clockworkcuttlefish

[clockworkcuttlefish]

You know, it’s important to have tragic blorbos sometimes because hey, maybe you had a bad day, maybe your job sucks so fucking much. But do you know who had a worse day? Blorbo bleebus, who’s doomed by the narrative

[clockworkcuttlefish]

Please do not let debt collectors play in your face.

[clockworkcuttlefish]

[clockworkcuttlefish]

hi besties in my phone. i hope today is so so good to you. i hope something special happens to remind you that it’s not always bad. ily.

[clockworkcuttlefish]

why bother caring about the environment when 1. It’s so obviously a lost cause and 2. There’s definitely going to be a nuclear war?

And what are you doing about it Anon? Learn about ecological restoration or get out of my way.

[clockworkcuttlefish]

Sun Tzu is so fucking funny to me because for his time he was legitimately a brilliant tactician but a bunch of his insight is shit like "if you think you might lose, avoid doing that", "being outnumbered is bad generally", and "consider lying."

[clockworkcuttlefish]

Unmute !

[clockworkcuttlefish]

sometimes writing feels like dragging your brain across gravel. but at least the gravel is sparkly. and covered in metaphors.

[clockworkcuttlefish]

[clockworkcuttlefish]

I think I may never be sad ever again. There is a statue entitled "Farewell to Orpheus" on my college campus. It's been there since 1968, created by a Prof. Frederic Littman that use to work at the university. It sits in the middle of a fountain, and the fountain is often full of litter. I have taken it upon myself to clean the litter out when I see it (the skimmers only come by once a week at max). But because of my style of dress, this means that bystanders see a twenty-something on their hands and knees at the edge of the fountain, sleeves rolled up, trying not to splash dirty water on their slacks while their briefcase and suit coat sit nearby. This is fine, usually. But today was Saturday Market, which means the twenty or so people in the area suddenly became hundreds. So, obviously, somebody stopped to ask what I was doing. "This," I gestured at the statue, "is Eurydice. She was the wife of Orpheus, the greatest storyteller in Greece. And this litter is disrespectful." Then, on a whim, I squinted up at them. "Do you know the story of Orpheus and Eurydice?" "No," they replied, shifting slightly to sit.

"Would you like to?"

"Sure!"

So I told them. I told them the story as I know it- and I've had a bit of practice. Orpheus, child of a wishing star, favorite of the messenger god, who had a hard-working, wonderful wife, Eurydice; his harp that could lull beasts to passivity, coax song from nymphs, and move mountains before him; and the men who, while he dreamed and composed, came to steal Eurydice away. I told of how she ran, and the water splashed up on my clothes. But I didn't care. I told of how the adder in the field bit her heel, and she died. I told of the Underworld- how Orpheus charmed the riverman, pacified Cerberus with a lullaby, and melted the hearts of the wise judges. I laughed as I remarked how lucky he was that it was winter- for Persephone was moved by his song where Hades was not. She convinced Hades to let Orpheus prove he was worthy of taking Eurydice. I tugged my coat back on, and said how Orpheus had to play and sing all the way out of the Underworld, without ever looking back to see if his beloved wife followed. And I told how, when he stopped for breath, he thought he heard her stumble and fall, and turned to help her up- but it was too late. I told the story four times after that, to four different groups, each larger than the last. And I must have cast a glance at the statue, something that said "I'm sorry, I miss you--" because when I finished my second to last retelling, a young boy piped up, perhaps seven or eight, and asked me a question that has made my day, and potentially my life: "Are you Orpheus?" I told the tale of the grieving bard so well, so convincingly, that in the eyes of a child I was telling not a story, but a memory. And while I laughed in the moment, with everyone else, I wept with gratitude and joy when I came home. This is more than I deserve, and I think I may never be sad again.

Here is the aforementioned statue, by the way.

[clockworkcuttlefish]

i’m obsessed with how every single person can be stupid in their own special way and infinitely smart in another. simultaneously

[clockworkcuttlefish]

[clockworkcuttlefish]

Mmmm medication :) I love you medication. Modern medicine makes my life so much better. "Ohh you're so young maybe you'll want to taper off..." no thank you, I will keep taking the pills that resolve my symptoms :) thank you pharmacology I love you

[clockworkcuttlefish]

I think it indicates a fundamental lack of comprehension skills (and empathy) to characterize Kaidan Alenko, whose backstory is "I was kidnapped by the military and taken to an isolated space station so they could experiment on me without pesky oversight from the Space UN and survived profound physical and emotional abuse at the hands of the adult in whose care I was placed." as whiny or fucking boring, lmao. He's constantly downplaying the trauma he went through at BAaT, even going so far as to stop himself mid-stream to redirect and remind Shepard that he didn't have it that bad.  It takes three whole conversations for him to tell the entire story because the minute he starts getting into the details of what happened to him there he shuts himself down and apologizes for bothering Shepard and wasting their time!!

[clockworkcuttlefish]

[clockworkcuttlefish]

Indie RPGs will be like "this is the Sinister Man. Yes, that's his legal name – first name 'Sinister', last name 'Man'. All he does is vaguely threaten the player character and sell overpriced mid-game gear, and also it's kind of implied he might have eaten a child?", and the fandom will be like "I will draw him attending a tea party".