monkeycharles

[monkeycharles]

(sono lo stesso anon che ti ha chiesto l’opinione riguardo il merch e le differenze che ci sono tra prima e adesso)

Ho voluto riflettere un attimo e ti devo dare ragione il blocco principale è di sicuro la vendibilitá del capo e le tendenze di adesso (che se facciamo un confronto anche guardando la moda in generale ad oggi c’è più tendenza verso uno stile mini minimalista è uno stile Maxximista) quindi sì rip team kit accattivante (l’unica eccezione che ho visto sia in MotoGP che in Formula 1 e la vr 46 come team)

comunque un’altra cosa che non c’entra niente con il discorso fatto fino adesso ma una cosa che ho notato cominciando a vedere oltre alla Formula 1 anche un po’ di MotoGP è la grande differenza che c’è nell’atmosfera che si ha nel paddock, che nella MotoGP tende ad essere meno impostata che nella Formula 1. Non so se è perché la MotoGP ancora non ho avuto un boom così grande formula 1 negli ultimi anni o o se semplicemente una questione di ambiente ma devo dire che è una delle cose che mi ha attratto di più a cominciato a seguire meglio la MotoGP

comunque ho deciso che d’ora in poi mi firmerò come 🌺 così che è un modo di riconoscermi

buona serata

🌺

Guarda, è una cosa che da persona che ha iniziato a vedere la motogp da poco mi ha colpito parecchio, però le differenze sono molteplici.

Di base già il fatto che in F1 girino più soldi implica maggiore "politica" e quindi maggiore controllo, unito al fatto che i piloti praticamente fanno media training dai kart, tra in po'. In generale poi l'ambiente della f1 nasce come frequentato e seguito da un pubblico abbastanza elitario, almeno i primissimi anni (per quello che ho potuto documentarmi). Altra cosa che cambia e che, paradossalmente, secondo me incentiva la tensione, è il fatto che sì, la f1 ragiona per team più che per pilota (altra cosa a cui ancora non mi abituo), il che costringe i piloti a collaborare, in un modo o nell'altro, con il loro primo avversario.

Di contro abbiamo una MotoGp incentrata sui singoli piloti, sulla pista sei solo tu e la moto, moto con cui i piloti sono MOLTO più coinvolti in termini di meccanica e sviluppo rispetto alle macchine. Federazioni diverse, esposizione mediatica diversa, molto meno pr, per moltissimi versi. Perché benché Valentino non corra più e per molti l'ambiente "non è più lo stesso", conserva ancora quella spontaneità di cui VR in primo è stato promotore. E confermo che è...bello? Cioè penso al parolaccia-gate in F1 e a quanto non reggerebbe con le due ruote e con Bez che ad ogni cool-down room ne spara una (lo amiamo) anche solo per reagire all'ennesima caduta folle. Disclaimer: non che sia NECESSARIO imprecare, ma pretendere rigore e pulizia da gente che va ai 300 km/h cercando di mantenere la posizione e non farsi superare, con tutto lo sforzo, la tensione e l'adrenalina che ne deriva, è abbastanza assurdo.

Mi piace che in realtà questi messaggi non hanno necessariamente una vera domanda a cui rispondere ma io li sto usando per yappare come se un domani non ci fosse 😅

[monkeycharles]

they'd have to restrain me

oh to be him

[monkeycharles]

fabio ft sylvia og...quoque tu...

fabio quartararo, silverstone 2025 // silvia plath, the unabridged journals of sylvia plath

[monkeycharles]

miao-ed so hard i scared off my dogs.

balaton park track day

[monkeycharles]

comunque pensiero molto randomico che movie ogni qual volta che vedo vecchie foto di Valentino è perché non fanno più i team kit con colori sgargianti come si faceva fino agli anni 90/primi anni 2000 (questa cosa vale specialmente per la formula uno)

temo sia perché di base lo sport segue un po' quello che è l'andamento di moda e tendenze (basti vedere anche come la forma degli abiti è cambiata, al di là delle classiche magliette) e penso che la cosa che maggiormente disincentiva, al di là di questioni puramente di gusto, è che forse non venderebbero? io stessa guardando il sito di vr vedo un sacco di chicche tra repliche/memorabilia e penso "mamma mia che belle, LE VORREI", però poi penso che sono in buona parte cose che non indosserei, tendendo a preferite cose più "moderne". ciò non toglie che lo stile del merchandising di valentino resta iconico e che il motorsport moderno potrebbe un po' togliersi di dosso della sobrietà inutile e fare, in alcuni casi, qualcosa di più "divertente" (anche se nel caso appunto dello store vr cadiamo sempre bene perché i colori iconici rimangono forti e sgargianti)

[monkeycharles]

Today is the only day you can reblog this

[monkeycharles]

i'd like to say something about charles' race (beside the fact that he was spectacular as long as he could), but honestly i'm at loss of words and my forza ferrari are on vacation along the f1 calendar

[monkeycharles]

Thought that loving Marc Marquez in this economy would be difficult and would def not help me get along with the italian fandom, but then someone called me out because I defended Valentino.

Here's an italian meme to sum up my current situation.

[monkeycharles]

Sorry but HAVE you seen the vile ass rumors that has surrounded the marquez name since 2015? May I introduce you to twitter, or the average middle aged male italian motogp fan? People will say the wildest shit it’s the fucking internet. Sorry to break it to you, but valentino is not the only victim of wild internet speculation, and IT’S NOT NEW????? Weirdo asks to to the unhinged confession blog is what broke the camels back? If you dislike the vale hate on tumblr then hop on another platform with more vale fans (literally any other platform than tumblr? Also no other platform has anonymity like Tumblr) and you will be very popular with all your rants about how marc and marc fans are deluded idiots. Enjoy.

My brother/sister/soul in Christ...let me tell you...I understood little to NOTHING of what you said.

I'm an average italian motogp fan, does it count?

Honestly...idk how to say it in english so I'll say it in italian...ANCHE MENO, ZI, ANCHE MENO.

When did I say Valentino was the only one getting hate? Hola, hello, ciao – have you seen my profile picture? Marc's defense squad here! I just pointed out how ON TUMBLR of all platforms there seems to be a disproportionate amount of hate directed at Valentino compared to other.

Does that make him a victim in general? No.

Do I think it's fair? Also NO.

Are you anonymously writing this to everyone who shared my same view or...am I special?

Jokes aside, thank you for your kind suggestion, but I think I'll stay on Tumblr, expressing my opinions.

If this gets you that worked up, I really don't know what to tell you.

In order to reciprocate, I feel obliged to inform you that the anonymous platforms are ask.fm, NGL or Tellonym, you probably got confused!

[monkeycharles]

strike that alex (?) is on the boat he’s just on his phone lmao

[monkeycharles]

messy alain and neurotically organized ayrton is so funny to me. alain doesn’t know where half his things are while ayrton has all his shirts blessed and meticulously arranged. alain leaving contract papers on the floor and ayrton’s sterile office and vast shelf space.

[monkeycharles]

just read a motogp prompt calling pecco PECCHINO and i immediately knew two things

1) good quality prompt

2) i know my italians like i know my chicken (nuggets) 🤌🏻

[monkeycharles]

16 Charles Leclerc, (MON) Scuderia Ferrari SF25,, during the Belgian GP, Spa-Francorchamps 24-27 July 2025 Formula 1 World championship 2025.

📸 Independent Photo Agency.

[monkeycharles]

twitter, reddit, whatever...can we leave tumblr to tumblr, pls?

if you people repost entire text posts from here to fucking twitter at least remove the blog name or something, jesus fucking christ…

[monkeycharles]

now that i think about it i can picture vale being mad at him for having extra blue eyes

Luca Marini attending media scrum after the sprint race of San Marino Grand Prix 2024.

[monkeycharles]

The paradoxes of being Lucia Marini: the Lady Oscar paradox | 2402 words, fem!Luca | paradox 1 here

It’s Bez who takes on her first, drunk to the tip of his stupid hair, his arm around Pecco’s shoulders as he slouches forward, a burned-out cigarette dangling from his loose fingers.

“Like,” he slurs, “I can’t see you wearing…that. A sluuuuutty dress, ha! You know…that’s how girls hit the club, no? Skimpy dresses and heeeeeeeeels. You could…ne-eh-ver.”

Lucia hates when he does this, when he’s drunk and all of his words come out long and disjointed, like a terrible rendition of latin prosody and metrics. Also, she hates when he’s right, and he’s often right when he’s about to pass out from excessive alcohol consumption.

Franky takes a long drag from his cigarette. She outstretches her fingers, and he promptly offers her one from a beaten pack – they’ve all been smoking from that single pack all night long, despite Bez and Celestino having their own.

The floor is alive with the bass beat from the club. Tired of having Bez dragging him down, Pecco helps him into a semi-seated position on the curb, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. He is, of course, drunk too. They all are, except for Lucia, who is the designated driver, an unilateral decision taken when she had ignominiously lost three rounds in a row at briscola after lunch.

“I think you could,” Franky says. “But it’s fine if you don’t. Bez is a brute. Everyone’s got their personal style.”

Lucia nods absentmindedly, eyes trained on a flock of girls making their way out of the crowded exit, laughing, colorful drinks in plastic cups in their manicured hands. Lucia looks down at her own nails. Short. Slightly bitten into. Not ugly, but naked and uninteresting. Those girls – they have long, colorful claws that match their outfits.

Short, skimpy dresses. Just like Bez said.

“Yeah, what’s wrong with wearing comfy clothes? We’re out to get smashed, not to do a fucking fashion show,” Mig provides, dressed as if a middle-aged lifeguard and a Y2K nostalgic had a kid, and neglected him all the way to adulthood. 

Cele shrugs, keeps it to himself. He’s not allowed to drink, theoretically. He is, nonetheless, very drunk, swaying back and forth on the spot, his t-shirt stained with something sticky that Lucia can’t and doesn’t want to identify.

She looks at the girls some more, trying to study how they move, how they talk, and how different she must look from them, how grotesquely alienated from their mannerisms. Earlier into their night out, Bez had complimented her outfit, a cropped top leaving her taut stomach exposed, long, skin-tight trousers, flats. She even thought she had made a real effort by applying eyeliner and mascara. She had tried putting on lipstick, but she had wiped it away while waiting for Mig in the parking lot; she had thought it looked weird on her, too flashy, eye-catching in the absolute worst way.

It’s not like she finds herself ugly, of course. At 21, Lucia knows she’s grown into a quite stunning woman, even if she keeps lacking curves and hasn’t let her hair grow past her shoulders in years. She has even learned how to put on some make-up from the many tutorials she’s found on YouTube and Instagram, although she’s still clumsy with her foundation and doesn’t understand the basics of contouring. She has taken her braces off and only uses a retainer when she remembers she’s supposed to wear it at night, and has switched to bras that enhance her bust instead of flattening it out even more.

Still.

She doesn’t wear dresses. Certainly not skimpy dresses. And heels. Heels are uncomfortable, and she looks as tall as the fucking Slenderman when she tries them on – when her mom asks her to try them on when they go shopping, that is.

The girls disappear behind a corner, probably bound for the parking lot. When Lucia tries to rejoin the conversation, she discovers she’s blacked out for nearly twenty minutes, and the boys are arguing about which place would be the best for a late night, early morning snack.

Bez keeps whining because he wants the usual piadina with nutella on the promenade, while Franky and Mig seem to be excited to show them a bakery that churns out freshly baked pastries twenty-four hours a day. Everyone seems to have changed topic. How Lucia chooses to dress for a night out isn’t the main concern anymore.

She sighs, an uneasy feeling making her reach for another cigarette from Franky’s pack, now tucked in the front pocket of his half unbuttoned shirt.

The intellectual debate on the superiority of freshly baked pistachio croissants over greasy piadina goes on for a while. Lucia keeps thinking about Bez’s words. You could ne-eh-ver.

Probably. Yet, Lucia Marini has always been good at subverting expectations.

***

It’s Franky’s turn to drive. This time, they’ve chosen the designated driver after a race, and Franky got to the finish line last, his bike slipping under him after a brief wheel-to-wheel with Pecco on the dirt track. Lucia’s dress is uncomfortable, and tight in all the wrong places. Whenever she dares moving a little too quickly, she’s afraid it will ride up, exposing her butt. She’s wearing lace panties. She hates lace.

Still, Bez said she could ne-eh-ver. Well, she can. They will all see that she can. She just – chooses not to. Because dresses are uncomfortable, lace feels itchy, and heels will give her sore feet in less than a couple hours. And yet.

A notification on her phone. Franky’s here. She’s the last one to be picked up, he texts, because Pecco and Bez have taken Pecco’s car. She sends a quick thumbs up and grabs the stupidly tiny purse she’s brought with the dress and thinks: it’s too fucking late to get changed.

Her mom’s proud of her, though. Lucia wishes she looked so starry-eyed seeing her on the podium like she did watching her spin into this dress, asking “so? How do I look?”

She wonders if she looks like the daughter her mom deserved, dressed in clothes that make her feel like he’s being held in a chokehold by a weirdly slimy boxing glove, walking on the tips of her toes, nails painted for the occasion.

“Mom, I’m going,” she says. Her mom emerges from the kitchen, kisses her on the cheeks, and fixes her hair.

“My beautiful baby,” Stefania coos. Lucia’s smile is a little too tight, and it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Outside, the cool breeze from the sea makes her shiver slightly. Franky’s car eats fast at the last few meters and, as she steps towards the passenger seat, Mig starts clapping and howling like a wolf, which leads her to consider whether to beat him repeatedly with a pointy heel or ask Franky if he can kindly run him over, please and thank you.

“If anyone else howls or whistles, I swear I’ll resort to murder,” she hisses, throwing a particularly sharp glance towards Franky, who raises his hands but smiles at her nonetheless.

“You look stunning,” he simply states. Lucia groans.

“I look like I would do anything for fifty euros,” she hisses through gritted teeth, at the cost of sounding like a bigoted puritan.

On the backseat, though, Celestino looks like someone who’s seen a miracle being performed live, his dark eyes transfixed and his mouth slightly agape. Mig saves Lucia from the embarrassment by telling Celestino to close his mouth unless he wants to catch a fly – Cele’s teeth rattle as he clicks it close quickly, his throat working hard around one single, barely uttered word: beautiful.

Now Lucia blushes. It’s a terrible feeling. She’s been told that her face usually gives her away big time, so she’s learned how to be more careful with it in the past few years, trying to look blasé most of the time, poised even when she’s not. Blushing, though, is not something she can control, and he hates it with burning passion.

“Can we go now? Otherwise, I’m getting back home. This dress is – ugh!”

“Why did you wear it, then?” Mig asks, knees planted into her backrest. “You’re right, it’s a bit…revealing.”

“Bez. He said I could never wear something like this, so I did. To prove him wrong.”

“Oh, come on. He was so drunk!”

She reaches blindly for Mig’s knee, squeezing until the joint pops and Mig whimpers like a kicked dog. Franky’s brows shoot up, but he doesn’t say anything – he pumps up the volume of the stereo, and the car merges smoothly on the highway, the swirls of orange and red led lights familiar enough for Lucia to lay back and try to relax. Ha. If only.

***

Pecco is waiting for them at their booth. The music is loud, and the air sticky with all too sweet feminine perfume and sweat from the swaying, dancing crowd. Ever the gentleman, Pecco doesn’t stare at her legs, unlike Celestino. He smiles, kisses her politely on the cheek, and tells her the dress looks good on her. She doesn’t believe him.

“Bez?” Asks Franky.

“Already ordering our shots. He’s – ah. He’s there, you see him?”

As tall as she is on her uncomfortable heels, Lucia sees him first and nods. Her heart is beating in her wrists, and she really doesn’t know why.

It wasn’t even a bet, it was – stupid. Just something she has hyperfixated on for no reason. Bez’s words have latched onto her, and now she’s here, fixing her dress at every step, clutching at the hem and tugging at it hard enough to feel the seams loosen up whenever she applies too much force.

She’s antsy, on edge. She shouldn’t have been so dead set on proving Bez wrong, not when the cost is so high. Fucking lace panties and heels and painted toenails. This isn’t worth winning an argument with anybody, especially if said argument is all in your head.

Plus, Celestino keeps looking at her like she’s the second coming of Christ, and it’s starting to make her feel weird – exhilarated and creeped out in equal measure.

“Are you okay?” She asks him at some point. Celestino nods. It looks like he’s forgotten how to breathe, also.

“You have to understand him. He doesn’t see girls from up close very often!” Mig jokes. Lucia frowns. She is a girl, and Celestino sees her everyday.

“What the fuck, Mig?” Pecco steps in. She checks out of the conversation the moment Pecco starts lecturing Mig about propriety and manners, and prays Bez doesn’t get lost on his way to the table with their first round of shots.

She definitely needs one, only then the fun will begin.

She can drink herself to oblivion and forget about the dress altogether. She can burn it once she gets home. There are a lot of campfire pits at the Ranch, she can burn everything there, heels included. She’s sure Vale won’t mind.

“What the fuck?!”

Lucia frowns. Bez is back and he, too, is looking at her like she’s the second coming of Christ.

“What the fuck what?” She asks, trying to sound nonchalant, as she picks up a tiny glass and sniffs its content, the music loud enough to drown out the slight tremor in her voice.

“You’re dressed up…like a girl? I mean. You’re in a dress!”

“You said I could never, so I did.”

“I said what? When?”

He sounds a little outraged, and a tad panicky. Lucia could laugh at his reaction, but she has developed a taste for being the mean girl, tonight, and rolls her eyes when she catches him looking around for a bit of sympathy. Which he doesn’t find, of course, because both Mig and Franky shrug and nod – guilty as charged. 

Bez looks mortified. Point proven. Anyway, she’d rather pluck her own eyes out with a rusty fork than go through such tribulations again.

“It appears that I won. Can we drink, now? I wanna dance.”

Nobody objects to that. It takes Lucia at least four shots before she feels confident enough to hit the dance floor while wearing such a revealing dress. 0/10 experience, totally not recommended. Something’s for sure: she won’t do this for a long, long time. Possibly, never again.

***

“You looked lovely in that dress, anyway. It made you look like…a girl!”

Lucia tears off a piece of her piadina and throws it square into Bez’s eye, to the delight of everyone present. It’s almost five in the morning, and they’re watching the sun rise at the beach, eating overstuffed piadine on the unoccupied loungers, like it’s a rite they can’t skip before getting back home. She changed as soon as they’d left the club. Franky had some spare clothes in a bag in the trunk – gray sweatpants and a t-shirt big enough that she could tie it around her waist and make it cropped, just the way she likes it. As for the shoes, Lucia is drunk: she doesn’t mind going around barefoot when she’s drunk.

“No but seriously,” Mig intercepts. “It suited you, the dress. Maybe it was a little too short?”

“It made me look like a hooker, stop,” she says, chewing with her mouth open. Franky snorts.

“A beautiful hooker,” is what Celestino mutters, making Bez choke on his own spit.

Lucia shakes his head. Then, Bez pokes her with his bare foot, a small, apologetic smile on his puppy face.

“I’m sorry. I was an idiot.”

“You’re still an idiot,” she concedes. “You’re lucky I find you funny.”

“Even when I say you’re a bro and not a girl?”

She sighs. Maybe she’s – a bro, for real. A weird bro that bleeds once a month and pees sitting. The thought makes her laugh and, since they’re all kinda obliterated except for Franky, her laugh triggers a fit and, soon enough, they’re all doubling down, spluttering half chewed food and Coca Cola around, trying to catch a breath in between the wheezes. Then she says: “If you see me dressed like that again, shoot me”, and real chaos erupts, their laughs loud enough to scare off the seagulls strolling on the shoreline.

She will burn the dress, eventually. And the shoes. And the stupidly tiny purse.

For now, though, she’s happy she’s survived it, and gotten her point across loud and clear. Maybe that’s what counts the most, after all.

[monkeycharles]

PLIS I JUST SAW THIS I'M CRYING CRYING CRYING-

mm93 - the prophecy curse