#i am decidedly uncool

[walk-to-gallows]

So the episode starts with Dean letting go of the necklace that Sam gave to him on one of their childhood Christmas's that he's kept for all these years, and it ends with Dean letting go of Sam and them being separate, purposefully, for the first time in ???? Who knows how long. Cool. Yeah. Yeah I'm cool with that.

[leporellian]

recently i’ve become aware that while i absolutely love teenage opera characters and find them endearing (cherubino, manrico, gilda, zerlina and masetto, etc) i think teenage musical characters are like nails on a chalkboard, and furthermore, i think there are TOO MANY musicals about teenagers and we need to stop making them for a few years bc they are flooding the market. and while in the shower today i think ive figured out why

opera characters are not human. not entirely human anyway. they operate on the same boundaries as Human Muppets

we understand that walter from the muppets (2011) is species wise a human. but he is not human in the same way his brother Actor And Writer Jason Segel is. which doesn’t get in the way of us relating to him- we do empathize with him! greatly! he’s the audience surrogate!- but we see him as primarily 1) Muppet and 2) Human. “Muppet/Non-Muppet” is a categorization on the level of species and gender. i think opera characters work exactly the same way in that while they are all humans species wise “opera character” takes priority as a label and therefore we aren’t meant to entirely see them as just, yknow, random humans. It’s sort of a Noh mask like quality. Therefore “opera characters that are teenagers” is something of a different label than just “teenagers”

2) The concept of teenagerhood as its own rite of passage was not very much of a thing for most of opera history. So for example when Francesco Piave was writing the libretto for Rigoletto he was not looking at Gilda (who’s meant to be 14) and going “okay so what does a TEENAGER act like” he got back with “okay what does a FOURTEEN YEAR OLD act like”. The removal of “teenager” as a category to 1) generalize and more importantly 2) To pander to means that instead of coming across like the sort of rebellious teenager we would probably imagine NOW when “sheltered teen girl who’s secretly dating someone behind her dad’s back” gilda comes across like the sort of nice christian probably-autistic girl who you would encounter on a warrior cats roleplay forum or a littlest pet shop youtube video comments section in 2013

3) On that note the lack of “we gotta pander to teens!” means that opera is able to portray teenagers as 1) batshit but more importantly 2) Decidedly uncool and not in a hollywood way

I forgot where I was going with this. Anyway I love tearing into musicals about teenagers they’re like a pumpkin with meat inside of it and I am a bored tiger in a zoo enclosure

[pencey-pea]

would we read an almost famous inspired rayrard fanfic or am i just being autistic

(more info under the cut)

quick disclaimer uh no i didnt make bert evil like the 12 year olds on wattpad do, and tw for drugs, alcohol, and slurs but this is tumblr what did u expect

Summary

Its 1978, and Ray Toro is an aspiring rock journalist, someone who is absolutely in love with music, but is decidedly uncool. He's an awkward teenager, and doesn’t know his way around the scene. But since his idol, legendary writer Reagan Campbell, gave him an assignment, he hasn’t lost faith.

It’s 1978, and Gerard Way is the it-boy of the rock scene, and he isn’t even in a band. He just lounges around and looks pretty, loves the music, and pretends like he doesn’t care that everyone pretends they haven’t slept with him, even though they definitely have. He’s the epitome of cool, the definition of carefree. He’s been around since he was 16, but to be fair, that was only two years ago.

When Ray is assigned to report on the up and coming band Stillwater, will he be able to write his article, or will he be distracted by the eccentric “band-aid” and the drama of the scene?

Prolouge

The blank page sat on the cluttered desk, with hastily taken notes falling off the edge and drifting to the floor. Textbooks and jam-packed notebooks with post-it notes sticking out had been moved to the floor as well. Not enough room on the desk. Records and magazines and cut out articles surrounded him, making little skyscrapers of paper and vinyl. In the middle of it all was a typewriter, slightly shimmering under the hot desk lamp and untouched by the boy in front of it, who was chewing on his cuticles as he stared down the blank page like a formidable foe. In the back, “The Prettiest Star” by David Bowie played softly, skipping slightly at some points

He knew that it wasn’t really that big of a deal. He realized— as he ran a hand through his long tawny curls—that he was probably gonna write this one little assignment and then be told that his writing wasn't good enough or special enough, and he would go back to becoming a lawyer or whatever his mom wanted him to do. He knew that Reagan probably just gave him this assignment to get him off his back, to get the crazed fan with wild dreams of becoming a journalist far away from him. But still. If he did this right, he could possibly get published in Cream magazine. Or maybe just get a little closer to it. He thought a little too hard and but down on his cuticle, making it prick with a little droplet of blood.

“Shit,” He cursed as he unfolded himself from the pretzel-like position he was in and speed walked his way into the kitchen. He stretched to reach the top of one of the cabinets, grabbed the first-aid kit, and wrapped a band-aid around his finger. Just as he was putting away the kit, his mother walked in.

“Sweetie! Why did you have the First-aid out?” She asked, concern lacing her tone. Before he could answer she grabbed his hand and examined his finger, eyebrows furrowing. “I told you, you’ve gotta stop chewing on your fingers like that!” She sighed, dropping his hand and turning to the stove. “What made you hurt yourself like that anyways? You only do that when you’re nervous.” He shrugged.

“The journalism piece i was given,” He mumbled.

“What? You know I don't like mumbling, Ray,” His mother scolded, pouring something into the pot on the stove.

“It’s just that journalism piece I was told to finish. The one about Black Sabbath? 700 words due on Tuesday, and I haven't even started writing.” Ray lamented, pinching his nose bridge as he talked. All he got in reply was a petty and tight-lipped “hm.”

“Well, honey, just remember that writing articles about rock bands is a very hit and miss economy. Don’t bank on making it,” His mom pointed out, clearly trying to discourage her son. Ray tried to calm himself, taking a slow breath in.

“I know.” He said shortly, fists clenched a bit. He stormed back to his room. Back to the blank page.

—

Everything was a bit hazy as he stumbled around the room. Someone shoved another bottle into his hand and he happily chugged it down as he tried to remember if that was his 7th or 8th beer that day. Somehow a giant pink feather boa had made its way around his shoulders, and he strutted around as best as he could, given the fact that he couldn’t really walk straight.

He felt all eyes on him, the skinny young boy with a girlish stare and a tiny waist and long black hair, who nobody cared to ask the age of. The fag. The unspoken beauty, the ultimate edition trading card of the rock scene with a little voice of sweet bells. The one they were all too afraid to admit to sleeping with. He smiled as he spotted Bert, who he made his way over to.

“Hey Gee, are you enjoying the party?” He asked, tired eyes and faraway voice high off of something. Acid, Gee guessed.

“Yeah! I think it’s the best one ever since I joined you guys!” He yelled over the loud music, giggling and shooing away a girl next to Bert and taking her place. He instantly felt at home by his side, settling into the garish green velvet couch that gave way beneath his small figure. Bert didn’t talk to him, instead focusing on a group of girls, but he did let him sit next to him like a little accessory. Gee didn’t mind, he knew that Bert had to kinda pretend like he didn’t care, like he wasn’t sleeping with the fag. Gee was greeted by groupies and roadies and singers and guitarists and tech guys, some who offered drugs or alcohol, or simply just a friendly face. He responded to them, bubbly as ever, even though the slight vertigo had started to settle in.

A bag of white powder was suddenly thrown onto the coffee table in front of the two, like a fresh carcass dropped right in front of starving hyenas. Gee was never one for cocaine, he didn't like the sensation of it going up his nose, and the nosebleeds were far from desirable. But Bert held up the bag, so Gee held up his arm, and they both did two lines. Gee felt funny afterwards, and said so to Bert, or maybe just the room.

“Just give it a moment, darlin’, it’ll settle,” He reassured him, patting Gee’s thigh discreetly as he leaned over to grab a half finished beer. Gee did just that, but when he tried to stand, he couldn’t.

“Bert… I don't think I can stand,” He slurred, leaning back against the couch. Bert looked down at his watch and glanced around.

“That’s alright, I'll take you back to your room. You think you’ll remember this tomorrow?” How sweet, Gee thought, he’s checking to see how wasted i am. He cares.

Gee thought for a bit, and then slowly started to shake his head. “Mmmm… Probably… Not.” He decided, smiling and giggling, eyes red. Bert smiled back.

“Jeez. I’ll make sure you get back safe, don’t worry,” Bert assured, hooking his arm under Gee’s and hoisting him up. Gee thought he might’ve heard him and Bert say goodbye to people, but his mind was too fuzzy to decode things like words. Once they got out of the suite, Bert picked Gee up bridal style, and took him to his room, as promised. He stumbled through the door, immediately heading for the bathroom. Bert followed after him and held his hair back, rubbing his back and shushing him sweetly.

The last thing Gee remembered was hurling his guts out, his nose bleeding, then Bert’s eyes.

“God you’re hot when you’re wasted like this,”

idk if i want to go through with this idea, so feedback and rb’s are greatly appreciated!!!!

[alarrytale]

I see a lot of age shaming towards fans over 25 and it comes from teens and early 20s fans of Harry and Louis. Why do they think 25+ year olds are too old to be a fan of HL when HL are in their 30s. Why is a 15 year old a fan of HL? I don't get it. It is especially weird seeing 23 year olds calling 25 year olds old and telling them to get off twitter when they're not far off 25 themselves? What is wrong with these people? Why are they obsessed with age?

Hi, anon!

It's a generational thing. Birds of a feather flock together. Teenagers and people in their early 20's are in a emancipation phase. They are leaving the nests of their parents and are rejecting their parents cultural, social and generational heritage in some respects. They are exploring and finding who they are. What the older generations finds cool and are into, is decidedly and automatically uncool for young people. They find the older generations old fashioned, too serious and mature, and no fun. Imagine being 22 and going to a uni party ready to dance on the tables and there is a 70 year old sitting on the sofa throwing shapes. It kills the vibe. They want the fandom to consist of people their own age, because they want Harry and Louis to be cool in the eyes of their generation. Having too many "oldies" in fandom will make it less likely that the younger generations will take part in that fandom. Also for a young person, someone being 1 or 2 year older, really feels like they're 5-8 years older.

It's also about H and L having images that appeals to the younger generations and making music that they're into. When Louis acts like a 18 year old, he'll attract 18 year olds.

I think there will always be chasms between generations and age cohorts, and young people will always view people over the age of 30 as old. They won't think so when they're 30 themselves, but they'll have to live and learn that for themselves.

I do find it funny when 15 year olds are questioning why i, at the old age of 36, am a 1D stan and larrie. I'm three years older than Louis, and they're 18 years younger than him. Oh, well. I would just ignore it if i were you. Now that you know where they're coming from and why they're doing it, you'll also know that the only way to make them stop is for them to hit that age themselves.

[astrronomemes]

CAMP CAMP : SEASON ONE STARTERS (PART I)

a collection of quotes, phrases, and sayings from the debut season of the Camp Camp webseries by Rooster Teeth.

“I refuse to believe someone as happy as you can possibly exist.”

“I’m just a kid trying to survive out here, [name].”

“See, that’s the sad thing... he still actually thinks that I love it.”

“Astronauts? The wannabe jocks of the scientific community? Please!”

“Well, I’m certainly not hiding from any authorities, if that’s what you’re thinking!”

“Now you can’t sue us!”

“I mean, in hindsight... none of us really know how to drive.”

“Aw, man... that was supposed to kill you.”

“This isn’t what the buddy system is for!”

“This looks like the place where teenagers go to get stabbed.”

“Enjoy wearing my skin!”

“This was a really bad idea in hindsight!”

“I want a Viking funeral! Light me up!”

“Why do you always have to make things weird and complicated?!”

“Well... I mean... I think this is all pretty normal.”

“That guy literally stabbed me in the back!”

“Y’all are some ignorant fucking cunts!”

“Paradise isn’t paradise without your friends.”

“What good is rolling around on the floor if it’s clean?”

“Progressive buzzwords can’t save you now!”

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this. It’s only been a few hours, and we’ve already gone shirtless!”

“This is decidedly uncool.”

“Oh, you kids and your dreams! So full of hope and ignorance!”

“Someday you’ll learn that no matter how righteous you think your cause is, there’s always someone bigger to keep you down... and that day is today, and that someone is me.”

“What’s scary is how much I want to kill myself right now.”

“Here’s a horror story: go look at the job market you’ll be dealing with after this [workplace] shuts down.”

“Anuses. I was gonna say ‘anuses’.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of. And I’ll prove it.”

“This is the last place you want to be on a night like this.”

“Calm down. The storm just tripped the power.”

“We shall not waver on our quest for the undead!”

“I am not about this shit, [name]! Science has its limits!”

“I am not scared! I feel like we’ve established this by now!”

“You know what? On second thought, maybe the evil is unstoppable! We should all go home!”

“The only thing scarier than monsters and ghosts is real life.”

“This is probably fine.”

“Want to go see how many pudding cups we can fit in our pockets?”

“So, [name], you like science and shit, right?”

[lurkinglurkerwholurks]

Look for the Helpers

First posted: November 13, 2018

Focuses on: BatKids (Dick POV, Jason focused)

Favorite bookmark: "I am bawling."

Tier: Decidedly mid.

This is my "behind the scenes" series where I indulge myself horribly by annotating my fics. Link to the fic itself above. Thoughts below the cut.

I'd been chewing for awhile on the idea of Mr. Rogers and how much he meant to people. The Won't You Be My Neighbor documentary had released in January of this same year, and I'd sat in a theater and quietly bawled with a dark room full of strangers. Because his show was on PBS and geared, like Sesame Street, toward low income kids, making him have an outsized impact on Jason made the most sense.

Dick wondered if he would ever be used to the feeling of disconnect that came after a disaster. It felt like… He stabbed at a macaroni noodle and considered the radiant numbness spreading out from his chest.

This first bit, Dick mulling on the weirdness after a disaster that you manage to survive, was pulled from personal experience, but with the last half decade being what it's been, I can't even tell you which one I was pulling from. Hurricane wakes, most likely, though who really knows.

The never-ending white noise of sirens rushing to and fro weren’t real. The loss. The devastation. The chaos. 

That said, wow, what a weirdly prescient thing to read back through on this side of 2020.

“I don’t think human eyes are supposed to be that big,” he remarked solemnly, which prompted a snort of laughter from the others and placid disregard from Tim. “It’s anime, Dickie, don’t be so uncool.” Jason’s faux-whine made it clear that he was not, in fact, defending Tim’s artwork. “It’s a legitimate art form, and you both are snobs,” Tim said, his tone unruffled as he reached for his sandwich with his right hand, his left never slowing as he traced the warrior girl’s floating hair in purple crayon. “It is,” Damian agreed, which surprised Dick until he added, “when done correctly.” “Oh, bite me,” Tim retorted, but without any heat.

Of course Tim is a weeb. Tim and Damian.

“Is that Steph?” Jason asked, head now tilted to get a better look at Tim’s drawing. Intrigued, Dick craned his neck as well. “What? No!” Now Tim’s head snapped up, and he glared at Jason as one arm curled protectively around the crayon drawing. Dick would have been inclined to argue that the drawing could have been of anyone, as Tim wasn’t quite good enough to render a clear likeness. But the tips of Tim’s ears were pink.

Nowadays I'm awfully ambivalent on Tim/Steph and trend toward apathetic neutral. CECverse is an exception.

“Jason, if you lean over any farther, you’re going to knock over your soup,” Dick pointed out instead. Jason scowled, but settled back in his chair. “I’d make a joke, but one, we don’t make gags about Nazis anymore, and two, that show is old as dirt.”

I could not have predicted the Seinfeld renaissance among the youth.

Beneath the table, Dick tapped his fingertips together, one after the other. The numbness was still there, but if he didn’t think about it, it receded from the foreground. Not lessened or disappeared, just backed away to hover like a thin blanket over everything except what he was focusing on, which in turn made what he was focusing on seem harshly bright and loud. That was okay, though, if what he was focusing on was his brothers. Dick popped another forkful of cheesy noodles into his mouth and studied them, careful to keep a slight smile on his face as he did.

Oh. I remember what I was pulling from now. Not the numbness but the way you can chat and laugh and joke and seem normal when the world is upended and nothing is normal at all. Loss is weird.

They all tended to huddle a little closer together when Bruce was away.

I like this, the idea of them all gravitating, deliberately or subconsciously, so they're a team huddled, facing outward, without Bruce to hold their center.

Only Cass had been allowed to stay at the Manor. She and Alfred were planning a Masterpiece Theater Poirot mystery binge, with some Miss Marple and Jeeves and Wooster thrown in for flavoring. Dick wasn’t sure how much of the dialogue Cass could follow, but she seemed to find it a fun challenge to identify the murderer by body language alone. And anyone could enjoy the comedy of old J&W.

This took me a second to figure out, what Alfred and Cass might bond over and why, especially since Alfred is verbally cerebral and Cass finds words less useful. I think I made it work.

Jason was picking at Tim, who pretended to be grumpy and ignored his aggravating older brother in favor of tackling his roast beef sandwich with both hands.

Why roast beef, I don't know.

Dick took a few texts himself, mostly to coordinate the efforts and to relay the continued lack of news. Jason received none, though Dick caught him peeking at the screen once or twice.

I had a whole secondary storyline worked out with Bizarro that wasn't necessary or important at all but that would include a line about Jason taking care of Biz's plant. Something about it was supposed to be absolutely gutting, but I couldn't fit it in and now I don't remember what I had in mind.

Dick ducked his head as a familiar face filled the screen—Superman, a lone curl tumbling charmingly down his forehead, his chin turned to stare bravely into the distance. It was a stupid photo, boldly heroic in none of the ways that made Clark truly brave. That was the point, he knew, of a secret identity—no strong points of connection—but it rankled him to see the man portrayed as a stoic bastion of strength instead of the smiling, gentle man who used to pick Dick up by his ankles and swing him upside down.

Dick's point of view was a deliberate pick, as the eldest brother minding the wellbeing of the youngers, but also for how this specific worry would pick at him. Clark is a bigger part of his life than for the others.

But that was how these things went. Those that left were free to be reshaped into whatever was needed by those who were left behind. A beloved friend. A solemn warrior. A good soldier.

Yes, that was a jab.

The other members of the superhero community did their best to fill the power void, especially in Metropolis, which had been hardest hit and was now missing its white knight, though the Kent boys and Kara did their best.

I think this is the only time I ever acknowledge Kara in my fics. I don't know her. She will not appear.

Dick clamped a firm hand onto Damian’s shoulder and shoved the boy back into his seat before he could crawl over the table to stab Tim with his fork.

I make too many Damian stabbing jokes in these early fics. Or rather, I the writer mean them as funny moments but in-world they wouldn't be funny or in character, really. He's got a temper but he's not an impetuous hothead. I think I've gotten better (I hope) about, when I do joke, they're in-world jokes as well.

The diner was nestled between a rising skyscraper and a small neighborhood park, the kind community developers liked to slot into any little niche so that they could advertise nearby green space to prospective renters. It was no more than a small patch of green ringed with trees, bisected by a path with a small, two-tiered fountain in the middle. This neighborhood had been untouched by the extraterrestrial destruction, and the paths were at a midday lull, soft greys and greens and whites unbroken except for a jogger here, a mother and child there, a dogwalker off in the distance.

I plucked this park from real life. I don't remember where I was now, maybe Maryland, visiting friends? But I can still see the real-world park in my head, and how I altered it to make it into a place I could use in Gotham.

From what Dick could remember, even before, Jason had hated to show weakness. Though more expressive than Bruce by far, he hid his fears and sorrows beneath anger and rage. He had, in many ways, been more vulnerable with Bruce than Dick had been, willing to confront and challenge the older man when upset, but he had hated being coddled. The safest thing to do when Jason was in turmoil was to give him space and return when the dust had settled. 

meeeeeeeeeeeeee

“Maybe.” Dick tried to remember everything he had seen Bruce do right and everything he had seen Bruce do wrong. “But it’s still important to you, so it’s important to me. Tell me.”

I firmly love best a Bruce who doesn't always get it right but also doesn't always get it wrong. He's just a guy doing his best.

“I thought…” Jason slumped to the side until his shoulder rested against the tree. “I thought it’d taken everything it could. I lost a year of my life, my family, my home, my sanity.” He barked out a laugh, raspy and rough and dark with bitterness. “What else could I lose, right?”

I also love Jason getting to grieve his missing years, not just raging against Bruce and Gotham. I should do more with that.

“It wasn’t exciting or really funny. It was just this… this old guy. He’d come in to this clean house and hang up his jacket and take off his shoes and sing. He’d tell stories with these stupid puppets, and he never yelled or got mad. And he’d talk right to me. Every time, it was like he was talking right to me.” Jason swiped at his eyes again, fast, hard. “I guess it was because it was public access and they didn’t have a lot of other programming, but it felt like every time I needed him, he was on. Even when I got older, I’d turn him on sometimes, because no matter how scared or angry or sad I was, I knew he’d fix it. He’d tell me he was proud of me, that I was special, that I was okay just the way I was.”

I always hated the puppets, so that bit was more me than Jason. Jason was too young to get the show on first-run, so it makes sense that the reruns would be frequent and seemingly available whenever he needed them to be on. And it makes sense that a calm, gentle, supportive show would be a lifeline to him, a world where big, scary things don't appear or are talked through when they do.

Instead, he had ended up a murder victim and a killer. Dick wanted to pull Jason into a hug and let him know that he could still make a difference, that he had made a difference in Crime Alley, even if they still butted heads over methodology sometimes. He didn’t need to be ashamed of who he was. But then Jason whispered, “I didn’t know he’d died.”

Dick: Oh he's having a crisis about his behavior, oh no.

Jason: actually having an entirely different crisis

Like, imagine if you blipped out of existence for a few years and when you came back, you found out about Robin Williams or Steve Irwin retroactively.

They had never done anything like this, even before. Dick had been too busy being Nightwing to be a big brother, and Jason had had no reason to trust him. But that didn’t mean Dick couldn’t be here now, to make up for all his failures before. He pressed his lips to Jason’s scalp, then rested his cheek atop the man’s head and waited.

I still haven't fully settled in my own head exactly what the Nightwing-Robin transition was like for the three of them. When I started, I leaned on the fanon interpretation of Bruce and Dick fighting a lot and Dick and Jason as emotionally distant strangers. Now I think I've relegated a lot of that to individual interpretation (Dick feeling a lot of guilt that doesn't wholly match reality, for example), but it's still pretty fluid.

Dick could feel a tear or two wash down his own face as he tightened his hold on his brother’s shoulders. “He would be proud of you, you know. He wasn’t the kind of guy to ask for perfection, right? Just that you try. He’d be so proud, Jay.” “Why, because you are?” Jason had tried for sardonic, but the wry jab came out waterlogged and muffled between sniffles. “Yeah. Yeah, I am,” Dick murmured.

Choked myself up a little there.

“Mine was Bob Ross,” Tim offered suddenly. He had sat on the end, furthest from Jason but still close enough to be heard even in a low voice as he hugged his knees. “Not his death so much. He died before I knew who he was. But I liked to watch him paint. He made beautiful things from his mistakes. His happy accidents. It was good to hear, sometimes.” Dick and Jason took that in silently, digesting everything Tim had said and everything he hadn’t.

I knew each kid would have their own person to name, because that's how these conversations go. Mention Steve Irwin and someone else will mention Robin Williams or Chadwick Boseman or Amy Winehouse or whoever. Everyone has a death of a stranger that meant an awful lot to them. Figuring out who to pair to whom was an interesting puzzle, and I think the pairings I picked made sense. (Am realizing now how many shocking celebrity deaths are men.)

One quirk of timing with this fic was I wrote it and happened to post, completely by accident, the day that Stan Lee died. Folks were really feeling it in my comments section.

[throatgoatdukat]

this is embarrassingly late but I was tagged by @pangaeastarseed and iirc @babycupart (who tagged my main) for this and I legitimately waited because the last song I had heard was decidedly uncool and I was waiting for a better one to come up to fulfill this ... anyways here we go!

3 ships you like: for DS9 it's gonna be most Dukat stuff just because I like rare/absurd ships. I legit went into the series ready to be indoctrinated into Garashir for the popular ship privilege, but true to form I grew attached to the gnarliest gremlin-souled reptile of the series and now I kinda love Garak/Dukat and Sisko/Dukat. Intendant Kira/Dukat would probably round out that group!

First ship ever: Yamato/Mimi from Digimon, though I turned into a Sorato shipper real fast hahahahahahah (iykyk)

Last song you heard: fml legitimately forgot I was doing this so now it's S Club 7's Say Goodbye because I was doing a wikipedia deep dive

Favorite childhood book: On the Banks of Plum Creek by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I am aware that the series and LIW is problematic in a lot of ways, but man did that book truly capture the devastation of having a beloved stuffed animal forcefully given away. Plus some petty mean girl gets served catharsis via Nellie Olsen.

Currently reading: The Mill House Murders by Ayatsuji Yukito

Currently watching: Agatha Christie's Marple

Currently consuming: a date + banana + peanut butter milkshake

Currently craving: nothing, this milkshake thicc and I am extremely full

literally everyone I follow has completed this in some way u_u so if this comes across your dash and you'd like to share, please consider yourself tagged by me!! (and tag me so I can be nosey and snoop your replies)

[teacup-captor]

Wtf am I even supposed to do when a cool tumblr mutual does something decidedly uncool like, I dunno, reblogging a post mocking a niche spiritual belief (which I have) as if it's 2018 and people are eating tide pods again

[foxounderscorecube]

Tagging Game

Tagged by @lady-blackflame

Nickname: For the name I chose for myself, I have one friend that calls me Lowie, which is cute :D For my legal name (which, for context, is not a deadname, but it isn't my preferred name!), Cat.

Sign: Pisces sun, Sagittarius Moon, Taurus Rising

Height: 5'1", unfortunately

Last thing I googled: "flower emoji"

Amount of Sleep: I think I got about 9 hours' sleep last night. I tend to sleep for 9-12 hours.

Dream Job: I'm not sure because it changes constantly and there are few that are realistic for me because of my disability/chronic illness. Among them are nuclear engineer in a power station, which was what I'd intended on going into before having to change my life trajectory; curator or something in a museum (natural history or a tank museum, I think, although I'd be most qualified for something dealing with costume and that'd be very cool too); or one of those people that goes into the tanks in the aquarium in scuba gear and I think they clean and do maintenance but more importantly they get to hang out with the fish.

Wearing: white t-shirt which is printed with "At least we have Internet", black skirt that is actually secretly shorts, white OTK socks, and black cat slippers.

Movies/Books/Media that summarise you: The original Warriors series was formative for me and that probably shows. The Cure and Manic Street Preachers had a big impact on how I do my make-up, my general aesthetic, and music taste, and although it's less obvious than when I was younger I feel like there are still echoes of them in how I am as a person now. The film, Paprika; Hirasawa's music; and the Soulsborne games are more relevant to my interests now.

Favorite Song: I can never pick a favourite song because that also changes constantly, but this is a song I adore:

Instrument: Violin, although I'm terribly out of practice right now. I can do very basic stuff on guitar and bass owing to a """goth punk""" phase in my teens making me decide, incorrectly, that violin was decidedly uncool, but I never got very good. I can sing, too, if that counts.

Aesthetic: I'm not really sure. I dress very feminine and often in pretty cutesy clothes. Over the knee socks are, like, my brand at this point. I like dresses with cute or fun prints.

Favorite Author: Probably Irvine Welsh.

Random fun fact: About me or in general? For the former, I suppose that I've got a 1st Dan black belt in tae kwon do (which sounds a greater feat than it is, but it's probably one of my biggest achievements for a few reasons). As for general fun facts, one of my favourites is that some species of scorpion hold hands or even "kiss" by holding pedipalps as part of their courting behaviour :)

Tagging: @howdoiturnthisthingoff @becomingisla @naupactus @byksigmatruther @artoriasss @cicadaduet @cuebiksrube @cassidyposting @dominijoyce if any of you want to (and anyone else who wants to do it, consider yourself tagged!)

[immovable-tophat]

Page 448

I used to hate Dave. I was (am) decidedly uncool and proud of it, so I held a lot of disdain for characters that are written as explicitly cool, especially since he tends to dig at the less "cool" characters for their lack of coolness. Plus, I hated all of the all of the rapping and irony stuff. I still don't like it, but now I see it more as a "haha, yeah, thirteen year old are like that sometimes" sort of thing as opposed to something that I am meant to relate to and the dogs about characters' relative coolness are meant to be playful banter, not serious teasing. But back when I was actively in my homestuck phase, I wrote a fic in which Dave had died before the events of the fic began, just so I wouldn't have to write him.

[queereldritchgalaxyprincess]

Tangerine viridian

i promise i am decidedly uncool, i just seem cool on the internet because i did enough hallucinogens in my 20s that the compounded ego death made me just have very chill vibes

and is that an electron microscope in your pants or are you just happy to see me?

[mosscoveringitall]

1/5/2024 or: Different Apples

The only cool thing I did in college was become a DJ on the radio. I did many, many uncool things in college: I was in improv club, I joined an honor society, I was an RA. These things were mostly awful experiences that swept me into curtains of laziness and melancholy I had never encountered myself within before, but I was always proud of being a DJ. When I moved to New York, I wanted to become a DJ again, even though I was never all that good at it. My friend and I found out that another friend had paid $25 to become an internet DJ on an internet pirate radio (a decidedly uncool type of pirate broadcasting). We paid the $25, and are well on our way to activating ourselves in front of an audience of nobody in particular to talk about nothing of importance. I am listening to my other friend’s radio show right now. The songs she chose are whiny and listless and warbly and beautiful. It makes me like her more than I already do.

I was a specialty jazz DJ in college, and I also ran a show with my best friend in the whole world where we played a variety of genres. This show always had a theme, or a story that we assigned the night, to provide us a bit of a challenge. For example, we would describe a castle through the rooms, each room with its own song. Or we would go on an interstellar journey and become mired in a black hole’s gravitational pull. Or we were four different types of apples. Most of the shows were bad, and my best friend always found a way to play Elliot Smith, but we had lots of fun, and that’s what I was proud of. Being a DJ gave me a reason to listen to lots of music I had never heard of before and find reasons to like it enough to listen to it standing up and focusing mostly just on how it sounded. I have found then, as I find now, that listening to and loving music is one of the biggest and most sluggish pastimes one can have. It exhausts me.

There is a way I have to build playlists, and I can’t like music organized together unless it exists in this way. Each playlist has to have an image, with a 55px-thick border, and a slightly abstracted nonsense title with an emoji in front of it. I make three of these a year, unless it’s a genre playlist, which I can make as many of as I want. One in the summer, one in the fall, and one in the spring. I designed this system when I was in school, because I was a radio DJ and I was sad and angry one semester, and listlessly, deliriously happy the next quite often. Until I wasn’t. By that time, I had started dating my girlfriend. She tells me that she doesn’t listen to much music anymore, because it can overwhelm her to think about how much music she likes. She says that songs make her cry too easily, that there’s too much history in every song to take on anything new. She also says she’d rather listen to audiobooks because they calm her down and music stresses her out. I have, according to Spotify, listened to almost 20,000 less minutes of music the years that I have dated her. This bothers me immensely, even if I’m not sure why.

[m---dash]

Prelude

It’s a curious thing, figuring out why I’m starting a music blog in 2023. I don’t have much to offer in the way of taste-making. I’ll confess upfront that I’m slow to pick up on trends these days, discovering the bubble only as its bursting. I am also decidedly uncool—my tastes are never so obscure, so purely discovered in the underground, or in a scene, or otherwise generally unfiltered by the markets or the gatekeepers or the algorithms that be. I should also state that I am not a journalist; I make no claims to reporting on the world or getting to the bottom of the moment, inside an artist or a movement to document its truth or its details. I’m hardly an academic; do not expect me to set the terms for my writing with those sturdy disciplines of history or philosophy.

I was once a musician in the practical sense, in that I don’t practice anymore. I’ve written music, but I’m not doing that here either. I guess we’ll settle on the fact that I live in music and am feeling a need to write; so what else would I write about if not my world?

[deansmom]

My favorite thing about Pete is that he is, and has always been, so unapologetically himself in the way that he presents himself to the public. Like yes, there’s some obvious self worth issues and self hatred in there but he’s always felt so genuine about it all. All four of them, really, but even when Pete somehow became this emo media darling he was still just a guy from Chicago who was decidedly uncool and like… so okay with that. I mean, he did a tour of his room at his parents house - embarrassing posters & toys and collectibles and all and I just.

I wish I was kidding when I say that Pete in particular was such a formative influence on who I am as a person. You can be yourself and not only be liked by other people, but achieve and then go beyond your wildest dreams. What a fucking concept.

I think that’s why so many people have never taken them seriously, because none of them have ever pretended to be more than they are. Being a nerd didn’t used to be cool, it wasn’t always socially acceptable, and we just had these four dorks from the Chicago suburbs running around in one of the most famous bands in the world being absolute fucking nerds.

I think that’s beautiful.

[basiltonpitch]

god it's just like. i have spent the past three years with this girl on my mind. this show is the reason i came back to tumblr after deactivating my old account in 2019. this show is the reason i have made some of the best friendships i've ever had. i saw myself in devi as she struggled with the grief of losing her father, as she navigated high school as someone who was decidedly uncool, and especially as she clashed with her mother while they went through this deep profound sadness - both together and separately. i can't relate to everything devi's been through, but god do i relate to a good chunk of it. and to see her, as dr. ryan put it, survive all of her hardships, coming out on the other side confident in who she is, loved so wholly by those around her and loving them back in return? it healed the 15 year old in me who never got that - and the 23 year old i currently am that is still struggling to survive.

it finally hit me that never have i ever is like. actually over. we won't see devi vishwakumar anymore. what am i supposed to do.

[disasterjones]

Ilysm Jones you're super cool

again, this is sweet, but I must impress how incredibly uncool I am, please do not believe my behavior is any indicator of How Cool People Act, it is wrong and will lead you astray