cursedwithgloriouspurpose

[cursedwithgloriouspurpose]

I'm at a :.|:; for words.

[cursedwithgloriouspurpose]

[cursedwithgloriouspurpose]

[cursedwithgloriouspurpose]

As a horror guy I vehemently do not support hatred towards romance girlies. Sister genres in my opinion. We both enjoy familiar tropes. We both enjoy interesting relationship dynamics explored between two or more people. We both enjoy werewolves.

[cursedwithgloriouspurpose]

Fascinating things are happening in the group chat right now

[cursedwithgloriouspurpose]

For those who have completed Veilguard, I have a question.

Without getting too detailed/overly spoilery (since many haven't finished yet):

Did you guess the endgame "twist" before the in-game reveal?

[cursedwithgloriouspurpose]

[cursedwithgloriouspurpose]

let's get ✨vulnerable✨

[cursedwithgloriouspurpose]

Hana-Rawhiti Kareariki Maipi-Clarke, the youngest MP in Aotearoa, starts a haka to protest the first vote on a bill reinterpreting the 1840 Treaty of Waitangi

[cursedwithgloriouspurpose]

Lol and also lmao

[cursedwithgloriouspurpose]

[cursedwithgloriouspurpose]

I'm convinced it was a tragedy that tumblr learned the phrase "bury your gays" at the exact same time it decided that any fictional media darker than Landlord White was pearl-clutchingly problematic. Pouring one out for every creator of earnest LGBT+ media wanting to explore the themes of grief loss and tragedy who then got subsequently hounded by mobs of terminally online users brainrotted on nothing but conflict-free coffee shop AUs.

[cursedwithgloriouspurpose]

Brennan's "is that what subs do?" said so fucking much in 5 words.

[cursedwithgloriouspurpose]

The problem with commercial F/M romance is that it's written by the most heterosexual women alive and reading it you feel yourself slowly suffocating from the Gender of it all like a fish in a eutrophying lake. And what we actually need as a culture is F/M written by insane bisexuals violently allergic to heteronormativity

[cursedwithgloriouspurpose]

hold on sorry you're telling me the name of the boat was "the terror"?? i always assumed that was a retroactive name! did they WANT things to go horrifically awry???

obsessed with the implication that nominative determinism could have saved them

[cursedwithgloriouspurpose]

[cursedwithgloriouspurpose]

Patron Saint Bluebell

Hey, listen. I know the world’s on fire. But listen. I’ll tell you a thing. On the day after the election, when everything was worst and all I could do was go numb or cry hysterically, do you know what gave me the most comfort? It wasn’t the words of Lincoln or Gandhi or Maya Angelou, it wasn’t Psalms or poetry, it wasn’t my grandmother, it wasn’t contemplating the long arc of history. It wasn’t even hugging the dog. It was the Twitter account @ConanSalaryman. This is a joke account. It’s somebody who narrates as if Conan was working in an office. Tweets usually sound like “By Crom!” roared Conan. “You jackals cannot schedule a mere interview without gathering in a pack and cackling?!” or “Conan slammed his sword through his desk. Papers and blood rained through the office. Monday was slain.” I followed it awhile back and have found it funny. (I’m not a huge Robert Howard fan inherently, but whoever is writing these does the schtick well.) But if it had not posted once that day, no one would have noticed at all. Instead, Conan the Salaryman posted something inspirational. And then replied to dozens of people replying to him, for hours, in character, telling them that by Crom! it was only defeat if we did not stand up again, that the greatest act of strength was to keep walking in the face of hopelessness, that the gods have given the smallest of us strength to enact change, that we must all keep going as long as Crom gave us breath, and tyrants frightened Conan not, but we must look to those unable to fend for themselves. (“Though by Crom! We must hammer ourselves into a support network, not an army!”) I have no idea who is behind that account. But it was the most bizarrely comforting thing I saw all day, in a day that had very little comfort in it. There was this weight of story behind it. It helped me. I think it helped a lot of people. If only a tiny bit–well, tiny bits help. I have been thinking a lot lately about Bluebell from Watership Down. There’s absolutely no reason you should remember Bluebell, unless, to take an example completely and totally at random, you read it eleven thousand times until your copy fell apart because you were sort of a weird little proto-furry kid who loved talking animals more than breath and wrote fan fic and there weren’t any other talking animal books and you now have large swaths memorized as a result. Ahem. Bluebell is a minor character. He’s Captain Holly’s friend and jester. When the old warren is destroyed, Captain Holly and Bluebell are the last two standing and they stagger across the fields after the main characters. By the end, Holly is raving, hallucinating, and screaming “O zorn!” meaning “all is destroyed” and about to bring predators down on them. And Bluebell is telling stupid jokes. And they make it the whole way because of Bluebell’s jokes. “Jokes one end, hraka the other,” he says. “I’d roll a joke along the ground and we’d both follow it.” When Holly can’t move, Bluebell tells him jokes that would make Dad jokes look brilliant and Holly is able to move again. When Hazel, the protagonist, tries to shush him, Holly says no, that “we wouldn’t be here without his blue-tit’s chatter.” I tell you, the last few days, thinking of this, I really start to identify with Bluebell. I am not a fighter, not an organizer, certainly not a prophet. Throw something at me and I squawk and cover my head. I write very small stories with wombats and hamsters and a cast of single digits. I am not the sort of comforting soul who sits and listens and offers you tea. (What seems like a thousand years ago, when I had the Great Nervous Breakdown of ‘07, I remember saying something to the effect that I had realized that if I had myself as a friend, I would have been screwed, because I was useless at that kind of thing. And a buddy of mine from my college days, who was often depressed, wrote me to say that no, I wasn’t that kind of person, but when we were together I always made her laugh hysterically and that was worth a lot too. I treasured that comment more than I am entirely comfortable admitting.) But I can roll a joke along the ground until the end of the world if I have to. And increasingly, I think that’s what I’m for in this life. Things are bad and people have died already and I am heartsick and tired and the news is a gibbering horror–but I actually do know why a raven is like a writing desk. So. First Church of Bluebell. Patron Saint. Keep holding the line.