Peter, crying: It’s the Curiosity Rover’s birthday and he has to sing happy birthday all by himself on Mars and thats sad
Tony, already building a rocket: Say no more
Peter and Tony: *arrive and hop out of there rocket, only to see shuri in a super high tech space suit, holding cupcakes, and standing next to T’challa in his black panther suit because of course shuri made it so it could withstand a vaccum*
T’challa: she made me come here. It’s not too late for you if you run.
Tony, who loves all robots so fucking much: Ummmm why would we leave
Peter, holding up a gift: yeah, we brought presents!!!!
Can you imagine how fucking wild ladies must have gone for the rejection in pride and prejudice right after it was first published. This guy’s making ten thousand a year and her family is expecting her to find accommodation for herself sooner rather than later and STILL Lizzie is like “no. No. True love only. And also while I’ve got you here please accept my invitation to fuck off.” I would’ve lost my damn gourd, I would’ve gone bonkers. And group chats didn’t exist so you’d just have to hope your friends were as far into the book as you so you could meet at the village green to throw a fucking riot
– An old fisherman once told you, “When you wander these woods, it’s like being lost in your own soul.” Maybe that’s why you feel dead eyes watching you from behind the trees.
– Visitors complain that the sun rarely unveils itself from the clouds and mist, and you laugh quietly. The fools. They do not understand that there are certain things not meant to be seen by the light of day.
– The morning fog slowly covers your campsite. When it dissipates, your friend’s tent is missing. How many came on this camping trip? it was always one, wasn’t it? …Wasn’t it?
– The mountain is out. It is closer today. Try not to wonder how many homes it had to swallow to get there.
– The crows gather on the trees and buildings. You start counting, 1, 2, 3, 4, but there are too many to count. They gather as one, they fly off as one. That is why they will survive and you will not. Their feathers block out the light.
– “Have you been to the Seattle Art Museum?” Someone asks. You pretend not to have heard. What a strange thing to hear from one of the exhibits.
– At the farmer’s markets, there is a reason we are drawn to vintage furniture, scarves, jewelry. Things that hold so many memories always have space for a few more secrets.
– The ocean bores holes through the cliffs, crushes stones beneath its waves. It will erode you, too, given enough time.
– The streets of Seattle are built on the bones of a much older city. And beneath that, a city older still.
– The sheds on the interstate are an admission that we cannot hold back the encroaching snow. "Hazardous conditions for travelers", the signs say. "Warning! Collapsing snowfields". When and if you emerge from the pass, will you still be the same person who went in?
I love them so much because they’re about as sharp as a baseball and their anatomy is ridiculous to the point of them literally being classified as plankton for years because they just sort of get blown around by the ocean and look confused, but because they lay more eggs than ANY OTHER VERTEBRATE IN EXISTENCE, evolution can’t stop them
Why is no big predator coming and gnawing on them?
Their biggest defense is that they’re massive and have super tough skin, but they do get hunted by sharks or sea lions sometimes and they just sort of float there like ‘oh bother’ as it happens
Even funnier, because they eat nothing but jellyfish they’re really low in nutritional value anyway, so they basically survive by being not worth eating because they’re like a big floating rice cracker wrapped in leather.
So basically the only reason natural selection hasn’t taken care if them is because they are the most useless fish
yes, they’ve perfected uselessness to the point of being unstoppable
Idk Clarice, maybe we’re just tired, and life is uncertain, and we like the idea of a stable husband with a steady job and a big dog and his own place away from all the loud, shapeshifting-kink party gods.
‘The grave of the Russian composer Alfred Schnittke in Novodevichye Cemetery in Moscow is surmounted by a stone on which is engraved a rest beneath a fermata with a triple forte noted at the bottom: A very, very loud extended silence.’
– John Biguenet, Silence (London: Bloomsbury, 2015), p.49.
