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I am so utterly fascinated by âSakiâ, the 18-year-running mahjong manga in which you, the reader, become gradually, frog-boilingly aware (over the course of nearly two decadesâ worth of mahjong tournaments) that none of these girls are wearing underwear and most of their boobs are slowly expanding.
I need you to understand that I have, like, an anthropological level fascination with this comic. From the perspective of someone who is also a comic artist and writer, two things delight me about it:
the fact that I understand completely how an artist gets from âthe fans can have a little hint of skirted asscheekâ to âthe pussy is completely out on center pageâ over the course of 18 years; and
the way in which the pussy being out is treated by the characters and diegesis as being utterly unremarkable.
Okay. Point 1. The frog-boiling.
Let me put this in perspective for you. There was already a meme about how the characters in âSakiâ donât wear underwear when I was in middle school. I am thirty now. Okay? And itâs still going.
In the time since, this has stopped being a joke. It is now indisputable canon. This is not because anyone outright says it at any point. Itâs because the underwear ran out of places to hide. Iâm obsessed with this thought: somewhere in the over 20 volumes of âSakiâ, there is a panel in which underwear was objectively deconfirmed. And it would be so hard to figure out where that panel actually is. Maybe the artist didnât even realize it when she drew it! The frog? Boiling!!
And of course there is also the breast expansion. I donât know how to put a spin on this. They are just expanding. Like, this happens a lot with artists: you define a character as being, in your mind, âthe one with the big boobsâ, and over the years you emphasize that trait further and further so that the signal doesnât get lost in the noise. Itâs just that normallyâin like a wildly popular manga series about mahjong published by literally Square Enix, for exampleânormally there would be a point at which the boobs stopped getting bigger. Like, an editor would step in or something. Or you would get to the point where you cannot draw the character in the same panel as her mahjong tiles without her breasts spilling over the tiles, and youâd go, âWell, this is now untenable.â
That did not happen. There is no ceiling. The frog is soup.
Point 2. The complete and utter mundanity of all of this.
Itâs like this, okay: thereâs no shortage of trashy ecchi manga out there. Thereâs a million other comics doing wildly bawdier things with wildly more improbable bishoujos.
The vibe with âSakiâ is different.
Itâs hard to explain this, but it feels like the world of the comic is fundamentally uninterested in the fanservice happening on the page. I cannot describe it as âleeringâ, because I cannot conceive of a person in the story from whose point of view one would leer. I think the artist is probably into itâI canât imagine anyone is making her do thisâbut âSakiâ the comic has no opinion on the matter.
There are essentially no male characters in âSakiâ. Like, there was one guy? Kind of? At the very beginning? But he is gone now. They put him back in the toybox. He does not exist. It appears to be some level of canonical that in the world of âSakiâ, almost all humans are women. Those women are sometimes romantically into each other. According to comments the artist has made on Twitter (which I cannot source), they have lesbian baby technology, so itâs no problem. Itâs so much not a problem that the story is about mahjong, instead of any of that.
So, like, the fiction here appears to be this: this is the, like, meta-narrative of the fanservice of âSakiâ, right: itâs just normal that they donât wear underwear and their boobs are arbitrarily big. Itâs been normal. It was normal before the story of the manga began. Itâs just how things are. Nobody bats an eye about it, and if they do, itâs in sort of a lesbian kind of way so like whatâs the problem, we love lesbians here. This is literally normal for girls.
The fanservice simply diffuses into this all-encompassing aura of disembodied, ambient sluttiness. The framing of the panels demands you acknowledge it, and the story demands you already be over it, because itâs mahjong time now, and weâre playing mahjong.
Do you get??? why Iâm so fascinated??? Are you not a little enraptured???
Anyway, I have no idea how to end this weird post. I guess the conclusion is that women stay winning????
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Day 2 in the Middle School Time Loop: you remember that last time, everyone ignored you at recess because they were talking about a TV show that you hadnât watched. This time, you lie and say youâve seen it. They ask you who your favorite character is, and you donât know any of the characters, and so youâre tongue-tied. They think youâre weirder than ever, or maybe a liar, which is worse (and true).
Day 3 in the Middle School Time Loop: you tell your parents that you feel ill. They let you stay home while theyâre at work. You spend the whole day watching past episodes of the TV Show.
Day 4 in the Middle School Time Loop: Recess again. The same person asks you who your favorite character is. This time, you're ready. You eagerly tell them, and supplement your reasons for liking them with solid evidence from all 4 seasons of the show. But! Tough luck: youâre now too invested. The atmosphere turns uncomfortable. They go back to ignoring you like they did on the Day 1 that you didnât know was Day 1.
Day 5 in the Middle School Time Loop:
You decide to try a different approach and update your style. You've noticed that Ashleigh, whoâs blonde and constantly surrounded by friends, always wears pink stripey sneakers. You try wearing a pink dress. Someone says itâs cute, but you know from how they say it that it isnât the good cute.
âI thought that pink was cool,â you protest, more to the uncaring universe than to anyone in particular.
Your interlocutor shrugs. âMaybe on someone else.â
Day 6 in the Middle School Time Loop: You keep your head down, but still surprise the teachers by somehow knowing the correct answers to every spontaneous question they throw out to the class. You study the outfits of your classmates more closely. You realize that it wasnât the color, so much as the brand that made the difference. It proves the shoes were expensive. You note down Ashleigh's sneaker brand in smudgy ink on the back of your hand, and then after school you take half a year's saved-up allowance and buy a matching pair at the mall. Your mom raises her eyebrows but doesnât stop you.
Day 7 in the Middle School Time Loop: Today you make it to lunch before anything major goes wrong. You think that the sneakers have protected you, and stare down at them lovingly, watching the Barbie-pink plastic stripes reflect the tube lights on the ceiling as you turn your feet this way and that. But then at lunch, Ashleigh comes up, arm and arm with a friend. Her eyes are a little pink, but only a little.
âAshleigh wanted me to tell you that sheâs really hurt that you copied her sneakers,â the friend informs you, nobly, as if it would be too unpleasant for Ashleigh to have to say this herself. Her mouth is solemn but her eyes are gleeful.
âI didnâtâŠâ You start to deny it automatically, even though itâs true. And yet, something wonât let you apologize. Doesnât she see your imitation for what it is: the most sincere compliment you know how to bestow? This is your Hail Mary.
As you meet her eyes, you realize she does know, but this only makes her despise you more.
âI think a lot of people have these sneakers,â you stammer, in the end, and they just sniff and turn away. You go back to eating your lunch alone.
Day 8 of the Middle School Time Loop: even though you do well in every class, you must be so much more stupid than your classmates, to be missing whatever detail it is that they seem to have caught. How do they do it so quickly? Before recess, before the end of homeroom, even, they all just know. Youâve had endless chances to do this day over and yet you never seem to be able to catch up with them. Running to stand still, youâve heard your mother say, when sheâs busy at work. Thatâs you. Running to stand still.
Day 9 of the Middle School Time Loop: you pretend to be sick again, and you realize that if you want to, you can pretend to be sick every day. It's easy to convince your parents: you look tired and unhappy, your eyes small within their dark circles, like some underground creature. You stop watching that TV Show that you never really wanted to watch in the first place, and instead dream your way through all your favourite childhood movies. Disney, Pixar, Studio Ghibli. You retreat into jewel-colored landscapes, where everyone is magical or beautiful or at least funny, and the heroes always win in the end.
Day 10 of the Middle School Time Loop: You notice that most of the Pixar heroes, the Disney princesses look more like Ashleigh than you. Long hair. Pale eyes. Button noses. And all of them, so thin.
Day 11 of the Middle School Time Loop: you go to school, but you donât talk to anyone. You donât even answer your name at roll call. Your teacher asks you if anything is wrong at school, or at home perhaps. You shake your head, but that evening you hear your father taking a call. You shrug off his worry: itâll be forgotten tomorrow anyway.
Day 12 of the Middle School Time Loop: an unexpected development: your apathy almost seems to make your classmates like you more. When you say, truthfully, that you donât care much for the TV Show that eternally dominates the recess chatter, some people look impressed. They ask you what you think is better. But youâre wise and donât admit to liking anything. "Mysterious," someone says appreciatively.
At the end of recess, the girl who told you off for copying Ashleigh nudges you. âHey. Look, Robert has an Up shirt. Kind of cute, that heâs still into that stuff, right?â
You know that itâs not the good cute.
You stare at her coldly. âThe shirt just has a dog on it. It doesn't say he's from Up. So you must have liked the movie enough to remember him.â
She flushes scarlet, and hurries to catch up with Ashleigh, throwing you a dirty look. Robert glances at you gratefully but you donât return his smile. He wonât remember that you did this for him. Anyway, you didn't, really. Do it for him, that is.
Day 13 of the Middle School Time Loop: You tell your parents youâre sick again. Today, you watch the second tier of Studio Ghibli movies, the ones that your parents always say, self-consciously, that youâll find dull. Only Yesterday, Princess Kaguya, When Marnie Was There. Youâre only a few minutes into Marnie when thereâs a line that pulls you up short:
âIn this world, thereâs an invisible magic circle. Thereâs inside and outside. These people are inside. And Iâm outside.â
The shock of recognition that surges through you is so profound that you almost cry, and then, when the movie's over, you do cry. Ugly sobs that make you sound like a toddler throwing a tantrum at the mall, that make your head pound with a dehydration headache. But behind the tears, there's relief. There it is, the truth that you were searching for, through all these do-overs. Thereâs an invisible magic circle. Of course there is.
But hereâs the thing about circles: the inside is small. The outside is scary, and lonely, but itâs huge: huger than you could ever have imagined before you turned around and looked.
When your dad gets home, he asks if youâre feeling better. âMuch,â you say, and itâs true.
Day ?? of the Middle School Time Loop: Sometimes you go to school, but ditch class and go to the library or the playground and do your own thing even if teachers yell at you. Sometimes you wander around the neighborhood. Sometimes you ask your parents crazy things, like to take you to work with them, or to the beach, or to DisneyWorld. Sometimes they say no. A surprising amount of times, they say yes. You wonder if maybe theyâre trapped in a time loop too.
Sometimes you sit quietly in other classrooms than the one youâre meant to be in, until they shoo you out or even send you to the principal. (He finds you baffling. You feel a deep, slightly mournful affection for him, like you would for an very old and tired dog). Itâs surprising, the amount of different things that are getting taught in one school in one day. It takes you a long time to work your way through them all.
You watch a frog getting dissected a few times before you start to feel bad and donât go back to that classroom again. Your favorite class to crash is art, because the teacher always clocks that youâre not meant to be there but smiles and lets you stay anyway. When you meet her eyes, it feels like youâre sharing a secret.
Day One-Hundred And Something of the Middle School ...Wait.
At some point, time started moving again, and you didnât even realize it.
For so long, the reprimands you received about your future seemed so empty, so laughable. There was no future. Only a more- or less-bearable present. But now, your classmates remember the unhinged things that you do; now, your teachersâ and parentsâ worries about the future have the full juggernaut weight of reality behind them.
You thought that youâd be more terrified. For so long, youâve dreaded this forward momentum. No loading screen, no mini-games, just one single, awful, pulsating life. But things are different now. Timeâs moving again, and here you are, so far outside the invisible magic circle that youâre not even sure that you'd be able to see it any more. You can still feel its power, but faintly, like the pull between two magnets when they're an arm's length apart. Easy to ignore.
âAre you ready?â Robert says, catching your eye over the kitchen table. He comes here first thing so you can get the bus together. At some point, during the time loop, you started to seek him out. He was outside the circle, too, you realized. But even more importantly, not once, on any of those grimly looping days, did you see him try and push someone else out to make a space for himself. In this crab bucket, thatâs something that counts for a lot.
âOur final day of middle school,â he sighs, half to himself. âNever thought Iâd see it.â
"Me either," you reply, getting up to put on your talismanic pink sneakers. Theyâre scuffed and dirty after years of wear, and certainly Ashley would never be caught dead in them these days. Maybe thatâs what you should have told her, all those loops ago: that no imitation, let alone one as unskilled as yours, can ever be perfect, and that indeed the very imperfection renders it an original work in its own right. Time and thought and human care transforms even the most diligent copy into something else entirely.
But youâve been through enough time loops to know that that sort of explanation wouldnât go over very well.
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