#is this how french people feel all the time

[cctinsleybaxter]

2024 in Books

I didn't get quite as much reading done as I would've liked this past year, but the 30 books I did read were all over the place in terms of quality and subject matter so I'd call that a success. One trend of note was that I kept accidentally reading the fabled upper-middle class white American man's Great American Novel, and, worse, liked them best of all.

The Enormous Room by E.E. Cummings

Cummings' semi-fictionalized autobiography begins with the abrupt end of his service as a volunteer medic in WWI, having been arrested and interned by the French with his coworker/best friend and marked as missing by the US embassy, and I can apparently be tricked into like poetry if it's disguised as all that. My very first note says '[Joseph] Heller was here,' and that only became more apparent as the book went on. I'm flabbergasted that with time it lost status as a classic, and that people haven't pointed out its massive influence on all sorts of 20th century-defining media when it's THE prison novel. To describe the inhabitants of The Enormous Room or even pick and choose individual lines would be to recite poetry, which for me is like turning gold back into straw (oh god.. it's happening... American werewolf transformation.mp4), but everyone really should check out Cummings' structuring and storytelling graces here. Others have talked about a gift for pivoting between a kind of stereotypical artsy romanticism and stereotypical academic traditionalism, but if I had to sum him up in a word? Obnoxious <3

American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis

Almost landed with the honorable mentions because it overstays its welcome and the descriptions of rape and torture progressed far beyond my stomach's limit, but like. Yeah. I don't think comparisons to Dostoevsky are overblown at all; hamfisted and predictable in places yet deeply clever and unexpected, NYC richboy ennui at the end of the 20th century has been captured so perfectly you can practically hear the cork going into the bottle. The moment I began to tire of the business card scene from the movie repeating ad nauseam and the My Immortal outfit montages and the hilariously-named restaurants where they know you I realized that it was a structural choice and started enjoying them all over again. My favorite chapter is one in which Patrick Bateman makes a last ditch effort to stop being a psycho by escaping to the Hamptons with his girlfriend ("like a spider, she accepted") only to spend the whole vacation vomiting in terracotta pots and standing around listlessly holding an ice pick. My favorite scene and line will have to remain a sickening, awful surprise.

The Devil's Candy: An Anatomy of a Hollywood Fiasco by Julie Salamon

Salamon signed on with Brian De Palma to document production of his Oscarbait adaptation of The Bonfire of the Vanities well before it became a notorious flop, and thanks to that this is one of- if not the- best books for explaining how a movie gets made. It's smart without talking down to its audience, and the fact that the film by all accounts sucked, continually and at every level, is icing on the cake for me. The approach Salamon took to forty-odd interviews and constant observational sessions, ultimately biographizing De Palma* as well as documenting the studio process is really good journalism, mostly very nuanced in how it describes people but also fun enough to select a few villains. There are so many details I'd like to share, but my favorite is the constant allusions to people taking vitamins, supplements, and random pills PAs gave them like candy because 1., it was 1990, 2., on a movie set you are not allowed to get sick, you will be killed, if the production is on a tight schedule and budget you will be killed more.

*As someone who has mixed-to-negative feelings on his movies I learned he's a very earnest artist who doesn't talk to his editors, so mystery solved.

Moby-Dick by Herman Melville

"For anyone who has experienced Moby-Dick, it is a privilege to introduce it to another reader- but a privilege that is abused if extended much beyond the invitation." -Andrew Delbanco

"The real joy in Moby-Dick is the pure act of reading itself" -Fone Bone in Bone (2001), Jeff Smith

"the x-files was groundbreaking because it was the first good tv show that was also bad" -Tumblr user thexfiles

Second favorite book ever.

Re-thinking History by Keith Jenkins

Jenkins wrote this short textbook in 1990, arguing that the way history is taught, especially in higher education, is centered around the idea that with enough work and primary sources an objective, fundamental past can be discovered and accepted across nonpartisan lines, while history taught from 'alternate' viewpoints is relegated to elective courses. Depressing that not much has changed in over thirty years, but I think the structure of Jenkins' argument is really helpful if you want to be able to talk about this stuff with people and push for change with institutions. His intent to make history an intersectional issue ("the ideas I discussed had long been circulating in practically all the other discourses around...”) means he lectures as such, and while I don't agree with everything he has to say we have way more common ground than is usual for me and philosophers. I'd also like to extend a special thanks to the tens of of grad students on here who started running their mouths about James Fitzjames shortly after I finished reading; if I wasn't sold on the argument that empathy isn't a progressive or even functional way of engaging with the past that did it.

From a Buick 8 by Stephen King

This is the best Stephen King book. It suffers from some of the same bullshit as all the worst Stephen King books, I think taken as a Vietnam war allegory and as a working class story (about cops?? famously working class) it may even be uniquely bad, I disliked the epilogue and think it should've ended with the last chapter, but I loved it. Not the second run at a haunted car story I thought it was going to be, but a science fiction story (within a story) wherein you are reading about nothing mattering at 800 miles an hour. It also made me realize that much as I tend to dislike King and his reign over my favorite genre he really is talented, and might be the best in the business at writing not just addiction but what can only be described as intrusive thoughts.

Okay, get in :-)

The Wine-Dark Sea by Robert Aickman

I have a deeply embarrassing phobia of eye floaters, something I'm only admitting here because it's too stupid (or perhaps.. endearing?) to use against me. The first time I 'saw' them at five years old was the first memory I have of feeling real fear as a child, and I always wondered if there was a horror author who could manage to capture that feeling- not in a Lovecraftian space creature way, not over-explaining, just imparting the dread of a little kid experiencing the banal everyday for the first time and it making them sick to their stomach.

Well, here you go. Aickman doesn't make the mistake of lunging for 'what's the scariest thing that could happen next?' He likes a yarn, indescribable only in that it would take every adjective, and incredibly well-written beginning to end. Even the stories that didn't do it for me gave me something to chew on, but my absolute favorites were The Trains and The Inner Room.

Honorable Mentions

An Unauthorized Fan Treatise by Lauren James

This compilation of blog entries from a fan of a fictional 2010s monster-of-the-week show was reworked into a published YA novel that I haven't read, but I think the original formatting of a website with hyperlinks and comment sections you have to manually scroll through is quintessential to its working in the first place. People are writing more and more fiction revolving around the internet I grew up on (some of them grew up on it with me!), but this is one of very few I've found to have both the correct voice and an engaging plot. My equivalent of taking a mass market on an airplane so a little surface-level, but the finer details had me covering my mouth to laugh in horror because yeah, that's exactly how it would've played out.

Right Ho, Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse

The entire plot stemming from an argument over a dinner jacket is hot.

Starman: The Truth Behind the Legend of Yuri Gagarin by Jamie Doran and Piers Bizony

"The Americans only counted down to add drama for their television." -Vostok guidance and trajectory expert Yuri Mazzhorin

A years-old rec from @barstoolblues that presents an excellent biography of Gagarin, probably as comprehensive as was possible in the 90s, but even more interesting insight into the space race. With years of interviews and research to sort through Doran and Bizony aren't always economical in their pacing, but the book is well-cited, well-written, and never boring. I also think it truly helps to have 'third party' (UK) authors who're critical of the USSR in very different ways than Americans and who are willing to be just as critical of the US. You'll have to turn to the book for wider context, but one of my favorite anecdotes is that they made Gagarin's professional rival Gherman Titov suit up ("dressed in the twentieth century's most distinctive suits of armour…") and go to the launch pad with him as his understudy. World's funniest, saddest psychological torture, though they did get to clonk helmets as a kiss goodbye which is very cute.

[fortunxa]

「 ✦ brewing feelings ✦ 」

Jinx x ballerina!reader / modern AU

─── ballerina masterlist ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ // third position

summary: Your calm was like the stillness of water before it begins to boil, while Jinx’s chaos swirled around her like a whirlwind of heat and flavor. Your love brewed slowly, like leaves unfurling in warm water—an unexpected infusion of something that neither of you could have prepared for. But love doesn’t ask for permission. It brews on its own time, in its own way, and somehow, it always finds its way to the heart—a warmth that lingers long after the last sip.

contents: modern AU, opposites attract, established relationship, smoker!Jinx

author's note: the flow is flowing, so this is what i do instead of studying for a law exam. also, french/french-speaking people please do not come for me for the mild stereotyping in this, i am one of you. all for the story’s purposes my pookies.

Jinx never expected to fall for you. It caught her off guard, sneaking in quietly and subtly, much like the way the morning sun spills its golden light through dust-coated windows, illuminating everything it touches—and perhaps this analogy felt a little too real.

It hadn't happened all at once. Love never did, not really. It grew between you like a vine threading through cracks, tender and persistent, finding places you hadn't known were empty.

The confession revealed itself through a series of subtle admissions at first: how you leaned into her during a walk home, how she started buying pink roses instead of spray paint, how the both of you let yourselves be seen. It was in the way her teasing remarks slowly mixed in with praises and in the way you'd sit beside her on rooftops, watching her paint murals on forgotten walls, your admiring gaze an encouragement in itself.

You even started bringing snacks—carefully wrapped sandwiches or thermoses of tea—because you knew Jinx would forget otherwise. The real kicker, though? Jinx didn't forget; she just hated tea. Something she would never admit to you, of course, because your warmth was better than any beverage’s, and she just couldn't bear to see your beaming smile fade in disappointment.

It was how her pulse quickened when you laughed—that soft, quiet laugh that she felt more than heard. How she found excuses to touch you—fingers brushing during a handoff, an arm slung around your shoulders, a hand catching you when you stumbled. It was in the way you began looking for Jinx in every room, how your heart stuttered when she called you "ballerina" in that raspy voice. It was in the way late-night conversations grew longer, your silences more comfortable.

She couldn't pinpoint the exact moment she realized it, but she remembered the way it settled in her chest—a quiet knowing. And it terrified Jinx because her world was—more often than not—anything but quiet.

For weeks, you lived in that in-between space, balancing the line between friendship and something more. By the time you finally let the word slip, it felt inevitable. The air was still thick with chemicals after a particularly messy graffiti session, and she had just stepped back to admire her latest creation. Her eyes sparkled with mischief and excitement, though as she turned to you for approval, you found something warmer in them, too.

Then, in a moment that felt both spontaneous and fated, she leaned in. The kiss was tentative, a gentle brush of lips that carried the weight of questions unasked. And you answered without hesitation, finally tasting the allure of her cherry chapstick mixed with the warmth of her breath and melting against her like you'd been waiting forever.

Months later, the ballet studio hummed with the soft notes of a piano, the same way it always did. The late afternoon sun filtered through the high windows, painting the room with a hazy gold. Jinx leaned against the wall with her arms crossed as she watched you dance, her gaze holding an intensity that would've made anyone else self-conscious. She wasn't supposed to be here—not during class, anyway—but she had a way of slipping past boundaries as easily as she slipped past locked doors.

And besides, how could she stay away when you looked like this? She just couldn't help herself this time.

You were in the center of the room, surrounded by other dancers. But to her, you might as well have been alone. Every movement was graceful, like you were born to make beauty out of thin air. There was something humbling about it. Jinx had always felt like she was meant for breaking things, for running too fast and hitting walls she didn't see coming. She wasn't a dancer—hell, she didn't even really understand ballet—but she didn't need to. All she needed to understand was you, and she did.

You hadn't noticed her yet, too focused on the lesson unfolding in front of you. She didn't mind. Her usual smirk morphed into something more tender. She'd seen you like this a hundred times, but it still hit her like the first. To anyone else, you might have looked untouchable—perfectly composed, a picture of poise. But Jinx knew better by now. She knew the way your nose scrunched when you laughed, how you stomped your pointe shoe in frustration with a dull clunk—almost like a bunny—when you slipped out of a pirouette, how your voice softened even further when you told her stories about your childhood, and how you leaned on her without hesitation when the world felt too heavy.

And then, as if drawn by instinct, your gaze flickered to the back of the room, and you finally caught sight of her. She saw the exact moment her presence registered; your concentration faltered, your foot slipping slightly on the polished floor, but a small smile broke across your face nonetheless. Without hesitation, you stepped away from the group—a faux pas—ignoring the raised eyebrows of the other dancers as you practically leaped across the floor toward her, your cheeks flushed from exertion.

"What are you doing here?" you whispered, the words slipping out between breaths. Your tone held no real reprimand—more like giddy surprise tinged with a warmth you couldn’t quite suppress.

"Came to see the best ballerina in the city,” Jinx said with a shrug that was far too casual to match the quiet intensity in her eyes. Her hand found its way to your waist with practiced ease, like it belonged there, her fingers curling with familiarity. "You're doing so good. You know that, right?"

"Really...?" you asked, your voice almost shy, betraying a hint of insecurity you usually kept buried under layers of performance. Yet, the tension coiled in your shoulders began to melt at the gentle pressure of her touch.

"Mhm," she hummed, a sound rich in affection and soft. Jinx had never been soft for anyone. Softness, she thought, wasn't hers to give. But she'd try—for you. Her thumb moved in slow circles against the fabric of your pink leotard, her touch so light and reverent it sent a shiver down your spine. She treated you like you were something rare, something fragile—not in a way that suggested you were weak, but in a way that made you feel precious, irreplaceable. Her ballerina. “Dressed so pretty, too."

Her gaze roamed over your frame, lingering on the soft pastel hue of your leotard wrapping around you like second skin and the satin of your pointe shoes. A faint heat bloomed in your chest at her words but before you could reply, a sharp voice cut through the moment, calling out your name.

"Have you forgotten where you are? Return to your position at once!"

Your head snapped to your ballet mistress, her piercing gaze holding all the refined venom only a Frenchwoman like her could muster. Her scolding struck you like a slap, each word perfectly aimed to remind you of your place. "I—I'm sorry, Madame," you stammered, your voice small but tinged with the careful respect she demanded.

"This is not the time for socializing. If you're not focused on your work, you're wasting everyone's time." The woman's harsh gaze then shifted to the blue-haired girl, a frozen mask of disapproval. "And you, mademoiselle, have no business being here. This is a closed lesson. A place for discipline, not distraction."

Jinx’s lips twitched as she watched the woman, clearly amused by the disdain in her voice. She tilted her head, her eyes glimmering with mischief. "Distraction, huh? I prefer to think of myself as a muse." She mimicked the mistress’ harsh accent with exaggerated flair, letting the French syllables roll off her tongue, clearly finding the theatrics in her delivery hilarious. “Muse,” she quietly repeated to herself, drawing it out like a well-rehearsed joke, barely able to stifle a snort.

"Jinx," you whispered, your tone pleading, and that seemed to do the trick.

"Alright, alright." She raised her hands in mock surrender, letting out a dramatic sigh. "I'm leaving."

The other dancers watched in silence, their expressions a mix of curiosity and poorly hidden judgement. Jinx moved toward the door, but as her hand rested on the handle, she hesitated, looking back over her shoulder. You were already returning to your position, your body mechanically slipping into form, but there was hesitation in your steps—an uncertainty in the way you shifted your weight, the slight misalignment of your feet that betrayed your fractured focus.

A pang of guilt twisted in her chest. She hadn't meant to cause trouble—not for you, at least. Watching you dance felt like standing too close to something fragile, something you didn't dare touch for fear of ruining it, but she couldn't regret coming. Still, the weight of her presence had been too much—again—so she shut the door behind her, the soft click echoing in the empty hallway.

It was another half hour until class had finished, the natural gold shining in from the outside replaced once again by the fluorescent light of the studio, buzzing faintly as the dancers began to scatter. You lingered, your chest still rising and falling from the last routine.

"Looks like someone had her mind elsewhere today," one of the girls teased, her voice light but pointed as she adjusted her warm-up sweater.

"Yeah," another chimed in, tying her shoelaces. "Couldn't focus on your turns, huh?"

You flushed, your hands fussing with the ribbons of your pointe shoes. "I was... fine," you protested quietly, though even you could hear the thread of uncertainty in your voice.

"Sure, sure," she continued with a sly smile. "Must be nice to have a fan club. It's kinda cute. Our little daydreamer."

Laughter rippled through the group, playful but sharp, like the sting of cold water. They hadn't meant any harm, not really. The teasing had been light, coated with the kind of sugar that only barely masked the sting beneath it. Still, the words stuck to your skin like burrs.

You hadn't answered them, hadn't tried to defend yourself despite what Jinx had taught you. What could you say? That they were wrong? They weren't. Your focus had faltered when you caught sight of the blue-haired girl—all careless confidence and sharp-edged charm, even from a distance. And how foolish were you to break basic ballet class etiquette, running toward her the way you had?

But that wasn't the point.

The point was how your devotion to your craft suddenly felt fragile in their hands, like something they could joke about and toss aside, how they took your love and tried to turn it into something laughable. And now, sitting alone with only the quiet buzz of the lamp for company, you felt offended in a way you couldn't quite explain.

Finally, you stood, zipping up your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. How fucking dare they?

Jinx was leaning back against the brick wall outside the studio, the rough texture pressing into her jacket as she lit another cigarette. She didn't smoke often—only when she was angry, stressed, or waiting for someone. Her thoughts wandered as they always did when she was still for too long.

This wasn't her kind of place—too clean, too ordered. The neat row of bicycles locked up along the fence, the delicate lettering on the studio sign, the muffled strains of classical music seeping through the doors—it all felt a world away from the chaos that usually surrounded her. And yet, she stayed.

She shifted her weight, one hand stuffed in her pocket while the other toyed with the cigarette. She didn't need to be here. She could've been halfway across the city by now, spray painting a rooftop or tuning up one of her gadgets in her cramped apartment. But instead, she waited, her breath fogging in the cold like the steam rising from a hot cup of tea as the minutes dragged on.

It was you. It was always you.

The thought made her smirk, a wry, self-deprecating twist of her lips. She hated routines, and she definitely hadn't meant to fall into this one. But here she was, loitering outside a ballet studio like some stray cat who couldn't figure out where else to go.

The heavy door suddenly creaked open, jolting Jinx from her thoughts. A group of dancers spilled out, laughing and chattering, their voices breaking the stillness of the street. She stepped back into the shadow of the wall, letting the small crowd pass without a word, but the slight scowl on her face spoke volumes by itself.

And then you appeared, your steps dragging just enough to betray your mood, and her features softened.

"There she is," she drawled, almost to herself, her voice warm and smooth. She straightened as she took a final drag, making sure to exhale the smoke away from you and crushing the cigarette under her boot with one swift motion. She reached for her gum, popping a piece into her mouth. She knew you hated it, the bitter sting of tobacco clinging to her tongue, so she made the small effort just for you.

You attempted a smile, but it faltered, not quite reaching your eyes, though the tension in your body eased in her presence, and you greeted her with a soft peck. "You didn't have to wait for me.” Yet you were glad she did. She knew that, too.

"Where else would I be?" Jinx replied, her tone steady, but her gaze lingered on your face with a flicker of suspicion. She noted the dullness in your eyes, the subtle shift that went deeper than just the exhaustion from class. Her brows furrowed ever so slightly, a question forming in her mind as her tongue traced the inside of her cheek. "Those girls being dicks to you again?"

Your smile slowly dropped, slipping away like a mask too heavy to hold. You opened your mouth, instinctively preparing to deny it—not because it wasn’t true, but because you didn’t want to worry her, to trigger the fierce protectiveness you knew so well. Yet the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you exhaled shakily, your shoulders sagging under the weight of the question. When you finally glanced up at her, your eyes—vulnerable and wounded, like those of a kicked puppy—met hers. The sight hit her square in the chest, tightening something deep inside her.

“I think they were just teasing,” you murmured, your voice barely more than a whisper, as if speaking too loudly would make the hurt more real. You hugged your jacket tighter around yourself, a futile shield against the mockery they left behind. “But… it got to me, I guess. Made me feel like I wasn’t good enough.”

Jinx watched you carefully, her gaze softening as you shrank further into yourself. She hated seeing you like this, folding in under the weight of someone else’s cruelty.

“You know,” she began, her voice steady but edged with quiet fire, “they’re just trying to drag you down so they don’t have to feel so small. That’s all it is. It’s pathetic if you ask me.”

“I know,” you admitted softly, the words almost lost in the space between you. You didn’t sound convinced, but it was clear you didn’t have the energy to argue.

She sighed, taking a step closer. Her hand reached for your wrist, fingers surprisingly warm and firm as they curled gently around it. “C’mere,” she said, her voice low and coaxing, as if speaking to a wounded animal. She pulled you toward her, her touch more comforting than commanding.

And you listened, the weight in your chest loosening slightly more at the simple, familiar gesture. She always knew how to make you feel safe.

“You’re sensitive,” Jinx pointed out softly, her thumb brushing lightly against your wrist, grounding you in the moment. “And that’s not a bad thing, y’know? One of the things I love most about you, actually. You’re real.” Her words carried a calm, steady conviction that made your heart ache in a different way—this time, with gratitude.

She let a beat of silence pass before adding, “And you’re still miles ahead of them. Dont let their shit get to you.”

You sighed, the last of your insecurities slipping away with her words. You stepped closer, letting yourself be pulled into her orbit once more as you leaned your forehead against her shoulder. The movement stilled something restless in her, and her hand instinctively slid to your back, offering the soothing caress of her palm.

“You’re so sweet to me,” you murmured, the words slipping out unbidden, barely louder than a breath.

Jinx cocked her head at you, a spark of mischief lighting up her eyes. She didn’t reply—not right away. Instead, with an almost exaggerated nonchalance, she reached out and grabbed the strap of your bag. Before you could react, she pulled it off your shoulder in one smooth motion and slung it over her own like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Wait, no, you don’t have to—” you protested, your hand darting forward to take it back.

She raised one eyebrow in a way that always stopped you in your tracks. “Not up for debate, princess,” she stated, her voice carrying that cocky, singsong lilt that was so distinctly hers. “You should know that by now.”

This earned her a faint scowl, but the way she adjusted the bag on her shoulder, standing a little taller like she was showing off, made it impossible to stay annoyed. Her grin widened, smug and sharp, as if daring you to argue further.

“Seriously, I can carry it,” you tried again, though your voice lacked conviction because, deep down, you liked it. There was something comforting in the way she carried your bag so effortlessly, like it wasn’t just your belongings but the weight of the day she’d decided to shoulder without being asked. And the way she looked at you, as if she saw straight through the weak protest to the flicker of gratitude you couldn’t quite put into words, made your chest tighten.

“Yeah, sure you can,” she shot back, already turning and walking ahead, easily taking you with her by lacing your fingers together, “but you’re not gonna. So suck it up, buttercup.”

The two of you fell into step, following the familiar route back to your apartment. The evening air was crisp, carrying the faint tang of the city—a mix of concrete, rust, and the distant promise of rain. As you walked, you leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek, a silent thank you that lingered in the air between you. Jinx didn’t say anything, but the slight flush that crept up her neck didn’t escape your notice.

Normally, she would have been a chatterbox by now, her words tumbling out in an endless stream of stories, jokes, and wild tangents that only she could follow, and you chased after. But tonight, she surprised you. She stayed quiet, not in the uncomfortable way that usually signaled her restlessness, but in a way that felt… calm. Like she didn’t feel the need to fill the space with noise, content to let the quiet speak for itself. It was rare, and you found yourself savoring the unspoken connection between you that settled into the rhythm of your steps.

The streets were quieter now, save for the occasional rattle of a passing train in the distance. Streetlights cast a hazy glow, their golden halos reflected on the slick pavement from an earlier drizzle. You reached an intersection where the streetlight blinked red, and you paused, neither of you letting go. She rocked on her heels, her free hand shoved casually into the pocket of her jacket. Her gaze flickered to the ground, then back to you, strands of her blue hair falling messily into her face. You turned slightly, stealing a glance at her. The faint neon from a nearby sign danced in her eyes, making her grin look almost electric. It was lopsided, unpolished, but real in a way that made your chest tighten in adoration.

Jinx slowed as you approached the familiar building, her steps faltering just enough to take in the worn brass numbers on it. Her expression was unreadable for a moment, her eyes tracing the scuffed edges of the metal as if seeing it for the first time—or maybe for the thousandth, in a different light. Without a word, she fished out your keys, holding them out with a small, almost shy motion.

You accepted them, your fingers brushing hers briefly before you stepped forward and unlocked the door. The sound of the lock clicking open echoed faintly, and you looked back at her, your expression quiet and expectant. The question wasn’t spoken—it didn’t need to be—but she answered it anyway, stepping through the door with you as you tugged on her hand lightly.

Her grip tightened slightly as you led her up the familiar stairs, the soft creak of the old wooden steps the only sound between you. The weight of the day slipped away, left in the cracks of the peeling paint and the worn floorboards below.

The apartment was small but warm, bathed in soft pink and orange hues from the neon sign made by yours truly. The living room was cluttered but comforting—colorful pillows strewn haphazardly on the worn-out sofa, a coffee table stacked with books and magazines, empty mugs, and bits of Jinx’s tinkering projects that she’d forgotten to take home. And in the middle of it all? A vase holding a fresh bouquet of pink roses, the message card still attached.

Both of you kicked off your boots by the door, the dull thud of leather against wood breaking the stillness. She dropped your bag beside the couch before straightening and glancing around the room, taking in every detail like she always did, as if trying to see it through your eyes. You, meanwhile, drifted toward the tiny kitchen, the motion so routine it didn’t require a second thought.

“Still haven’t cleaned up, huh?” she teased lightly, her voice carrying a warmth that made you smile.

“Like you’re one to talk,” you shot back, poking your head out just enough to send her a playfully pointed look.

Her grin widened as she finally shrugged off her jacket, tossing it over the back of the couch before following behind you, the heels of her shark socks scuffing lightly against the floor.

Your hand reached for the kettle almost automatically. The chipped red enamel on its side glinted faintly in the light as you filled it, the soft clink of it settling on the stove feeling like part of a quiet ritual.

“Tea?” you asked, already pulling open the cabinet to retrieve two cups, their mismatched patterns a part of your routine as much as anything else.

From behind you, Jinx leaned lazily against the doorframe with an almost amused glint in her eyes. A faint, knowing smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, carrying a secret only she knew the truth behind.

"Sure."

[your-resident-boat-person]

oh! whats the most expensive/gaudy/over-the-top ocean liner you know of? :3

Hooooooooooo boy. My long time followers should know what time it is. Unpopular opinion time!

Among this small community of ocean liner needs that I call home, I feel as though I stand alone with this opinion, but...

I REALLY don't like the Normandie. On the outside, she looks fat and weird, it looks like a huge chunk of her stem is missing, the artifical sheer is unflattering, and the funnels look too chunky. I just don't get the appeal. But then there's her interiors.

Now, don't get me wrong, I can kinda understand the appeal here. It would be foolish of me to try and claim that this is not beautiful.

BUT. Jesus christ it looks like a god damn art museum. Ocean liners are meant to be COMFORTABLE. They're meant to feel like a HOTEL. You're spending at least 4 days aboard, so the accommodations and decor are EXTREMELY important to the passenger experience. Despite how beautiful these interiors are, they just don't fill that role. Everything is covered in marble and stone and metal. Rooms are tall and thin, which makes them extremely imposing (and also a fire Hazzard, cough cough). Like, if I was aboard I'd be too afraid to get close to the walls. It's like, is it beautiful? Yes? I mean, there's no accounting for taste, but you do you I guess. Do I wanna fucken SLEEP THERE for 4 days? Fuck no. It feels more like a cathedral than a hotel. Normandie leaned VERY hard into the new (at the time) art deco movement. Perhaps too hard. And most, if not all of my sentiments were echoed by passengers at the time. Extravagance so overindulgent feels suffocating. "It's just too much". Oh, also, in an era where liners were ditching their 3 class segregation in favor of 2 classes that were much closer to each other in terms accomodations, Normandie had fucking four. FOUR. AND A MANDATORY DRESS CODE TOO. THIS IS A SHIP NOT A BUSINESS MEETING. Anyway, if you're richer than those disgusting middle class people, but not as rich as the richest people on earth, the Normandie is for you I guess. For comparison, the Queen Mary, which entered service just a year after Normandie, had a much more restrained take on art deco. Still gorgeous, but not overindulgent. Her interiors put masterful artistry on display without sacrificing that warm, welcoming, and inviting atmosphere that an ocean liner should have. I'd include pictures, but I'm already at the 10 picture limit. I might reblog this post with some more pictures. Anyway, Normandie burned down in 1942 because the French line can't help themselves and exclusively make ocean liners that double as tinder boxes.

So yeah, the Normandie is easily the most flagrant display of gaudy overindulgent wealth I've ever seen. Not a fan honestly. Thank you so much for the ask!

[canisalbus]

you say machete has to be closeted then why's he always wearing them little heels

Maybe he thinks he's a tiny bit nicer looking in them.

[bogkeep]

realized something earlier today. you know that trope where bilingual characters in fiction will sprinkle their native language into english sentences? and how i personally, while i can't speak for every bilingual person on the planet, don't really see that happening in reality pretty much ever, at least not with people who are passingly fluent in english? anyway i realized i DO mix languages, just the other way. i will happily throw english words and phrases into my daily speech when chatting with my peers in norwegian or czech like it's no biggie. because we all know english here, so it makes sense to swap in words if i'm falling short! but why would i say words other people don't understand in conversation...!

[idontmindifuforgetme]

I admire girls who can pull off long nails bc it literally can never be me. I just don’t get how it works functionally

[coquelicoq]

good morning can i show you guys the christmas card my little sister wrote me in french (she does not know any french)

joyeux Noël, j'espère que vous comprenez ce que je dis compte tenu de la fiabilité de Google Translate. Jespère qu'à l'avenir nous voir plus de deux fois par an. Je ne sais pas vraiment quoi dire d'autre, alors joyeux Noël et j'espère que papa t'a offert. Profitez également des autres choses que je mets sur la carte au lieu de vous ècrire un essai complet.

and then she wrote me a little crossword and a "connect the language to its way of saying 'merry christmas'" game 😭

[goldenstarprincesses]

ok ok I like and prefer older brother America

But i love and am obsessed with older sister America

[la-galaxie-langblr]

maybe i am too disabled for this

[cerbreus]

baking never feels more like science to me than when i'm trying to cobble together an intricate multi step recipe together from several different recipes and tutorials online because the recipe I'm imagining doesn't exist....

[longagoitwastuesday]

Going through the Utahim.e tag had me checking several times if at some point I had clicked on the G.ojo/Utahim.e one instead

[website-com]

devastating: the feminist essay didnt actually watch the movie

[justinefrischmanngf]

i need to get over myself and learn the languages i want to learn if i want to learn them like i just need to do it if i want to learn them then i should go out and learn them and like . fuck whatever else any of it means . yes it IS embarrassing to learn a language like the ones i want to learn as an adult but who CARES and yes i KNOW my grandparents will never want to speak to me in those languages but who CARES if it's important to me it can be important to me anyway

[icharchivist]

All of France have been protesting the most recent laws Macron has been pushing and today i'm seeing a fucking tweet from "Youth with Macron" about how Macron now set up a "Free condoms in pharmacy for people under 25" campaign, which has for slogan, and i kid you not, "Make love, not protest :)" i'm going to yell i'm going to yell i'M GOING TO YELL MACRON YOUR PEOPLE WANT TO KILL YOU MACRON THEY'RE SINGING ABOUT BEHEADING YOU WHAT ARE YOU DOING.

[tenrose]

In less than a week I'll be in Amsterdam 🤗

[the-king-of-lemons]

,