#tomorrow is a latter day
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dramaticngay · 5 months ago
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WHEN I TELL YOU I AM FUCKING SOBBING MY EYES OUT OVER TOMORROW IS A LATER DAY... THIS SONG DOES THINGS TO ME MAN...
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LOOK AT THEM THEYRE SO CUTE /p
+ bonus of kevin getting booped
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2phie · 1 year ago
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things i just wanted to point out about tomorrow is a latter day and why it makes it so good:
kevin saying “fuck him” about the mission president (ik this is technically before the song) which is just major character development and a real liberating moment for him
obviously the ‘i am here for you’ reprise
the repetition of the choreography from ‘two by two’ except the movements are looser and more carefree than they were before, showing how they once again are starting a new and unknown journey, but one which is less restrictive and confining
“the only latter day that matters is tomorrow”
everyone sorta saying what being a ‘latter day saint’ actually means to them. however ‘latter day saint’ isn’t really referring to an actual mormon but rather they are saying their purpose in life and who they strive to be as a person/community
mckinley saying “we love to dance and shout, and let all the feelings out” is also extremely liberating and a beautiful moment of development. there is a hint of true joy as we see the first instances of his journey towards self acceptance
just everyone dancing together
kevin’s “i believe” reprise is just uggggh. like not only does he sound so good but it sounds almost like he’s accepting and coming to terms with the fact that he is believing in something but something new and outside of the mormon church
the ‘hello’ reprise but the instrumental made up of (presumably) ugandan sounds
it’s also more upbeat than ‘hello’
when everyone comes on stage and sings ‘hello’ together
“we’ll show you how you can belong” instead of “we’ll show you how it can be done” because this new ‘faith’ they have is about embracing the true self while mormonism surrounds changing and mouldings yourself to fit the ‘requirements’ of the faith
the final harmonies. heaven. joy.
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personal-blog243 · 11 months ago
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The Book of Mormon musical:
. Portrays black people as stupid, uneducated, dirty, unhygienic, violent, baby-raping, primitive, savages, who thing raping babies is a magical cure for AIDS and have maggots in their scrotums and have never heard of Disney or texting even though white western missionaries visit their town EVERY. SINGLE. FUCKING. YEAR.
. Makes fun of African accents.
. Portrays white supremacist colonialists and imperialists as harmless, innocent, charming, lovable, naĂŻve, well-meaning, nice, goofballs, with individuality and complex personalities and character arcs. (And significantly more lines and stage time).
. Is directed and produced by an almost entirely white crew who did not hire a single African consultant.
. Doesn’t properly subvert the white savior narrative and instead just plays the traditional trope vaguely “ironically”
. Only includes cis-het, abled, white men in all advertisements so you don’t know it’s about Africans until you’ve already bought your ticket. Instead the ads just have a picture of a random doorknob???
Eclipsed: play by Danai Gurira
. Is a powerful play about the Liberian civil war told from the perspective of Liberian women (writtten by Danai Gurira of The Walking Dead and Black Panther). Starring Lupita Nyong’o from Black Panther, The Woman King, 12 years ago slave, and US; it’s historically and culturally accurate and has a message about the ethics of different strategies of activism.
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phierecycled · 2 years ago
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All the missionaries wearing ties with African patterns on it in the Hello reprise at the end of BoM is my favourite little detail in the show
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purple-raspberries · 7 months ago
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Guess what!
BOOM!
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(Click for better quality if needed)
Your honor, they’re perfect for each other!!!!
Frank likes butterflies and facts and nerdy passionate men! Passionate poet Butterfly boyfriend!
Eddie has a literature partner that he can chatter and listen to!! Frank has many books! They’re all fruity!! And Latter needs all the love, tooooooo!
Yellow and purple! yellow and purple!! YELLOW AND PURPLE!!!! AAAAAAAAAA
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elposting · 5 months ago
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he’s so stupid (affectionate)
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tomorrow is a latter day. good luck tomorrow soldiers đŸ«ĄđŸ«Ą
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benevolenterrancy · 2 months ago
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Congrats, now all I'm going to be able to think about all day long is Chifeng-zun being stunned into silence by the sight of Meng Yao's braids, the same as if he had never left. His hand reaches out and clenches in mid-air, while Jin Guangyao stands shell-shocked and panicking, or blissfully oblivious to how Nie Mingjue's world is tilting on its axis. He could be mad, the rage that almost let him call the Unclean Realm home making Hensheng thrum: because what right does Nie Mingjue have to want him now, when he finally has a place he belongs? And why does want to quit it all for him?
Anyway, now you can share in my brain worms~
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In that moment, something was communicated
unfortunately, neither knew exactly what it was
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suddencolds · 7 months ago
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Atypical Occurrence [1/?]
Happy birthday to my dear friend, @caughtintherain!! I wanted to give you some Vincent suffering to chew on for the occasion, so please take this fic (or, first part of a fic) as a gift <3
this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I’ve written for these two! chronologically, this fic takes place a month or so after the last installment leaves off :)
Summary: Vincent shows up late to a meeting. It just goes downhill from there. (ft. fake dating, the flu, a house visit)
—
Vincent is late.
Yves tries not to stare at the empty seat across from him. The meeting—their first meeting of the day—started five minutes ago. If there’s anything Yves knows, it’s that Vincent always comes in early. 
In stumbles Cara, handling a morning coffee with probably more espresso shots than anyone should have at 8am. Then Laurent, briefcase in one hand, paging through a folder of files in his other. Then Angelie, Isaac, Garrett, Ray, Sienna. Then they get started, and Yves turns his attention towards the graphs projected onscreen at the front of the room, and tries very hard not to think about Vincent.
It’s five minutes later that the door swings open, near-silent.
Sienna—who’s presenting—stops, for a moment, to look back at Vincent from where he’s standing in the doorway, which means that of course, everyone looks.
Cara turns around in her seat, raising an eyebrow. Angelie frowns at him. 
“Sorry I’m late,” Vincent says, quietly. “It won’t happen again.”
Isaac shrugs. Angelie looks a little concerned, but she turns back to her work, anyways. Sienna resumes her presentation. All in all, it’s nothing—or it should be nothing. Probably traffic, on the way here; a particularly unlucky commute. An unlikely occurrence, but—to anyone else—not anything worth dwelling over.
It might be a sufficient explanation, if Yves didn’t know better.
Vincent takes care to close the door quietly behind him, then heads over to the only open seat, across from Yves. He unzips his briefcase, quietly, unobtrusively, and takes out his laptop. Yves tries to focus on what Sienna is saying—she’s giving a review of a client’s current investment strategies; he’d reviewed her work on this just a couple days ago.
Vincent asks good questions throughout—he always has a good sense of what areas still lack clarity, Yves has found. Today is no exception. He takes part in the meeting with such calculated precision that Yves almost misses it.
Almost misses: the slight stiffness to his shoulders, as if it’s taking more than the usual amount of effort to keep himself upright. The way in which he clears his throat before speaking, like it might actually hurt. The way he rests his head on one hand, halfway into the meeting—as if even now, barely forty minutes into the workday, he’s already exhausted.
It’s subtle enough to go unnoticed, subtle enough that Yves wonders if he’s just reading too much into it—if, perhaps, Vincent is fine, after all.
—
He doesn’t see Vincent again until lunch.
Or, more accurately, he doesn’t see Vincent again until he’s headed down for lunch with Cara and Laurent. Vincent is already on his way out of the cafeteria, a takeout container in hand.
“You’re not going to eat here?” Yves asks.
Vincent doesn’t look at him. “I have some work to get done at my desk,” he says. He clears his throat again, like it’s irritating him.
“Okay,” Yves says. Vincent turns to leave, and Yves thinks of a hundred ways in which he could possibly prolong this conversation, and then decides against it. Vincent is already so busy.
“You look tired,” he settles on, instead.
He expects Vincent to dismiss this, to reassure him that it isn’t true. But Vincent looks up at him at last, blinking, as if he’s surprised that Yves noticed at all. His eyes are a little dark-rimmed underneath his glasses.
He doesn’t deny it, which is as much of a confirmation as Yves needs.
“The sooner I can get this work done, the sooner I can go home,” he says. Yves supposes he can’t argue with that.
“I guess I’ll see you around, then,” Yves says, even though he wants to say more, even though he feels like there’s more that he should be saying. “Don’t work too hard.”
Vincent nods, at this, and resumes walking.
—
Yves is probably overthinking it. There isn’t anything concrete, really, to justify his concern.
Vincent’s lateness to the meeting could just as easily be the consequence of an alarm he’d forgotten to set, his exhaustion just as easily a side effect—of recent late nights in the office, of arbitrary changes to the projects he’s on, of last-minute demands from clients.
The next time he sees Vincent is at the end of the work day. Yves always takes the elevators on the north end of the building—they’re ones that lead directly out into the parking garage. When he gets out to the hallway, Vincent is already standing there, waiting for the elevator.
Yves watches Vincent stiffen, slightly. Watches him raise one hand up to his face to shudder into it with a harsh, “HHihH’iKKTSh-hUH!”
A thin tremor runs through the line of his shoulders, as if he’s too cold, even though the office air conditioning is no colder than usual. His hand, cupped to his face, remains there for a moment more before he lowers it.
He sniffles, then, rummaging through his pocket for—something. When he doesn’t find it, he just frowns a little, sniffling again. 
“Bless you,” Yves says.
“Yves,” Vincent says, his shoulders stiffening a little. He clears his throat, turning around so that he can address Yves properly.
It’s only a few seconds later that he’s turning sharply away, tenting both hands over his nose and mouth for—
“Hh-! hHiH—HIHh’DZSSschh-uhh! snf-!”
“Bless you again.” 
Vincent sighs. “Don’t bother.” He really looks exhausted, Yves realizes. During their brief interaction at lunch, he’d already sensed as much, but the harsh white glare of the bright corporate lighting only makes it more evident.
Vincent looks a little paler than usual, if only slightly, and there’s a slight flush that spreads itself over his cheekbones. He looks—well, nearly as put together as always, distilled only by the slight crookedness of his tie, as if it’s been on too tight; the near-invisible sheen of sweat over his forehead. The slight redness to the bridge of his nose, the slight shiver to his hand as he reaches up to adjust his collar.
Yves frowns, taking this all in. “You look kind of
”
“Terrible?” Vincent finishes for him.
Yves winces. “...Well, terrible is a strong word. I was going to say, you look like you could use some sleep.”
“I’m
 feeling a little off,” Vincent says, staring straight ahead, as if it’s not an admission at all. But Yves suspects, from the way he avoids eye contact, that perhaps it was something he was intending on keeping private. “You should keep your distance.”
The elevator dings. The sliding doors part, and he steps inside. 
“First floor?” Yves asks, hesitating next to the panel of buttons.
“Yes,” Vincent says. Then, quietly: “Thanks.”
“You know, now that busy season is over, the world is not going to end if you take a sick day,” Yves tells him. “Even if you do like, twice the amount of work as everyone else on the team, if you needed to call out, I’m sure something could be arranged.”
Vincent smiles at him, a little wryly. “I must look pretty bad if you’re saying this to me.”
“Yes, I was lying,” Yves says. “Clearly, you look terrible.”
It isn’t true at all—even here, even like this, Vincent doesn’t look terrible, not even in the least. But Vincent still smiles, at this—a tired smile.
The elevator doors slide open.
“Text me if you need anything,” Yves says, impulsively. “Seriously. Tissues, soup, medicine—whatever. It’s not far of a drive.”
“That’s very considerate of you,” Vincent says. “I will see you tomorrow.” And then he steps out of the elevator, and Yves is left with an inexplicable sinking feeling in his stomach. As far as he knows, it has no place there. Obviously, Vincent can take care of himself. Obviously, Vincent can handle a cold. Yves has nothing to be concerned about.
—
The next day is rainy—a constant, torrential downpour, which makes his commute to work take almost twice as long as it usually does. It wouldn’t be spring here, Yves supposes, without dreary weather like this.
Back in uni, when he rowed crew, they’d practice out for hours out in the rain. Now that he spends the majority of his day inside, he supposes he can’t complain. The shelter of the office building is a reprieve.
Vincent doesn’t show up.
“I think he’s out sick,” Cara says, when Yves asks. “You know, it’s funny. I don’t think I’ve actually seen him take a sick day before.”
“For how hard he works, he definitely deserves one,” Garrett says.
“He seemed fine yesterday, when I saw him,” Cara says, with a shrug. “Probably came on quickly.” Yves nods.
But that isn’t quite right, is it? Vincent hadn’t seemed fine, had he? Yves thinks back to the things he’d noticed—Vincent, uncharacteristically exhausted during the meeting, though it was clear he’d been just as engaged as usual. Vincent, shivering in the elevator, telling Yves to keep his distance. How poorly had he been feeling already, yesterday? How poorly does he have to be feeling today to have called off of work for it?
He finds some time just before lunch to text.
Y: how are you holding up? Y: yesterday’s offer stands if you need me to bring you anything!
He doesn’t get a response from Vincent, which is a little concerning. He checks his phone halfway through lunch, and then twice more, in between his afternoon meetings, just in case he’s missed a notification.
“Are you expecting a text from someone?” Cara says, looking a little curious.
“Just a friend,” Yves says, which is and isn’t true.
To make a point—to Cara, and possibly to himself—he shuts his phone off. He very pointedly does not look at it again for the remainder of the hour.
It’s not until mid-afternoon that he finally gets a response.
V: Sorry to get back to you so late.
Yves sits upright, fumbling with his phone to get it unlocked. The text bubble pops up again, somewhat intermittently, to show that Vincent is typing.
V: If it’s not too much trouble, there’s a blue folder on my desk labeled 2-A.
Yves blinks at this, a little disbelieving.
Y: you’re asking me to bring you work files? Y: arent you supposed to be resting đŸ€š Y: paid sick leave, remember? as in, leave your work at work??
V: I meant to pack them yesterday.
Y: that’s like a genie grants you 3 wishes and you ask for an extra day of assignments Y: terrible waste of a wish if you ask me
V: As a genie, you’re quite judgmental
Y: ok ok Y: as your loyal lamp dweller i’ll be over around 8pm with folder 2-A  Y: you need anything else? 
V: Nothing else V: You can just leave them outside my door 
A beat. Then Vincent sends:
V: Sorry to trouble you
Yves thinks of twenty responses he wants to send to that text. Then, thinking better of himself, he shuts his phone off and gets back to work.
—
It’s a little past seven when he finally checks out of the office.
Outside, the rain hasn’t even begun to let up—it falls, straight and heavy, in large, globular droplets. The streets gleam with water. Yves leaves his umbrella in the trunk, tunes out everything but the static of the rainfall, and drives.
Yves has only ever been to Vincent’s apartment once—to pick him up for the New Years’ party Margot hosted—and even then, Vincent had met him at the door. But he recognizes the unit, nonetheless.
For a moment, he considers leaving the folder of files outside of Vincent’s door and taking his leave.
But it’s windy, and he’s afraid the papers might fly away, torn up by the biting wind, and get lost face down in a puddle somewhere, which would defeat the purpose of him coming here in the first place, and would probably also breach some employee confidentiality policy. So instead, he knocks.
It’s silent for a moment. Rain beats down on the slanted rooftops, a constant thrum. 
Yves is about to reach out to knock again, when the door swings open.
There stands Vincent, in a pale blue hoodie and loose-fitting pajama pants, with neat rectangular cuffs.
He looks tired. It’s the first thing Yves registers—the unusual fatigue to his expression, which he can’t quite seem to blink away; the flush high on his cheekbones. The way he holds himself, his shoulders stiff, carefully, defensively; as if despite his exhaustion, there’s a part of him which wishes to appear presentable still.
It’s only a moment later that he’s taking a halting step back, ducking into a hoodie sleeve. Yves catches the shiver of his expression, his eyebrows pulling together, before it crumples, and his head jerks forward with a harsh—
“hHihh’GKkTT—! Hh-!! iHH-’DZZSCHh-uuUh!”
The second sneeze sounds louder and harsher than usual, even muffled into the fabric of his sleeve. It betrays his congestion all at once. 
“Bless you,” Yves says.
Vincent emerges, sniffling a little. When he speaks, he sounds a little hoarser than he did yesterday. “I thought I said you - snf-! - could leave them on the front step.”
“You did,” Yves says, glancing down at the folder in his hands. “But it’s windy, and it’s raining. I figured you’d prefer to have your files intact. How are you feeling?”
Vincent blinks at him. He’s leaning heavily against the doorframe, Yves realizes, one hand gripped tightly around the frame, his knuckles white from the pressure, as if it would take him too much effort to stay upright otherwise. 
“Alright,” he answers. “Thanks for making the trip here. I
 it must’ve taken longer, in the rain.” He squeezes his eyes shut, as if his head hurts, as if the light coming from outside is exacerbating his headache. “If you ever need me to pick something up for you, I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Yves says. Despite himself, he reaches up to press his hand against Vincent’s forehead.
The heat under his fingertips is alarming, to say the least. Yves blinks, lowering his hand, and tries to keep the worry out of his voice. “Have you taken your temperature?”
Vincent shakes his head. “I don’t think I have a thermometer.”
“Have you eaten, then?”
Vincent averts his glance, looking sheepish. “I
 was planning to stop for groceries, yesterday,” he says. Planning to.
Yves thinks back to the elevator ride yesterday. Vincent had probably already been feeling very unwell, then. And yet, he’d talked with Yves as if nothing was out of the ordinary. I’m feeling a little off, he’d said, as if anything about his current affliction could possibly be characterized as “little.” I will see you tomorrow—as if he had really, genuinely been intending on showing up at work. 
“So I take it that there’s nothing in the fridge, either,” Yves says.
“If it’s any consolation, you’ll be pleased to know that I slept,” Vincent says, in lieu of answering.
Then he shivers—the sort of concerning, full-body shiver that is a little concerning, coming from someone who is usually unaffected by the cold—and Yves is immediately reminded that the door they’re speaking through is open.
“Can I come in?” he asks.
“You probably shouldn’t,” Vincent says, before his expression scrunches up, and he’s ducking away with a— “hh—! hHih-II—TSSCHHh-UH! snf-!”, smothered hurriedly into the palm of his hand. He sniffles, emerging with a slight wince. “This came on pretty quickly. It might be the flu.”
“It’s fine,” Yves says. “I got my flu shot in the winter. And anyways, I’ll be careful.”
Vincent is quiet, for a moment. Then, frowning, he says, “I’d feel terrible if you caught this.”
That’s the least of Yves’s worries—he doubts he’s going to catch this. Even if he does, it will just mean a few days off of work. Not the end of the world, by any means. Nothing to warrant the expression on Vincent’s face—Vincent looks upset, as if he’ll really can’t think of anything worse than Yves catching this. Like even the thought of it is worth being upset over.
Yves shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, seriously.” He pushes past Vincent to step inside and shuts the door behind him. “Here, I’ll set these down on your desk. Where is it?”
“Down the hallway, to the left,” Vincent says.
Yves takes the folder, leaves his shoes at the door, and heads inside. 
Vincent’s bedroom is small and organized—it’s the kind of bedroom that’s tastefully minimal, in the sort of unified manner that implies that everything in it has been carefully arranged. There’s a small white desk in the corner, a stack of files arranged neatly next to Vincent’s laptop, its lid halfway to shut. There’s a bookshelf, leaned up against the wall far; the bottom shelf looks to be filled with textbooks; the top shelf lined with books, both in Korean and in English. The walls are painted slate gray, the carpets lining the floorboards picked out to match, and there are pale blue curtains hanging from the windows, pulled tightly shut.
There are signs here, too, of his illness, but they are subtle. A tissue box, nestled between his pillow and the headboard, half empty. A waste bin at the foot of the bed, conveniently in reach. A small bottle of aspirin on the bedside counter; an empty packet of cough drops sitting at the edge of his nightstand.
Yves sets the folder at the end of Vincent’s desk, next to the rest of his files, and turns to face him.
“You’re not going to work on these until you’re feeling better, right?” he asks.
“Only if I can’t sleep,” Vincent says, which Yves supposes is a satisfactory answer. Then he twists away, his eyebrows furrowing, lifting a loosely clenched fist to his face to cough, and cough. 
The cough is harsh and grating—his entire frame shudders with the force of it, his breaths shallow and raspy. He really sounds awful. This must have come on quickly, Yves thinks.
If it’s upsetting, seeing Vincent like this, it’s even worse to be standing here, in his room, doing nothing. So—if only to make himself useful, if only to convince himself that there’s something he can do—Yves ducks out into the kitchen.
The pantry is meticulously organized—glasses lined up in neat rows; stacks of bowls sorted by size. He fills a glass with water, shuts the cabinets, and takes it back to the bedroom. 
By the time he gets back, Vincent is sitting at the edge of his bed. His glasses are folded neatly, left at the very edge of the countertop.
“Here,” Yves says, crossing the room, holding out the glass for him to take. 
“Thanks,” Vincent says, taking it gingerly from him. He takes a small, tentative sip, and then another—his hands are a little shaky, Yves notices. “You - snf-! - should really go.”
“I’m not entirely convinced you’ll be fine on your own,” Yves says.
“Of course I will be,” Vincent says, with all of his usual certainty. He lays down, pulling the covers over his body. “I have been fine on my own for years.”
It’s meant to be reassuring, Yves supposes. But he doesn’t feel reassured in the least.
“Thank you again for bringing me the files,” Vincent says, at last, shutting his eyes.
“You could’ve asked me to get you groceries,” Yves says. “There’s a supermarket not far from here, right? And you’re out of cough drops.” He takes a few steps over, towards the desk in the corner of the room. “These—” He examines the bottle of ibuprofen on the table. “—are expired.”
“Just because you’ve extended this kindness to me,” Vincent tells him, “doesn’t mean I should take advantage of it.”
Yves blinks, a little taken aback. “It’s only groceries. I wouldn’t have minded, really.”
“See,” Vincent says, with a note of—something in his voice. It sounds a bit like resignation. “That’s just the kind of person you are.”
Yves doesn’t know what to say, to that. 
Before he can think up a fitting response, Vincent’s breathing evens out. Yves lets himself listen to the shallow, steady cadence of it. Lets himself acknowledge the heavy, painful feeling in his chest for just a moment. Then he shuts the lights off and heads back out into the hallway.
[ Part 2 ]
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canisalbus · 6 months ago
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happy birthday! đŸ’•đŸŽ‰đŸŒ»
I really hope it’s a lovely one!!!
Oh thank you! ;-; 🧡
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defiledtomb · 2 months ago
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hellooo, I hope you're feeling well! I was wondering however if ouroboros was still being worked on or if it's on hiatus. Hope I wasn't rude in asking
I don't feel it's rude, after all, I have been keeping the development close to my chest. It is still being worked on, edited and transferred into renpy with graphics and soundbytes galore! However, right now, since about three weeks back, I left my partner of 8 years in the middle of the night with just a change of clothes, my dog, and a laptop. I'm struggling hard but putting on a brave face-- right now I'm coming up with a concept of something else to work on until I get a proper apartment and can get my stationary PC back so I can get back to work on ouro. I'll make a proper post about it tomorrow, so keep an eye on this space!
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siena-sevenwits · 29 days ago
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Just explained tumblr holidays and the like to my retired dad. At ten o'clock I told him what time it was on October the 24th, if he wanted to know. My dad, the world's biggest Tolkien nerd, was absolutely delighted, and I told him he had you lot to credit for it. This led to an explanation of the Ides of March and Sweet Fat of the Hog and You're Out of Touch, and I have never seen a man so charmed in my life.
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curly-cottage-girl · 4 months ago
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can’t tell if I’m getting sick or the exhaustion has compounded enough and is catching up with me
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runefactorynonsense · 1 year ago
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Cozytober - Day 31 - Feast (for my eyes!)
🎃Happy Halloween , 2023 🎃
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strawberryfaced · 1 month ago
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I NEED. TO DO. OR MAKE SOMETHING. PLEASE
#actually I haven’t had this overwhelming creative energy in a while it feels TERRIBLE thank you very much#okay the thing is. there’s like many things actually so I am going to go Explode in the tags now#the first thing that I am like painfully terribly aching to do is Write something#I talked about this the other day but like. first of all I haven’t added anything to my poems collection for a while and the other day I re#d this beautifully beautifully written story and now I’m like. INEED. TO WRITE A FUCKINGN BOOK#and then there’s also Knitting. a few months ago we impulsively purchased a bunch of knitting tools and now it’s just sitting in my house b#cause I tried it once and I couldn’t do it so I kind of. gave up. now suddenly I want to like. knit a scarf AND ITS EATING AWAY AT ME#I NEED TO LIKE. SIT DOEN AND WATCH A YOUTUBE TUTORIAL AND MAN I COULD TOTALLY DO THAT BECAUSE IM ON HOLIDAY#BUT LIKE. THERES A MILLION OTHER THINGS I WANT TO DO SO IF COURSE THE OPTION MY BRAIN PICKS IS#DO NOTHING AT ALL.#also this is a bit of a silly one but like. I have this long long loooong list in my notes app that I started in 2021#and it’s just Big words. and like. the thing is they used to stick in my brain. I used to be able to add them to the list and use it whenev#needed. now I just write it down and it’s GONE and that makes me want to put myself in an oven because WHY.#I NEED. TO BE THAT PERSON. WITH THE USELESSLY ABYSSAL VOCABULARY#SO I REALLY JUST WABT TO SIT DOWN FOR 2 HOURS AND MEMORISE AND STUDY BUT then again. my brain is all or nothing and#usually it is the latter#another thing is my sketchbook. haven’t added to that in a while and I want to do that but then I will have to wait til sunset or daylight#because I physically cannot create art with artificial electrical light. but then I’ll have to wait til tomorrow and#I really also want to go outside and just exist before I have no time to after break ends#so Yeah.
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ceasarslegion · 5 months ago
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My favourite musical of all time is the book of mormon and every once in a while I listen to the OST again and then I spend the rest of the day with hasa diga eebowai stuck in my head. Which um, is a little awkward when passengers with crucifix necklaces come through due to the
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faaun · 1 year ago
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. anyway after writing the tags 4 this post i told my research partner i will no longer follow his dreams lmao. still helping w it but i need to engage in research that i find satisfying
#i think ive been waiting for something for a while and i will spend the next year waiting for it too#i thought i felt panic but i have decided to read it as anticipation. the thrill of rejection or of moving forward or the latter as#a result of the former. i left you with your backpack unattended in the cafe because on fridays i am done#putting my life on hold for another whim-without-a-warning#this cross country service is delayed by 26 minutes so i will grab a bucket and start shovelling the water away from the tracks#everyone is moving on in some different way and im sorry if you think im mean for telling you getting so drunk will disable you from#recording your brainwaves effectively but it seems like you think i owe you an awful lot. one year ago in four days my friend got me hegel's#science of logic for my birthday and i thanked him for proving to me the existence of things this is what i do he said#and then he will spend the rest of his life breathing philosophy and i dont want to spend the rest of my life#breathing someone elses dreams i wait for the moment of realisation. this is now a 30 minute delay. i was supposed to worship beautiful#things and that is what i will do. i think i have a best friend and i know i have a lover and i know to#restrict my love the way you have. im sorry. i hope you understand when i tell you. i am now sitting on the floor in the luggage section of#this incredibly busy train and i saw a photo of her with her boyfriend and her hair in braids smiling like a fool this is the#except a week ago you told me you almost took too much this time to live. you are a beautiful girl with a beautiful soul and you know you#have already changed the world and it somehow was not enough. now you are smiling without any makeup on next to him#and yesterday you cried in an airport in the states when you were too full of love. this is the most extraordinary human being i have met.#tomorrow he heads off to princeton while his best friend heads to harvard. he goes there to make the world a better place. he is the most#extraordinary person i have ever met. the issue with human beings is that we are incredibly good at almost dying and keeping going.#you try to kill yourself and publish a paper and give a talk. you negotiate the seperation between your own parents and submit another#phd application. i am surrounded by extraordinary people with extraordinary minds and incredibly broken happy hearts.#i only see you smile when you talk about robotics. i still dont know how manifolds work and i love the concept anyway. i dont know.#i do know that i refuse to live unsatisfied.#you can keep drinking. im going to drink this reality up#i think i was a horrible person and i refuse to engage with that mentality again no matter what it takes.
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