#i realized I liked them a lot because they remind me of Betty Boop and Bimbo

[greenbottle-kisser]

I LOVE CART TOONS RAAAAAAAGH

[matchbet-allofthetime]

REMINDER GO EVERYONE LGBT OR WHO SUPPORTS US!! (I've gone through every letter in lgbt at least once on my neverending journey, I'm allowed to say this)-

words like:

Butch

Dyke

Bulldyke

Faggot/fag

Muffmuncher

Cocksucker

Fruity

Gay

Queer

Homosexual

Transvestite/Transsexual/transgender (all ways to refer to those with different genders at birth to what they are and they are NOT outdated because they are STILL used, primarily by older queer folks and they deserve to be mentioned! Sick of the fucking discourse.)

Stone butch

Bulldagger

Faghag

Munch

Down-low

Tranny

Betty/a Betty Boop (very similar to femme and other related terms. Also seems to be colloquial to my general area?? Not sure if it or similar is used elsewhere, colloquial and local differences change a lot that you don't realize until you come across what it meansssss elsewhere. Used to refer to lesbians that are very traditionally femme and have big eyes and short hair. Also refers to specifically red lipstick wearers.

Bisexual (those who like men and women/the definition of bisexual most know widely and ALSO someone who is BOTH A MAN AND A WOMAN/ANOTHER COMBINATION. it has been and STILL IS used both ways. Respect that. The older generations coined many of your terms. Things change, but you don't get to tell someone how they identify.)

Bent

Bussy

En femme/en homme

Molly/Tommy

Tomboy/tomgirl

Flower/floral

Friend of Dorothy

Twink

Twunk

Batty/batty boy

Bender

Fairy

Fruit loop

Pansy

Sod

Bambi

Boi (UK origin, akin to dyke, butch, and tomboy)

Rug muncher

Kitty/pussy puncher/muncher

Muff diver

Stud

Pack o' cigs/Pack o' fags (self explanatory, this seems to be a colloquial term in my hometown and surrounding counties. Pack o' cigs is a pack of, traditionally, butches/dykes. Pack o' fags is the gay male equivalent. I grew up hearing this one directed toward me a LOT lmao)

AC/DC (pan/bi, swings whatever way. US term.)

Lady boy/boy girl/girl boy (can be used in many ways, but typically refers to a boy who is also a girl, a femme boy, femboy, or similar concepts)

Femboy

Traggot (a combining of tranny and faggot)

T girl/t guy/t boy

Trap (widely used even now as a slur or derogatory word, but I have met many who this is their identity to some degree. Respect that. They're queer too.)

Cuntboy/pussyboy/dick girl/girl dick

Fag stag

Bear

Pup

Cub

Bull

Silver fox

...And about a million other words through thousands of other anguages across the entire world-

Are NOT dirty, filthy, disgusting, nasty, used incorrectly, or "aren't to be used by anything other than XYZ individual in the LGBT community and nobody else."

They aren't dirty words. They aren't disgraceful or filthy unless the user of the term says "yeah, I'm fucking filthy! I'm disgraceful! Fuck yeah!"

If someone says they're a dyke? They're a fucking dyke. If someone says they're anything on this list or use any queer term? Fucking let them.

Here's why:

Use LGBT people have used any words thrown at us, handed to us, words we've been beaten with, words we've held onto with our lives and anger and love, words that have been used for us, against us, AND MOST IMPORTANTLY, BY US for decades and in some cases even so long as a a century or more.

A masc straight woman is still called a dyke. A faggot. Thus, if she chooses, she's still a fucking dyke.

What we're always called or what we find fits us will always become our identity in some way or another somehow sometime.

That happens.

I've had every fucking word you've got and I guarantee ones you've never heard of thrown at me since I was a toddler, running around in mud-stained blue and red converse and a Barbie dress with a mohawk in my hair. I've heard them since I was in an AC/DC band tee, sparkly shorts, galaxy leggings, and glittery roller skates.

I and MILLIONS OF OTHERS LIKE ME, lgbt or otherwise, those who "I just dealt with what they called me. I was gonna be called that anyways so I don't care anymore. I have no gender/sexuality/preference/label/etc but I answer to it all/it's a part of me now but I'm not lgbt in my own mind" are FUCKING VALID FOR THIS.

Stop fighting your own fucking community. Stop. Stop, stop, stop, stop. I have been called everything on this list except for a few (because I am obviously not a bear when you look at me not a silver fox or whatever) my entire fucking life.

I am agender. I am aro/ace. I am also a faggot. A dyke. A butch. Nonbinary. Transsexual. Tranny. Pup. Boyslut. Fagdyke.

And so many others are like me like this. So many others consider these words a part of themselves.

These are OUR slurs to reclaim. These are words we made a d for the ones we didn't? We took them and wore them like fucking crowns. We wore them like they were our favourite collars, our favourite leather, our favourite words. We fucking own these words like we own ourselves and it is nobody's choice but your FUCKING OWN whether or not they're used.

Yes, there's nuance with some. I understand that. "Stud" for example is for lesbian OR "LESBIAN-APPEARING" BLACK AFABS! But I've been called stud and I am the whitest, pastiest bitch you'll meet. I continue to have black drag queens and kings and royalties and other black folk who are queer come up to me and tell me "oh baby you're such a handsome stud!" While at pride events.

I am and also am not a woman. Not a man but also I am. But I gleefully use the word dyke and fag and femboy and roseboy and pup and cub (my moddy's nickname for years was cub/cubby. Friends of theirs HAVE CALLED THEM THAT IN FRONT OF ME SINCE I WAS A BABY. thus I am called cub or cub's cub or similar.) And I use these words with nothing but pride and spite and joy and hate and love and fucking glee. Because they're mine. They're ours.

People of all kinds, all genders, all sexualities, all paths and walks of life, have been subjected at least a hundred times to at least one of these words if they're even slightly "not right" or different or weird or wrong in the eyes of whatever stupid ass societal expectations there are.

And they all deserve to use these words if they make them comfortable. These people KNOW they're lgbt terms. Fucking trust me. They learn from experience or get taught it by someone and either drop the terms or don't. That's their choice. And that choice is okay.

Stop attacking your own community. Stop attacking the "outsiders" because oftentimes the "outsiders" are part of us but don't feel like they can claim to be lgbt. Especially older generations. Older generations (which includes millennials and even a lot of older gen z and literally everyone alive) don't think they can consider or call themselves a part of us for numerous reasons.

These reasons can be it isn't safe for any variety of reasons, these people grew up being called these things and always claimed cis and/or get because the terminology at the time wasn't like it is now in the same way, certain genders were more accepted than others (IE bisexuals and lesbians and gays and straights was most of what you had, alongside men, women, and transgender man/woman, which were and still are seen as often groups, for better or worse.) And there wasn't fuck all else. Fucking nada. Zilch. Not in most cultures, certainly not in fucking America. These people are often part of us even if they don't consider themselves as being part of us.

Definitions have changed. Contexts have changed. You'll find that we (and this is ESPECIALLY going out to any gen z out here)- we have called ourselves whatever the fuck we have wanted to forever. And we always will. And we always should. We will reclaim terms/slurs and make new terms and shit, I love being called a slur, by my own people or people who intend it to hurt me. It's fucking funny.

It has all changed and will continue to. That's the way it is. Don't discount other people's experiences or histories or whatever else just because you don't know the full story or "I just don't like it". News flash- isn't your fucking life babes.

Anyways, long-ass rant over. Needs to be said. I'm sayin it.

Any beautiful, handsome, fantastic motherfuckers out there who wanna comment your identity, favourite terms for yourself, etc? Wanna call me a slur, regardless of which way, good or bad, you intend it?

Light me the fuck up, yo. Hand me the lighter and pass the weed, I've always liked playing with fire.

[queenofallimagines]

Mirio with his Hawaiian s/o who go to Disney in Tokyo with Nei Nei,Tama & Yuyu💜🏰✨

Okay so I don’t know shit about any island that isn’t from the Caribbean so all of this comes from google and I will try my very best!

Also I’m just now realizing this might’ve been a different request based on how it was worded but you know what it’s all good

Mirio:

- he’s excited

- You have him a cute lei with yellow flowers

- He’s crying

- “This is beautiful sunflower!”

- He will try and make you one too lmao

- Once your at the park it’s go time

- Going on all the romantic rides together

- Eating everything in the park possible

- He will cry when he sees Donald Duck

- “Babe,,,,,it’s him!!!!”

- He’s such a child it’s adorable

- “ Ohana means family.”

- “Mirio I love you but WHO TAUGHT YOU THAT.”

- He’s a secret Disney fanatic

- He’s seen all the moves and all the sequels

- Lilo and stitch three will always make him cry

- cinderella three is probably his favorite because of the ending

- He has watched all of the room Disney crossovers

- Like when the kids from recess went to Hawaii and met Lilo and stitch

- Or when Jake long from American Dragon met them too

- Jake long is his hero

- Like LMAOO

- He would totally get a dragon tattoo but you know Japan associates tattoos with the yakuza down there so it’s best if he didn’t

- Will draw one on his skin tho

- “IF YOU WISH APOUN A STAAAAAR.”

- He’s going to sing along with all of the music on the ride

- You are exasperated because he’s taking so many pictures

- “Is it necessary?”

- “ Babe please we have to show Instagram how fucking perfect we are for each other.”

- A true clown lmao

- Tomorrowland is probably his favorite place to go

- He’s a sucker for things that have to do with the future like he seen back to the future at least 12 times

- Wants to go to western land BC !!! He’s never really been to the west much less America so it would be an interesting experience

Neijere:

- she’s so fucking excited

- It may not be Hawaii but she’s definitely going to take you there after this

- ‘If I take them home they can show me how it was like growing up!!’

- That’s her only train of thought and you can’t stop her

- Will dress super cute the entire time

- She is a part-time Instagram model so you guys will be taking a lot of pictures

- Captions like

- “Look at my beautiful s/o!”

- “They are so cute eating food!!”

- Fantasyland is her fav

- She loved all of the whimsical movies as a kid because it reminded her of studio Ghibli

- She was more of a Fleischer kid perfecting Betty boop to Minnie Mouse

- But she does like the whimsy feeling they are going for

- Animation is her special interest

- If your an artist she will love your art style and the way you animate

- Throwing subtle jabs at how Disney is a fucking theif though

- “ isn’t it crazy how somebody did this like 20 years before Disney but they use their money and power to cover them up what a shame.”

- She’s pretty dark so bimbos initiation is probably her favorite

- Man on the mountain is right under that

- (Can you tell I’m really into Cuphead? because I really like cuphead lmao and Cab Calloway the cartoon musician)

- Little Green Alien Mochi Dumplings Are heR fav to eat BC they’re absolutely adorable

Tamaki:

- is super nervous to be around so many people at once

- He has you with him so he’ll be OK

- To be honest if you’ve been dating for a while and you’re that far in a relationship he will probably propose here

- on the Adventureland boat thing

- Drags you to all the cool food places

- “Look they have a princess and the frog cafe!!”

- (My black ass brain was like I could’ve made your gumbo if you want it LMAOO)

- He eats everything and I mean e v e r y t h I b g

- Ukiwah shrimp bun is probably his fav

- Will periodically ask you things about your home while you’re on this trip

- “What kinda stuff is you eat?”

- Lmao it’s always good with him

- The gyoza sausage bun is a close favorite

- He is no scaredy-cat when it comes to roller coasters he wants to ride the biggest most scariest ones

- He watches those Disneyland conspiracy theory videos in his spare time

- “ do they really have a ride filled with the ashes of children??”

- “ yeah Florida is pretty wild.”

- He wants to go to every Disney land lmao

- Will take you home on his birthday

- “Show me around bunny.”

-

Mt. Lady:

- i’m hoping these are the characters you meant because I’m just realizing maybe they’re not

- She lives that broke hero life lmao

- She be having other people pay for her

- So when she just up and says

- “ hey I took like half of a month off from my agency we’re going to Hawaii and then Disneyland Tokyo.”

- You’re shocked

- Like where did this money come from was she just sitting on it the entire time

- Yeah

- you go to Disneyland first BC she’s scared to meet your family lmao

- Mike Wazowski melon bread is her fav

- It’s so cute!!!

- She’s gunna be dragging you to all the kid rides

- Taking pictures to add to her secret file of pics of you

- Smiling like a fool

- Will feed you deserts

- Watching movies in the hotel

- Cuddling

- Mickey-shaped waffles for breakfast every day

- She will try to hulla and fail at it

- Lmao not even close she’s just like no omg her hips like a 12 year old on tic tok

[deehollowaywrites]

12 days of girlfriends

@ignitesthestars said something very nice (which I needed to hear because honestly: not having a great day), so below the cut she and you all can find some OG horse girlfriends from the Patreon’s December rewards, since I oddly enough don’t have anything Valentine-themed.

1

The camera jogs up and down with Adair’s stride. She grins into her phone, tilts the screen now and then to show me the sidewalk piled with snow and the line of bare trees outside the Carnegie building. She could walk all over Lexington with me and it wouldn’t be enough. Her breath forms a cloud, lips just parted. In the dark of her neighborhood street she’s all bright eyes, smiling teeth. Starry white flakes land on her hair, and I blink, hard. She looks like home.

2

“What are you wearing?” Felix coos. “My weather app said it was like barely twenty degrees last night.”

I have to laugh at that. “You’re the one in Miami, babe, you should be telling me all about your utter lack of coverage.”

“Yeah, but that turtleneck you have. The blue one.” She sounds hungry, an edge in her voice that warms my skin even over the phone. “God, you’re such a sweater girl.”

I smooth my hands down my pullover, twitching it off one shoulder to let the lacy strap of my bra peek out. “A picture’s worth a thousand words. Hang on.”

3

Can’t believe you discovered ARTISANAL HOT CHOCOLATE FLIGHTS you hipster fucks, I comment on Phil’s newest Instagram post. It’s such a familiar photo it almost hurts--three faces and mine missing, Adair and Phil with Eddy in between them, beaming over their drinks. They’ve even got on ugly sweaters, Eddy’s featuring a cat wearing a Santa hat and Phil’s Chanukah-themed, Adair’s red plaid and spiked with gold pyramid studs.

Eddy’s response appears almost instantly: los celos son feos, nena and then Adair’s: I’ll take you when you get back--bring a flask to spike things ;)

That’s a good plan, I suppose. I sure could wish I were there right now, ready and willing to lick whipped cream off Adair’s lips.

4

“The guys made me take them Christmas shopping for their girlfriends,” Felix says, and stands up from her desk. The sweater she’s wearing, a chunky crochet in forest-green, looks demure from the front--and then she turns to show off the back, a deep V tied with a bow. The tails of the bow flop against her waist as she bends, just enough to let me see she’s wearing the sweater and her panties and that’s about it. A smirk appears over her shoulder. “Want to unwrap this present?”

5

There’s a bright red envelope in the mail slot at my sublet, like an exclamation point in the middle of takeout menus and Scientology pamphlets. The lipstick print on the card inside just about matches, centered below Adair’s neat handwriting in glittery gold ink. The message pricks at my eyes. She always knows exactly how much to say. I don’t press my own lips to the paper, but it’s a close call.

6

Leave it to Felix to find an off-brand Snapchat clone featuring X-rated filters. I stare at the photo she’s sent, her skin Miami-tan and her hair warm in the filter���s reddish tint, cartoonish sprigs of holly the only thing between her nipples and my hungry gaze. There’s no accompanying text, but then there doesn’t need to be; the shot is enough to keep me warm tonight, no extra quilt and no commentary required.

7

We’d agreed to send a few little things in the mail, and do big presents when I get home to Lexington. I go to Sephora, figuring I can pick up some new lipstick for Adair, but even the idea of stocking stuffers is distracting. All it makes me think of is her legs in tights, or better yet her legs in thigh-high socks...maybe her legs in both and not much else, maybe snowflake-print tights or socks with little velvet bows on the backs--

I leave Sephora in a hurry, empty-handed.

8

I text Felix a picture of the Christmas tree in our front window on the night we watch Love Actually and finish decorating, half of it decked out in Kelly’s kitsch extravaganza--glass pickle ornaments and Bettie Boop dressed as Mrs. Claus and the Christmas Story house--and half of it my offerings of white lights, silver balls, and rustic wooden stars. It’s my first Christmas with Felix and it kills me a little that we didn’t do this together, the tree and the hanging of the stockings, the shopping where you try to hide what you’re buying the other person, the first snowfall.

Her reply is succinct and pure Felix: nice tree but I’d rather climb you #4days

9

“I’m watching it right now,” I tell Eddy as he launches into another fawning overview of the video currently circulating Facebook. When it loads, I find out he hasn’t been exaggerating: there’s a whole choir of robed ladies belting, but Adair’s voice is easy to pick out. She’s in the back row, taller than nearly everyone else, but her smile hits me like I’m in the room. I don’t even recognize the hymn they’re singing--something about Judea’s plain--and I don’t care. She could be singing in Farsi and it’d still be the best thing I ever heard.

“Wow,” I say at last. “I think I just got religion.”

10

I take about fifteen selfies before my cat gets bored and retreats into the kitchen to paw at his bowl. None of them look right--none of them capture what I’m trying to convey: I miss her, I love her, I can’t wait to drive to the airport tomorrow at almost 11PM to pick her up, I’m still the hottest thing she’s ever seen even though she’s been riding Gulfstream’s December meeting with reams of Miami supermodels within easy hollering distance.

I pat my cheeks and adjust the hem of my sweater and try again, turning so that the lights of the tree reflect on my face. When I look at the picture I realize the most noticeable sparkle isn’t the candles on our living room windowsill or the sequins on my sweater’s collar, but the tears in my eyes.

11

“I’m in Charlotte,” Felix says, voice muffled. It’s not just the background noise, droning lectures on the airport intercom and people’s half-caught conversations; she sounds like she’s chewing. “Flight’s delayed, but I think that’s on Lexington’s end.”

“Lots of snow to welcome you home,” I say, and try to ignore my nerves over her plane trying to land in icy Blue Grass, flying through the snowstorm currently hovering on the Tennessee/Kentucky border. “What are you eating? Sounds delicious.”

“Those gingerbread jockeys you sent.” She swallows. “Thanks for decorating the one in Three Creeks icing, I think me eating it made Marty lose on Wednesday.” A giggle, nearly lost in the blare of a kid crying somewhere near her. “So what else you got in your cookie jar?”

12

“Remind me how many doorways are in your apartment,” I murmur, my lips at the base of Adair’s throat. We’re standing in her front hall, have been for at least five minutes, a little cluster of mistletoe and red ribbon and golden bells glinting above her head. She’s warm despite the temperature outside, the skin of her waist smooth where my fingers edge up her sweater.

“Front door, kitchen, two bathrooms, two bedrooms,” she says, and lifts me up. Her arms curl beneath me, brace my back against the wall. “There’s mistletoe in every single one, and one undisclosed location I encourage you to discover.”

Her dedication to the holiday aesthetic is truly inspiring.

[thesaltboy]

Visual Mark - Research

Even before we received the assignment to create a personal logo or visual mark, I knew the direction I wanted to go. I want my personal brand to convey a certain amount of playfulness while still being professional. That’ll probably change as I gain experience but for now it’s the direction I want to go in.

This was my original idea for my visual mark. I was inspired by icon designs I had been researching at the time, and thought this was what I wanted. I didn’t give it a massive amount of time, so when I sat down to brainstorm visual mark ideas, I quickly realized it’s not exactly how I want to represent myself.

These two portraits are by an artist named Matheus Christovam, of Thunder Rockets. Thunder Rockets is a Brazilian studio with a unique aesthetic. Inspired by old cartoons from the 1930′s-40′s, this style reminds me of cartoons like Mickey Mouse, Betty Boop, and Popeye.

Growing up I watched and drew a lot of cartoons. I grew up watching looney Toons and other old cartoons, as well as newer cartoons like Spongebob. I would sit in front of the TV and draw the characters instead of actually watching the shows. The reason I want to be an illustrator is probably due to all the time I spent drawing these cartoons.

I started off trying to emulate the same 1930′s style that Thunder Rockets uses but in the end it became my own creation. Looking at cartoons I watched as a kid I can see a clear influence in my final design. I feel like my final designs have a sort of Cartoon Network aesthetic to them.

Above: John Maeda

Below: Jeffrey Zeldman

When I was designing my monogram I did a fair amount of research into pixel art. I grew up playing old video games, a lot of which used a pixel art style. I chose the style for my monogram because of the emotional connection I have with those games. They helped influence me as a kid, and I would love to work in the gaming industry for a career.

In the end, I decided not to use the same pixel art style for my visual mark for a couple of reasons. To me pixel art is a clean and modern aesthetic, even today countless games are made in the style. While I like the style and appreciate the influence it’s had on me, it’s not the art style I want to focus on. Secondly, pixel art is something that requires a lot of attention and experience to make look good, which is something I just don’t have. I feel like my brand can be better represented in some other style.

These past two semesters I’ve become familiar with a lot of great artists. Two of which are Eva-Lotta Lamm and Irena Freitas. I’m charmed by their simple and elegant art style. I didn’t end up using this art style anywhere in my visual mark, but this style is something I would like to try out in the future.

[kootenaygoon]

So,

It was way past midnight, and I didn’t want to be awake anymore.

A crowd of us had migrated from the Hume Hotel to a dank, freezing cold foyer inside the vacant Chinese Medicine School. A block down from the courthouse, it was built at the precipice of a hill and featured a wrap-around balcony that looked out at Elephant Mountain. It had Eastern-themed trappings and some nice stonework, but it was looking increasingly more derelict every day. I’d never actually been inside it before, but some dude in Aladdin pants told us he owned it. Living in Nelson I repeatedly found myself in idiosyncratic situations like this, witnessing scenes I couldn’t imagine going down anywhere else. There were at least three distinct bands in the room, and musicians know how to party properly.

Snow was gusting down outside, and there was no heating system, so you could see everyone’s breath as they milled around gossiping. At the centre of the room two women were playing a game of Strip Ping Pong. One was down to her bra and panties, while the other was still in a hoodie and jeans. I could see the pink goose pimples on the near-nude one’s stomach, and wondered for a moment how she was coping with the cold, and then I remembered: everyone’s on drugs. 

Really, I was just waiting for Paisley to come home with me. We’d been partying an unusual amount for the past few weeks and I was getting disillusioned with the whole scene. When I first arrived in the Kootenays I adopted a “When in Rome” mindset on the topic of dabbling with new things, but really I was satisfied with cannabis and a nice comfy home life. That being said, I seemed to be incapable of saying no in the moment and I’d developed a reputation as a black hole for drugs. Certain ones just didn’t seem to have an effect on me, or at least not an obvious one. I could shovel back coke, MDMA, mushrooms and acid, then still maintain a coherent conversation. People were baffled by it, but I found it annoying. It was like I couldn’t self-destruct, no matter how hard I tried.

As I pondered this, Ryan Tapp sunk into the chair beside me and threw his arm around my shoulder. He was wearing a feather boa.

“You’re being anti-social again. Why are you sitting here freezing your ass off when you could be talking to somebody? Do you see Paisley moping around?”

“I’ve already accomplished everything I wanted to socially tonight.”

He snickered, then echoed the words back at me. “You don’t even know half of these people. You spend too much time in your head, man. Especially when you’re high.”

“I don’t think I’m that high.”

“Sometimes I think you’re the most self-aware person in the world, and sometimes I think you’re dense as a stone. Come on, man. You’re talking to a dead person.”

“You keep reminding me.”

Despite all my debauchery, over the previous few months I’d somehow motivated myself to make a number of power moves in town. Having decided that I had my reporter gig mastered, I decided to expand into new arenas — I’d been appointed to a sub-committee of city council focused on culture and the arts, been named to an advisory board for the creative writing program at Selkirk College, and gotten myself cast in the chorus of the upcoming musical Rock of Ages. My feud with the Carpenters was at a low simmer, and I was determined to escalate my public profile as much as possible to keep them in check. I figured that was my best defence, because who wants to fire the fun-loving reporter everybody saw singing 80s tunes on stage? They were already villains in town, and their image couldn’t take much more damage. I was like a loaded shotgun, waiting for somebody to pick me up.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about Andrew Stevenson lately,” I told Ryan, tipping back my beer and taking a deep swallow. “If you read the Star story my co-worker Ed wrote, it says all those fucking robberies were all fuelled by his addiction.”

“Oxycontin ain’t cheap.”

I shook my head. “The guy was in pain, arthritis or something. And desperate. I mean, what would you do in that situation? He had a bunch of kids to feed, at our age. What would you do?”

“Yeah, but he still had the power to choose. And he made the wrong choice.”

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

Ryan took a deep breath, then began to preach. “Everyone’s talking about harm reduction these days, like drug abuse is this perennial inevitability, but the fact is everyone still has a choice. We all have agency in this life, power over our own decision-making.”

“But it’s more complicated than that. A lot of people are dealing with childhood trauma, issues we couldn’t even imagine.”

“Okay, but really? Who doesn’t have some sort of trauma?”

It was right around then I realized that I didn’t know where Paisley was. She’d disappeared from the circle of friends she’d been standing with a moment before, and she was nowhere in the room. Did she go outside to smoke a joint? Ryan evaporated as I struggled into a standing position. The floor beneath me rippled, like I was standing on the surface of the ocean, and that energy moved up through my body and beamed out my eyes. Like Cyclops from the X-men. I gave my head a shake.

“You seen Paisley?” I asked my friend Josh. “Did you see where she went?”

“I thought she was with Caelynn, man.”

“She might be in that back bathroom over there,” Josh’s wife Julie said, pointing. “I think I saw some people going in there.”

Paisley didn’t typically need to be babysat, but lately she’d been starting to worry me. Like me, she’d been making some uncharacteristic choices. Nelson just seemed to have that effect on people — it made you explore outside your comfort zone, which was good, but sometimes you can travel a little too far. Without a baseline of normalcy, how are you supposed to ascertain if you’re being strange or scary? Compared to who? I pushed through some bodies, maybe a little too roughly, as I made my way past the ping pong table and through a doorway to a dimly lit hallway with a tile floor. Was the bathroom Julie mentioned back here somewhere? Or was it somewhere else? Frustrated, I turned in a circle and blinked at my feet. Then I heard voices.

The bathroom was just to my left, and the door wasn’t locked. I turned the handle and swung it open, hitting somebody in the elbow, then squeezed through the gap. There were at least eight people inside, though it only had one urinal and a small stall for a toilet. On the opposite wall were two sinks, and when I glanced over I saw Paisley sitting on one. She wasn’t wearing her shirt, her eyes were closed, and some guy was looming Gollum-like over her. For a moment he looked like a legit vampire, like he was plunging his fangs into her neck, and before that could happen I yanked back hard on his T-shirt and slammed him against the stall. 

I palmed his throat, my nostrils flaring. “I don’t want to see you again, understand? You get the fuck out of here and don’t come back.”

He nodded feebly, his hands up in surrender. “I’m gone, man.”

Once the guy disappeared I found Paisley’s shirt balled up on the ground and helped her put it on. Her eyes were closed and she murmured incoherently. Around me the other bathroom-dwellers returned to their pot smoking. Inside the stall at least two people were having sex. I took Paisley’s clammy face in my hands and tried to get her eyes open.

“Paisley, baby. We gotta go home, okay? Can you wake up?”

Eventually I hauled her to her feet, and she murmured into my neck as we dragged ourselves back through the main room. A few people turned to stare at me, but I ignored them. Everyone seemed to be putting on their coats and getting ready to go. Julie and Kate came over to see if Paisley was okay, and I asked if anyone had seen where she left her jacket. A few friends quickly searched, but it was nowhere to be found.

“We’re going to a hot tub party out at Six Mile,” Julie said. “If you guys want to come.”

“I’ve got to get her home to bed,” I said. “I don’t know what she took, but she’s completely out of it.”

“Well, take care of her.”

Eventually I decided to wrap my winter coat around Paisley, sitting her down so I could zip it up. I had a warm plaid on, and it was only three blocks back to our house. Somehow the whole building had emptied over the course of five minutes, everyone tromping off in the snow, and suddenly I found myself alone with Paisley in the dark. Streetlights illuminated the flurries in the distance as flakes melted down my face and collected in my beard. There was no way taxis were out in this weather, and my phone was dead anyways. I was going to have to hike. I pulled Paisley’s arms over my shoulders and leaned forward, pulling her into an uncomfortable piggy back position. 

After two blocks I stopped, sinking to my knees in the snow. Paisley slipped off my back and rolled to the sidewalk. I couldn’t tell if it was real tears streaming down my face, but either way I was heaving like a post-race marathon runner. I had to admit it, we were in real danger. People died like this.

“Everything is fake,” Paisley muttered. “You can’t even stop it.”

Paisley looked like a painting. Her Betty Boop eyelashes were collecting tiny drops of moisture, and her exposed skin was the colour of 2% milk. We’d been together for over four years, but her beauty could still routinely surprise me. She’d told me once, half-joking, that she liked me best when I was sleeping. The truth was that I felt the same way. Seeing her laying vulnerable and lost on the sidewalk I knew two things at once: I was hopelessly in love with her, and there was no way this was going to work out long term. I reached out and touched her face, pressed my lips against hers.

“Baby,” I said. “I don’t think we’re going to make it.”

The Kootenay Goon 

[bnrobertson1]

The Unexpected Tutelage of Cuphead

Lot of Life Knowledge in those cups. 

I am not a fan of horror movies. Sure, I almost always like them when I find myself watching them, but that usually takes a Herculean effort of an enthusiastic friend or a total lack of desire to drudge up an explanation why I don’t want to watch something called Happy Death Day 2U. The reason I don’t like them? Simple- life is terrifying enough as is, and seeing as I don’t like ruminating in fear with my precious free time, the idea of willingly being scared strikes me as preposterous.

While there are some “scary” games like the new Resident Evil*, for me the real parallel to scary movies in the video game world is difficult games. Most current video games are super user-friendly, oftentimes because the software developers want you to see the entirety of the thing they’ve spent hundreds of thousands of hours and hundreds of millions of dollars creating. In other words, they don’t want you to get pissed and bail without showing off what they spent a good chunk of their lives working on. And while I have played video games long enough to be pretty good at them (I’m not), I actually appreciate the lowering of the difficulty bar. Much like scary movies, I usually stray away from difficult games. Why? Again, simple- frustration ain’t welcome in my leisure time. I’m trying to enjoy myself, not get all red-faced and hurl hard plastic as a torrent of never-before-heard profanity gushes out of my mouth because I’m trying to defeat some recluse’s brainchild/ torture device.  

*A stone cold modern classic for the first hour alone

But, many hardcore* gamers find modern games’ user- friendliness/ forgiveness to be insulting to their cheesy-dusted core. Many of this ilk were raised in the original Nintendo-era, where difficulty was praised and games like Ninja Gaiden and Battletoads were designed to be essentially impossible to defeat, thus making it a bragging-worthy accomplishment if you could.   

*Bathe in the irony of me using a pornographic term to describe a gamer 

But, as video games started to expand their audience, many of these Capital G Gamers who loved the feeling of accomplishment that accompanied victory over insanely hard games were kind of forgotten, given “Hard” modes on otherwise easy games to satiate their thirst for difficulty, but that’s about it. After being avoided for what to them must have felt like ions, things finally began to change when games like the rebooted Ninja Gaiden and the fetishized Dark Soul franchises started catering to those who those studs who think replacing l3tt3rs with numb3rs is cool and that the best games are the ones that only those with superhuman focus and tenacity can defeat. 

Enter: Cuphead. A long-in-development indie game that looks like a gorgeously* animated WW 2-era cartoon a la Betty Boop or Woody Woodpecker yet is as difficult as finding a WiFi hotspot during the Great Depression. A simple shooter, the game does an excellent job of drawing you in with its eye-popping looks and catchy soundtrack before it intentionally overwhelms you. Because it’s you, a literal cup of coffee whose only offense is a finger-gun (seriously) and the ability to jump, fighting enemies so large their eyeballs fill the screen. To put it politely, you’re fucked.     

*And buddy, it is one seriously gorgeous game. One of the things that keeps you playing is the desire to see all of the peerless art and monster design    

Again, it’s you:

Versus (that’s you in the little red airplane- everything that’s glowing will kill you instantly, but that’s a good life lesson within itself):

Again, fucked. And that’s one of the earliest bosses. Just about everything on screen kills you, and there are no checkpoints from which you can start over. It often takes several consecutive minutes of flawless playing to even make a dent. But amongst all the gorgeous ass-kicking chaos, the game does something profound on the sly: it gives you hope.

I realize this sounds silly- hope, arguably existence’s sweetest gift, is given by a game where Asperger’s is almost a prerequisite to win? But it’s true. 

At 35, I’m at the age where I doubt that most things can or will change. Sure, shoes look different, the popularity of some philosophies surge then retract, the younger get old who in turn die, but much of life is being reminded that real human change simply does not happen. Socially awkward at 15? Probably won’t be much different at 45. Addictive personality? Better find a healthy outlet because the addictive part probably ain’t going anywhere. Planning on writing the Great American Novel? Drinking like the other millions who tried that is much more likely. Want to pick up a language in your 30s? Maybe an instrument? Good luck, those parts of your brain stopped working while you were cursing at the iPod speaker because it wasn’t playing Master of Puppets loud enough after that gin bucket incident. 

The more life’s inevitable stasis solidifies in the brain, the more harrowing it is- the more dangerous the feeling of defeat and despair become. Grand realizations and epiphanies start feeling like the stuff of fiction. Things perpetually prove pointless, because if you can’t change, what exactly is the point of existence? The one thing you know for sure that does change is our planet’s resources (they dwindle) as we march- or should I say sail- to our doom.  

“Hold it right there, Mr. Goth McDowner,” Cuphead whispers at you after about an hour of play. 

Because not being good at Cuphead��is exactly what you should be once you start playing it. Failure is certain. You die all the time. Like within seconds, over and over and over. You’ve got a gnat’s chance against a windshield. Fail. Fail. Fail.  

But while Cuphead first appears to be the masochist’s wet dream, you realize that why everything still overwhelms and doom as is certain as time itself, you’re- somehow- getting better. Slowly, sure. In most instances, you’re not even sure how. It’s almost imperceptible when it isn’t imperceptible. But, sure enough, keep at it, and you will improve.

And that is the direct result of Cuphead’s design. For while it is hard- easily one of the hardest games I actually enjoyed playing- it is never cheap. The game doesn’t want to defeat you with bullshit tactics like games from the 80s. Much like the loving, hardass parents everybody probably needs, It wants you to get better, and is more than willing to kick your ass to get you there. How does it do both? By subtly encouraging you through how it is made. Getting better boils down to two things: sharpening your hand-eye coordination and muscle memory*, and recognizing patterns that start simple but become supremely sophisticated, ranging from the speed of enemies to knowing the exact positions where the 12,000 objects flying at you will miss you by a millipixel. Nothing truly random ever occurs, so you won’t have to bear the true indignity of finding meaning in a game you’ve played for dozens of hours about coffee cups cheap deaths (or cheap wins) just when you’re about to see that sweet, sweet Victory! screen. The game also does something genius when it comes to letting you know you’re progressing: Every time you lose, a timeline appears where you see how close you were to victory. 

*Sorry, A.I., but that one requires practice, which means dying. A lot. 

Plus, it’s just funny to lose to characters from the 30′s who then insult you with Vaudevillian trash talk. None of them have voices, but I like to think they all sound like the Penguin from Adam West’s Batman. 

At first this seems boisterous if not barbaric in the worst possible way- a na na nee boo boo for the Switch generation. It quickly proves to be just the thing you need to see that you are in fact making progress. Yes, it makes some of the frustrations sting a lot more (I was this close). But it also gives you hope (I was this close). It’s the first time I’ve seen such a mechanic in a game, and I will be amazed if it is the last.

Eventually, after you’ve beaten the Robot that has been giving you a headache for the better part of 10 hours, a weird feeling may hit you like it hit me: not accomplishment- although that is most certainly present- but hope. Hope that if you are willing to be persistent, you will get better. Sure, that’s not an guarantee, but one thing is for sure: you can’t improve- in this game, in life- if you quit.  Persistence is the best quality a person can have, as it is pretty much the only one they can control. Why? Because hope- the beautiful thing that makes happy people happy-  is the fruit of persistence. And the truly ingenious thing about Cuphead is that its design encourages such epiphanies. Not bad for $20. 

Does constant failure suck? Speaking as an ad writer and more generally as a person I can tell you from experience that yes it indeed does. It’s humbling. It can be crippling. It’s demoralizing. But if you’re willing to fail with both feet, you will get better. At least sometimes.  And if you don’t, just remember to not chuck your Switch in the lake.