#rice thoughts

[lestatthevamp]

[friedri-ce]

ultrakiss

[notfeelingthyaster]

he has chokerized the scar. he has the book in his hands. he is screaming, playing, cynical. he has a wedding ring in at least three frames. he is serving sooooo much.

[datkat08]

Saw a post that said Sanji and Zoro both have the experience of starvation as a defining moment of their lives and I just,,,, the way Sanji feeds strangers and even his enemies because he refuses to let anyone else go through what he did,,, the way Zoro will eat anything put in front of him without complaint,,,, they make me so ill

[ajihaew]

illustrated the cover and song art for FLAVOR FOLEY's debut album, 「CARDIAC CONTREPOINT」 which is now available! this was super fun... thank you foleygang

itadakimassachusetts

[kacievvbbbb]

No but actually I've been really thinking about it and Mihawk just doesn't do shit by halves does he? he's so obsessive.

He doesn't just like red wine it's literally his favorite food

He doesn't just like swords, his is practically his soul made physical. Yoru is so coded in his dna that they literally had to make a replica for his clone.

he isn't just into swordsmanship he literally became the world's best and strongest swordsman

He doesn't just like to duel he's overdone it so much that no one can hold his interest anymore

He didn't just kill marines he was the literal marine hunter.

He doesn't just wait for Zoro at the top he collects every single bounty poster obsessively tracking his rise

He doesn't just let the kids live with him he adopts them, and teaches them how to be stronger. Doesn't let Perona go until he knowns that he can no longer properly guarantee her safety.

He can't just have a garden he has to go full on farmer strawhat and all.

He doesn't just like Shanks he wants to consume him whole he let's the memory of their duel haunt him and even 12 years later he can't fully forgive them. This might be the single most important relationship in his life.

There isn't a moderate bone in his body. He's either making decisions just because or letting them consume him whole.

I bet it's all the Catholicism.

[zkaus]

At the back of my copy of The Vampire Armand, there's an old interview with Anne Rice talking about creating that novel. I've never forgotten her answer to one of the questions... It haunted me for years.

It gives incredible insight into how and why she wrote such beautiful, brutal and broken characters, and what she endured in the creation process.

BUT before you read this, I'm going to STRONGLY warn you, it goes to very very DARK places

Q: What are your work habits for a novel?

A: Once I truly begin to write, I work obsessively, in twelve-hour days, punctuated by days of long sleep and vivid dreaming. Starting time and ending time are no longer important. I might begin at 9 A.M., or after noon or at eight in the evening. I go from there. I turn on the computer and write, write, write.

My room is a mess. Notes are scribbled on the walls so that I can look up at them at the appropriate moments and insert the date, the name, whatever, when I need it. Books are stacked so high that people have to search for me when they come into the room. Opened books with marked-up pages are stacked on top of one another.

I become suicidal. I go through a horrid despair some time or other before the final page, during which everything seems meaningless—from the dawn of history to the very hour in which I am writing.

I’m intolerable to live with. But I spread myself thin over a number of loved ones and staff members so that no one person has to put up with how intense, hysterical, and miserable I am.

When I get elated and talk fast and furiously about wonderful aspects of history or the characters, or good developments in the story, people run away from me. I don’t blame them.

While the novel is being written, I try to avoid dressing for outdoors. No one can make you go out if you don’t have shoes on. Not even in the south. I wear long velvet robes and soft velvet slippers. I refuse to go out. All food is brought in. I eat hamburgers because they are easy to hold with one hand while reading and holding the book with the other hand.

In the middle of the night I read, sometimes on the carpeted floor of the bathroom, just because it’s warm. I am wretched. I don’t care anymore about being abnormal. Writing is everything. Everything. It seems impossible to write the book. It seems impossible to lift a hairbrush to brush my hair. But I do it. I put on mascara every day that I write.

This period of intense work lasts about six weeks. It’s best that way. My imagination is overheated, and my memory clogged with data of varying importance. If I go over six weeks, I begin to forget things; I feel the loss of intensity and information and I become all the more self-destructive and obsessed.

The end of the book is a big event for me. A big event. I start screaming. I put the hour and the date at the end of the last page. I expect everybody to understand, at least a little. It’s a triumph! The darkness of destiny has been driven back for a brief while. I celebrate. I scream, eat chocolate, and sleep.

Right near the end of writing The Vampire Armand, I realized I had to return to Italy, especially to Florence, and at once I began to make preparations for the trip. As soon as the novel was finished and off to the publisher’s, as soon as it could be accomplished, I flew to Italy. That gave me hope, a way out of a life threatening darkness that often follows the climax of a book. But I still ate chocolate and screamed.

While writing, I don’t want to rest. I don’t want to sleep. Why sleep? It seems stupid, except when weariness overcomes me like a giant cloud of poisonous vapor. Then I sleep fifteen to twenty hours. I tell people to go in and out of the bedroom and ignore me lying there, as if I were dead. I won’t talk on the phone. I won’t open my eyes if I don’t have to. I dream terrible, upsetting dreams.

I want to kill myself. But I can’t. I can’t do it to other people, and I have work that must be done, novels that must be written. So I don’t kill myself. Besides, I don’t think it’s good to kill oneself. It’s a horrible idea. It has a horrible effect even on acquaintances.

I think a lot about people I loved who are dead. I think of how dead they are, year after year, ever more dead.

[botticelli-angels-minion]

Every day I think about the fact that in the semi canon Anne Rice Facebook post where Louis and Lestat get married, Louis’s best man is Armand. You think your life is messy? This man was in the wedding party of TWO of his exes, not to mention he was involved in their daughter’s death. Also Marius de Romanus himself was the officiant. The fact that Armand showed up to this wedding is incredible.

[pullthehilt]

Reader is Yuu with an implied family with siblings. Not re-read or edited.

One day you realise that there is just a bit too much food on the table. It takes eating with the others to truly notice, but it starts with Grim complaining.

"We've been eating the same thing for days now!" And you laugh because it's true. After eating it fresh the first day, you tend to pack up and store the rest equally in the fridge and freezer because, yes, it's a lot. Dishes that are soups, or meals that are cooked in the larger pots and pans. Food that is to be served with rice on the side, portions that are bigger than your face. That isn't to say that you had a lot of thaumarks on you as you're just good at making bulk purchases worth it.

Everyone laughs at Grims moping, remarking of how he should be greatful you're feeding him at all. The banter is great.

But you're picking at your packed lunch now.

Why do you cook so much? Why do you reach for the bigger pots and pans? Why are your portions always for more than one?

From the fog of your mind, you see... your kitchen. Or you think it's your kitchen. It's not the kitchen back at Ramshackle, but the one from before Ramshackle. You're bustling around the counter, chatting to a faceless figure by the table, and reaching for seasonings without even looking. You're opening cabinets and finding what you need easily and asking the figure to make some rice to accompany whatever is in that pot. There's the squeals of children and hearty laughter from the other room. And hands, there's a hand at the small of your back and you think it's a motherly touch because how else can you describe the gentle way they press you to the side of their body.

For the next few days you can't eat properly. There's weight at your gut that substitutes for food and you don't make anything more. When your friends come over to invade the living room of Ramshackle, you don't have much snacks to offer them.

Peering into the fridge only reveals the stacks of containers of food you were eating days prior. You're mulling about maybe something you can make for them when,

"Whoa, talk about excess. Grim wasn't kidding." Ace's voice is right behind you.

"Ugh, sorry guys. i don't think I have anything proper to really feed you guys--"

"Is that some sort of egg salad?" Deuce's hand slithers forward to grab at one of the containters. "You have bread?" Nodding you gesture to the other cabinet. "Then I'll snack on this-- Er, if you wouldn't mind."

Epel peers from the doorway. "You don't happen to haf' some meat in 'er do ya?" Your fingers linger, before meekly pulling out a corrisponding tupperware.

"It's a bit stiff though, Epel."

"Hah, I'll jus' throw it on tha' stove or somthing. If it's still tough, I dun' care. Sometimes just gotta eat the greasy foods." He takes the tupperware and slaps it into a pan to heat it up. The aroma of sizzling meat is quick to attract both Sebek and Jack who add to the noise of chatter amongst the others, the former mostly.

You find yourself to the side, watching as they scour through your leftovers, opening and nodding at the meals inside before choosing which to heat up. And it's loud, but not grating. They're navigating through your space with expertice, slipping past each other and peering into cabinets. Jack's making rice and Sebek is counting the plates (whilst also making sounds whenever he sees a chip in the odd one or two). Over the stove Epel and Ace are jerking their hands into the pan, nipping their fingers to the corner pieces of the meat to just 'check if it's ready to eat'. Gathering the spoons and forks, Deuce nibbles on a piece of his egg salad sandwich before disappearing in the living area where everyone is setting up.

The dinner table has been set. You don't feel entirely there, floating to a cushion on the floor as your left overs are bought over to the table plate-by-plate. Everyone sits around you, Grim settled into your lap as he nibbles on a piece of fried fish, and they're passing the dishes around.

You've eaten these things before but you've always eaten them with Grim or alone when Grim takes his naps early. Instead of one set of cutlery scraping at porcelain, there's multiple sets-- a symphony playing to their hunger as they gather more to pile onto their plates.

[anthony-crowleys-left-nut]

[marijuanaragdoll]

[gillionmeowstrider]

riptide triton hc: whale fall festivals

Charlie and Grizzly have spoken a bit about how the Undersea gods aren’t like, typical celestial godly figures but moreso just really big and really ancient creatures. We can also assume that they can in theory die.

Charlie mentioned in the Jonah Scott Rolled (#68 ~16 minutes in) that the Trench is loosely based off of a whale fall, so if an Undersea god was to die, would the population hold a celebration? This is getting really into headcanon territory, but I like to think that if an ancient god were to die, the power they accumulated goes back to the sea. The population may hold a celebration of life kind of festival, and maybe Gillion would’ve been expected to hold some kind of ceremony. Full circle moment.

[ryllen]

[ x . x . x ]

[0idontgetsleep0]

🍙 rice cats🐱

[rockytye79]

TBHK x Link Click

I get the blue shading now it's so fun

[leanlumi]

prominent collarbones are stunning