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kyoupann · 4 years ago

Note

Please do more of the writing head canons. It’s really interesting to see other people’s ideas on the topic, so if you can be bothered, I would highly appreciate more, thanks bye <3

Y’all don’t know how happy I am to talk about these headcanons, they are my babies and I love them so much :’) thanks for asking g <3

Handwriting Headcanons

Same dynamic as before, try to guess whose handwriting it is before reading and tell me how many you got right! <3

You can find the first post here (no need to check it tho)

Quick disclaimer: halfway through making my initial notes, I remembered I had one (1) single lesson of graphology in my applied linguistics class, but that was a year ago and some information might be off. I just thought it was neat to include.

Another quick disclaimer: I don’t know much about Hylian, but I like to think it has a similar stroke system to Japanese, so the pressure and accuracy of your strokes play a major role in your handwriting (among other things, ofc.) so there are some parts where I focus more on that

(First Row, from left to right)

Sky

Our first boy is mother hen! Believe it or not, he has the prettiest handwriting out of all of them! Sky: probably has nice, even elegant handwriting because Sun forced him to practice when they were little. In the end, that paid off because his handwriting is the prettiest one. There’s no pressure, but he is confident in what he writes that his lines aren’t thin. Mistakes? what is that? this boy has impeccable grammar and spelling. No mechanic errors to be found in his letters! I’d like to think that many of Hyrule’s classic/staple poems were originally written by the firt king aka sky child. Like, imagine, after a retiring from being a Person of Power (as the first ruler), Sky finds comfort in the arts: revisits his old woodcarvings and starts writing poetry about the world he still doesn’t fully understand. wowie. tldr: sky writes poetry and you can pry it from my cold dead hands.

This is what one of his letters would look like:

Next one is the one and only, our Hero of Time

2. Time

I’ll die on the “Time didn’t know how to read and write” hill. His handwriting is simple, not pretty but not messy. It has some grammar and spelling mistakes here and there. Can become unreadable if writing in a hurry, he sorts of forgets spaces between words are a thing/letters have different sizes and lowercase letters end up the same size as capital letters. I’m not saying he sometimes forgets to write articles: he just doesn’t want to. Honestly, he just has this dad-neat handwriting. He is a gentle dad and writes like a dad, if he puts too much pressure onto the paper, his handwriting become too sharp/angle-ish and ends up looking ugly. And as much as he would like to not care about it, in the end he does (:

Malon taught him how to write and it was quite the experience. At first he didn’t want to because he was ‘too old’ to learn and it was torture at first, but now look at him devouring his cowboy novels.

A chunk of his handwriting:

*sniff* such a dad quote.

3. my mansss, your 4x1 deal at Target: Four

Look, my boy is patient! He could do some nice and fancy lettering if he wanted to. He was taught that handwriting and spelling said a whole lot about him as a person, you know, like a first impression kinda thing; so he always proof reads more than twice before sending a letter. Super rare grammar mistakes.

The faster he writes, the more slant his writing becomes. Under stress/ when not sure how to write things down, run-on sentences are everywhere and his handwriting is inconsistent in general (I don’t headcanon each part of him having completely different handwriting because handwriting becomes muscle memory over time. It’s just slightly different variations of the same, like idk Vio’s handwriting is neater than Green’s and Red writes hearts instead of any dot/circle and no, I do not take constructive criticism on that, jk i do.) Adding on to each of the colours’ handwriting, I’d think Red and Green write with words slanted to the right( inclined), Vio is a mix of the opposite, so reclined and straight, and my mans blue a true neutral writes straight (kinda like Time’s).

The logic behind this is that inclined writing supposedly means honesty and need for giving (and getting) affection; reclined means, as you can probably imagine, defensiveness and repression of true feelings, but also shows great concentration; straight handwriting means self-control, observation and reflection as well as distrust and indifference. But as complete being (tm), Four just writes as in the image example which is not too straight and not too inclined, and I believe that’s a good middle for him

HOWEVER, if I’m feeling in the mood for crack, I totally accept this boy to have the ugliest, chicken scratches-looking handwriting! :’D It’s just funny to think that someone like him, who has to be precise and careful in his work, can't write neatly to save his life.

One of his letters would look like this:

Also I just LOVE how his hero titles look in this font ksksks

and that’s

(Middle row, from left to right)

4.- Mister Bunny Boy - Legend

His uncle taught him how to write. I’d call his handwriting pretty and neat at a first glance, but he presses too hard on the paper, most of the time staining the back or the following page. Sometimes will retrace some words if he doesn’t like how it looks (which only makes it messier). According to my notes, a thick or strong handwriting represents determination/commitment.

As I also headcanon him to know many languages, mechanical errors are more present than grammar ones; that is, weird capitalisation of words. Punctuation is somewhere in between; uses too many commas when he should just cut the sentence. he mixes punctuation from two languages or more in writing when too distracted (or too focused, because, well, pressure.); when he writes for himself, he has almost no problem following said language’s punctuation rules. Also, this is just polyglot culture, and I’m projecting a bit, but when he forgets a word in the language he’s writing, he just replaces it with its equivalent in another language because we don’t care about fluency, but rather functionality. in this household (more on that in my language hc, ksksks).

An example of his writing:

so powerful

4.- Mr. Wolfman, howl me a song - Twilight

I don’t have much for him because 1) I don’t think he writes a lot and 2) he is a hands-on/visual learner, I’ll die by that. He only learnt how to write because Ulli insisted it was important and he was not about to disrespect his momma; he IS That Guy, but doesn’t really write enough to have neat handwriting.

Many people seem to overlook the fact that his house is filled with books and write him as completely illiterate (which if not explored properly, ends up feeling a bit disrespectful and full of prejudice, but go off I guess; and that’s on my core Headcanons for Twi); however, he sticks to simple sentences. Knowing how to read and understanding a text is different from knowing how to write them. Like, when we would see a semicolon and understand its position in the text, but didn’t understand the nature of it. Is this clear? idk i’m sorry. So yeah, boy reads a lot, writes very little.

As for his Actual Handwriting, as opposed to Legend, his handwriting is thiccc but not because he presses into the paper; he is just that messy, he has no sense of ink-flow-control, he does what he can with what he has. To the untrained eye, his handwriting illegible letters like v, n, u are very similar; when he makes notes for himself he does it in the form of doodles or small ‘icons’. But! He reads a lot, so he rarely makes spelling mistakes (: he is your go-to guy when you don’t know how to write a word.

An example of his writing:

He keeps a journal, sue me.

3. My first born- Warrior

Okay, first off... I accept this is completely biased. I saw the idea and said “That’s True”. If you haven’t, please read Effective Communication; or The Lack of Thereof by htruona, a fic where the boys reflect on the language barriers between them. It’s incredibly funny and probably what made me start making these silly notes. So, if you’ve read that fic, you know where I’m going.

My man, Warrior, can’t fucking write. I mean, he physically can, but it’s very bad. Here’s the reason for it, tho, and it’s not his fault: Technically, he knew how to write alright but he joined the military and whatever note he had to write had to be concise or in the worst case coded. He mixes capital and lowercase letters. If we consider that he joined the military at around 15, his handwriting and grammar had yet to continue developing. Just think about how after summer break, your handwriting was always slightly worse than before because you didn’t write for an entire month. Now think what 2 years can do to that. Hmm, not cool, dude. He makes quick notes, when writing he’s all gotta go fast. he is the lighting mcqueen of writing; good for emergency messages, not ideal for love letters. His punctuation also suffered a lot, he only know full stops and commas and hardly uses them. A sentence for him is either one word or fifty without a single comma, no inbetween.

His hero title and an example of his writing.

(Bottom row, or what I like to call “fuck cursive” row)

7.- Magic man - Hyrule

I’m basic and I do agree with the popular headcanon of he not knowing how to write because well, y’all know his Hyrule. He only knows how to write his name because that’s important, same with numbers. I don’t see why would he write/read except checking the roadsigns. (he can even use this as an excuse for getting lost frequently; he thought it said something different.) But I do think that because his habitual reading consists of roadsigns, his ‘punctuation’ is weird af and places full stops/points/periods at the same level of his words and his commas/question/exclamation marks below them. Yk, creative license. Sadly, I don’t have much about my magic hands man so here’s what his writing would look like if he actually wrote a paragraph:

Man, I love Hyrule.

8.- Man, I don’t understand this boy - Wild

Cursive? ain’t nobody have the time for that. He woke up and had to save the world in his underwear while not knowing how to read nor write. He learnt during his journey and was taught by multiple people from different regions, that explains his inconsistent spelling of things and names for them. So Wild knows language variations for many items and uses them interchangeably (even if they aren’t exactly the same). Another headcanon related to writing/language skills that I’ve been thinking about is that if the shrine was able to cause amnesia, I’m sure there were other areas in the brain affected which leads us to language disorders such as agraphia and aphasia. But that’s a story for another day ksksksk

An example of his writing (after relearning)

9.- The best of sons - Wind

I don’t have much for him and that makes me sad. Look, he’s a kid, doing kid things like stabbing dudes on the head. This boy was taught cursive by his grandma, but could never do it and no one needs it anyway. His handwriting is good enough for his pirate life, Tetra is the one to handle Official stuff, he just gotta sign. Spelling and grammar mistakes abound. He is still relatively young and can correct his handwriting if he desires. But same as Wild, with how many times he’s been thrown out and hit his head, I’m starting to consider some language disorder for him as well.

An example of his writing:

aaand that’s it.

Thanks, y’all for showing interest in this silly thing uwu it was fun to finally talk about this. If you ever want to discuss ideas/headcanons(especially if they are related to language and culture), I’m your person (: I’m always happy to hear new headcanons. Feel free to add anything to this post either in a reply or in a reblog, I’d love to hear from y’all <3<3

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goldvnby · 4 years ago

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biography

i. — ‹ ( if there were two guarantees in edward’s life from the very start they were that 1. finding success and upholding his parents’ precious reputation was his only option, and 2. he would not receive the privilege of finding happiness for himself. his family was far from a perfect match for the young boy. his pulse always seemed to race a little faster, his room would get a little messier, and his mind would wander a little farther. still, however, they were nothing if not persistent and by the end of his childhood edward had inherited their overbearing sense of pride. they hardly deserved to be as proud as they were. an affluent and well known family for their little corner of vermont but hardly much to write home about when contrasted against the mega rich only a state away. still, they had enough money to wear their wealth on their sleeves, occupying the largest ( and gaudiest ) home in town and speeding around in luxury cars. his father’s income was enough to support their lifestyle, which allowed his mother to focus on developing a prominent reputation within the community. ).

ii. — ‹ ( when he tells people off his childhood he paints it in a warm light, the good money american dream of scorching summer days by the lake and cozy vermont winters in the ski chalets. in reality, if his childhood was anything it was cold. neither of his parents left much time for their only son, and they spared even less time for each other. whenever possible his mother would head to a warmer climate to vacation and his father would jet off on whatever business trips he could. the times that they were together the pair would alternate between icy silence and fiery arguments. the final blow to their marriage came in edward’s sixteenth year while he was away at boarding school, his mother caught his father with another woman and all hell broke loose. it was a messy divorce that left edward in the crossfire. all in all his parents left him with a pessimistic idea of love and marriage, if he even believed in it at all. one of the major roots of his commitment issues is his fear that he is his father’s son. as it turns out his father had never been a faithful man and edward has simply accepted as fact that the streak of infidelity would continue in him. it seemed easier to accept it at that than to try at love and fail. failure, after all, goes against everything that edward stands for. ).

iii. — ‹ ( when he reached high school, edward was swiftly sent away from his parents home to whatever prestigious boarding schools they could stick him in for the colder months. the schools quickly became harder and harder to find, however, as this was when edward developed his tendency towards debauchery. being surrounded by nothing but other privileged youth he quickly discovered that the perfect mixture of confidence, brashness, and general disregard for the rules, could instantly earn him all the love and attention he lacked in his childhood. he mastered the art of charming the pants off of just about everyone. unfortunately, many schools didn’t much care for his antics and by his senior year, he had thoroughly exhausted almost all the institutions on the eastern seaboard. despite his rambunctious nature and tendency to be expelled, he was still quite successful in his academic pursuits. his charisma, well learned manners, and intelligence earned him the favour of many professors, and he graduated with high grades and a long list of references. outside of academics he always earned himself a place on the lacrosse and ski teams to make friends, as well as the debate team to make enemies. high school was also when he began to establish a long line of meaningless flings and broken hearts. he craved the attention and had more than enough confidence and charm to get it, but he would bolt before things could become serious. he always wanted more. his pride made it impossible to see anyone as worthy of him, his stubbornness made it so he could never see eye to eye with anyone, and his cynicism made him doubt that love was even possible at all. above all, loneliness had always been the dominant factor in his life, and to abandon that was terrifying. ).

iv. — ‹ ( after a gap year spent flitting around europe without purpose ( during which he came dangerously close to destroying himself as well as his liver ), edward found himself studying commerce at columbia. he instantly took to the city. it felt like for the first time in his life everything around him was alive with opportunity. to him it was a place to prove himself, and more than anything he wanted to be part of the upper crust of new york society. when he sets his mind to something edward is nothing if not determined. his act was cleaned up overnight. while he didn’t abandon his hedonistic ways, he relegated them to part of his life where they couldn’t interfere with his upward trajectory. late nights spent making and losing memories in the city were met with hot coffee and hard work in the mornings. with his revelry all compacted into short bursts it became even more volatile. his penchant for self destruction became a general disregard for his own life, and there wasn’t a stunt edward wouldn’t pull for the admiration of others. yet contrasting this completely his daytime in university was spent buttering up professors, joining the best societies, and working the most prestigious internships. by the end of the four years his life was falling into place, and everything was ready for success. ).

v. — ‹ ( things can never really work out for edward though, it’s practically a fact to him by now. just six months before his graduation his father became the centre of a hefty fraud case. not only did he have to deal with his family money being wiped out and his father receiving a jail sentence, the fallout of the scandal seeped into all elements of his life. his career path was hugely derailed. any family connections he had were wiped clean, and the ones he had built up on his own quickly started to disappear as word got out of what had happened. potential employers only had to do a quick google search of his name to discover the familial connection. it took several years for him to build up his credibility and get his life back on track. although he’s now finding success, the murky waters he started out in are not something he’ll easily forget. as for his father, while it isn’t exactly something he can keep a secret, those who know edward know to never bring the man up around him. it’s rare that he’ll confide in anyone about it, even raphael knows only what he can learn from others. he visits the penitentiary once a year on his father’s birthday, and always makes up a lie for why he’s going out of town. ).

vi. — ‹ ( most of the time edward feels like he’s just waiting for the other shoe to drop. things are going smoothly career wise, he’s shockingly happy being monogamous with raphael, and he feels secure in his friend group. it all seems too good to be true, or too good to be true for edward at least. there’s a darkness in edward, and so far as he can tell it always manages to soak up every bit of good in his life. he worries that by letting people close to him they’re just going to get caught in the crossfire. he’s at a precipice in his life and it can go one of two ways. he can either shape up and settle down, creating the life he’s always needed and never thought he can have, or he can continue down the path of self destruction, walking right into the life he always feared but didn’t know how to escape. ).

vii. — ‹ ( he’s always been extremely loyal with those he considers his closest friends and that certainly isn’t changing anytime soon, especially with nico. while from an outside perspective edward may seem like a pushy and inconsiderate friend, the reality is far different. while he lacks commitment romantically with friends when he really, truly believes that someone cares about him he returns that commitment tenfold. still, he finds it hard to believe that someone would stick around with him for so long. as for lucy, he values her and fears her in equal measure. he’s certain that she has the ability to turn everyone against him in one fell swoop if she wanted to, and she wouldn’t exactly be without her reasons. she sees right through him, in fact, he’s pretty sure she knows him better than he knows himself, which is quite terrifying for someone who doesn’t like for their true self to be known at all. at the same time, it makes her an easy person to turn to when things get rough. the sting of sophia’s rejection still burns him more than he liked to admit. he likes to get what he wants, and it was more than a bit shocking for the rug to get pulled out from under him like that. he can’t help but feel like its confirmation that there really is something wrong with him, and he feels a pang of insecurity every time she walks into the room. the good thing to come out of the mess with sophia is raphael. he still can’t believe it’s real, and having the same person to fall asleep to every night is actually helping a lot with his insomnia. once he felt secure with raph ( something he’s never found in a romantic relationship before ) he went all in. but he’s had his bad boy behaviour on pause for a while now and he isn’t sure how much longer he can keep it up. he just expects to fail, he’s sure he’ll slip up and ruin it sometime soon. he uses that certainty in his shortcomings like a crux so that when he does blow things up he can say he saw it coming all along. still, he wishes that raphael would just realize the mess he’s gotten himself into and run for the hills now, because edward is getting more and more attached every day. he’s even starting to see a future with raph, and the hope that stirs in his chest makes him feel a little sick. ).

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miertje1000 · 6 years ago

Text

Tears of starlight

Here’s my contribution to the D. Gray-man Big Bang. My partner is @limesicle who made beautiful art for my fic. Enjoy!

I divided my fic in chapters based on the artworks

summary Lavi’s mission is simple: retrieve some books from various cities and bring them back to the agency, called the Black order. Though unneeded in his opinion, the agency decides to assign him a partner with its own mission. Bookman warns him to keep an eye on his partner, but he doesn’t see why this scrawny looking beansprout would be interesting in any way. However, everyone seems to have forgotten to tell him the most important part: Allen is a dragon. Soon his own mission seems dull compared to his partner’s and he ends up getting more involved than he would have wanted. And in the meanwhile his feelings for his partner keep growing. But between a human and a dragon, let alone one born many lightyears away, a relationship can only be doomed.

rating: T

fanfiction.net : https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13056154/1/

chapter 1

art: http://limesicle.tumblr.com/post/177734019966/illustration-1-of-4-for-dgraymanbigbang-i

Lavi looked at his watch, then folded his arms again. The pole he was leaning against was starting to draw all the warmth from his back, making the wait even more uncomfortable. He'd missed one train already, if that other guy from The Order wouldn't arrive soon he would miss the other of today too and they'd have to wait for tomorrow to leave.

If only he had just gone on his own he might already have found one of the books, but Komui, nor Bookman, would listen to him when he said he didn't need this "Allen" as a bodyguard. That he was perfectly fine on his own. He wasn't too surprised the agency valued him enough to protect him when he went out looking for information, but he had expected better from the old man. However, the only thing Bookman had said was to pay extra good attention to this Allen, because apparently he was very interesting.

Too bad he couldn't observe this guy if he never even showed up.

A high, unbearable screech announced the arrival of yet another train in the station. As its doors opened, people streamed out in an unorderly chaos. Lavi's green eye scanned the crowd, looking for the familiar black uniform with the silver cross that marked every member of The Black Order. He sighed and slumped back against the pole when it seemed it was another miss this time, but then a hand stopped the closing doors and forced them back open. The person almost fell out of the train in his hurry, then needed to take a moment to straighten his long black coat that made his icy white hair stand out even more. He sighed and looked around as if he was searching for something.

With relief Lavi finally disconnected himself from the cold pole and made his way over, maneuvering between the groups of people, all moving to their own destination.

"Hey there, I take it you're Allen?" The boy turned his head quickly in surprise, then he smiled so radiantly that even his bright hair seemed dull compared to it. "Then you're Lavi?" Despite his annoyance the redhead couldn't help but grin. "That's me."

Allen sighed again, radiating relief in such heavy waves that Lavi almost got worried. "Thank the stars. I thought I would never arrive. I took the wrong train somewhere and I got hopelessly lost. I almost didn't notice this was the right stop either."

Well, at least that explained some of the boy's tardiness.

"Good you found your way anyway. Our train is leaving in ten minutes. If we go over there now, we should still make it easily."

"Okay! I'll be following you, before I get all lost again." He laughed hesitantly as he stroked a hand through his hair, probably to tidy it, but it just got messier instead.

That seemed like a good idea. He didn't feel like spending even more time on a train station. He just wanted to get on his way so he could do useful stuff, like reading or looking for the books he had to find for The Order.

"This way then." He took the lead, noticing with satisfaction that Allen was following him, though the boy kept looking around like he'd never been on a station ever before.

No wonder he had gotten lost earlier.

As they weaved through the crowd, he finally took the time to estimate his new partner.

A nasty looking scar marred the guy's left eye, pulling deep red stripes over the surrounding skin and ending in a pentacle on his forehead… Strange shape for a scar. However, that, and the so-bright-it-hurt-the-eye white hair, seemed to be the only outstanding details. He couldn't help but frown at the thought of this boy being his body guard. Allen was so scrawny he doubted the guy could even lift a weapon and his cute face made him look like he needed protection more than anyone else.

"Lavi, is anything wrong?" Two curious silver eyes fixed on his one after they seemed to have subjected him to a comparable check.

"No, nothing's wrong." He stopped as they reached the platform their train would leave from, staring in the distance to see if it was arriving, then he turned to his partner."No, actually, there's one thing I'd like to say."

Allen nodded and seemed to pay him all his interest.

"I'm sorry if this sounds a bit crude, but I don't really need protection. I don't mind you tagging along with me, but I just wanted to let you know you don't need to worry about me. I'm perfectly fine taking care of myself." So, he'd said it.

Luckily, Allen smiled in response. "I could tell that much. Don't worry, I never thought you couldn't take care of yourself. I think you misunderstood anyway. I was never assigned to you to really protect you, we're just assigned to each other because our missions take us in the same direction and Komui would like us to keep an eye out for each other. It's safer to travel together."

"Really?" Well, that would explain a lot more.

"Yeah, that's all. But I look forward to working with you." There it was again. That smile that showed all those too-white-to-be-human teeth and melted all of his negative feelings towards the boy.

"Me too."

At that point the train pulled over next to them and opened the doors.

"Let's get inside, before you get lost again."

An embarrassed blush spread on his partner's cheeks, but he laughed. "Yeah, that's probably a good idea."

Being a member of The Order had its benefits. A first class compartment got prepared for them the moment they entered the train, so Allen and Lavi were the only ones in the little room. They sat on the couches opposite of each other next to the window. As Lavi dug out a book and started reading, Allen refrained himself to staring to the outside world as it passed by.

However, he soon realized he wasn't picking up much from his text. He caught himself lowering the book a tiny bit every time to steal a glance at his partner, wondering what exactly had to be so special about him that the old man had found worthy enough to mention. A few minutes went by, without anything changing at all, then he finally put the book on his lap, giving in to his curiosity.

"So, Allen, what does a beansprout like you have to do in those places the Order is sending us?" The boy lifted his head from the hand he'd been leaning on. "Beansprout?" he repeated with a frown.

"Yeah, well, you know…" Lavi clarified, "You don't look like much of a fighter. I always thought most members of The Orders were good at combat, protecting all the innocent people and all."

The frown deepened even more and the boy sounded a bit defensive as he answered: "You're mistaking. I can fight perfectly fine. I was sent on a mission to defeat enemies of The Order."

Lavi grinned. "You must be kidding. What kind of weapon do you specialize in?" "None really. I don't usually use any human weapons. And what about you?" The silver eyes narrowed a little. "You don't look much like a fighter yourself."

Ouch, he could have known he would get the sentiment returned. However, he was right. "I'm not much of a fighter indeed. My grandfather is a librarian at The Order. I help him out and at some moments that means I need to go out and look for new information. But I have a hammer in case I need to protect myself, which is at least more than a certain beansprout."

Allen didn't seem to like the joke so much. "Sounds like I must have been mistaking. If you're just a librarian Komui probably thought you could use a strong partner for protection."

This guy was taking it all way too serious. "Well, now you've done it." He grabbed the first soft thing he could feel in his bag and threw it at his partner.

The feather hit him on his pale, delicate nose and made him sneeze. "What was that for?!" Lavi grinned and leaned back in his seat. "Payback for thinking you're any better than me. How old even are you? I bet I'm older than you."

"You wish."

He hadn't really planned on starting off on the wrong foot with Allen, but the way the boy snapped at his teasing was just way too amusing. "Oh, so that's why you have the white hair."

"Oh, shut up."

With a soft swirl the feather floated through the air and almost hit Lavi's eye. He blew at it in reflex.

"You know, if you want to look old you'd better get a mustache. That might help." He let one of his hands glide in his bag. As soon as he felt what he was looking for, he started loosening the lid of the tiny bottle.

Allen had crossed his arms now and leaned his face against the window, not paying much attention to his partner anymore. "I think I've got enough whiskers as it is."

"No way. You're definitely missing something." It wasn't smart of the boy to look out of the window. Because of it he didn't see the feather approaching in time and the moment he finally pulled back in shock he already had a first black stripe above his lip.

He looked at the redhead with an incredulous expression, then felt at the line that smudged over his fingers.

Lavi grinned challengingly, swirling the feather between his fingers.

However, with his small body, the beansprout was faster than he'd expected. Suddenly the boy was right on him already, feather stolen from his hands and the tip scratching over his face. Lavi dug to the couch, rolled out from under Allen and hit the ground. As the boy tried to regain his balance he reached forward and snatched the feather out of his hands.

"You thought you could beat me to it?" He dodged another attack from his partner, dug under his arms and took that chance to draw another line on the pale face. "You'll be getting a mustache first."

"Get off me."

Suddenly a pale hand was planted in his face, making his grip on his weapon loose enough for Allen to take it back. He shook his head, trying to free himself, but his opponent took that moment to hook his legs around him, imprisoning his arms to his chest with incredible power for such a scrawny guy. He wriggled to get free, but Allen had more than enough time to fill his face with doodles.

"Hmm, I need more ink." The boy reached back to dip the point in the ink bottle.

Lavi immediately noticed his chance. With the balance of the boy shifted he used his legs to push off against the couch, shoving himself under Allen so the boy toppled over with a surprised yelp and landed on him, relaxing his legs in the process and thus unlocking Lavi's arms again. However, he didn't get much time to feel victorious, because then something wet splattered on his face and the sound of something hard hitting the ground distracted him from their little fight.

Allen scrambled up with a confused expression, feeling his head with one of his hands. Both were pitch black. Half of the usually so white strands was covered all over with the ink, making the boy look spotted like a cow. The rest of the liquid was dripping down, staining his pale face and making the scar almost invisible.

The sight was so ridiculous that Lavi burst out in laughter.

For a moment Allen looked even more surprised when he took a look at his now black hand, making all of it even more funny.

"Allen, you… you look ridiculous." He managed to force out, even if he could barely breath between the fits of laughter torturing his chest.

Finally the boy looked at him and started to smile. "Have you taken a look at yourself?" And as he stared at Lavi, Allen finally seemed to start to grasp the full hilariousness of their situation, because finally suppressed chuckles turned into a laughter synchronous to Lavi's.

"I can't believe we got ink all over each other in the first hour we've met." Allen chuckled.

"You were a worthy opponent though," Lavi answered with a grin when he finally was able to breathe again. "I'll take back my doubts of you being a good fighter."

"Are you taking back me being a beansprout too?"

"Oh no, you're still a beansprout. You can't run from your true nature, Allen."

It probably wasn't very smart to anger his opponent once again. He was in a disadvantage, still lying on the ground with Allen sitting on him.

As expected the boy was not going to accept it. He pushed a black finger against Lavi's nose. "Oh no, you're going to take it back."

The redhead turned away his face. "Never. Once a beansprout, always a beansprout." "I'm not a beansprout!" Suddenly Allen leaned forward and did the last thing Lavi had expected. He bowed his head and shook the hair, still dripping with ink, right in his opponent's face.

Lavi spluttered as the piercing taste of ink filled his mouth together with strands of hair. He could feel the skin of his face get wet of the black liquid.

Allen finally ceased his attack, leaning back with a victorious grin. "Are you admitting defeat?"

"Definitely not, my face is already dirty, there's nothing you can threaten me with anymore."

"Oh yeah?" A devilish look crossed the once so cute face as Allen snatched the forgotten feather from the ground and held it in front of his victim's face. "I can still tickle you with this."

Lavi's eye widened. "No way. You're the devil."

"Admit I'm not a beansprout."

"But I'm taught I can't lie."

"Admit it!"

The tiny ends of the feather were brushing over his nose, making him feel ready to sneeze.

"Alright, alright, I give up!" He raised his hands in a surrendering gesture. "I shouldn't have called you beansprout."

Allen smiled in satisfaction and finally stood up, putting the feather next to Lavi's bag. He brushed through his sticky hair as he sent a quick glance at his reflection in the window. "We should go clean ourselves. We look horrible."

"Doesn't mean you still aren't one though," Lavi protested softly under his breath.

He earned a sharp silver look that immediately shut him up.

However, Allen let it slide. He opened the door and stepped out. Lavi followed him, but got stuck in the doorway when his companion froze.

"Something's wrong." All jokes were gone from the boy's voice. "I smell blood."

"Are you sure?" He sniffed himself, but he couldn't smell anything strange.

"This way."

Allen crept through the hallway silently, leading them to the second class cart. He pushed himself against the wall next to the door and Lavi followed his example on the other side. Together they turned and tried to peer into the hallway sided by simple chairs.

By now Lavi could smell it too. The metallic scent of blood made the hair in his neck stand up, but it didn't prepare him for the scenery they found in front of them.

A man was standing in the middle with bloodied hands. At his feet lay a person who was probably the owner of the red liquid. Most of the other people had fled, but some red smudges on the windows told him not all of them had been as lucky. With a nauseous feeling Lavi pulled his head back and pushed himself flat against the wall.

"It's an akuma," Allen whispered softly after he'd pulled back as well.

"Akuma?" He'd heard about it before, but he couldn't believe he was finding one here.

However, Allen understood the question wrongly. "Wyverns that take the form of a human and take orders from the Millennium earl. This is what I was sent out for: to defeat as many of them as I can."

"How are you so sure it's an akuma and not just a human murderer? It doesn't look like a wyvern at all." Allen wrinkled his nose. "I can smell it."

"You can smell it?"

"That's why I was assigned on this mission. Because I can take them apart in contrary to other members of The Order." He detached himself from the wall. "I'll take it out now."

Lavi stared at his scrawny partner for a moment, then pictured the bloody scene in the carriage. He had to be joking. This guy could never survive something like that.

"No, I'll take him on." He pulled his hammer from the belt around his hip.

However, Allen was not going to give in so easily. "Definitely not. This is my mission."

"It's too dangerous. What can a guy without a weapon do?"

Silver eyes narrowed, but a playful spark jumped through them. "Fine, we'll make it a challenge. The first to kill the akuma wins."

Before Lavi could even respond the boy jumped around the corner and shot inside the carriage.

"Allen!" He jumped after his partner to stop him, but he wasn't nearly as quick enough.

Allen raced through the path between the chairs with such speed that he was already there when the wyvern raised his head and noticed him. Before the akuma could do anything, the boy was already on him and forced him to the ground.

When Allen stood up again the body under him didn't move anymore.

Lavi was still standing in the doorway, feeling like he was slow as a snail.

"Are you sure it's dead?"

Allen nodded, then grabbed his victim at its collar and started pulling it over the floor with him. It was quite a large man, but the boy made it seem like it weighted nothing.

"So, what do we do now?"

"I get rid of the body while you start washing your face. There's still ink all over it," Allen stated. "The Order will take care of the expenses of cleaning up."

"Are you sure you don't need help?" Only now Lavi noticed one of the pale hands was stained with more than just ink. The blood seemed to come out of the corpse's neck.

"Did you do that with your bare hands?"

"I told you I don't use human weapons. I've got more than enough with just my own." Allen passed him. "Now go the bathroom. I'll be there soon too."

Lavi stared at the boy until he got out of sight, then sighed and shook his head. Allen was right, he had to get this ridiculous black stuff off his face.

So he followed his partner's orders and looked for a bathroom. There he washed his hair and scrubbed his face until every bit of it was gone. It wasn't easy, but he was used by ink stains by now. When they got on his hands he wouldn't even bother getting them off, but this wasn't the first time he got them on his face or hair either.

As he came out he found Allen on the other side of the door waiting for him.

One question kept bothering him: "How did you get rid of it?"

Allen looked up in surprise, then smiled a little ominously. "I ate it."

"Right, it's totally credible a cute beansprout like you eats wyverns."

He got a flick on his nose for the language. "You'd better watch out before this beansprout gets hungry and decides to eat you too." The tone of his voice matched his dangerous expression earlier. Luckily, he passed Lavi instead and disappeared into the bathroom to wash himself as well.

As Lavi waited on the other side of the door, he replayed all the minutes he'd spent with Allen in his head to try to understand more of the strange boy. Slowly he was starting to get the feeling the old man might have been right, but he couldn't quite see who Allen was yet. Maybe it would be better to ask some questions later.

"Allen, are you almost ready?" It was taking ages.

Allen sounded a little stressed as he answered through the door. "I'm sorry, I'm really trying, but I just can't seem to get the stains out of my hair."

Suddenly picturing the snow white hair Lavi sighed in understanding. He opened the door and peered inside. "Do you need any help?"

The boy was standing in front of the mirror, his dripping hair soaking his coat as he looked at the grey strands he was holding between his fingers. The expression on his face was a little desperate, so Lavi tried real hard not to laugh as he stepped in.

"Here, dip your head back in. I'll try to get it off for you. I'm used to this kind of stuff." With a defeated sigh Allen followed the order, plunging his head back under the tap.

Slowly but efficiently Lavi set himself to work. He massaged the strands with skilled hands and rubbed the ink off of them as he would do on his own. The white hair didn't want to return to its color as quickly as his, but since he was standing over it, he could easily see where it needed a little bit more persuasion.

Allen sighed under him as he worked through the strands almost mechanically, like he was enjoying the free head massage. The thought made Lavi's fingers tingle a bit, or maybe it was just the hair rubbing his skin continuously. It was kind of satisfying to see the dark shadow disappear and the more he worked on it, the more he was starting to like the soft, though wet, strands that brushed over his hands. Unexpectedly he found himself wondering what it would feel like when it was dry and he felt a strange longing to find out.

When he really didn't seem to be able to make any progress anymore he turned off the tap, helped Allen wring most of the water out of it and then stepped back to let the boy flip it back and raise his head. His partner checked the progress in the mirror, his eyebrows knitted together a little.

"You can still see it. It's not as white as the rest."

"I'm afraid the rest will have to come off on its own. But I'm sure it won't take long. Others probably won't even see it if they don't know about it." Allen's frown deepened a little. "I hope so." Then he turned around and seemed to shake off his trivial worries. "We should check the rest of the train. There might be more akuma aboard. I just want to be sure there won't be more people dying when I can prevent it."

Lavi nodded. "I can't smell them, so I'll just follow you."

They patrolled from the front, where people were working hard to satisfy the locomotive with its never ending desire for coal, all the way to the back, but no other akuma were discovered. As they finally stepped through the last door, ending up outside on a little platform with a fence and staring out on the rails disappearing from under them, Lavi felt like this was the right time.

"So, Allen, who are you really?"

His partner turned away from the passing landscape in confusion. "I told you. I'm Allen walker, member of The Order and I was sent out to fight the millennium earl and his akuma."

Lavi studied the boy's face, but he really seemed honest. "But that's not all, is it? Everyone keeps saying you're very interesting, so there must be something special about you. Something you aren't telling me."

Now Allen seemed to understand it even less. "The only thing I could think of that's special about me is that I'm the last dragon, but you already know that." Lavi froze, staring at his partner in shock. "Say what now?"

"You mean you didn't?" Silver eyes widened in surprise. "You were assigned to me, with the statement that I'm 'interesting' but they didn't think of telling you the most important part?"

"Well, it seems so." He let his eyes travel over his partners body, but couldn't find anything that seemed to prove his statement. He seemed perfectly human to him. How could such a scrawny beansprout even be such a giant reptile? It just didn't make sense. "So, how does that work, being a dragon?"

Allen shrugged his shoulders. "I usually walk around as a human because it makes my job easier and because there are still many people who would hunt me if they'd see a dragon, but when I want to I can turn back. To fight for instance, or to fly." As he mentioned the last word he dipped his head back to stare at the blue sky longingly. "Then I can feel closest to home."

It really sounded unbelievable, but his curiosity was fueled. "Would you show me?"

Allen seemed to awaken from his daydream and smiled. "Sure! But not now. This isn't really the time for a dragon to start flying around. The people in the train are scared enough already because of the akuma. I promise to show you soon."

If there was something Lavi didn't like, it was having to wait to quell his curiosity, but he knew patience was needed for that more often than not. So he held out his hand and grinned. "Deal."

Allen's silver eyes flickered like little stars as he shook it. "Deal."

Their carriage was covered in ink, to the horror of the train personnel, so they had to move rooms. The black liquid was a hell to wash off and Lavi foresaw a very disappointed Komui when he'd hear the Order would have to pay for this.

Maybe ink-fights could better be avoided in the future. Allen seemed to share that thought, because he looked hopelessly embarrassed by the whole incident.

The train still had a long way to go, so as darkness set in, the two males made themselves comfortable on the couches the best they could and closed their eyes to catch some sleep before they would arrive at their destination.

Lavi didn't sleep very well. His mind was restless and dreams woke him up every few hours. Some time before dawn he went to use the bathroom, but when he returned he realized something was off.

The other couch was empty. The used, thin blanket lying on a messy heap in one corner.

Where was Allen?

Images of the bloodbath earlier made him feel anxious, until he decided he wouldn't be able to sleep like this anyway and stepped out into the hallway.

All the carriages were quiet and peaceful. Most people were still sleeping, making the train engine sound incredibly loud.

He searched the carts one after the other, but never did he see the familiar white mob of hair. Allen would definitely stand out if he were anywhere, so that meant he was gone.

There were just two possibilities: either he had gotten off the train, or he had gone somewhere not inside of it somehow, which left the roof. It didn't seem very likely, but with the ominous feeling building up inside of him, Lavi found himself at the back of a carriage, climbing the ladder, anyway.

It was still very cold outside. His breath left his mouth in tiny white puffs, though they seemed almost grey compared to the white hair of the one he was looking for. Without the moon he might not have been able to make out where he was putting his hands, but the giant boll was floating in the sky proudly, showering the world with light as silver as Allen's eyes. It revealed the empty landscape. Mountains at one side, a huge plain reaching out to the horizon on the other. Lavi halted at the top of the ladder to admire the beautiful scenery, then turned his head and finally found the icy white figure he'd been looking for.

Allen was sitting with his legs folded under him, his eyes staring into the distance. With his pale skin lighting up under the moonlight and his eyes glittering like stars, he seemed almost unreal. More like a ghost than a human… or a dragon.

"So this is where you were."

Allen looked up in surprise as Lavi finally stepped onto the roof and crawled over to him carefully.

"What are you even doing here? It's the middle of the night. You ought to be in bed right now."

The boy revealed two rows of perfectly white teeth is response. "I could ask you the same. Aren't you sitting on a train roof right now too?"

"Because I was looking for you!" Lavi protested as he scooted over to his partner. "I noticed you were gone and I got worried you know."

Allen's cheeks flushed a little and he looked away as he apologized: "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you worry. I just felt like getting out early."

"Early? The sun hasn't even risen yet!" As he said it he eyed the huge collection of stars scattered in the black sky.

"That's the best time." Allen put his hands behind him and tilted his head back to look at the heavenly lights as well. "I like to look at the stars. They remind me of home."

That comment raised one particular question inside Lavi. "What does the home of a dragon look like?"

Allen laughed like he hadn't ever had the question before. "Like that." He nodded upwards.

As much as he had thought this guy took things way too serious, he was starting to come back from that conclusion entirely. "I guess you have stars anywhere, but seriously, where do dragons live? Or at least used to before they almost went extinct?"

The boy tilted his head to the side, reflecting the stars directly towards Lavi with his eyes. "I don't know. I'm not like most other dragons. I wasn't born down here, but up there."

Alright then, he would play this game with him. "How do you get born in the sky?"

Allen smiled, but it wasn't an entirely happy expression. "By being a star of course."

"So why would a cute, shiny star like you be here on our puny earth?" This was almost turning into some kind of lame flirt starter now.

However, the nostalgia nestling deep into his partner's face was very real. "Because I was sent here to complete a mission. I need to find a certain man and stop him." He sighed longingly. "I miss it though. My father, Mana, is up there. I really want to see him again."

Lavi followed his gaze, but however much he stared at the stars, they just seemed like bright spots in a dark sky to him. They were just balls of fire he had read in scientific books. However, Allen seemed to really believe what he was saying. "Then why don't you go visit him for a moment?"

"Because they'll just send me back like last time." Allen pulled his knees against his chest and wrapped his arms around them like he was cold. "This mission is very important. I need to find this person before the millennium earl and his wyverns do."

So the millennium earl was looking for the same thing. "What kind of person are you looking for?"

"Someone who will take down the stars and burn the earth," was the ominous answer.

"Does someone like that really exist?"

When Allen's eyes fixed on him he could feel the full extent of the boy's believe wash over him. "Yes, Lavi, that person exists. That's why it's crucial I keep looking for him before it's too late. I'm starting to run out of time."

He nodded. He couldn't possibly argue with that.

Suddenly Allen stretched himself and yawned. "It's about time I go stretch my muscles a little."

"Didn't you just do that," Lavi teased as he looked at how his partner got on his legs.

Allen sent him an amused look. "All of my muscles. I'm going to take a little flight before the sun comes up and we get into inhabited area."

Despite his disbelief Lavi felt excitement wash over him. "So I get to see it now?"

However, his partner smiled apologetically. "Not yet, sorry. I wasn't planning on going into a full transformation. I don't want to scare any of the passengers more than needed. But I promise you it will be soon."

Lavi sunk back in disappointment. "Then how are you going to fly?"

Allen shrugged his shoulders. "By unfolding my wings, I guess."

And as he said it two white structures spread out from his back. Membranes as grey as the moonlight stretched out over bony limps, sparkling with tiny, shiny scales. Though they would seem small for a dragon, the wings looked huge on Allen's small stature. They swayed a little in the breeze of the train.

"I'll see you at dawn," Allen promised when Lavi didn't speak of surprise. Strong muscles lifted the bat-like limps, then forced them down with multiple times that force. Lavi's hair blew around his face from the pressure created. As he watched, the boy rose to the sky, turned his wings and soared away. After a few moments he disappeared out of sight behind one of the mountains.

"This is ridiculous." He was so going to yell to the old man to tell him important information like this beforehand next time.

#dgmbigbang #fanfic #Laven #hurt/comfort #fantasy #Dragon!Allen #Star!Allen

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douchebagbrainwaves · 4 years ago

Text

AND THE STARTUPS WHERE THEY HAVE TO RESORT TO COMPULSION ARE NOT THE ONES THAT MATTER ANYWAY

There are almost two distinct modes of fundraising: one in which founders who don't need money take some to grow faster than they could merely on their own revenues. In the real world, wealth is not money. One of the founders of Octopart, they seemed very smart, but not about observing proprieties. For me the list is four things: books, earplugs, a notebook, and a thousand things you could do what you wanted, and that will convince any investor.1 I wrote it down because I only had two hours before dinner and think fastest while writing. You have to decide quickly because you're running out of room. You don't need to be able to meet the usefulness test will tend to err on the side when I was working on spam filters I thought it would be better for kids in this one case if parents were not so unselfish. The goal is the same as Aristotle's; we just approach it from a different direction. It does seem to me what philosophy should look like: quite general observations that would cause someone who understood them to do something. Here's an intriguing possibility.

As long as you're producing, you'll know if they do. It might seem that instead of being dragged sideways into a discussion of price.2 We'll get whatever the most imaginative people can cook up. Your primary goal should be to get the best investors is in the average case bad advice. That sounds like a joke, but it's hardly unjust. Some companies raise money twice in phase 2, on top of whatever you sold in phase 1, which should be less than a year old even to talk to investors, you have to charm them. But if you find yourself thinking that life is too short for x have great force. It's not just a figure of speech to say that ancient Greek mathematicians were naive in some respects, or at any rate adjust your conclusions so you're not claiming anything false 6 of 8 subjects had lower blood pressure after the treatment.3 To founders, the behavior of investors is often opaque—partly because their motivations are obscure, but partly because they deliberately mislead you. But it's not. There didn't seem to be an inborn trait in humans.

Instead everyone is just supposed to explore their own personal vision. If you happen to be that type of founding team, you're effectively a single founder when it comes to fundraising. It's art that interests its human audience, and—here's the critical point—members of the audience share things in common. As long as you're over a certain threshold of intelligence, what matters most is imagination. I learned anything from them. Want to know if the selection process was biased against some type of applicant? Prestige is just fossilized inspiration. Empirically it seems to decrease most other gaps. Reality can be messier.

There's inevitably a difference in how things feel within the company. I'm not saying you should lie, but that there can even be such a thing. Though the first philosophers in the western tradition lived about 2500 years ago, by spending a lot of something. The advantage of the two-job route is dangerous because it teaches you so little about what you like. Put them all in a building in Silicon Valley, surrounded by lead shielding to protect them from any contact with Redmond. It happens naturally to anyone who wanted to make web apps work like desktop ones. Perhaps worst of all, he protected them from both the criticism of outsiders and the promptings of their own inner compass by establishing the principle that the most important mistake in the history of philosophy. It now seems inevitable that applications will live on the web—not just email, but everything, right up to Photoshop. This was what made everyone want computers. At least, that's how they see it.

Notes

This includes mere conventions, like angel investors in startups. Faced with the government. But phone companies are run like Communist states. It would have seemed shocking for a sufficiently good at talking about art, they mean San Francisco wearing a jeans and t-shirt, they're probably a real poet.

They have no idea what most people than subsequent millions.

For example, MySpace is basically a replacement mall for mallrats. San Francisco, LA, Boston, or an acquisition for more of it, and Jews about. They'd be interchangeable if markets stood still.

#automatically generated text #Markov chains #Paul Graham #Python #Patrick Mooney #fundraising #Octopart #wealth #dinner #life #blood #philosophy #goal #everyone #San #top

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toldnews-blog · 6 years ago

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New Post has been published on https://toldnews.com/lifestyle/is-it-camp/

Is It Camp?

Explainers

This year’s Met Gala theme has us wondering about things we treasure.

May 4, 2019

In 1964, Susan Sontag defined camp as an aesthetic “sensibility” that is plain to see but hard for most of us to explain: an intentional over-the-top-ness, a slightly (or extremely) “off” quality, bad taste as a vehicle for good art.

“Notes on ‘Camp,’” her 58-point ur-listicle, builds on that inherent sense of something being “too much,” and also fences it in. Camp is artificial, passionate, serious, Sontag writes. Camp is Art Nouveau objects, Greta Garbo, Warner Brothers musicals and Mae West. It is not premeditated — except when it is extremely premeditated.

Her list of camp dos and don’ts has grown since it was first published. Some, including the filmmaker Bruce LaBruce, have updated and expanded it to include references as categorically specific as “Twilight” (bad straight camp) and Sarah Palin (conservative camp). Still, Sontag’s treatise remains the top-cited attempt to define a slippery concept.

The essay is also the founding document of this year’s Met Costume Institute exhibit and its attendant gala. On Monday, when Anna Wintour’s campers ascend the Met’s steps for a first look at “Camp: Notes on Fashion,” few of us will be among them. But that doesn’t mean we can’t camp on our own terms. What, among a random sampling of our exciting and tacky enthusiasms and passions, is — and what is not — camp?

Dog shows began alongside county fair-type events: cow and poultry shows and the like. Today, they show no trace of the messier side of animal behavior. Perfect doggy specimens are pampered and fawned over like models, but tragically the dogs themselves never know exactly what’s going on, or realize how hot they are. Personalities and desires are projected wildly onto the furry celebrities by owners, announcers and spectators with pure and unbridled enthusiasm.

For every Westminster Dog Show brought to you by Purina Puppy Chow, there are thousands (more than 22,000, actually, according to the American Kennel Club) of smaller events happening across the country where you can find handlers trotting around bright green synthetic show rings wearing every shade of pastel suit jacket and A-line skirt you can imagine. It’s a world of caricatures, of fans who identify with a breed as strongly as a religion. The dog show ring is also the only place where one can win the covetable title of Select Bitch. EDEN WEINGART

Cher was the picture of camp long before she discovered plastic surgery. Rhinestones, bugle beads and feathered headdresses — furnished by her partner in kitsch, Bob Mackie — helped build her outsize persona in the ’70s. Over time, Cher developed a reputation for humor and almost self-consciously terrible taste.

For every movie in which Cher wowed critics, there were half a dozen songs establishing her as the sultan of schlock. The one she’s most proud of is “Believe,” a trifle of pop music that sounds like Everything but the Girl’s “Missing” as reimagined by Nancy Meyers. But even Cher can’t take Cher seriously. “I’ve made millions of albums, and most of them are absolutely no good,” she told The New York Times in 2018. Of course, that’s what made them good. It wasn’t an accident that she became the first bona fide A-list diva to razzle-dazzle audiences for years at a time with residencies in Las Vegas. Or that a show of her life ultimately made its way to Broadway. Sontag asks, “When does travesty, impersonation, theatricality acquire the special flavor of camp?” The answer is: whenever Cher appears. JACOB BERNSTEIN

Donatella Versace

Is it camp? Yes.

She is hair (blonde), she is tan (tan), she is jewelry (gold), she is gloss, she is heels, heels, heels. She is Versace, both literally and proverbially, and yet she is so much Versace, so impossibly anything but Versace, that she is never called Versace. She is Donatella or, to her staff, DV. The Versace, like a radiant halo, announces itself.

If Donald Trump is a poor person’s idea of a rich person, Donatella is a fashion victim’s idea of a fashion idol: everything skintight, everything bellissima, the jets, the parties, the famous friends, the Milan mansion, the gesticulating cigarette (she quit, but a cigarette, like a phantom limb, will always trail DV). This idea, which in lesser hands could be gaudy or merely glitzy, is sewn into each of her garments; once, at a private showroom appointment in Milan, a designer at Versace described to me in utter seriousness the “important shoulder” that distinguished a jacket.

Improbably, all of it works. Fashion critics, even the harrumphing ones, love her, love it. The people love her. Versace is one of the few places where they agree. She has the operatic grandeur of public tragedy (she took over Versace after the murder of her brother, Gianni) and personal struggles (the drugs, the rehab). And so she has been taken up, by drag queens and YouTubers, Penélope Cruz (who didn’t do her justice) and Maya Rudolph (who did). A benevolent queen, DV proved herself in on the joke and joined faux-Donatella onstage, shoulder to important shoulder. Bellissima. MATTHEW SCHNEIER

Kathie Lee Gifford

Is it camp? Daytime television camp.

Morning show anchors are inherently campy, having dedicated their lives to sprucing up news — information that is by nature alarming or, on a good day, banal. Among such campers, Kathie Lee Gifford is a counselor. Her sentences are delivered as smoothly as if they were lines she memorized years ago for her starring role in a play about herself, a role she is perpetually reprising for one night only as a treat for fans. Take her final (ever) seconds on “Today.” “Am I supposed to say something?” she wondered. “Might as well!” said Hoda Kotb. In an instant, Ms. Gifford, champagne in hand, was delivering a voluminous bible quotation directly into the camera (Jeremiah 29) while, beneath her, a cartoon Kathie Lee toasted a credit reading “PROMOTIONAL CONSIDERATIONS FURNISHED BY CARNIVAL CRUISE LINE.” She closed the program by singing a composition written by herself. Cheers. CAITY WEAVER

Villanelle

Is it camp? Hot assassins are always campy.

From the instant Villanelle, the lightly self-mocking assassin of “Killing Eve” played by Jodie Comer, dispatches a Mafia don by plunging a hairpin into his eye, her predilection for theatrical extremes is plain. In fact, you can’t really miss it. After all, for Villanelle, murder is nothing more or less than a high-style form of playacting.

Watch with a mixture of horror and mirth as this wily assassin, dressed in a pervy variation on a milkmaid costume, eviscerates her victim in the window of a brothel. Could you be faulted for taking her performance as a brazen joke? Even Villanelle doesn’t seem to be taking it too seriously — her approach to the kill is so comically efficient, so artfully contrived, that it rises to the level of self-parody.

That archness extends to her wardrobe. Villanelle dresses for excess, effusively wicked in pink tulle or satin, a high-collar Edwardian shirt, or a regal negligee worn by day with gilded chandelier earrings. She represents the essence of extravagance, the hallmark of an aesthetic that Sontag likened to “a woman walking around in a dress made of three million feathers.” RUTH LA FERLA

John Waters

Is it camp? He is the king of camp.

No one channeled the joy of bad taste as efficiently as the director John Waters. His muse was Divine, a 6-foot-2 drag queen who, in the director’s self-described “trash trilogy” — “Pink Flamingos,” “Mondo Trasho” and “Female Trouble” — treated sexual assault, foot fetishism, coprophilia, incest, baby kidnappings and murder as big jokes. While Divine’s bouffants reached to the heavens, her outfits barely covered her crotch. She did not so much act as perform onscreen karaoke. Her gestures and facial expressions were almost as big as her appetite. Only rarely did Divine play characters who could easily be described as likable. But empathy was not Mr. Waters’s top objective. “If someone vomits watching one of my films, it’s like getting a standing ovation,” he wrote in the opening of his autobiography. JACOB BERNSTEIN

[Read about the king of camp’s sleep-away camp for adults.]

Russ Meyer

Is it camp? Thoroughly, albeit a straight-male subset.

Before there was John Waters, there was Russ Meyer. The grindhouse king of the 1960s made low-budget sexploitation films with titles like “Vixen!” and “Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!” that contained a Pride Parade float’s worth of campy costumes, not to mention campy dialogue by campy female characters whose over-the-top vampiness was so broad that they might as well have been played by Divine. Never mind that Mr. Meyer’s soft-core sex films were targeted to straight men looking for any opportunity to gaze at large, bare breasts in the days before pornography became widely accessible. Eventually, the dirty-raincoat crowd abandoned this auteur, known as King Leer, for more explicit, and boringly literal, films starring Linda Lovelace and Marilyn Chambers. Mr. Meyer’s legacy was left to those who could most appreciate him. John Waters said that “Pussycat!” was “possibly better than any film that will be made in the future.” If he was kidding, that makes it even more camp. ALEX WILLIAMS

Internet Astrology

Is it camp? It is artifice, but not camp.

If calamity defines this moment, internet astrology is a potent antidote. It’s a pseudoscience exaggerated with a wink through memes, an everything-in-quotation-marks lens for culture. Photos of Rihanna with a wine glass, Lady Gaga posing with her Golden Globe in a periwinkle Valentino gown, and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez and Nancy Pelosi with the cast of “Queer Eye” become a way of understanding — with questionable specificity — the habits of the signs. Do Leos “despise taking orders”? Are Geminis people who “aren’t easily offended by jokes”? Are Sagittariuses merely defined by the concept of “athleisure”? It doesn’t matter. In a world fated with no future (see: threats of authoritarianism, climate change and the impending artificial intelligence takeover), astrology’s assured predictions ease collective anxiety while allowing us to indulge in a shared identity, however absurd. LOVIA GYARKYE

In 1933, Mae West cemented her status as Hollywood’s original queen of camp in the vaudeville-esque film “She Done Him Wrong.” The story takes place in a boozy saloon, where West’s character Lady Lou rules the roost, chewing up and spitting out every scoundrel who’s “warm for” her. Back then, female sexuality onscreen was largely synonymous with vulnerability. West changed that. She makes her cinematic entrance in a carriage, wearing a giant feathered hat and holding a parasol. Hands on hips, eyebrows raised, the term “woman” doesn’t begin to describe her; she’s a broad. Her dresses have almost as much sparkle as her jewelry. Her greatest distaste is seriousness. Not even a visit to a boyfriend in the clink rattles her. When one of her many suitors tells her that her life is in danger, Lou says, “You’re going to protect me? From what?” Then she adds: “When I need protection I’ll write you a letter.” JACOB BERNSTEIN

‘Strangers With Candy’

Is it camp? Yes.

“Strangers With Candy” stars Amy Sedaris in half a fat suit as Jerri Blank, a 40-something dropout who returns to high school after years as a junkie, prostitute and eventual inmate. In a format modeled (loosely) after the “ABC Afterschool Special,” our heroine encounters hardships both universal and specific: impressing the popular kids, resisting the temptation of drugs, finding out she’s Native American, getting lured into a cult. Each episode ends with Jerri breaking the fourth wall to tell the viewer what she has learned, which is usually nothing. But there are some take-aways. Having someone to make out with supersedes self-respect; violence doesn’t resolve conflicts, but it wins them; being a single mother is easiest when one is neither single nor a mother. It’s a highly aestheticized work of absurdist comedy. Jerri’s makeup is thick. Her overbite is pronounced. Her hygiene is questioned. So if these parables leave you scratching your head, do as Jerri says: “Think about it — I haven’t.” THOMAS LOTITO

Supreme

Is it camp? Not exactly, but it’s definitely “too much.”

When The New York Post, for a long time the most camp of the city’s daily papers, placed an ad for Supreme on its front page, the brand’s acolytes rushed to pay $20 for a paper that usually goes for $1.50. This kind of excess is wrapped up in the fact that the people who want to own Supreme far outnumber the people who can actually buy it. Every time the brand has a “drop,” hundreds of people swarm its stores just to wait in line to spend hundreds on a pair of boxer shorts. In a Supreme devotee, we see how one can be “serious about the frivolous, frivolous about the serious,” as Sontag puts it, to the point where even the founder James Jebbia is dumbfounded. In a phone interview with GQ, when asked if he ever thought Supreme would become as globally recognized as it is today, he compared the unlikely outcome to the election of Donald J. Trump. ASTHA RAJVANSHI

President Trump

Is it camp? Much political theater is camp, but he’s upped the ante.

Camp “can be actually a very sophisticated and powerful political tool, especially for marginalized cultures,” Andrew Bolton, the curator of the Met’s Costume Institute, told The New York Times when that show’s theme was announced. We tend to associate “marginalized cultures” with underrepresented minorities, but if you think about it, the frustrated white men who make up Donald J. Trump’s base would certainly describe themselves that way, and he has been their blunt-edged weapon. An orange-hued one, with tanning-bed-goggle eyes, an elaborate blonde pompadour and extra-long ties — because, well, you know what they say about ties: long ties, long … What? What’s that you say? They don’t say that about ties? Well, in the alternative universe of Trumpland, they do.

Born from the camp crucible of reality TV, President Trump has become synonymous with behavior that elicits exactly the kind of reactions Sontag deems key to camp: “It’s too much” and “not to be believed.” Superlatives rule the president’s speech — his crowds are the biggest ever, his memory the best — and his aversion to political correctness is practically a signifier. He’s a Louis XIV for our times. That he has his finger on the button just makes it more jaw-dropping. VANESSA FRIEDMAN

‘Riverdale’

Is it camp? Like many other programs on the CW, it’s intentional camp.

“Riverdale” is the love child of every teen soap in history and “Twin Peaks.” Accordingly, it makes no sense. Are the characters living (and dying, once by crucifixion) in the present, or in 1960, as the anachronistic décor suggests? Is Riverdale an hour outside of New York City, or somewhere near the Canadian border? How are the parents so evil, and their children so hot? The flimsy dramatic arc, conflicting details and distractingly attractive cast serve to foreground the show’s look and feel. There are foggy drives down forest roads, after-school milkshakes in a retro diner, cult initiations with all-white dress codes, practically unwatchable musical episodes. That’s fine. “Riverdale” isn’t here to make its viewers more intelligent; it’s visual candy, a comedy dressed up as horror. BONNIE WERTHEIM

Queen Elizabeth II

Is it camp? The British monarch is the most camp at Buckingham Palace.

The hair. The hats. The handbags. The extreme matchy-matchiness of it all. Queen Elizabeth II doesn’t just rule over Britain and the Commonwealth — the world’s longest-serving female head of state also does head-to-toe monochrome more thoroughly, and multi-dimensionally, than anyone else. She has inspired legions with her signature rainbow shades (the better to stand out in a crowd) and her favored off-duty tweed, silk scarf and pearl get-ups.

One of her more outspoken style admirers is Alessandro Michele, Gucci’s creative director and a co-chair of this year’s Met Gala, who in 2016 told The New Yorker: “The Queen is one of the most quirky people in the world. She is very inspiring. It is clear that she loves color.” Insofar as camp is about extravagance, her preference for unmissable outfits, along with the vast palaces, ornate state banquets, glittering horse-drawn carriages and decades of polished public performance, surely fits the bill. ELIZABETH PATON

Jim Steinman

Is it camp? His songs are pure schlock.

The producer Jim Steinman specializes in excess. He helped bring us Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart” and “Holding Out for a Hero,” Celine Dion’s “It’s All Coming Back to Me Now,” plus every song on Meat Loaf’s albums “Bat Out of Hell” and “Bat Out of Hell II.” He is implicated in the Barry Manilow catalog and the Air Supply discography. He is in the Long Island Music Hall of Fame.

A murder of academics have nearly defined camp out of existence. But schlock, Mr. Steinman’s specialty, has less nuance. Camp’s shuffle-footed, irony-free cousins, objets d’schlock are in such poor taste that they repel even regular viewers of the television network CBS. Even for those who love them (me), Mr. Steinman’s miniature operas of heartbreak and desperation are critically irredeemable — too solemn and silly to even pretend to sophistication. But when “so bad it’s good” is a commonplace, maybe the irredeemable is the only refuge left. JONAH ENGEL BROMWICH

‘Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?’

Is it camp? Decidedly.

Nothing says camp like getting to watch two aging divas go to war with one another. That’s what happened in “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?,” wherein Bette Davis plays a drunk, deranged and delusional former child star who seems to have caused the car crash that cripples her prettier, kinder, and more successful sister (Joan Crawford), whom she holds captive in the once-glamorous house they share. For more than two hours, Davis wears jealousy on her frayed chiffon sleeves, turning away her sister’s visitors, plotting against nosy neighbors, even murdering her sister’s pet bird. “I’ll clean the cage,” she says before literally cooking it up as a meal that she serves to her sister. JACOB BERNSTEIN

Ed Wood

Is it camp? Maybe too campy to be camp.

He used hubcaps for flying saucers, cardboard for sets, and had a bad habit of leaving the boom microphone in the shot. He’s been called the worst director of all time. Ed Wood’s Z-movie science-fiction project from 1959, “Plan 9 from Outer Space,” is often called the worst movie of all time, although his 1953 ode to cross-dressing, “Glen or Glenda,” starring Mr. Wood himself in resplendent angora, gets votes too. But maybe he was better than we think.

Since Tim Burton’s affectionate 1994 biopic, “Ed Wood,” starring Johnny Depp, Mr. Wood has been the subject of a critical reappraisal of sorts, with defenders casting the director’s crude productions as a kind of outsider art. “What comes over isn’t directorial competence,” the writer Johnny Mains told The Independent in 2017, “but exuberance in abundance, enthusiasm and I would take that any day over a film that’s technically brilliant but lacks any soul.” “Plan 9” manages a not-terrible 67 percent on Rotten Tomatoes, where it’s described as the “epitome of so-bad-it’s-good cinema.” And some have lauded the sympathetic portrayal of gender nonconformity in “Glen or Glenda” as decades ahead of its time. At the end of the day, the film is 60 years old and we’re still talking about it. Maybe sometimes bad is actually not bad enough. ALEX WILLIAMS

Moira Rose

Is it camp? Yes.

“Schitt’s Creek” follows a family of uber-rich narcissists who’ve fallen on hard times. Moira Rose, played by Catherine O’Hara clad in reflective fabrics, is the show’s matriarch and chief brat. As is typical of “artistes” who compulsively seek the spotlight, Moira has many secrets. Why does she have a North American accent with scattered Shakespearean and French vowel sounds? What’s going on underneath her elaborate wigs? What combination of pills is she on, and can I have some? Why does she wear waistcoats and brooches to bed? In her bombastic totality, she embodies the grotesque effects of extreme wealth. Moira Rose makes me want to burn the rich to a soundtrack of her saying “bebe” on repeat. ELEANOR STANFORD

Liberace

Is it camp? Yes.

If the center of American culture has historically been New York, Las Vegas is its capital of camp. It’s where Siegfried and Roy made magic macabre. It’s Cher’s spirit city, home this summer to yet another of her concert spectaculars. It was also once home to Liberace, the piano peacock known less for the music he made than for his $300,000, 16-foot, 175-pound sequined capes and giant bed underneath a $50,000 replica of the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling. Liberace never had any doubt who he was. He is also remembered for his aphorisms, including: “Nakedness makes us Democratic, adornment makes us individuals.” “When the reviews are bad, I tell my staff they can join me as I cry all the way to the bank.” And, of course, “Don’t wear one ring, wear five or six. People ask how I can play with all those rings, and I say, very well, thank you.” JACOB BERNSTEIN

Professional Wrestling

Is it camp? That is the only explanation.

Imagine Liberace on steroids, donning his most Vegas-ready sequined ensemble to pantomime a parody of a professional athletic event. Or, you could just check out any old WrestleMania video on YouTube. (“Macho King” Randy Savage and Hulk Hogan are good entry points.) To fans of regular sports, World Wrestling Entertainment and its ilk have always been a mystery. The costumes? Ridiculous. The action? Ludicrous. The emotions? As artificially stylized as the masks of comedy and tragedy.

Pro wrestling makes perfect sense if you accept an Urban Dictionary definition of camp as “something that provides sophisticated, knowing amusement, as by virtue of its being artlessly mannered or stylized, self-consciously artificial and extravagant.” Oddly, however, there is no clear evidence that anyone involved with the sport has ever made the connection. Google “professional wrestling” and “camp,” and you find numerous sleep-away options for Junior to practice his or her back breakers and power slams. The sport — spectacle? — seems to have escaped critical study since 1972, when the French literary theorist Roland Barthes called wrestlers “the key which opens nature, the pure gesture which separates Good from Evil.” Academia, it turns out, can be camp too. ALEX WILLIAMS

‘Clue’

Is it camp? Maybe not, but it’s good.

A dinner party coalesces inside an old mansion on a stormy night in 1954 New England. All of the usual suspects are present: Mrs. Peacock with feathers in her hair and cat-eye glasses; Miss Scarlet in her off-the-shoulder satin dress, chiffon shawl and oversize rhinestone necklace; Professor Plum, dapper in a bow tie and pocket square, smoking a pipe. All are from the D.C. area. Each one has a secret. And they’re being blackmailed because they are, in their extortionist’s estimation, “thoroughly un-American.” As the night progresses, characters are mysteriously murdered by violent means: In the kitchen with the knife! In the study with the wrench! In the library with the pipe! Everyone is a suspect.

“Clue” the film was a box-office flop but ultimately rose to cult-classic status. Initially it was perceived as a gimmick. Perhaps rightly so — it’s based on a board game, after all. It evokes its precursor in every scene: The narrative is full of misdirection, secret passageways and a complex array of outcomes. The movie has three different endings. Which did you see? If the answer is none, you’re in for a treat. KAREN HANLEY

‘Coronation Street’

Is it camp? This show should get its own Costume Institute exhibit.

“Coronation Street’ is the world’s longest-running soap opera. Set in a fictional neighborhood of Manchester, it’s a celebration of Northern British working-class culture. The enduring popularity of “Corrie” (as the show is affectionately known) seems to rely most on its feisty, gossipy female characters: Elsie Tanner, Bet Lynch and Liz McDonald. Strong women who got by on their wits, sassy one-liners and style. There’s huge bouffant hair after a day spent at the pub in rollers; fake eyelashes and long red talons; nosebleed high heels, leopard print and shoulder pads. Queens of shade with hearts of gold, these women have captured the imagination of the British fashion world for decades (and our drag scene too). If you get on their bad side, though, they’ll happily smash your front windows with their handbags. ELIZABETH PATON

Paul Verhoeven

Is it camp? Yes.

Sharon Stone’s star turn as an ice pick wielding serial killer who revealed her nether regions to police officers in “Basic Instinct” had nothing on the performance Elizabeth Berkley gave in Mr. Verhoeven’s next film, “Showgirls.”

Her alter ego, Nomi Malone, hits Vegas with dreams of making it big and ends up removing her clothing with great frequency. Critics reached a near-consensus of disapproval, drag queens lampooned it and world-class film professors such as Wesleyan University’s Jeanine Basinger placed it in their syllabuses.

Mr. Verhoeven’s next brilliantly terrible (or just plain brilliant) social satire, “Starship Troopers,” also bombed in theaters but was later critically reassessed. The premise: A testosterone-fueled military unit is assigned to save the world from insect-like aliens who basically bomb earthlings by farting asteroids. Over the course of the movie, the costumes worn by the leaders of the “federation” become increasingly S.S.-like. The war is sold by a nationalistic, Fox News-like network (that also broadcasts criminal executions live). The film stars Denise Richards, whose subsequent marriage to and divorce from Charlie Sheen led perfectly to her turn on reality TV’s biggest camp franchise, “The Real Housewives.”

The negative reviews perplexed Mr. Verhoeven. “‘Starship Troopers’ was at least a reflection of elements in American society that were visible at the time, a kind of neoconservative thinking that became dominant in the Bush administration,” he said in a 2007 interview. “Showgirls,” he added, was meant as a “hyperbolic” commentary on the “absurdity of a certain American reality.” JACOB BERNSTEIN

‘Wet Hot American Summer’

Is it camp? It takes place at camp, but no, it’s not camp.

A day at camp can crawl along like beads of sweat under the summer sun, or unravel in a frenzy of hormones and expectations. At Camp Firewood, in the summer of ’81, time mutates and age is a costume — a young camper counsels a 30-something arts-and-crafts instructor through her divorce, while an associate professor makes a machine to shift the course of space debris using doughnuts and cans of Spam. In the space of a day, multiple romances are destroyed and resurrected, rescue operations are undertaken, and one person learns to control the elements. Halfway through the film, several campers and the director head to town, where they smoke weed, drink beer, steal money, buy cocaine and go on a heroin binge. When they return to camp, looking no worse for the wear, one character says: “It’s always fun to get away from camp, even for an hour.” VALERIYA SAFRONOVA

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searching-for-mercury · 8 years ago

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Drawings of Her - FemPruAus

[Title may change later, idk. Also: Anneliese = Roderich and Maria = Gilbert if you didn’t already know~]

Anneliese's head felt like a fish tank -- full of water and squishy green algae. Finals were taking their sweet time to arrive and just be over with, no matter how many assignments she completed or classes she attended. There was always something to do, not a whole lot of time to do it in, and yet finals week did not have the decency to arrive in a calm, punctual sort of way; it either felt like it would never come at all or arrived out of nowhere with the tires still smoking.

Most of her classes were art classes, which sounded all nice and good, nothing to really stress over, except jokes on everyone else: art classes were everything to stress over. They gobbled time up faster than a dog laps up water and felt even messier. Oil painting meant painting one layer and then waiting at least a full day, if not more, for it to dry before she could continue. She spent that time drawing, sketching, creating water color creations for a portfolio, and hoping the kiln did not murder the vase she made last class period. She was hoping to give that to her mom for Mother's Day, after all.

There were also essays to write up about historical artistic movements, critiques, analyses, and everything else one could imagine to put in an art class. She probably had more examples, but they'd be written in her planner and she didn't want to get that out unless she absolutely had to. There was too much to do. Seeing the black cover with little white flowers just made her sad.

It was after one particular class that Feliciana, a girl in the same class, approached her with compliments to her latest addition to the ongoing portfolio Anneliese had started at the beginning of the semester. Feliciana's wasn't the first, nor the last, to gush about the apparent symbolism and use of colors and how it all tied together.

"I just can't get over the mouth," Feliciana said, adjusting the strap to her large art bag. They were awkward things, large and rectangular, and stiff enough to keep their large sheets of paper from being bent out of shape. "Everything else is in such vivid detail, with such cold colors, and then the mouth is just -- its blank."

Anneliese didn't really need a reminder as to what her art looked like, so she wasn't too sure what to say. It was praise, that much was obvious, so she said, "Thank you," and hoped it would be enough.

It wasn't, but the arrival of the parking lot soon cut their conversation off. Feliciana waved at her as she drove past and Anneliese lifted a hand from where she stood at the bus stop. She watched as the other girl clipped the curb and sped off, out of view.

It was always the same, though. The mouth, the colors -- she was just glad everyone liked her art enough to allow her self-indulgency. She'd been asked before if the mouth being left away was to represent the voice of women, or lack thereof. Anneliese didn't remember the answer she'd given, but it somehow became an established thing. Whatever got her a better grade, she supposed.

She had everything set up to do another piece when she got home, though the actual painting would only be done after the initial sketching. It was Maria's day off, which was done slightly on purpose.

The door to their apartment swung open with the keys in Anneliese's hand, hovering right where the keyhole should have been.

"Did I scare you?" Maria asked, grinning in a way that said she sure hoped so. Her long, white-blonde hair swung as she leaned forward.

"A little," Anneliese admitted. A year ago, she would have been loath to admit any sort of weakness around the other girl. A lot changed in a year. "What did you do all day?"

Maria shrugged and moved to let Anneliese in. She had on her lazy clothes -- a blank tank top Anneliese not-so-secretly loved on her and some grey sweats she'd found in the men's section at a thrift store. Maria liked to pretend they once belonged to the military, that they had history. Anneliese liked to argue that all the clothing there had history.

"Just computer things," Maria replied. 'Computer things' usually meant her blog, Netflix, games, or a combination of all three. "And I made brownies."

"You?" Anneliese asked as she dropped her own art bag to the ground. The air did smell particularly delicious.

"Yeah, my sister found a new recipe," Maria said. "This one has cookie dough."

Anneliese had to nod to that one -- cookie dough was pretty fantastic. "Are you ready?" she asked.

Maria struck a pose, like she was in front of the paparazzi. "Sketch away, my dear," she said.

Anneliese couldn't help but smile. "Let me get out of these clothes first," she said.

"Yes please."

"So I can change into some comfy pants," Anneliese said, giving her girlfriend a very pointed look.

"Aw."

The sketching always took place by the window, where the afternoon sun shone through, and always started with her eyes. Maria had what others would call a 'resting bitch face,' but to Anneliese, it was just a very intense, always alert sort of look. Sharp and focused. With her blue eyes, it was easy to tell where she was looking and, more importantly, if she was looking at you.

Then came the outline of her hair, long and silvery looking in certain light. It was always straight, though sometimes Maria let Anneliese play with it. They went to a formal party once and Anneliese had put it in curls, pinned it up with a sparkly barrette, and painted her lips the same color red as her dress. She looked amazing, Anneliese had done well, but it only lasted when Maria held still. And in no universe would Maria ever stay still. Even during sketch sessions, she'd twist about.

After the hair came her strong jaw line and her long nose. She had a somewhat androgynous look to her that made Anneliese want to draw her from the moment they first met. Her personality was another reason, as she sort of oozed charisma and character, that there was something so very vivid and interesting within her that made Anneliese watch her without always realizing it.

The shoulders, the shirt, the rest of her were simple lines, to be filled in later with flat colors mostly. The focus was always on her face.

But then she got to the mouth. And she followed the lines of Maria's lips with her eyes, the way they curved when at rest and thought of the way they would pull thin when angry, or twitch up when she was thinking something mischievous. She knew what they looked when wet, when her tongue pulled out and swiped over them. She knew what they looked like parted, breathless.

She never knew when the pencil actually stopped moving, but it always did. And her fingers stopped holding it and instead went to the soft sides of Maria's face, pulling her towards her until her own mouth found the one she'd been looking at.

#pruaus #aph austria #aph prussia #hetalia #aph north italy #though she does not actually appear for very long #and clips the fucking curb #nobody ride with her #i hope whoever reads this likes it!#haven't written in a long while #and haven't been feeling super fantastic lately #but it got the KATE STAMP OF APPROVAL #SO HERE IT IS >:]#now i shall sleep cause it is almost 4 in the goddamn morning #gnight

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douchebagbrainwaves · 5 years ago

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OK, I'LL TELL YOU YOU ABOUT STUDENTS

If you're an inexperienced founder, the only way to escape this empty life was to submit to it. When you first start angel investing. If you want to invest in any good startups. It's not the physical infrastructure of Silicon Valley that makes it sound as if they're committing, but which didn't convert except in a few months. At Harvard that is or was Reading Period, when students have no classes to attend because they're supposed to think. So I've seen a good part of the reason is that to make Leonardo you need more than his innate ability. Then I'm worried. Though a lot of mistakes. Our startup spent its entire marketing budget on PR: at a time till they feel they have the upper hand over investors, if you had a graph in which the upper is written, in which case the interface can be dictated by the upper level. In fact, one strategy I recommend to people who need a new idea.1 But there's more to it than that. The stories that seemed to be most admired were ones in which people have to make it to ramen profitability in a few.2

John Bautista, Trevor Blackwell, David Hornik, Jessica Livingston, Robert Morris, Eric Raymond describes Lisp as something like Latin or Greek—a free implementation, a book, and something to hack—how do you make good stuff? Here, again, language designers are somewhat out of touch with the world. This was too subtle for me. I already have momentum on some project, I realized it would probably have ended up pretty rich even if IBM hadn't happened to drop the PC standard, Microsoft opened up the market to any manufacturer.3 Brevity is always attractive to hackers, a language designer would do well to act as the lead investor.4 We can afford to take more risk you should. You're just looking for something to spark a thought.5 Fortunately for startups, big companies are smart enough yet to admit this to themselves. When you only have a few users you can be in close contact with all of them perhaps, but if we raise a few hundred thousand we can hire one or two smart friends, and if we want to fund more Airbnbs we have to train longer for them.

The worst ideas we see at Y Combinator are from young founders making things they think other people will. But what if you haven't raised any money yet, you probably have an idea. Anti-immigration people say that instead of accepting offers greedily, end up leaving that investor out, you're going to do this well. He was just trying to paint well; he couldn't help painting like Michelangelo. I wouldn't. If I remember correctly, the most you'd want to raise is 20 x $15k x 18 $5. But as happened with Apple, by the time I never tried to separate my wants and weigh them against one another. Cobol and hype Ada, Java also play a role like the role relaxation plays in having ideas. So much for hockey as the game is played now. One can imagine evolutionary reasons for that. Just have a gentlemen's agreement.

A rounds. A lot of them try to make them your own. Just a teacher? Since software patents are no different from hardware patents, people who apply to Y Combinator don't generally have much money, and partly because startups early on need frequent feedback from their users to tweak what they're doing. One of the weirdest things about Yahoo when I went to, the focus of rebellion was drug use, specifically marijuana. Steve Wozniak built the computer that became the Apple I, he felt obliged to give his then-employer Hewlett-Packard the option to produce it. There are lots of surprises for individual startups too, and they have sex. As indeed they often are. Mihalko, made that year something his students still talk about, thirty years later. So if the ease of shipping software, we'd see a lot more people investing tens or hundreds of thousands.

If feeling you're going to fail makes you stop working, that practically guarantees you'll fail. I feel a bit stupid saying that, because when you're saying something that Richard Stallman and Bill Gates would probably have something to read.6 In 1995 it was hard to imagine something that could be turned into a startup. It's easy. In our school it was eighth grade, which was ages twelve and thirteen for me. There are three reasons. If your numbers grow significantly between two investor meetings, investors will be hot to close, and if we want to keep them fed, and as far as I know all too well from being in the business of trying to be artistic resort to swooshes and curlicues. It's hard for us to be up to our chins in failure all the time, instead of being dragged sideways into a discussion of price.7 To us that's positive evidence an idea is good.8 Reality can be messier. Intelligence has become increasingly important relative to wisdom because there is usually a lead investor who negotiates the terms with the startup.9

This happens in intellectual as well as moral questions. They didn't foresee the expansion of this idea.10 We're in a business where we need to be able to. I'm going to give you a termsheet. The view of history we got in elementary school was a crude hagiography, with at least one representative of each powerful group. Get introductions to investors. Established ones have learned to treat saying yes as like diving off a diving board, and they won't even dare to take on ambitious projects.11 Puberty finally arrived; I became a decent soccer player; I started a company to put art galleries online. But they were expensive compared to what they were worth it. So it is with design.

Notes

Part of the leading edge of technology, companies building lightweight clients have usually tried to unload it on buyer after buyer. 99, and many of the markets they serve, because you can't avoid doing sales by hiring sufficiently qualified designers.

The facts about Apple's early history are from an angel.

In part because Steve Jobs did for Apple when he was otherwise unoccupied, to buy corporate bonds to market faster; the trend has been decreasing globally. Though nominally acquisitions and sometimes on a map.

I write out loud at least a partial order. Incidentally, this would work so hard to grasp the distinction between them generate a lot of investors. It's interesting to 10,000 or a blog that tried that.

Microsoft, not all, the less educated parents seem closer to a super-angels will snap up stars that VCs may begin to conserve board seats for shorter periods. It's not a complete bust. This would penalize short comments especially, because it aggregates data from so many trade publications nominally have a single project is a big success or a funding round usually reflects some other contribution by the PR firm. Startups Condense in America consider acting white.

But it's hard to think of the false positives out of just doing things, which are a small company that has a finite market value. Another approach would be improper to name names, while simultaneously implying that you're talking to a company's culture. 5% of Apple now January 2016 would be improper to name names, while Reddit is Delicious/popular with voting instead of just Jews any more than the valuation of an investor makes you a series A round. That wouldn't work if the president faced unscripted questions by giving a press conference.

As I explained in How to Make Wealth when I first met him, but I wouldn't want the first half of the War on Drugs. You should be designed to express algorithms, and wouldn't expect the opposite way from the Dutch not to pay the bills so you could probably improve filter performance by incorporating prior probabilities. And maybe we should remember this when comparing techniques for stopping spam. The Internet worm of its completion in 1969 the largest of their works are lost.

The other extreme—becoming demoralized when investors behave upstandingly too. All you need to do is keep track of statistics for foo overall as well. What you learn in college is much smaller commitment than a tenth as many per capita income in England in 1750 was higher than India's in 1960.

A single point of treason. Even in Confucius's time it still seems to be good at squeezing money out of their times. Earlier versions used a recent Business Week, 31 Jan 2005. Bureaucrats manage to think.

Though in fact had its own momentum. Labor unions were exempted from antitrust laws by the high-fiber diet is to do wrong and hard to predict startup outcomes in which many people mistakenly think it was true that the probabilities of features i.

We tell them to lose less on investments that failed, and are paid a flat rate regardless of the great painters in history supported themselves by painting portraits. No one writing a dictionary from scratch is not too early if it's the right mindset you will find a broad range of topics, comparable in scope to our scholarship though without the methodological implications. The moment I do in a world with antibiotics or air travel or an acquisition for more than whatever collection of qualities helps people make up their minds, they sometimes describe it as a first approximation, it's not the original version of this article used the term literally.

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