mymomsaysbobcipher

[mymomsaysbobcipher]

Woot!!! 🎉🎉🎉

THE ENHANCED HAS HIT 6K WORDS ‼️‼️‼️‼️

My goal is to hit 10k by summer’s end and we’re over halfway there!!!!

@corinneglass @eon-tries-writing @lunesartsworld @ark-inkweaving @nykenima @mymomsaysbobcipher @houndsofcorduff @leahnardo-da-veggie @inspirationallybored @traderotales @rebelcracker-s @elronthemage @icantthinkofablognameatm @blargh-500 @chaos-ducks @seastarblue

[mymomsaysbobcipher]

This is lovely.

Happy pride month ❤️🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️

Not a typical pride month illustration, just me wanted to represent my community in my own way 🥰❤️

[mymomsaysbobcipher]

for all of you guys that are writing fantasy and getting into fantasy cartography, i highly, highly recommend that you sit through artifexian’s youtube series on building realistic fantasy maps

he basically breaks down stuff like how to realistically place climate zones on a map, what they look like, how ocean currents work, how they affect things (like where your world’s fishing hubs and climates are going to be placed), where mountain ranges should go and how they affect climate, where your world’s metals (i.e. resource wealth) are going to be found, and on and on and on. it’s SUPER incredibly fucking helpful and really fleshes your world out in a whole new way

[mymomsaysbobcipher]

Holy shit this made me cry.

my arch nemesis cynthia is, of course, at the bank, because we both were sent like clockwork to pick up the checks of our husbands. she is wearing a lovely long green gown, which i know was on behalf of me, because, as my husband will tell you, our house abhors green and glamour. already the tellers look at each other under their little hats, for they love our tirades, i’m sure, although not more than i hate them. 

“oh, is that your knitting?” my arch nemesis cynthia peers her eyes at my hands. “is it some kind of… sock?” everyone knows she and i used to be close before we were married and our husbands, smartly so, have introduced us to the idea of true vengeance.

“it is a scarf,” i say. i want to tell her that when the time comes and the world gets cold it will go over my mouth and i will breathe warm air and it will fill my lungs and i will be able to run around with my love even in the dark night. “it is not,” i say, “over surprising that you should be caught unawares of a scarf,” i say, “as i’m sure enjoying winter festivities are too beneath the handsome qualities your husband prefers.” pompous ass.

the tellers pass each other eyes for now it has started and they are delighted.

my arch nemesis cynthia thrusts out her hand. a white bottle. “rat poison,” she says. “i would expect the whole town knows about your little problem.” stage whisper. “such a shame, my dear.” then she rustles her long green skirts - which i know she wore on behalf of me - and she shimmies herself out of the room like royalty. oh, she floats everywhere she goes, beautiful black hair behind her. the bottle in my palm is cold. i will devise how to get her back starting first thing tomorrow.

the week, as always, is a long week, for there is much to make and do and knit and be. my husband comes home and i love him for who he is; for he never comes home without checking the state of the house up and down. he is the kind who loves his home so completely and sets each room like a stage for a great band to come playing. i am too ashamed to tell him why so many of the rats go missing, only make him a stew the next morning to celebrate. his favorite, although not mine, i’m afraid. plenty left over.

my arch nemesis today - of course - in a green the color of rotting. a bruise is uncarefully covered on her cheekbone, so striking against all of her dainty. her husband would say it was for her ungraceful nature, and i know mine would agree. i strike first, already delighted by my master plan, shoving over our best picnic basket tied with a bow. “i made you and yours a stew,” i say, “for beneath all that you carry” all that horrible wealth of your husband  “it seems you’re getting rather skinny.” i can’t resist one last comment. “i am worried you’re about to waste to nothing.”

She plucks it out of my hand. “yes, if it weren’t for you and your husband’s dwindling wealth,” her sarcasm is biting, “i’m sure i will be nothing in, oh, 5 weeks time.” she arches a brow. “so long from now.”

“i am counting the days,” i tell her. her lips purse. the tellers behind me make a choked titter. perhaps, by their estimation, i have won this round quite completely. i go home to my husband smiling. he asks where i have been and i tell him i’ve been at the bank, but he checks anyway because i like to get up to tricks and he doesn’t like to fall for it. it is a good game we play. at night, when he is asleep, i am so in love that i must convince myself to pull the covers over my nose and practice breathing. how silly to wake him up for a young girl’s feelings. 

the first week of five: she gives me a solid, ugly ring that requires three knuckles to hold. “i feel so badly for your status, and i must remember to practice charity,” she says. “it such a small thing, but do be careful amongst all that thin pine furnishing of your house, which dents so easily.” my husband appears at the bank’s front door. just checking. so lovely to be picked up by him. at night, in a rage, i try it - beneath the table bends easily. i scuff out the scratch with walnut before my husband can see. i pull the covers over my face in bed and breathe.

the second week: i wear her ugly ring and give her more stew, this time hearty with meat. her dress is a meadow. my heart each time it sees her collapses on itself. she hands me clothes for my husband, since his wealth continues to go missing, and the charity of her heart is so loving. i am so ashamed i bury them far by the old tree, where all my shames go hiding. again, the covers. it, by now, helps me sleep. i have gotten so good at it that i can simply shimmy my shoulders to be perfectly toasty and buried.

the third week: she asks how comes my knitting. i tell her it’s nearly complete. she asks how comes my husband, whom she must know has been ill recently, and who is doing quite badly. i go home to him, shaking. even sick he is a good housekeeper, who comes home examining for dust and dinge so i do not fall behind on my chores. who checks to be sure i spoke to only him and no one more, for fear a man might snatch me. tell me, who else has a man so involved, in this day and age?

the fourth week she is envy green. i shove a whole heaping of stew at her, for now her husband has gotten it. i say it will return him to spirits, she laughs, a sudden, beautiful sound, even in the quiet of a bank. everyone stares. maybe it is the stress that is making her quite improper. i feel the same way. so much is happening and it always seems she knows. she says she heard he has left me nothing in the will, which everyone already knows. she says she doubts either of us can dig upwards from the hole we’re both in. i look at the bruise on her nose. i tell her to mind her own husband, and be careful where she goes.

the fifth week: so final. her, garishly lime green. and i in black, to pick up a check that hardly seems the effort. it will be enough to cover my husband’s funeral. she smiles at me and hands me a silver bottle. she says quietly: now that i am destitute, there is one thing for it all, and everyone would understand quite completely. it would be quiet, and quick, and complete.

it is the night of the new moon, so dark no man can see in it. i receive notice her husband has died, and i am sorry to say i find a terrible joy in it. the air has changed cold. i have left a note asking to be buried in my scarf, the last thing i have made on this earth. i go through each perfect room, but there is nothing else to take with me, for the house has always been his and his alone, and now aches to be gone of him. i would not serve as a good tender for it. having spent so many nights watched carefully, the silly girlish freedom i’d gain would surely set the house ablaze.

i follow her instructions. quick, quiet, complete.

the horrible rustling is what does it. like a million green skirts. and then it is dark, and i am in my own coffin, eerie with pine. my head hurts but i must be quick and quiet. they have listened and buried me with my scarf. i shimmy my shoulders just-so and get it over my face. bring my arms up, ugly ring heavy, and begin to hit as hard as i can, over and over, the thin wood of my husband’s favorite furniture, the cretin. it would be pine, of course - he left me no money to be buried in any nicer recourse.

the wood splits so horribly, and then it is very hard to breathe, harder than under the covers, and i have to remind myself to be patient and continue to dig upwards, while my throat closes and my heart beats so loudly and the whole thing is so heavy it is a universe. the shifting of gravedirt is loud, and loud, and i feel i will be turned into a worm, and i fear everyone has forgotten about me, or i have gotten the timing wrong, or i will really die down here in the dirt and the cold

but then her hand, and my hand, and we are both digging towards each other, and she lifts me so easily from the ground like a plucked turnip and holds me against her, us both panting and muddied. we can only stay like this for so long, here in my pauper grave, and then we are both running to the old tree where we met, and unburying a second thing; my lovely box of shame, and men’s clothes, and all of my husband’s dwindling fortune i have slowly been squirrelling away.

my love and angel cynthia, who has black hair like a curtain and a mind so fast i sometimes am in frank awe at it, who is, even now and dirty and raw: even now the only sun in my life.

like this, i a man in an almost-dawn, and us cleaned by the river, and her smiling so widely, and only a faint bruise on her, and our pasts behind us in ugly garish colors. and her delicate hand and beautiful nose and when i finally get to kiss her it feels like green feels; my favorite color, all warm and nature and sunny grace and grass and lying awake so filled with love it makes you shake.

i hold her, and she holds me, and our future is a love like a dream unburied.

[mymomsaysbobcipher]

i think all the best sci-fi is the sci-fi that looks dirty and lived in. like yeah we could have space travel and lasers but people are still gonna leave dirty cups by the side of their sleep pod and get weird alien mud stuck on their boots and put off fixing that faulty light on the lower deck of the spaceship. its relatable. its humanizing.

[mymomsaysbobcipher]

ppl in the age of cell phones: fucking up their necks

ppl in the age of books: fucking up their necks

ppl in the age of textile art: fucking up their necks

ppl in the age of picking lice: fucking up their necks

ppl in the age of cooking: fucking up their necks

[mymomsaysbobcipher]

went into a wine shop the other day to buy pasta and they did not have pasta but they were doing a wine tasting so i thought what the hell. and got to chatting with the other woman there because we had both just come from the library and were comparing our books and sipping wine and turns out we’re both teachers so we got on the topic of phones in classrooms—and the guy pouring our wine was like ‘that’s actually a point of contention in one of my divorces right now.’

and i very delicately said ‘one of your divorces?’ and his eyes got really big and he said I’M A PARALEGAL

[mymomsaysbobcipher]

I really love ao3

[mymomsaysbobcipher]

I'm in this photo and I don't like it.

Unhealed Wounds Your Character Pretends Are Just “Personality Traits”

These are the things your character claims are just “how they are” but really, they’re bleeding all over everyone and calling it a vibe.

╰ They say they're "independent." Translation: They don’t trust anyone to stay. They learned early that needing people = disappointment. So now they call it “being self-sufficient” like it’s some shiny badge of honor. (Mostly to cover up how lonely they are.)

╰ They say they're "laid-back." Translation: They stopped believing their wants mattered. They'll eat anywhere. Do anything. Agree with everyone. Not because they're chill, but because the fight got beaten out of them a long time ago.

╰ They say they're "a perfectionist." Translation: They believe mistakes make them unlovable. Every typo. Every bad hair day. Every misstep feels like proof that they’re worthless. So they polish and polish and polish... until there’s nothing real left.

╰ They say they're "private." Translation: They’re terrified of being judged—or worse, pitied. Walls on walls on walls. They joke about being “mysterious” while desperately hoping no one gets close enough to see the mess behind the curtain.

╰ They say they're "ambitious." Translation: They think achieving enough will finally make the emptiness go away. If they can just get the promotion, the award, the validation—then maybe they’ll finally outrun the feeling that they’re fundamentally broken. (It never works.)

╰ They say they're "good at moving on." Translation: They’re world-class at repression. They’ll cut people out. Bury heartbreak. Pretend it never happened. And then wonder why they wake up at 3 a.m. feeling like they're suffocating.

╰ They say they're "logical." Translation: They’re terrified of their own feelings. Emotions? Messy. Dangerous. Uncontrollable. So they intellectualize everything to avoid feeling anything real. They call it rationality. (It's fear.)

╰ They say they're "loyal to a fault." Translation: They mistake abandonment for loyalty. They stay too long. Forgive too much. Invest in people who treat them like an afterthought, because they think walking away makes them "just as bad."

╰ They say they're "resilient." Translation: They don't know how to ask for help without feeling like a burden. They wear every bruise like a trophy. They survive things they should never have had to survive. And they call it strength. (But really? It's exhaustion wearing a cape.)

[mymomsaysbobcipher]

Oh yeah I do that all the time.

I can't be the only one who occasionally eats an enormous bowl of sauteed onions for lunch, right? i cannot be alone in this

[mymomsaysbobcipher]

Becoming a writer is great because now you have a hobby that haunts you whenever you don’t have time to do it

[mymomsaysbobcipher]

I have some news for members of the united states armed forces who feel like they are pawns in a political game and their assignments being unnecessary.

[mymomsaysbobcipher]

It's okay to take a break from your WIP.

It's okay if it takes years to finish.

Some stories just aren't ready yet and they need more time.

Let it linger within you a little longer.

It will all come together when the time is right.

[mymomsaysbobcipher]

when I was a kid I read a sci-fi story where some researcher discovers that all crocodiles since prehistory have had the same congenital heart defect, so they set about curing it. when they do, suddenly their research specimen starts getting stronger and healthier and growing rapidly and developing new appendages, and it turns out all crocodilians were actually stunted sickly forms of dragons. that story really stuck with me because it's basically an expression of the "what if I went to the doctor and they discovered I was deficient in one special vitamin and then I took a pill and all my problems and ailments vanished immediately" fantasy.

unrelated, I started taking daily antihistamines this month for the first time in my life,

[mymomsaysbobcipher]

yes

[mymomsaysbobcipher]

where would we be without tag wranglers. this links to ‘not canon compliant’. ao3 volunteers i am kissing you on the lips

[mymomsaysbobcipher]

Trans women protesting outside Scottish Parliament.

I love it when trans women protest topless. If they're arrested, the state must admit they're women. If they aren't, it shows the glaring contradictions of labeling trans women as legally male. It helps their cause either way.