you-are-a-saucy-boi

[you-are-a-saucy-boi]

I dont know what to say. I’m at a ,’ , |,’_’ for words

#only on tumblr #(derogatory)

[you-are-a-saucy-boi]

pros of learning a new skill: fun and interesting

cons of learning a new skill: more things for people to ask you to make for them

#no i will not make you a corset #i have not even made myself a corset #mori talks

[you-are-a-saucy-boi]

(guy stuck in a timeloop) fuckkkkk i got yesterday tomorrow

#so fucking real #misc

[you-are-a-saucy-boi]

I know he’s kind of a polarizing character, but I have to say, Elias Bouchard truly is Iconic. When you hear the twist of “the boring middle manager was actually secretly an evil eldritch monster the whole time!” you sort of assume that the boring middle manager persona was just a facade, but no, he really does seem to just enjoy dull administrative work. He’s both exactly as boring as he seems on the surface and profoundly fucked up in ways you couldn’t imagine. He’s practically omniscient and playing 4-D chess with everyone, but he responds to even slight hiccups in his elaborate scheme with acts of extreme violence. He beats an old man to death with a metal pipe and when someone brings it up later he goes, “Yeah I may have overreacted there.” His employees are constantly trying to murder him. He broke out of prison just so he could give a dramatic monologue. He had a weird gay thing going on with seemingly every man he met in the past 200 years. He loves scheduling.

#tma

[you-are-a-saucy-boi]

#OH MAN #THERE IS STILL SO MUCH TO DISCOVER #THERE ARE NEW TYPES OF BREAD THAT I WILL NOT LIVE TO SEE #THERE IS STILL MYSTERY IN THE WORLD #HOLY SHIT #THOUSANDS OF YEARS AND WE STILL MANAGE TO COME UP WITH A NEW WAY #TO MAKE BREAD #OH THIS IS GONNA KEEP ME GOING FOR DAYS #THERE IS STILL SO MUCH TO DO

[you-are-a-saucy-boi]

We didn’t get a S4 announcement, but you know what the absolute best thing about today’s C2E2 Hannibal panel truly was? 

For almost the first time since the show ended, Fannibals showed how profitable Hannibal can still be. 

C2E2 sold out of their remaining VIP ticket packages with guaranteed panel seating within 48 hours of the reunion announcement. Paid PopVerse subscriptions to stream the panel spiked with previously untapped demos (if socials are anything to go by). The largest event hall at C2E2 was overcapacity 45 minutes before the panel; while that’s normal for cons like SDCC and NYCC, in my experience that’s less common at C2E2.

Not to mention Mads and Hugh making bank with autograph and photo-op sales; a huge component of drawing in good talent to table at cons as well, making sure they make enough over the weekend to justify their presence beyond panel appearances. From a talent booking/event management perspective, this is the absolute dream scenario.

So, here’s the super fun part: ReedPop, the company that owns C2E2, also owns/operates New York Comic Con (NYCC), one of the highest-profile US entertainment conventions after San Diego Comic-Con. Now that ReedPop is aware of the viability of Hannibal programming, it would be extremely surprising if RP didn’t attempt a run at a larger, proper reunion panel at NYCC.

Honestly, great job, team. 2024 could very well be the year we get real buzz going again!

#pls they made more fucking DEXTER #give me more hannibal #hannibal

[you-are-a-saucy-boi]

Dykes on b/w by Chloe Sherman

#queer #people being people

[you-are-a-saucy-boi]

#one bear one sheep #i put character because the sheep is timmy from shaun the sheep #but i call him shaun because it says shaun the sheep on his foot #polls

[you-are-a-saucy-boi]

this post is going to stay up forever, but I'm going to reblog this post with a picture of a funny cat I drew wearing big boots. the reblog that has the cat in it will only be available for 5 minutes so good luck if you manage to see or find that version.

I'll add the cat to this post about a minute after posting this. I need to add an image description so it'll take a sec

#hey guys i got the cat #i am a fish

[you-are-a-saucy-boi]

#my new favourite person in the world #posts that make you go ne

[you-are-a-saucy-boi]

my arch nemesis cynthia is, of course, at the bank, because we both were sent like clockwork to pick up the checks of our husbands. she is wearing a lovely long green gown, which i know was on behalf of me, because, as my husband will tell you, our house abhors green and glamour. already the tellers look at each other under their little hats, for they love our tirades, i’m sure, although not more than i hate them. 

“oh, is that your knitting?” my arch nemesis cynthia peers her eyes at my hands. “is it some kind of… sock?” everyone knows she and i used to be close before we were married and our husbands, smartly so, have introduced us to the idea of true vengeance.

“it is a scarf,” i say. i want to tell her that when the time comes and the world gets cold it will go over my mouth and i will breathe warm air and it will fill my lungs and i will be able to run around with my love even in the dark night. “it is not,” i say, “over surprising that you should be caught unawares of a scarf,” i say, “as i’m sure enjoying winter festivities are too beneath the handsome qualities your husband prefers.” pompous ass.

the tellers pass each other eyes for now it has started and they are delighted.

my arch nemesis cynthia thrusts out her hand. a white bottle. “rat poison,” she says. “i would expect the whole town knows about your little problem.” stage whisper. “such a shame, my dear.” then she rustles her long green skirts - which i know she wore on behalf of me - and she shimmies herself out of the room like royalty. oh, she floats everywhere she goes, beautiful black hair behind her. the bottle in my palm is cold. i will devise how to get her back starting first thing tomorrow.

the week, as always, is a long week, for there is much to make and do and knit and be. my husband comes home and i love him for who he is; for he never comes home without checking the state of the house up and down. he is the kind who loves his home so completely and sets each room like a stage for a great band to come playing. i am too ashamed to tell him why so many of the rats go missing, only make him a stew the next morning to celebrate. his favorite, although not mine, i’m afraid. plenty left over.

my arch nemesis today - of course - in a green the color of rotting. a bruise is uncarefully covered on her cheekbone, so striking against all of her dainty. her husband would say it was for her ungraceful nature, and i know mine would agree. i strike first, already delighted by my master plan, shoving over our best picnic basket tied with a bow. “i made you and yours a stew,” i say, “for beneath all that you carry” all that horrible wealth of your husband  “it seems you’re getting rather skinny.” i can’t resist one last comment. “i am worried you’re about to waste to nothing.”

She plucks it out of my hand. “yes, if it weren’t for you and your husband’s dwindling wealth,” her sarcasm is biting, “i’m sure i will be nothing in, oh, 5 weeks time.” she arches a brow. “so long from now.”

“i am counting the days,” i tell her. her lips purse. the tellers behind me make a choked titter. perhaps, by their estimation, i have won this round quite completely. i go home to my husband smiling. he asks where i have been and i tell him i’ve been at the bank, but he checks anyway because i like to get up to tricks and he doesn’t like to fall for it. it is a good game we play. at night, when he is asleep, i am so in love that i must convince myself to pull the covers over my nose and practice breathing. how silly to wake him up for a young girl’s feelings. 

the first week of five: she gives me a solid, ugly ring that requires three knuckles to hold. “i feel so badly for your status, and i must remember to practice charity,” she says. “it such a small thing, but do be careful amongst all that thin pine furnishing of your house, which dents so easily.” my husband appears at the bank’s front door. just checking. so lovely to be picked up by him. at night, in a rage, i try it - beneath the table bends easily. i scuff out the scratch with walnut before my husband can see. i pull the covers over my face in bed and breathe.

the second week: i wear her ugly ring and give her more stew, this time hearty with meat. her dress is a meadow. my heart each time it sees her collapses on itself. she hands me clothes for my husband, since his wealth continues to go missing, and the charity of her heart is so loving. i am so ashamed i bury them far by the old tree, where all my shames go hiding. again, the covers. it, by now, helps me sleep. i have gotten so good at it that i can simply shimmy my shoulders to be perfectly toasty and buried.

the third week: she asks how comes my knitting. i tell her it’s nearly complete. she asks how comes my husband, whom she must know has been ill recently, and who is doing quite badly. i go home to him, shaking. even sick he is a good housekeeper, who comes home examining for dust and dinge so i do not fall behind on my chores. who checks to be sure i spoke to only him and no one more, for fear a man might snatch me. tell me, who else has a man so involved, in this day and age?

the fourth week she is envy green. i shove a whole heaping of stew at her, for now her husband has gotten it. i say it will return him to spirits, she laughs, a sudden, beautiful sound, even in the quiet of a bank. everyone stares. maybe it is the stress that is making her quite improper. i feel the same way. so much is happening and it always seems she knows. she says she heard he has left me nothing in the will, which everyone already knows. she says she doubts either of us can dig upwards from the hole we’re both in. i look at the bruise on her nose. i tell her to mind her own husband, and be careful where she goes.

the fifth week: so final. her, garishly lime green. and i in black, to pick up a check that hardly seems the effort. it will be enough to cover my husband’s funeral. she smiles at me and hands me a silver bottle. she says quietly: now that i am destitute, there is one thing for it all, and everyone would understand quite completely. it would be quiet, and quick, and complete.

it is the night of the new moon, so dark no man can see in it. i receive notice her husband has died, and i am sorry to say i find a terrible joy in it. the air has changed cold. i have left a note asking to be buried in my scarf, the last thing i have made on this earth. i go through each perfect room, but there is nothing else to take with me, for the house has always been his and his alone, and now aches to be gone of him. i would not serve as a good tender for it. having spent so many nights watched carefully, the silly girlish freedom i’d gain would surely set the house ablaze.

i follow her instructions. quick, quiet, complete.

the horrible rustling is what does it. like a million green skirts. and then it is dark, and i am in my own coffin, eerie with pine. my head hurts but i must be quick and quiet. they have listened and buried me with my scarf. i shimmy my shoulders just-so and get it over my face. bring my arms up, ugly ring heavy, and begin to hit as hard as i can, over and over, the thin wood of my husband’s favorite furniture, the cretin. it would be pine, of course - he left me no money to be buried in any nicer recourse.

the wood splits so horribly, and then it is very hard to breathe, harder than under the covers, and i have to remind myself to be patient and continue to dig upwards, while my throat closes and my heart beats so loudly and the whole thing is so heavy it is a universe. the shifting of gravedirt is loud, and loud, and i feel i will be turned into a worm, and i fear everyone has forgotten about me, or i have gotten the timing wrong, or i will really die down here in the dirt and the cold

but then her hand, and my hand, and we are both digging towards each other, and she lifts me so easily from the ground like a plucked turnip and holds me against her, us both panting and muddied. we can only stay like this for so long, here in my pauper grave, and then we are both running to the old tree where we met, and unburying a second thing; my lovely box of shame, and men’s clothes, and all of my husband’s dwindling fortune i have slowly been squirrelling away.

my love and angel cynthia, who has black hair like a curtain and a mind so fast i sometimes am in frank awe at it, who is, even now and dirty and raw: even now the only sun in my life.

like this, i a man in an almost-dawn, and us cleaned by the river, and her smiling so widely, and only a faint bruise on her, and our pasts behind us in ugly garish colors. and her delicate hand and beautiful nose and when i finally get to kiss her it feels like green feels; my favorite color, all warm and nature and sunny grace and grass and lying awake so filled with love it makes you shake.

i hold her, and she holds me, and our future is a love like a dream unburied.

#fic

[you-are-a-saucy-boi]

this too shall pass

#pretty words #this is literally being in a 12 step program #what the FUCK do you mean i have to just trust the process #and not attempt step 9 when i'm on step 3

[you-are-a-saucy-boi]

just once I want to see a good post critiquing makeup culture that doesn’t turn out to be made by some janky radfem blog

#posts that make you go ne #only on tumblr

[you-are-a-saucy-boi]

my notifs are so boring right now because it's all people finding out that I'm the illustrious op of both The Makeup Post and The Gaylor Post and going "akdjdjsks WHOA op are you okay??? do you need psychiatric help??? I would kill someone. I would become an addict. how do you live like this???" and it's so funny. hello?? it's literally just tumblr. nothing matters. you wouldn't last an hour in the asylum where they raised me.

#posts that make you go ne #only on tumblr

[you-are-a-saucy-boi]

uh oh

UH OH

#tma #tma art #perfect

[you-are-a-saucy-boi]

reblog if you’ve read fanfictions that are more professional, better written than some actual novels. I’m trying to see something

#ok so like the average fanfic is not better than the average novel #but there are some really shitty novels and some really brilliant fanfics #and i wish people would believe me when i say that #tag game #ish

[you-are-a-saucy-boi]

whenever i threaten violence just remember i'm 4'11" and get excited about colors and sunlight and trees

#yeah exactly #remember that i kill 72 people in the US alone #4'11 gang