#fridge brilliance

[matt0044]

It just occurred to me that the five minute limit is likely why Master Fu picked teenagers.

They are the most powerful Miraculous so making sure that power can be properly excersized is essentially. This is likely why Tikki and Plagg never tells their owners of the jail breaking their Re-Verse counterparts figured out. Not just for their own safety but for the world's safety.

Hence, Plagg is allowed out into the field because an adult holder would have too many Cataclysms at his disposal. Being young, Adrien would be forced to pick his opportunities more carefully while Marinette wouldn't be able to just create or re-create anything on the spot.

Hell, The Bubbler being an example of Marinette creating a Lucky Charm to keep Chloe from Adrien shows that without that limit, things could get out of hand.

Thus by Revolution, they are trustworthy adults in the eyes of the Miraculous's magic. Chat Noir can Cataclysm multiple times after much experience with excersizing control over one time. Ladybug can create any items she needs with the additional ability to reconstitute the Lucky Charm's form.

[snowyh2o]

Hazbin Hotel Fridge Brilliance

During the pilot Sir Pentious accused the people at the hotel for “harboring” Alastor, aka, hiding him away. Implying that he hasn’t seen/been able to find Alastor for awhile.

Why would he do that? Especially when we see Alastor walking around during Charlie’s advertisement?

Because Alastor’s been MIA for the past 7 years.

BOOM surprise foreshadowing and continuity!

[zombiemollusk]

ryou won't stop wearing the ring

it ruined his life, it makes him black out and lose his memory, during which moments he's literally an entirely different (and far more dangerous) person, he got it from his dad who frankly was insane, he totally isn't going to wear it again you guys, he's just holding onto it, you know, just in ca- oops, everyone's in danger and he doesn't know how to deal with it, guess he's wearing it again, is he himself or is he secretly wearing the ring again, why does he keep wearing the damn thing, sure he's lonely and maybe he doesn't have much if any faith in himself without it, but he knows it's a danger to himself and everyone around him, so why-

oh god it's a metaphor for drugs isn't it

[zenosanalytic]

Something just occurred to me:

A common sound the letter 'x' is used to represent is 'sh' ala "Mexica"(meshika).

So Musk has made Twitter into xitter :|

He's renamed it "Shitter" :| :|

[kahran042]

I'm not sure if anyone else has ever even heard of the Arabel and Mortimer series before, but I found a bit of fridge brilliance. Specifically, the reason Mortimer seemed heavier here is because he ate the gold Mortimer bar.

[differenttriumphdragon]

It's just hit me.

It's no wonder that one scientist from Detective Pikachu didn't know how to make Orange; there's no Orange Color in the Pokedex!

[wyvernseeker]

As we see in several episodes, Adrien willingly sacrifices himself for Marinette in their hero identities, showing the utmost confidence that she can fix things. Which only proves Fu's assessment of him being worthy of the Cat Miraculous correct.

Then there's Cat Blanc, where, after being akumatized in one dreadfully bad future, he was ordered by Hawkmoth to turn his power on Ladybug. Only for him to, while doing his best to combat the akuma's influence, try to turn it on himself. Unfortunately, as we see, this causes plenty of devastation, but even then, he was trying not to use his amped up destruction powers on the girl he loves and potentially let Hawkmoth win.

The Tests In Origins

So I don’t know if anyone noticed this about the tests, but after watching Origins after the Christmas Special, I realized there was a bit more depth to them than I first thought.

It’s an old fairy tale cliche. A fairy or a god is in disguise of some poor old soul and they see if someone deserves a reward or punishment depending how they treat the old soul. This is what Master Fu does with both Marinette and Adrien.

But something always stuck out as odd to me. While Marinette’s test had a lot of possible candidates, Adrien only had three other people besides himself and more than that, there was no danger of a car in his. But after seeing the Christmas special, I see what the tests ACTUALLY were.

There is that whole making sure the person is nice enough to help someone in need, but there’s also the details of it.

In Marinette’s scenario, the car makes a time crunch. But there’s also the crowd. Everyone is on their phone, distracted, not paying attention. The test isn’t to see if someone is just kind. It’s seeing if someone Will Notice and Act. Because that’s what’s necessary for Lucky Charm. To take in your surroundings, notice what you need, make a plan, and act on that plan. The test is not just kindness, but a test on how well she would be able to use the powers. 

Then there’s Adrien’s test. The test is actually directly made for Adrien, none of the other three are candidates. Why? Because Adrien’s scenario is harder to find and this is why I realized it after the Christmas special. Adrien’s power is that of destruction. This is a terrifying power in the wrong hands. This takes a very particular personality.

Master Fu doesn’t fall when Adrien is running to school. He falls when Adrien is about to get into school. When it would be harder for Nathalie and Gorilla to grab him without causing a scene, he could be inside before they have a good grasp on him.

Fu falls then because Adrien is given the choice. Does Adrien go for what he wants, or does he go to help even if it means losing what he wants? Adrien does the latter, and now he has to get through Nathalie and the Gorilla to get to the school. Less of a scene, and he’s lost his chance. But he doesn’t show any bitterness to Fu for it.

Adrien’s test was not just that of kindness, but if given the choice between being selfish, or being selfless to the point of hurting himself, he’s going to chose the latter. It’s a test to make sure if the hero of destruction ever breaks, instead of destroying the world, he’d destroy himself first.

[gruesella]

I just realized. Stella was dressed as a traditional witch for Halloween, with a cut throat (in lipstick). She's the special one out of all the group to learn Sarah's story, how she was falsely accused of witchcraft and how her family silenced her, until Stella was able to give her back her voice.

[inspectorspacetimerevisited]

The Twelfth Inspector’s first appearance in ‘The Space of the Inspector’

was actually a brilliant moment, when the audience is clued in to the fact that the Eleventh Inspector isn’t his/her last incarnation.

[1o1percentmilk]

i think "cig sando" takes the cake for me for best ship name

[wispisstillverybored67]

3, 13 and 22 for Danganronpa? I’ve never heard you talk about that game and I’m pretty curious on your opinions :p

Hmm, let's see...

3: I can't remember the specific words, but it was something on... Uh, lost my train of thought there. Never mind.

13: The Warriors Of Hope. To me, their appeal stems from their bitterness against their abuse, and their taking of Junko's manipulation to heart. But because they're kids, I can hardly find content of them being little menaces, not even if Monaca is included with the group, which is common if Nagito is around.

22: I'm a Remnants freak, but that's too easy, so I'll go with... the executions themselves. The executions are VIOLENT! OVER THE TOP! THRILLS, CHILLS, KILLS! The nightmarish focus on it is one of what Danganronpa is all about!

[encountersltd]

OKAY so i knew dora the explorer was meant to evoke a computer game with the blue cursor and everything but i only just got how genius the framing actually is

that live action intro that goes through that playroom to the desktop computer? that's from YOUR point of view

it's you going to the computer to play a game of dora the explorer

and when the cursor shows up? that's YOU moving the cursor to click on the answers

holy moly

[kahran042]

I just realized where they got the name for Minto's older brother Seiji in Tokyo Mew Mew. It's the Japanese pronunciation of sage - which is an herb, like mint.

[malusokay]

Our Brains Are Rotting and Cicero Knew

On distraction, decline, and the intellectual rot Cicero saw coming. (from my substack)

O tempora, o mores—Cicero’s lament still echoes, like a parent sighing at their kid for putting the milk back in the fridge empty. He hurled those words into a world that thought it was collapsing, but honestly, Rome didn’t even know what real rot was yet. Cicero stood in the Senate, cloaked in self-righteous fury (as only Cicero could), accusing the guilty and clutching at virtues that were slipping through his fingers. “Iniquissima haec bellorum condicio est: prospera omnes sibi vindicant, adversa uni imputantur,” he said—history is cruel, always ready to share the credit for triumphs but quick to pin failure on a scapegoat. And oh, how disappointed he’d be to know his words, once etched in fire, are now buried in scrollable trivia, nestled between TikTok trends and threads about the dying sourdough starters.

Our rot is quieter and more subtle, almost polite, like water slowly ruining the foundation of a house no one even lives in anymore. It doesn’t come with swords or collapsing senates, but with screens. Flickering, endless screens. A thousand voices all talking at once until it’s just static, white noise buzzing in your brain. The kicker? We hold the wisdom of entire empires in our sweaty little hands, every speech, every scroll, every fragment of brilliance painstakingly saved by people who didn’t even have plumbing—and we just let it rot beneath algorithmic garbage. We traded Lucretius for lip-syncs, ars est celare artem for captions written by bots.

And Cicero? Poor Cicero, who believed so fiercely in the res publica, in the duty to preserve both morality and intellect—he’d probably choke on his wine to see us not just distracted but actively sabotaging ourselves. “Nescire autem quid ante quam natus sis acciderit, id est semper esse puerum,” he warned, because ignorance of history is the fastest way to stay a child forever. And, well, here we are: eternal toddlers in the nursery of civilization, sucking on the pacifier of whatever mindless content the algorithm spits out next. We’re not just lost; we’re willingly staying lost. It’s almost impressive.

Yet we think we’re clever. That’s the worst part. We think we’ve outsmarted the ancients, with our steady diet of soundbites and videos, each one shorter and dumber than the last. Meanwhile, Cicero would be rolling his eyes so hard they’d get stuck. “Legum servi sumus, ut liberi esse possimus,” he’d remind us—slaves to the rules we create, but these aren’t the rules of a republic. They’re the rules of a distraction economy. We call it freedom, but it’s more like gilded captivity. Every thought reduced to a trend, every story a fifteen-second flicker. What freedom is that? It’s like decorating your prison cell with fairy lights and pretending it’s cosy.

The rot isn’t just in the content. It’s in the way we approach it, like tourists in a museum, glancing at the masterpieces but never stopping long enough to feel their weight. We skim the Iliad, marvelling at its age but missing its fire, its warnings, its unbearable humanity. We quote the poets but only because it sounds sharp on a tote bag, not because we understand the exhaustion behind it. The ancients fought for words like these, polished them with the desperation of people who knew empires could crumble at any moment. And what do we do? We scroll right past, looking for something quicker, easier, something that sparkles.

We are exactly the people Cicero feared: writing tweets no one will read, building monuments to vanity instead of virtue, shrugging off the weight of history for the cheap thrill of now. The ancients taught us better. They polished their words like marble, made them heavy and sharp, meant to outlast empires. But we’re just tossing them aside to chase the next shiny thing. It’s not that we don’t know better—it’s that we don’t care.

And so, our brains rot. Not from hunger, but from excess. From too much noise, too much fluff, too much everything. The cry of O tempora, o mores isn’t dead, but it’s definitely hoarse. And the worst part? We’ve stopped listening. We don’t even notice the silence.

thank you for joining me on my little 4 AM Cicero brain-rot spiral. Usually, things like this stay buried in my notes, but where’s the fun in that, right? Lots of love, Malu <3

[cece693]

mano mažylė (Father! Hannibal Lecter)

Felt like writing something angsty and then combined with my obsession of the Hannibal tv show, I questioned what it would be like for a child to be raised by Hannibal. A tiny snot covered child who is scared of the dark but as they grow up realize their father is a cannibalistic serial killer....or maybe not?

Summary: How would things turn out if Hannibal raised a child on his own? Not that good.

tags: Hannibal is a father, he's a flawed person, mistakes are made, running away, Abigail is still hated by me so she'll be an antagonist, maybe a part 2 is on it's way

The world believed you were God’s favorite, born into privilege as the only child of Dr. Hannibal Lecter. But you knew better. You loathed him. Loathed the man who shared half your DNA while the other half remained a shadow, an enigma lost to time.

It hadn’t always been this way. As a child, you adored him. You wanted his approval, his praise, his love—simple things every child should receive without question. But Hannibal Lecter had never been a good father. Not in the way that mattered.

He excelled at maintaining appearances. Your clothes were immaculate, your education rigorous, your home a work of art. Yet, for all his brilliance and sophistication, Hannibal seemed incapable of the simplest acts of fatherly affection. He never hugged you, not once in your memory. He never showed kindness that didn’t come with calculated precision, and he certainly never sought to enjoy the small, fleeting moments between a father and child.

The small drawings you'd create for him—depictions of the two of you together, your childish hand scrawling smiles and hearts—would be shoved into his desk drawer without a second glance, never hung on the walls or displayed on the fridge like other parents might. When you cried after a particularly bad nightmare, he would send you back to your room with a simple wave of his hand, his attention already elsewhere. No comfort, no embrace, no whispered assurances that it was only a dream.

Nothing you did ever produced an ounce of affection from him. But his place in Baltimore's social circle? That was another matter entirely. He prioritized his social image over the bond you craved. Dinners with influential guests, exquisite banquets, and whispered conversations about art and philosophy filled the house while he'd dismissed you to your room. The door would shut with a firm finality, his deep voice ringing with calm authority: “Go upstairs.”

Even as a child, you felt the sting of that rejection. The lavish dinners he painstakingly prepared were not for you. The carefully cultivated relationships he cherished were more valuable to him than the one he should have been building with you. You were an accessory in his meticulously curated life, a piece of his narrative rather than a person to be loved.

The resentment you buried for years began to boil over when Hannibal brought Abigail Hobbs into your home. For reasons you couldn’t understand, he treated her differently. He gave her his time, his attention—things you had long since stopped hoping for. Hannibal had even invited her into his sacred space—the kitchen. You watched from the doorway, unseen but seething, as he guided her hands on a knife, showing her how to properly julienne vegetables, his voice soft and patient. It was a thing you had only observed from afar, never experienced.

And then came the final blow—the moment that shattered the thin thread holding your heart together. You watched as Hannibal embraced Abigail, his arms wrapping securely around her small frame. One hand cradled the back of her head, his touch tender and protective, as if she were the most fragile thing in the world.

Where was this Hannibal when you needed him? Where had this version of him been when you were the child longing for his love?

You couldn’t stay. Not in that house. Not with the reminder of what he was capable of giving but had chosen not to give to you. So, you ran. You left without looking back, vowing to never forgive him for the years of cold detachment, for the love he had withheld, for the way he made you feel like an afterthought in your own life.

For Hannibal, destruction was all he knew. It was an art, a purpose, a calling. But the day he first gazed upon you—his child, swaddled in soft blankets, your tiny hand grasping his shirt—something unfamiliar stirred within him. Adoration. Pride. Perhaps even love, though he would never admit it, not even to himself.

He had never envisioned himself as a father. For all his meticulous planning, the idea of parenthood had been an abstraction, an unthinkable detour from the life he had carefully constructed. Yet, when the mother of his child informed him of your existence, a quiet certainty settled over him: you were his.

He killed her shortly after. It was nothing personal—just necessity. Hannibal Lecter did not share. He would not allow anyone else to claim you, to influence you, to take you from him. You were his blood, his creation, and that meant you belonged to him entirely.

Still, Hannibal recognized his own darkness. He knew the shadows that lingered in his mind, the hunger that defined him, were no place for an innocent child. For all his pride, a part of him hoped you would never become like him. He wanted to preserve your purity, your light, even if it meant keeping a careful distance. So, when he saw you gaining independence—first as an inquisitive toddler, then as a fiercely determined child—he began to step back. Slowly, deliberately.

He ensured you were safe and had everything you needed to prosper. The finest tutors, the best schools, the most luxurious comforts. Yet, he withheld what you truly craved: love, warmth, and connection. He refused to give you what might make you look deeper, what might tempt you to uncover the cracks in his mask. He feared that if you saw the real him, you would recoil in terror. And Hannibal, for all his control and detachment, could not bear the thought of you fearing him.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t fond of you. Quite the opposite. Hannibal cherished you in his own way, quietly and from a distance. All the small drawings you made for him as a child—brightly colored stick figures of the two of you, accompanied by phrases like “Me and Daddy!” or “Best Dad in the World!”—he carefully kept. He never displayed them, of course. That would have disrupted the pristine aesthetic of his home. Instead, he tucked them into a leather folder, hidden away in his bedroom.

When you were away at school, he would pull them out. Alone in the quiet of his space, he would trace the lines of your messy handwriting, pausing over the parts where you had clearly erased and rewritten to make it perfect. Those small, clumsy marks filled him with something unnameable—an ache that he would not call regret but might have been close to longing.

It was those words—Best Dad in the World—that kept him firm in his decision. He would not let the innocence in you fade. He would shield you from the world’s horrors and, more importantly, from his own.

But then he brought Abigail Hobbs into their house, and everything crumbled.

Hannibal had known it would stir some jealousy. Abigail was, after all, an interloper in your space, stealing his attention. He imagined it would be a passing irritation, something that could be soothed with time. What he failed to anticipate was how deeply her presence would cut. Abigail was not like you. She wasn’t innocent. Her father’s sins had already tainted her, and that darkness—the one she carried so naturally—was something Hannibal understood, even appreciated.

He allowed himself to envision a future: Abigail as your sister, a young woman who could carry the weight of his world without breaking. He imagined the two of you sitting together at his table, becoming a family that would include his dearest Will Graham. It was a beautiful picture, one he painted with great care in his mind. But Hannibal, so enraptured by this fantasy, failed to detect the resentment growing within you.

Your heart, already heavy with years of neglect, bloomed with fresh anger and hatred. Abigail had taken what little space you had in his world and filled it with her presence, her pain, her dark reflections of the fatherly affection you had longed for.

The breaking point came one evening when dinner was ready, and you failed to appear. Hannibal ascended the stairs, his movements deliberate but heavy with irritation. He thought to find you sulking in your room, perhaps brooding over a perceived slight. But when he opened the door, the truth struck him like a blade.

The dresser drawers were open, several items missing. The window was slightly ajar, letting in a cool breeze that made the curtains flutter softly. Your phone rested on the bedside table, an unspoken declaration that you did not want to be found.

And then he saw it—the note scrawled across your mirror in bold, angry letters.

I hate you.

The black marker lines were thick and uneven, etched with trembling, furious hands. For a moment, Hannibal stood frozen, the words searing into him like fire. It wasn’t just the note. It was the empty space, the absence of your presence, the finality of the choice you had made.

He stepped further into the room, his eyes scanning the remnants of you. The room still smelled faintly of your presence, but it was hollow now, like a shell. A part of him wanted to reach out and erase the words, to undo the weight they carried, but he didn’t. Instead, he stood there, the perfect stillness of his body betraying the storm within.

Hannibal Lecter rarely felt regret. But as he gazed at the angry scrawl on the mirror, the open window, and the phone you had so carefully left behind, he felt something dangerously close to it.

He had wanted to protect you. To shield you. To preserve the light he saw in you. But instead, he had driven you away. And now, the silence of the house felt unbearable. For all his careful planning, for all his control, Hannibal Lecter had made a mistake and there was no correcting it.

[asidian]

DBDA Meta Commentary Roundup

Okay, I'm getting tired of scrolling back to find my own posts, so it's time for a roundup post for my DBDA meta commentary.

Meta Commentary:

Why you should watch Dead Boy Detectives

Charles is a people pleaser

A very large snake as a reference to hell

The same lantern

Edwin knows the Misery Wraiths a bit too well

Why Charles is upset by more than just jealousy re: Monty

The white kimono

How Crystal and Charles' character arcs intersect to make an absolute trash fire

You can talk to me about anything

Edwin's hidden kindness as Charles dies

Edwin's hangups re: emotion and how it ties into his time in hell

The silliest Clue edition

The Cat King's design changes when he starts a new life

Counting cats

Where is the Doll House

Edwin and Charles acting like they've known each other forever in tiny details

Esther has the cops in her pocket

The lantern scenes as an extension of the theme "The good you do comes back around"

Why Charles opens up to Crystal so quickly

Payneland endgame nods through leitmotifs in the soundtrack

Charles is super sensitive to criticism, even when it's not intended

The Season 2 in my heart

The hidden nod to history in the WWI ghost's makeup

Why Charles' death is so much worse than it seems

The brilliance of the first ten minutes

The ship of all time

The incredible women of Dead Boy Detectives

Edwin's bowtie

Crystal and Charles as mirrors and projections

Bi disaster Charles Rowland

Edwin can knit

Chekhov's snake-slaying sword

Murder night movie time

Why Charles was more of a hero than he knew

What the doll placement says about Edwin's many deaths

Charles smiles for other people

The absolute fridge horror of That One Gate in hell

The only good thing generative AI has ever done

The wood-burning stove as part of Charles' cold trauma

Charles is so very brave for walking into hell

Charles' bad decision face

Edwin complimenting Crystal as a kindness to Charles

Charles' something-is-going-to-be-difficult tell Charles Rowland appreciation hours

Crystal's two character arcs

Niko's fear of death and her own mortality

Mick is great

How Edwin speaks of hell as character growth A reminder of home

Set Design:

Charles' room

The London office

The boys' detective license and its source

Tragic Mick's shop

Niko's room

Cameos:

The boys' early relationship and how they've influenced each other

What the boys do together in their downtime as leisure activities

A brief in-character skit of an ordinary day at the office

Tidbits about the characters that didn't make it into the show

Input in developing Edwin as a character and suggested changes

Color Symbolism:

Red

Blue

Pink

Green

Green (alt)

Purple

Orange

Brown

Black

White