#she looks old and ugly

[wolfavens]

ghost car of barna road

track 3 - liberty belle 1/2

my manager greeted me in irish.

i blinked at the screen in mute panic. i couldn’t remember how to reply. words and languages collided in my brain. it was a car crash, baby, and in the end all that came out of my mouth was a prolonged aaah with no end in sight. a perfect visual representation would be a multilanguage tsunami, pouring out of my ears and pooling around my slippers on the dusty rug of my childhood bedroom.

i used to write those words down into a black notebook, watching you mock me from that dusty rug. you and your smug gaeltacht born grin. who would’ve thought i will forget them all by the time i’m 30.

“how did the move go?”

move. to galway. my hometown. i found my voice again and rushed out: “oh yeah! the move went okay. got here late last night. drive was smooth. not many cars around after midnight.”

“hehe, don’t get used to it. it’s a totally different story after 8am.”

we chatted for a while, arranging to meet in dublin next month when i was all settled in. won’t take long. all i needed was to get a flat, a car - did i need help with the flat? there are probably relocation programmes for employees available. no. i think i got it. did i tho?

we finished the call twenty minutes later. the fact i managed to scrape by enough words to at least tell him goodbye in irish seemed to cheer him up a bit.

i finished up some minor work tasks, sipping at the remainder of my mother’s disgusting herbal tea and took a short break to open the dusty unused storage areas of my childhood bedroom. i needed to clean up the old junk before moving in the new junk. i had to give one thing to my mother; she did an excellent job of preserving this place. if ever i managed to do something worthwhile with my life she could start charging fucking entry for this museum of fiadh kavanagh.

shaking my head i started pulling out old clothes and creating a pile on the floor. if she believed i still fit into these jeans i should be worried about early onset neurodegenerative diseases.

i was done with the columns and moving on to the hangers by the time she stuck her head in and quirked her dark eyebrows at me. “need any help?”

“mom, why the fuck did you keep all this?” i asked, showcasing fist-full of short gothic dresses. “aren’t you worried about clothes moths?”

ignoring my point she sat down on the bed, smiling. “oh, i though you might still like to keep some of it. it’s not like we need extra storage.”

“mom, look at me!” i threw another armful onto the pile, lifting my arms to indicate my age ravaged body. “how could i possibly fit into size four?! some of these are from the children’s section!”

“you look like a string, you could easily fit. it’s the cigarettes. they are not good for ya.”

i rolled my eyes. “i’m not even fucki…”

the feel of a familiar soft fabric beneath my fingertips made me stop midsentence. i pulled it out into the light with shaking fingers, heart racing against my ribcage. it looked huge in my palms. the faded graphics were barely visible in the shadowy light of my room. if you tried hard enough you could just barely make out the name of the band. distantly i heard my mom echo my name but i was stuck in the past, standing in the cold autumn rain by the open driver’s side window of your car.

“ooooh, i remember this one,” my mother said with a nostalgic smile.

i made a small sound at the back of my throat.

“it’s the donovan boy’s, isn’t it? i remember teasing him about it. i told him: young man, this is not a free laundry i run here! you know what he said to me?”

i nodded, whispering, “it’s not my fault yer daughter is a stinkin’ thief.”

she laughed. “little bastard. he was the worst influence on you. funny how he turned out. would never expect a son of deirdre donovan to make something of himself. i guess we owe it all to the wife. she…”

my body snapped back to action. i was moving away before she could say her name. putting the sweater on the bed next to her, i brushed my hands against my sweatpants and mumbled: “right, look we need to get rid of all this before i can unpack. do you know someone with skinny teenage children? ideally with a questionable fashion sense?”

“we can drive to the clothes recycling point.”

“grand! let’s do that after work.” i told her, kicking my way through the discarted clothes toward the closet and dumping whatever was left on top of the rest. “i need to get back to work now. i have a meeting in 20.”

“oh, ok. sorry.” she chuckled, standing up. “i will bring some bags to put all of this in.” she reached for the sweater on her way out and i jumped in to block her path on impulse.

“uh… where are you taking that?”

she blinked up at me, brown eyes surprised. “downstairs. i figured i could return it to the rightful owner rather than donate it to charity. although,” she giggled, pulling it apart for scale, “i doubt it will still fit him.”

she was gone before i could open my mouth, taking the sweater with her. my clenched fists unclenched with effort as i pushed the door closed and leaned my back against it. i was breathing too hard. the way you handed me that sweater through the driver’s side window on that rainy, a blast from the past; a ghostly memory. just enough to make me shudder.

[ratwithhands]

Read Right to Left (Manga Format)

I have returned to watching demon slayer after a year and it came up while I was having a serious late night talk with my big sister. I was talking about the relationship between Michikatsu/Kokushibo and Yoriichi and it turns out we both see each other in Yoriichi's shoes and ourselves in Michikatsu's place. Definitely surprising, but really relieving to know that we both worry too much and we are not so far apart in skill as we believe.

This is technically the first piece of fanart I've ever made for the characters in Demon Slayer, I have made OCs before but I never drew an actual character from the story. For context this is mostly just a fun "what if" scenario with them meeting in the afterlife. I like to think Yoriichi's love would reawaken Michikatsu's humanity.

[happytapir-art]

If you dream it you can achieve it.

[kavalyera]

my cappadocian methuselah lillian

[shitpost-faerie]

Helluva human versions as I'd like to see them..pt.1?

[nabaath-areng]

When I was little I thought one of our cats Sockan (translation: the sock) was a tiger. She was more bright orange/red IRL too compared to photos

[fromtheseventhhell]

Another round of asoiaf "prettycourse", another round of people ignoring Arya's self-esteem issues and how it relates to her arc because their enjoyment of the series hinges on an 11-year-old being considered ugly.

[lyss-sketchbox]

Iansan is the only natlan character i want and if she's put in the banner with the leopard or the vampire cowboy lady im actually skipping the entire natlan roster until columbina

[jellyjamheadobb]

[everynicorobin]

"Bad timeline" my ass she looks fucking incredible at forty there

[biitchcakes]

SPIDER-WOMAN TROPES .

The Sacrifice of Hair / The Important Haircut .

To save her life and Lindsay's, Jessica must tear at own hair. Hair that we have watched grow over the last couple of years as she discovers who she is, learns what it's like to be human. What it's like to be free from Hydra's control. It goes from its natural blonde into its since signature black. It's been a part of her journey, and her literally ripping it apart here comes just two issues before her death ⸺⸺ and subsequent REBIRTH.

( the video that got me thinking about it )

[thursdaygrl]

spent an hour working on these gifs only to accidentally lose most of them but.... alas, fuck it we ball. i'll get back to it tomorrow.

[cozycryptidcorner]

Dropping the hammer on my roommate’s mean ex wife

[mimimilu]

some quick experimental sketches for my sister

[peachyyjellie]

control freak driven by a greed to succeed

[balkanradfem]

I like old things. Old things means they've survived the test of time, they're still standing, or working, or fulfilling a purpose they've been made to do. I like old furniture, clothing, buildings, cutlery, pots and pans, mugs, anything old is immediately respected and beloved by me.

It also means no new resources had to be spent on making new things, because this old thing has done such a great job! It's made from resources created ages ago and still kicking, making those resources last a long time. It also means it's likely been made before the age of late capitalism, so it's likely made with heart; the quality is good, it was made to be practical and lasting, it's not going to fall apart easily, it's purpose wasn't to fulfill a need that didn't exist before the marketing team manufactured it. It's reliable, purposeful, protecting the environment and saving the new resources for as long as it lasts.

However, old things something can look a little ragged and worse for wear. They can make you seem like you can't 'afford' new things, which is terrible, to be viewed in this poor, moneyless manner. They are not made to fit aesthetic of every other item in the room, or in the environment. They don't fit the color scheme you have in the room, if your room has one. They remind you of the old times when you didn't have much of new stuff, and maybe that was a sad time for some people. Maybe they invoke pity in people who have learned to associate 'old things' with poverty.

But I don't care! I liked the old times when things were lasting, and practical, and nobody had much new things, so we had to invent ridiculous ways to play with our old stuff. I love seeing old things in use and knowing that nothing was wasted creating this, there's a tree growing somewhere that won't be cut to make a new one, there's plastic that won't need to be melted and molded and last a few years before it's dispersed into the environment. Old things being used helps the planet keep going so I love them regardless of their aesthetic or color scheme. When did it become so important for everything to look nice, instead of it being the best scenario for everyone's well being? Maybe I look a little scruffy but I know what I'm about. Impressing other people with the amount of new stuff that I could potentially have will never trump the satisfaction of me knowing that my old stuff is thriving together with the environment.