and dewy-eyed. like a flower too frail, one whose stem may snap clean off if looked at the wrong way. “let me take them.”
al haitham doesn't allow you to protest, swiftly lifting your bags from your shoulders and holding onto them with ease, their weight nothing compared to what he's had to endure throughout the entirety of his life.
“it's my job to take care of you these next few weeks, and i intend to do it well.” he walks ahead of you, the longer mint strands of his hair swaying with the wind, the air around him lifting into something lighter— even if it's only by the most minute amount. “besides, you'll tip me generously if i do, won't you?"
his voice lilts mischievously, and you can only bring yourself to watch on in awe. nerves melting into excitement, cheeks warming not from timidness, but anticipation of what lies ahead in the next month— for your research, yes, but also for something closer to your heart.
a companion, a friend.
you smile a smile that reaches far past your eyes, bounding up to him with those clumsy fawn legs as you try to match his pace. two of your steps for one of his own. “of course i will, thank you so, so much! and i'll do my best to keep from making trouble for you— it'll make your job easier too, i hope!”
al haitham hesitates for a brief moment when you thank him so earnestly, so wholeheartedly, so unlike any of the other scholars he'd been commissioned to act as a guard for. with your smile so cloyingly sweet and your kindness so childishly naive, he can't help but feel a bit grim.
how much violence did it take for you to become this gentle?
the faintest of smiles— honeysuckle soft— curls up on his lips and he gives your head a single pat, sweeps the spare rose petal off of your clavicle, quietly wonders what he's gotten himself into by accepting this commission.
“silly girl. come, let's get going.”
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