#but it feels so hollow and meaningless and fake

[bosjess]

The guy I had been seeing a bit told me he’s not looking for other dates right now (and at this point we had been ok with no exclusivity so it’s fine) but then goes “in a couple of months when I’m done with work I’ll be on the apps” and I’m like ??????

we discussed that we were trying to take this to somewhere serious and check in (in like a month?) so completely antithetical to that unless like he has already made up his mind to not see me anymore, knowing what I want and what we discussed, just revealed it and still had invited me over to stay anyway (so used me for sex I guess?)

I’m so tired and feel sick so I would be more upset but Jesus Christ

[tothepointofinsanity]

weeh, this went very out of hand, but here is writing.

"i plan to confess to him tomorrow. "

it's a smile. it's not your own, it's foreign. the smile belongs to sayaka miki, and you can't be her anymore. your body doesn't host your soul, so the "you" is nothing but a mold. a shell, a casing. to hide the rot inside of you.

you vaguely hear the sound of dripping water, but you don't turn your head. she's talking to you, still. you shouldn't be rude. nod, smile, fold your hands. that is what sayaka does. keep up impressions. and when sayaka's schoolmate leaves, you will stop.

your head falls limp like a puppet with it's strings cut when she leaves. sitting on the cold, hard bench, you will yourself to stand. you feel disconnected. body, heart, soul, mind, only one of them is "yours".

your name is sayaka miki. you're friends with madoka kaname. you are a magical girl. a witch in training. the taste of burnt sugar lingers at the back of your throat. your legs move without your prompting, and your head feels heavy.

yet still, when she sees madoka, sayaka miki smiles without prompting. light in a dark place.

( she isn't stupid. )

you smile wider. make it believable, miki.

( she knows you're a fake. )

you're sure the smile is strained now. madoka reaches out to you, expression blurry and concerned.

( she only wants her real friend back. there's something rotten inside of you. )

"haa, don't worry so much, madoka!" sayaka miki pulls her hand away in a grand gesture.

( drip, drip, drip. )

" im just a little shaky from last night's patrol! so, stop worrying!"

( the sound of running water echoes in your ears. madoka looks away and you turn your head to shake the sound out. when you look back, she's gone. )

" oh. " you smile. empty and foreign. your hair is wet, soaked with water. that's how it should be. you aren't human because you aren't meant to be. humanity, impure and empty, meaningless and fake, you are free from it. sayaka miki is free from it.

you are sayaka miki, and you do not belong to the land.

your feet dip into the salty ocean and you let yourself slip away, let madoka slip away, let kyubey slip away, let the world slip away.

rushing water fills your hollow shell, and you let the fish consume you.

Ah, thank you for writing ^_^ This is really good…I enjoy the scenic cuts to the sound of water every time Sayaka speaks to others. “Only one of them is ‘yours’ u_u it is true that her fragmented sense of self is due to all these use of magic being mixed into her conflict and despair. I like it a lot, especially the ending. She becomes like a seashell. The writing is really cool Σ੧(❛□❛✿)! I’m happy that I was able to inspire you to write beautiful words. If others could appreciate this, I would be glad.

[lisafrnkenstein]

Nancy Wheeler asks her mother what she’s supposed to look for in a relationship, because she doesn’t quite understand the appeal of the whole thing. Not when she looks at her parents together, and the way Karen will barely look at Ted, and her father will barely acknowledge any of the kids unless forced to.

“I suppose…” Karen trails off, thinking hard. “It’s about a trade off. You look for a partner who can support you, give you the things you want, like money or security, and you give back in return what you can offer. Like having kids or cooking meals. Compromise for the best life you can have.”

Nancy supposes it makes sense, and that it’s more realistic than the nebulous concept of “love” that’s always eluded her.

That’s why she agrees to date Steve Harrington. Surprisingly, he’s not without his charms, and he is nice to look at…but most of all, he’s got two things she needs most from a first boyfriend: experience and status. He shows her how these things are supposed to work, and gives her reputation a boost in school; in return she gives him sex and a pretty girl on his arm.

It works up until it doesn’t, when Steve can no longer offer her the support she needs. She’s grown bigger than the need for someone to show her how to have a relationship, or the meaningless status boost that only applies inside the high school; while Steve only seems to want more from her. Steve seems to think their relationship is built on mutual affection alone, and she doesn’t know how to accommodate a misconception like that. Is she supposed to sacrifice what matters to her for an impossible concept like love? It’s bullshit.

But Jonathan, he has other things to offer. Emotional support, in a way she hasn’t really thought to seek before. They’ve been through similar things, share trauma, and he has potential. Goals. The same desire to strike back at the people who hurt them. She can use his skills and drive to arrive at her own goal, and vice versa. They can give each other boosts, share support, and it’s a much more balanced thing than she thinks it ever was with Steve.

But distance grows between them like a chasm. Differences they never truly are able to reconcile, worldviews that clash, and Jonathan’s goals seem to peter out before she’s even started on her own. When the Byers depart to California, she gets a sinking feeling in her gut that things may not turn out well for them. Jonathan no longer meets her perfectly half way how he used to seem to.

When everything with Vecna goes down, her eye strays. Steve is there, and Jonathan is not; Steve is changed, strong and supportive and filled with more depth than he had been before, and Jonathan is changed too - distant and coping poorly through substances, and probably lying to her about something. It’s hard not to think that maybe Steve had been the smarter option after all, the one able to offer her more.

The trouble is? She never really wanted either of them, or the life they wanted to offer her.

Steve talks about his dream of six kids and a winnebago, and it rings hollow to her; it’s so entirely opposite of anything she ever pictured for herself, the dreaded entrapment of being tucked away at home and forced to become secondary to the lives of future children while her husband trudges through his career. Jonathan seems to have abandoned all plans of a future at all, in contrast to Steve’s clear goal - and that equally is unappealing.

She breaks up with Jonathan with the understanding that she’s gone about something very wrong, but it isn’t until Robin starts dating Vickie that she questions the entire foundation of what she thought relationships were all about. What Robin and Vickie have can’t possibly be the practical trade off her mother proposed - their lives are difficult, always in hiding, having to pretend and fake things in public. They could never get married and gain legal benefits, they could never have a family, and neither would have the support of a man in a world that chews up and spits out even the most self-sufficient and ambitious of women. It doesn’t make sense.

What also doesn’t make sense is the way it fills her with jealousy. The way she burns with envy when she sees the two of them, laughing and happy and in love, clearly feeling things Nancy never could picture herself feeling with either Steve or Jonathan, that she never once witnessed between her parents.

It doesn’t make sense how pleased she feels when Robin and Vickie break up, Vickie departing for college across the country, while Robin takes a year off to consider her options while trying to harass Steve into joining her.

It doesn’t make sense how, when she and Robin hang out, her heart beats fast and her mind races in curiosity about what it would be like if Robin leaned down and kissed her. It wouldn’t be transactional; not something she would be trading off, like it always had been for Steve and Jonathan - it’s just something she wants.

It doesn’t make sense right up until the very moment it happens, with Robin’s gangly form awkwardly wrapped around her, tentatively pressing their lips together. Nancy’s pulse races, her head feels hot, her stomach swoops; and it dawns on her, that this. This was what relationships were about, in the end. This feeling that hid itself behind what could be seen, an indescribable but tangible pull like gravity, that defied things like practicality. Robin’s mouth on hers made her see stars, made the pieces align and click together to form the full picture she never could see before.

Robin kisses her, and she kisses back, with a passion and an intensity that she experiences for the first time in her life, and she thinks to herself that maybe love is not such an impossible concept after all.

[hxhhasmysoul]

i'm feeling extremely disappointed. idk. this whole fight undercuts what felt to me as the core of juju. the fact that the cult of the strongest is hollow. that pure strength is actually fake. but idk at this point i was probably wrong that this is one of the themes of the story.

now it feels very shounen in the worst way. where there's one strong character and everyone else is meaningless and just window dressing. i guess it's a twist.. not exactly a plot twist, kinda worse, it's a themes and writing direction twist. or actually an undercutting of it. at least it feels like that to me.

gojou's win feels like it kills the themes, kills the whole point of all other characters, of the villain's plot...

my last hope is that yuuji does anything, that there is any satisfying moment for him. but idk if there will be... why would there be... gojou can easily kill kenjaku... well i guess sux to be tengen... she was so close to surviving... her plan working out...

[corvidcall]

been thinking about myhouse.wad and my current preferred interpretation is that it depicts two alternate timelines (or possibly one actual timeline and one fantasy), the reality, where steven moves away from his high school best friend, Tom, survives him but never really moves on (the fake beach ending representing a life that is, on the surface, beautiful, but meaningless and hollow) and another timeline/stevens fantasy timeline, where he and tom got married and died together. or possibly the steven obituary is to represent a metaphorical death, going back to the whole "outlives tom but never moves on" thing??

the readings i dont think are true are that steven or tom were trans (i think the only reason people pitch that is because of the bathroom signs swapping when you leave, but i think that could also represent an acknowledgement of a suppressed queer attraction (where there was once women now there is men) or just another manifestation of the whole "mirrored realities" motif that is present throughout) or that steven and tom were married in (diegetic) reality (i think that their marriage is more fantasy than reality for steven, if for no other reason than i think if they were married, it's weird how steven exclusively refers to tom as his "friend"? feels like the only explanation for that would be so the gay marriage stuff is a twist for the audience, which i just think is really weak. if you were posting a doom map your dead husband made, why would you call him your dead friend?)

anyway i might be wrong about anything but those are my current thoughts

[makingspiritualityreal]

Beauty is Truth.

In times where everything has become so flashy, I miss things that are real. I miss opportunities for real products, craft, things that allow their essence to speak for itself. I’m tired of hollowness hiding behind a pretty façade. I’m so tired of plastic, consumer driven fake availability…when things of substance are actually less and less available for average people.

Technological progress is a beautiful thing and I deeply appreciate it for allowing me to give the world access to my craft. But we have used it to create an artificial, empty reality that emulates a feeling of security by giving us false cues and making us slaves to that feeling of false safety. Predictable routine, few pre-planned career options that you need to choose from, a slot for every need, thought, feeling. A trap laid out carefully to make sure you stumble down one hole or another and get sucked into the illusion.

It may be scary for you to read this if you think that this vapid, meaningless way of going through life is safe and normal…but everything we are used to becomes normal after a while. And human beings get used to everything in time. The question is, should we? Or have we long crossed the line of acceptable, that has drained the meaning out of our lives and deprived us of actual conscious experiences?

[jojomaxine]

Runaway Donatello and Verdena

TW: Violence and angst

Verdena/green baby murderer AU

Donatello curled up on his bed. 

Crappy hotel bed. They had money, tons of it. Pucci had given it to Verdena before parting ways. But better hotels asked for both of their IDs and Donatello didn't have a fake one. Then again, it would just be a waste of money. Verdena needed it if she wanted to start a life outside of America, not to spend it on useless rooms that didn't last more than two days before they moved again.

And so he grabbed at the crappy bed sheets of the crappy bed of this crappy hotel as he fought to swallow the tears, while Verdena was outside doing whatever she found so interesting in the forest behind the hotel.

It was one of those days. One of those days where his chest hurt so much he had to grab the fabric of his shirt to control the pain, one of those days his mind wouldn't stop reminding him how much he missed his life. How much he missed Rykiel, and Ungalo. His annoying brothers whom he felt complete with. God, even Dio. What he'd give to have another meaningless fight with his father just to laugh cruelly together about some stupid thing a few minutes later.

But most of all... he missed Pucci. He missed his fake love kisses. He missed his gentle touch. He missed his annoying preaching, his egocentric smirks. 

Donatello could have none of it now. He left it behind when he decided to protect Verdena. And even if he gave up and decided to come back, Pucci was not there to await him. Pucci was dead. Dio would never forgive him for backing Verdena, and he would barely see his brothers cause he would be in fucking prison for running away with this fucking monster.

The day he found out Pucci had died was only after around two months since they ran away. Verdena's case updates came out in the news in the hotel television and as if it was an irrelevant extra detail they mentioned Verdena's father, another victim of her —as well as accomplice— had been found dead on a beach after running away from the hospital.

Pucci hadn't called for help. He just let himself bleed to death. Those were his intention since the very start of this living hell, yet Donatello didn't notice it when they last said goodbye. He regretted it everyday, and after finding it out everyday besides Verdena was harder and harder.

Donatello couldn't hold it back anymore. He sobbed into the pillow once and it was all it took for him to break down. His body shook and the helpless crying made the noises of his mouth come out broken. 

There was no escape. No running out of his current life. He cried, sniffed and felt like he could breathe. 

He missed Pucci. He wanted to see him. Why was he dead? Why did he leave? Why did he let himself die? Why?

Donatello curled up more into himself, his limbs twitching and shaking uncontrollably.

He didn't hear the door open or close. He only noticed Verdena had gotten into the room after his uneven breathing calmed down enough to feel someone was watching him.

Donatello's eyes burned as he fought to keep them open, and they were red and swollen when he turned around to face Verdena in the other bed. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. 

He didn't care he looked pathetic. Nothing could be as bad or humiliating as being Verdena, a fucking sentientless monster. Who was she to judge?

"Are you in control again?" She didn't laugh at him, but she didn't show any feelings either. Her voice was the same hollow than ever. "We have to go soon. We've been here for three days. The check out is in an hour."

Donatello's teeth clenched. He looked at Verdena with resentment and hate. When he had this breakdowns he used to be alone. Her being in front of him was dangerous. He'd get angry. He'd begin talking about what they ignored most of the time.

"Fuck off. Leave me alone. We'll go when I say so." 

Verdena didn't reply. Just stared at him. With her piercing red eyes and her fucking evil face. She didn't move from her place.

"I told you to fuck off." Donatello finally sat on the bed as he spit with anger, still sniffing. The tears were still falling from his eyes. 

Verdena's lip curled in disgust, but she ignored him again.

"How can you not feel guilty. He loved you. You're a monster," Donatello began.

"No. Don't start," her eyes sharpened, legs moving. She was getting ready to get up. Oh no, he wouldn't let her off. She didn't want to move two seconds ago and now she wanted to escape this? Donatello didn't have that choice. He wouldn't leave it to her either.

"Don't move a fucking finger, Verdena," he stood up slightly curved. His brown bangs partially covered one of his eyes . "I should take the phone and call Dio. He'd come here within the day and cut you piece by piece."

"So he would do to you," Verdena warned, not intimidated even a bit. She got up. "I'll come back when you stop your tantrum."  

She turned back. Before she could go Donatello grabbed her wrist and pushed her to the side. She stumbled with the bedside table and had to hold onto it to not fall. This time, she managed to look surprised. Donatello had never hit her or pushed her around until now.

Verdena looked back at Donatello with indignation. "If you hate me so much then leave me. I can handle myself. It's been six months and you're still crying about it like a baby. Get over it, Donatello."

Donatello's hand trembled from rage. He was losing control over himself at a scary pace.

"Six months is nothing, you fucking psychopathic bitch. But what would you know? You never gave a shit about anyone but yourself."

"That's not what I mean, you fucking donkey. Dio isn't gonna find me at this point. We're a few stops away and then I'll be living my 'happy ever after' in Mexico." There was so much poison in her voice. Donatello couldn't stand it. "You can leave me and go back to your pathetic life. No one is forcing you to be here."

Fuck. His sight was blurry again. "That's what he wanted."

"He doesn't want anything. He's dead."

That was it. 

Her eyes opened big in alarm as Donatello went for her neck with his hands. She took the small lamp from the table and jumped to the side. When Donatello aimed for her again she hit him in the face with it, getting him to back off.

Verdena grabbed her small backpack and ran towards the door. She only made it into the hallway before Donatello grabbed her from the hood and yanked her back. Hand closed around her short hair and yanked her again until he hit her head against the hallway wall. 

She gasped, stunned.

"Donate–"

Donatello stamped the girl with his knee in the middle of the stomach and watched her cry and fall to the ground. She curled into herself, hair locks disheveled and teeth clenching in pain and rage. Blood fell from Donatello's nose into her clothes, making him look even more deranged.

"W-what do you think you're doing, y-you dirty do–"

He kicked her again before she could finish. He wouldn't let her talk. 

Verdena coughed and curled more, and before she could cover her head Donatello stepped on her face.

"This is nothing. This isn't pain compared to what you did to him." He let her breath for a second before stepping down on her again. Hard. She cried, hand weakly trying to grab and stop his leg. "You chunked his fucking arm like an animal! You pierced through his skin with a kitchen knife more than twenty times!" 

He let go of the teenager's head and kicked her back in the middle. She writhed again, and covered her head quickly, hiding her face.

Verdena betrayed his father. Even though Pucci loved her. Covered for her. Risked everything. Pucci had loved her more than anything in the world. More than he could ever have loved Donatello in his sweetest dreams. More than he did love Dio, or Perla. More than his own life. 

Donatello cried, but this time his eyes were full of hate. He kicked again, but he could no longer hear a response sound.

He backed a few steps and breathed agitated, looking down at the motionless girl. 

He leaned into the wall and even though he knew he was standing, it was as if his mind faded out for a few minutes.

His limbs trembled but his breathing was controlled again. He looked.

She wasn't moving. 

Did he...?

A small sniffing sound came from Verdena. Her arm moved and Donatello catched a glimpse of her eyes. She was crying, but Donatello knew it was the pain. She didn't have any other reason to cry. She had no feelings. No remorse. No word could hurt her.

His back slid on the wall until he too fell into the ground. He looked into the ceiling, blankly. A small, weak voice made him come back. His face was dark and eyes hollow when he looked at the whimpering girl.

"I didn't r-realy. Want to hurt him." Verdena gasped. Her eyes were tearful and she looked frustrated. Speaking hurt her. Good. "I just wanted t-to feel something."

[cyberthot666]

I see all these people here with more money than they know what to with and their picture perfect feeds and their stupid all white linen outfits in their high end cars & I feel hollow. I miss the green grass and brick houses and the woods. I miss hot summers cold winters leaves falling apple orchards. I miss passing the cows. everything here feels so fake. so meaningless. it’s hard to summarize the feeling. I wish I could write poem that would encapsulate it but yeah.

[mr-independent]

EP 8 DIAMOND DOGS LESSGO

-- Rebecca fucking that hot young thing from the hotel.... You go girl

-- Ted is so fucking uncomfy after his night with Sassy you can just tell his words ring hollow. He doesn't seem like he regrets it necessarily, but it certainly didn't help his fucked up life. He signed his divorce papers like. 5 hours before sleeping with someone new.

-- Roy's noises when Gail gets to his hamstrings?? As a former semi pro athlete, yes. That's absolutely what happens. No disagreement here that shit is brutal but so fucking worth it

-- Ted is apparently an old school gentleman who 'doesnt kiss and tell' and is also not 'nuts for butts'. Which yeah sure is pretty meaningless in the long run but i just love the juxtaposition in the dialogue

-- Higgins dropping the truth bombs here, calling out Ted's tendency to beat himself up over every little thing, and the triple pass from Higgins to Beard to Nate? Beautiful

-- Jamie starts maturing way earlier than I remember, coming up to Keeley's and telling her everything she taught him like a thank you? Growth

-- every glimpse we get of Isaacs inner life is fucking fascinating. He can only write his name with a light up duck pen that quacks. He hates candy but loves rolos and has a particular hatred for sour patch kids. He's an amateur barber. He's an enigma.

-- the fake press conference thing between Roy and Keeley is the cutest fucking thing in the whole series and I'll stand by that till i die.

-- Ted dealing with Roy's wordless anger by playing charades is just fucking golden i love it

-- Ted advising Roy not to allow his feelings to control him is so fucking hypocritical and the lack of self awareness is astounding

-- can we just get a whole blooper reel of the milk based puns that didn't make it into the show? Bc i want more and i know they're out there somewhere. Gimme.

-- 'I forgot I'm left-handed. This is gonna be a hoot.' I just. He's so endearing i completely understand how people ship him with everyone bc everyone falls in love with him so fast, me included lol

-- his fav quote is by Walt Whitman......Ted Lasso i love you so much

-- the first of the Mr Lassos tragic backstory....you can see Ted grieving in that moment, however briefly, just before he throws that last dart. AND he says bbq sauce, the thing that 'always reminds him of home' and this is a sports comedy I'm not supposed to be Feeling Things

-- right when Rebecca gets happy, it all comes crashing back down. I mean, she couldn't escape without some form of karma dropping down on her but just one happy episode? Is that too much to ask of a so-called comedy show?

[srsly-unsrs]

Aghast and agog he ran from the fog that consumed everything behind him, his steps falling like raindrops on the muddy ground as he ran and ran, something like the speed of sound.

He had never been so afraid in his life, and saw it flash in front of his eyes, a thousand regrets all covered in bitter spice he couldn't stomach and found tasteless.

Nothing to cover him and nowhere to hide, only his legs to carry his pride, shattered and broken, something inside hollow and shallow and missing, he could not see the end of this ride.

'I want out', he thought inside his heart, 'I want out and I'm never going back inside!'

All his entropy turned into energy, he couldn't have found that well deep within him if it weren't for the danger all around him, stuck in the maw of some ravenous creature,

some ravenous God,

for he was sure of this in his heart: he was the powerless faced with the all-powerful in this instant, and his eye faltered as he stared into the abyss, the only method,

the only way he could prove his continued existence or merit the title of "living" is to keep running, to keep going, sweat pouring down every pore, glands overactive,

defeat nigh-assured.

But he ran anyway.

And he ran some more.

Why the struggle? It was the only method, the only way he could prove his continued existence or merit the title of "living".

Funny, that he once thought that title, of the "living", was meaningless, but only did he see the meaning, only was it imbued within his mind, when he was confronted by the true opposite,

the title of "dead", true death, something that cannot be returned from, which the Entrop-Chthon-Archon relishes in, smiling all the while.

He could never understand that smile; he could never stand that smile; he ran away from that very smile; his own face had no smile all the while.

He ran across concrete, floating islands of rock and earth fashioned artificially into artifices in the empty void, dark oceans of NOTHING fading in and out, leaving nothing in place of nothing,

and he could do nothing to stop it. Even as he struggled and pushed himself forward, prodded his equine legs onward like a man about to lose a bet in a horse race, only that he is about to lose his life,

even as he tried his best he failed his worst, and even as he ran forth he was stuck in place, for all his running was within the maw, upon the tongue. His taste was on its tongue, its lips were soon to be

reddened with his blood, its mask sullied by his scarlet grace. And he could do nothing about it but struggle in vain for its entertainment.

Trapped! But he ran. He could do no other. So he ran and ran and ran. The mud disappeared beneath him, the concrete disappeared beneath him, till he was running on air, colored air, black and blue and yellow,

like a cloud with a personality, like acid rain's parent.

All the while the flashes kept coming, flaring and bubbling up like some sick bile, like some bitter stew, bones giving flavor, marinated in all the guilt and shame of a lifetime.

Trapped! His own life came at him, speeding by him like an arrow, grazing his cheek and drawing bone-marrow, every second he regretted showcased before him like a theatre play,

and he was played by the most talentless actor to ever step on a stage, all his movements awkward, all his feelings faked, something puppeteered, and when he looked up the threads ascended somewhere unseen,

like he was incapable of even looking up and his feeble neck could only see so much, he'd be too small, too tiny, too little in comparison to whatever held the string, and yet if he strained his eyes and stepped on the tips

of his toes he could plainly see: a hand of stone, cold and heartless grey rock held onto the strings by the palm, the threads attached to the palm like needles sewing into a dress, yet no blood came forth, nothing poured,

no dew nor residue, no sign of life from this giant, this thing bigger than all things, in control and out of sight, in power and out of mind, in majesty and out of the shadow and reach of all livingkind.

Was the entire world this stage or just himself? How many of his decisions were his own? How much of himself was himself? Or was he always a perverted artist's canvas upon which to paint an object of hate?

For he could not see a loving man writing his fate. No loving being would force him to struggle like this. Why the pain? Why the shame? If nothing of himself is of himself, then he has no blame,

for there is no "he" if that were the truth, if the world were that stage. And as a cold despair took over his heart, he heard a laugh booming from the throat behind him, that tongue he stood on never wagging,

but salivating, covering his muddy feet with the same wet humidity he felt upon solid wet ground. Like that ground was as organic, living, as this maw he was in.

The Dream behind him whispered to him: "Did you really believe, for one second, the myth you were real? Did you really believe, for one second, the fiction you mattered? Where is your author now, who tortures you?

Does he rejoice in your suffering, as I do? Then I am made in his image, and not you! O, what a life wasted in ignorant bliss, though it is a blessing now to curse you with my taunting lips,

my maw is unmoving and you stand on it, yet I address you like this: little fellow, how worthless you are, you will surely not be missed!"

In that moment, Faerael jumped, remembered his name, landed down, then his mountain of shame came upon his shoulders, he had to carry the burden for all his days, he knew, and did not know whether he could see it through.

The torturous torment tore through his teeth as he held on by their skin, and he prodded his legs forward again, his one tool under him never wavering, despite all the views and the visions, despite the maw and the stone-hand,

despite the steel in his gullet and the acid burning a hole in the back of his throat, despite his split head and all the nonsense he wrote, the words and the ink spilling from the holes like a well-made meal from a recipe

book his grandmother wrote, that scarlet sauce, that lively grace slipping from under him just like everything else, and yet the only thing not slipping being his feet upon the floor, the cold and tiled white floor, layered

and laid in perfect symmetry, a geometry he could not have foreseen in his most accurate books of the sciences which he had pretended to read for his self-esteem, to increase his respect and have himself be seen, all eyes

on him and now none to see, no eyes but his own looking ever forward and never back, for you see, if he did look back he'd get lost in the abyss he just tried to flee.

Aghast and agog he ran from the fog that consumed everything behind him, his steps falling like raindrops on the cold white tiles as they turned every color that could be sussed by his eyes, every shade of pink and violet,

every shade of vile emotion, every green and lime and yellow by every extra mile, every shadow he tried to bury and every false smile, every false prophet he idolized and every icon he reviled, every time he was wrong and

none of the times he was right, chased by a Dream of Dreams, a Lord so shrouded in Darkness that he did not seem to exist in the first place yet was there all the while, like the Shadow of a Shadow coming from behind the curtain,

from behind the stage's curtain, drawing closer, fingers creeping nearer, like something unintended, like the consequence of a first connection, like a death in the family, like the first mention of a name, like a birth,

like a death in the family, like a death of the self, like an ocean of the same. Childish, childish, a childish man, a manchild, running like a child spooked by a wolf, the wolf a spook, the world a spook, nothing real,

but if one thing was the least real, it was himself.

No free will trickled down to him from the loaded vaults of liberty-loaded heaven above, not a single smile cast upon him from the radiant light behind a cloud, nor a guardian angel on his shoulder to speak his conscience to

him in his own mind aloud, nor a single barrier to protect him, but one to chain his soul: he inherited a chain and passed it down, and just like him, the chain had nowhere to go.

Puffed himself up, tried to feel good about the bad, but that wouldn't fly and that wouldn't stick and he saw the truth: and he shivered, he went to and fro, just like now, directionless, a blind man running,

following nothing, falling into nothing, walking on air then walking on nothing, out of the maw and into the feast, out of the farm and into the slaughter, out of the house and into the grave, out of the home and into the hate.

Just like an animal, he would be eaten, dined upon, a cannibal never seen chomping down hard on his bones: because he'll be eaten by something so above-and-under him, something so greater-and-lesser, better-and-worse,

awesome-and-awful, smiling-and-sadistic, entropic-and-aeonic, something so god-awful he could not grace it with a name except a god.

He himself was electrified, thunderstruck, lightning-lulled, siren-serenaded, hell-haughty. He used to be a pride-bearer, a people pleaser and a sightseer, till he found he could not see so far and needed perspective.

In the hallways he was liminal, in the walls he was subliminal, and soon he will be invisible, if anything of him remains but a ghastly-geist-ghost to witness his own miserable fate, like a chained little lamb-lion

trying to carry his own execution device up a hill and not standing straight.

He did not bleed: he cried scarlet grace. He did not run: he ran and ran and kept his pace. He did not escape: the maw was around him once again, the fog up to his waist, and this time a clang of iron was heard as the

teeth gnashed together, the Dream of Dreams waking him up from his stupor, from his zombie limbo state of escapism, as he found his bottom half missing.

Disassociation wore off: the little light in his head replaying his life instead replaced by the sheer weight of agony, the weight of losing weight, phantom limbs, no concern to save face as his face contorted,

screaming out into the void and the void responded:

"This is the first time we even see you, clown, stop being such a miserable whelp, pipe down, listen to us, we're here, we're here because we're the ones you were made for, so cut out the pathetic [nonsense] and lets

get really started: we're waiting to see Him eat you, we're waiting to see what more He'll say, we never cared about you, just like we said, we just saw you today, never cared about in any other way, food for the pet,

for the little inserted virus, the perfect little disease, the black death in a blacker world. So just shut up, pay your respects, say your prayers, accept your death, love your fate, someone we know wrote it for you,

stop laying out so much hate to the world that gave birth to you. You may not get to choose: cause somebody else chose for you; now that just proves that that somebody else CAN choose, and not you.

Cause your creator is just like you, isn't he? But he's one step above you, isn't he? You can never comprehend him, even though you're closer to him than he is to the One above him.

But you were fun, you were alright, a good little victim."

Now the voices of the void veered, faded away into fast frenetic fears, his life flashed before his eyes just before, but now his death was coming like a memory sore, he never imagined it would go this way,

lots of things he planned never came to fruition he'd say, but it was better than to never exist, he hoped and prayed that that was true but it left a tasteless taste on his mouth and it spread to his face.

He laughed.

[rainneverstopped]

July the 3rd 2024, 5:38pm

There simply isn’t enough Clonazepam to make me feel indifferent to the fact that I wasted my life away without even meaning to.

And no, nothing in the future can ever make up for that or come even close to what I should have had. I don’t want what’s coming. In fact, I fear it. I have no interest in aging and all that comes along with it.

I’m filled with sadness and hollow despair because others managed and manage. They go out and enjoy and live and turn into what they want. I can’t even make myself go for a walk when there’s no appointments for the day.

I’m tired of slowly losing myself and then losing myself faster and faster. There isn’t even any company. Even if I heal, it won’t be enough and the thought haunts me and makes me reach for the stupid bottle of anti anxiety liquid three times a day, even though it doesn’t take anything fully away.

I want myself back. I feel I was never truly mine. My defective brain chains me to the ground. Beats me up into submission. I just want time to rewind itself. I want to be everything I wanted when I wanted something. When I could still want. When I felt the electricity of possibility and paths ahead that didn’t lead to old age and ruin. It’s almost as though I wanted so ardently, so desperately but was not able to follow through and something in my brain became atrophied and tired. Nothing sinks in anymore and I’m left with screaming voices in my mind asking for more every time because it all feels like crumbs of the meal I should have received. Now all I feel is a cold, desperate longing to be there again. To undo the damage, while clueless voices tell me it’s not that bad and act as though time had no weight and no consequences. As though one could start and catch up at any age and the effect on development and the self was the same it would have been if it had happened early on.

I’m filled with hatred at the ignorance and mind numbing positivity. My conscience trails off, my brain tells me “nothing of use here, I could take this time to try and recharge” and it shuts down all non essential features. I know they are talking because from far away I hear the same tired, sanitized, pop psychology sayings that I saw on Facebook reposts years back with a picture of a sunset in a field as a background. It has been repackaged and replaced any common sense in the collective understanding of what it’s like to be unwell and now makes its new rounds on Instagram with similar pictures over it and it has bled into the fabric of the outside world. The quotes never change: “it’s never too late”, “better now than never”, “you have to appreciate life for what it is”. I feel myself floating in place where I stood just seconds ago. I feel my forced blinks. The corners of my mouth uncomfortably and hopelessly twisting into a fake smile. My head moving up and down, nodding in equally fake agreement. My eyes unfocus and their faces make no sense, I feel anxiety and I want nothing else but to look away but that’s rude so I keep my eyes where they are. I feel all that so deeply. What I don’t feel is my heart beating, hope, curiosity from them towards my experiences, understanding for systemic failure towards invisible neurodevelopmental disabilities. And what’s worse: I don’t feel my humanity or theirs. I just float there waiting for them to finish their performance of the same tired, rehashed script. I feel so far away. They don’t even wait for applause when they are done, so sure of their performance and satisfied with their words that whatever I say after is meaningless so I don’t bother. I used to. For years I dug in the filthy, shallow puddle of their words looking for something of value, something deeper. No point anymore, I might as well save that energy to walk home, shower, place a slice of ham in between two pieces of bread and tell myself it’s a dinner, drag myself to the bathroom where I weakly move the toothbrush across my mouth for a minute or two until I tire of the exercise and tell myself it’s probably fine if I use the antibacterial mouth wash and decide it’s time to walk to bed. Where I should have been all day, the bed I should have never left because nothing works so what’s the point?. They stare right through me as I think all this.

I say what I need to so I don’t hurt their feelings because it’s hopeless. There’s no space for a conversation in the script. It allows no edits. No improvisation. I’m left alone with the same feelings as soon as they are off to wherever they were going. Both of us unaltered by the exchange and emotionally foreign to one another. We might as well be miles away. The difference between us is that this actually feels like falling into a dark pit to me. I endlessly replay it in my head, stunned by the disappointment. Looking for an outlet that is never to be found. Even calling the psychiatric assistance hotlines I saved into the contacts of my phone seems stupid now. I sit alone in a cold room. There are so many parts of me that are so trascendental and they remain unseen and unprompted in this useless theater plays they put on. I feel alone so I stop answering their calls and messages, I sit beside myself for months on end. They act shocked at this and I think that after so many years they would have figured it out. I’m nothing if not consistent and repetitive in this pattern but recognizing and deciding patterns requires an interest in the person the patterns come from. It requires silence, looking deeply into someone instead of waiting for your turn to talk and why would that ever be done?. I realize I’ve been supplementing my life with imaginary lands to escape to. The access to my own inner realms seems so limited now. I’m filled with rage at myself. I can no longer even dream and fantasize most of the time. There’s no hope ahead to nurture me enough to do that. I’ve been in bed all day and I hope I die here tonight in my sleep. I don’t want to discover any more ways to feel alone and scared. I no longer feel there’s anything out there to look for.

[allterrribleideas]

TADC Ep 2 The End

Great it's ALL spoilers just gonna

Zooble needs better legs come on that's just hard to watch.

I'm not gonna talk about Jax's half a second of frowny face, it means nothing it means NOTHING. I do not buy into sadboy Jax, but that's because personally I think it's a weak and uninteresting way to interpret his character. My preferred interpretation is him recognizing that if he abstracted, he thinks nobody would want to have a funeral for him, and so the idea is something he doesn't want to engage with. That goes back into the whole 'fake context produces real feelings' thing I've been harping on this whole time, because Jax represents the opposing idea that fake things can't produce real anything. I'm being very technical here I know but stay with me

Kaufmo's whole funeral scene is pretty good. Pomni smiling for real is a great juxtaposition to her fake smile at the end of the first episode (and her fake crazy smile moments earlier). The obvious metaphor at the end is so obvious I don't think there's anything I can add to it. Pomni learns that even in a meaningless dark void the relationships she builds with others can give her a way to 'hold on' to an otherwise fake reality. There's even a moment right at the end with the hand holding where everyone grabs her, then she grabs back. It's not a simultaneous thing- the others can't DRAG her anywhere, she has to engage and hold them like they are holding her. It's sweet (also kind of weird, like she just hallucinates this out of nowhere? there wasn't any other scene like that in the previous two episodes where we just see a character's internal thoughts, but I'll allow it because SHOW DON'T TELL and all that).

Zooble even gets a bit more content when she looks sad which is also great, because it shows she's supportive even if she doesn't care about the adventures. This is like, SUPER IMPORTANT too, because Zooble kind of represents a 'healthy' way to engage with the Jax mentality. You can believe everything is fake and meaningless but if you still treat people well, that has a positive benefit and is worth doing. Jax the hedonist is completely defeated this episode and his momentary indulgence of violence is shown to be empty and hollow. I guess, maybe, I dunno, I just like writing about this stuff. Maybe he was having a blast playing pingpong in his room or something.

[theggning]

Mr. Pinstripe Suit - A Godot Playlist

An updated, revamped version of an ancient FST of mine (I mean like, Livejournal old.) Brought to you by the convenient modern technological magic of Spotify!

Appropriately jazz, swing, and rockabilly-heavy with a darker second half, but mostly upbeat. Contains allusions to spoilers for Trials and Tribulations and all the Miego you can drink (17 cups worth, even.)

Link to Playlist on Spotify

Tracklist and Descriptions/Meaningful Lyrical Snippets Under Cut

TRACKLIST:

Overture | Mr. Pinstripe Suit - Big Bad Voodoo Daddy

Diego | Alter Ego - Donald Byrd

Turnabout Beginnings | Town Without Pity - The Brian Setzer Orchestra

By Her Side | Dominoes - Donald Byrd

Flirtation | Butterfly - Jason Mraz

Dating | You’re the Boss - The Brian Setzer Orchestra

Those Six Months | This Boy’s Last Summer - The Night Flight Orchestra

Dahlia | La Camisa Negra - Juanes

Coma | Machines - Biffy Clyro

Awakening | Funeral in His Heart - October Project

Missing Her | Since I Don’t Have You - The Brian Setzer Orchestra

Godot | Not Yet - Michel Camilo

Phoenix | Wipe That Smile Off Your Face - Our Lady Peace

Bitter as Hell | Bitter - Remy Zero

Trite | Fake - Mystery Skulls

Bridge to the Turnabout | Blood Like Lemonade - Morcheeba

The Bitter Truth | Hollow Man - R.E.M.

Everlasting Love | Sister Mercurial - The Night Flight Orchestra

Mia | California Sad-Eyed Girl - Rockapella

The Fragrance of Dark Coffee - insaneintherainmusic

------------------------

Overture | Mr. Pinstripe Suit - Big Bad Voodoo Daddy

… Now he strolls through the city like a big ol' alley cat

With his pinstripe suit and a big bad voodoo hat

I don't believe I ever saw him without a kitten on his hand

And no one swings as hard to the big bad voodoo band

----

Diego | Alter Ego - Donald Byrd

(Instrumental)

----

Turnabout Beginnings | Town Without Pity - The Brian Setzer Orchestra

How can we keep love alive? How can anything survive?

When these little minds tear you in two

What a town without pity can do

----

By Her Side | Dominoes - Donald Byrd

Hold me tight (hold me tight), don't let go 

Turn me loose, never, no, no, no

We'll stand our problems all in a row

Watch them fall like dominoes

----

Flirtation | Butterfly - Jason Mraz

Butterfly, well you landed on my mind

Damn right you landed on my ear and then you crawled inside

And now I see you perfectly behind closed eyes

I want to fly with you and I don't want to lie to you

NOTES: Wholesome and horny. Whorny, if you will.

----

Dating | You’re the Boss - The Brian Setzer Orchestra

Baby, you've got me beat up and down, inside out and across

But in the middle of the night, when the moon is shinin' bright

You're the boss

NOTE: 1. This song is ALSO very horny 2. Mia tops, song confirms it.

----

Those Six Months | This Boy’s Last Summer - The Night Flight Orchestra

Over and over and over again, through those cheap and dirty thrills

Over and over I’ve learned only true love kills

If those haunted memories enter my mind

Only you can save me this time

Somewhere deep inside you know you’ll always be mine

NOTES: GOD NFO is so good, this song slaps. Also song’s about a man falling in love after a series of meaningless (”summer”) relationships, but is also depressingly literal in Diego’s case here and AAGGHHH

----

Dahlia | La Camisa Negra - Juanes

TRANSLATED FROM SPANISH (not by me):

(I drank from the malevolent poison that was your love

I remain a dying man and full of pain

I breathe in that bitter second of your goodbye

And since you left me alone...

I wear the black shirt / Because my soul is just as black)

----

Coma | Machines - Biffy Clyro

I whisper empty sounds in your ear and hope that you won't let go

Take the pieces and build them skywards

‘Cause I've started falling apart I'm not savoring life

I've forgotten how good it could be to feel alive

----

Awakening | Funeral in His Heart - October Project

He had a love, it was keeping him alive

It was someone else ago

So he tried to hide it

But he knew he’d never let it go

----

Missing Her | Since I Don’t Have You - The Brian Setzer Orchestra

I don't have happiness / And I guess I never will ever again

When you walked out on me, in walked old misery

And he's been here since then

NOTES: Okay but when they make an Ace Attorney jukebox musical, I want Godot performing this absolutely over the top solo lament complete with choreography, then quietly drinking a cup of coffee and pretending it never happened. 

-----

Godot | Not Yet - Michel Camilo

(Instrumental)

----

Phoenix | Wipe That Smile Off Your Face - Our Lady Peace

See, I’m not your friend

And I won’t pretend

That I’ve come here for peace

Well, I’m not afraid

I’m gonna make you pay

I’m gonna wipe that smile off your face

-----

Bitter as Hell | Bitter - Remy Zero

And I tried to believe in these lies

I tried to still see with black eyes

I wanted to tame you but you never came through

Bitter / Just one more day when it’s already been too long

----

Trite | Fake - Mystery Skulls

Gonna make you sorry that you met me

Gonna make your insides hurt

I've been laughing, we're all laughing at you

Cause it's funny, 'cause you're worse

NOTES: By the way, special thanks to “Turntable Turnabout” for introducing me to Mystery Skulls in the first place. (Go look on Youtube if you’ve never seen it.)

----

Bridge to the Turnabout | Blood Like Lemonade - Morcheeba

Hunting high and low to seek revenge

Brand new moral code, got made reluctant renegade

Leaving empty souls when he avenged

Evil spirits flowed, he drank the blood like lemonade

----

The Bitter Truth | Hollow Man - R.E.M.

I’ve overwhelmed, I’m on repeat, I’m emptied out, I’m incomplete

You trusted me, I want to show you

I don’t want to be the hollow man

----

Everlasting Love | Sister Mercurial - The Night Flight Orchestra

I remained terrestrial, you took to the air

I despised the factual, you became aware

And I never will regret choosing death when we were young

Somewhere in the stratosphere you will watch me 'til I'm done

NOTES: OWWWWWWWW

-----

Mia | California Sad-Eyed Girl - Rockapella

You’ll always be the summer in my winter world

My California sad-eyed girl

I need to know - Are we still in your mind?

And come one day, impossible as it may seem, I can dream

At the end of this road somewhere, you wait for me

NOTES: “Japanifornia Sad-Eyed Girl” *almost* scans, too...

-----

The Fragrance of Dark Coffee - insaneintherainmusic

(Instrumental) One of many fine covers by the amazingly talented insaneintherainmusic!

[autisticcassandracain]

I am so desensitized to comic book deaths being undone that even when they aren't I feel nothing but annoyance. The knowledge that this death can be undone whenever they want just makes it annoying when it isn't. It is impossible to buy into grief, eulogies, and after-effects knowing that a snap from a writer could easily restore the status quo. Comic books have successfully rendered death so thoroughly meaningless that even permanent deaths fail to affect me in a way other than annoyance.

And there's no way to fix it! Even if you reset the universe and pinky promise not to revive anyone anymore, there's decades of comic book history to back up how fake and hollow that promise is. The only 'fix' is to move away from death as a threat, to erase it as an obstacle entirely, and even then. If death isn't permanent, what is? What threat can the heroes face that actually changes things, if the most permanent change of all has no meaning?

I know none of this is a particularly new take it's just been hitting me harder than usual lately how thoroughly fucked up this all is. Comic books have successfully destroyed the idea of permanency or consequences in their stories by making death meaningless, and it's a brilliant case study in why you really really shouldn't bring characters back from the dead.

[teawaffles]

Forbidden Games: Chapter 7

One day, three assassins had gathered for a gunfight.

The three of them had varying levels of skill with a gun. The first assassin had perfect aim. The second could land two shots in three. The last was only able to land one shot in three.

They were to take turns choosing one of the other two to shoot at. In order to compensate for their differences in skill level, they would start from the most inexperienced assassin, who could only land one shot in three.

Now if you were this person, what would you consider the most reasonable thing to do?

The right answer is—— to fire straight into the air, without aiming at either opponent.

Ordinarily, one would think to target the most dangerous assassin, who could land every shot. But if they were struck down, then on the next turn, you would find yourself in the sights of the remaining opponent, who could land two shots in three.

As such, if you were to avoid shooting either party, the next player would definitely target the most dangerous opponent. If they succeed, the subsequent turn would cycle back to you. Hence the best course of action is to shoot no one at the start.

An action that seems meaningless at first glance, may in truth be the most logical choice.

This was a paradox —— the gap between logic and intuition.

“While there are some slight differences, our game bears a striking resemblance to this story, which is why I chose to apply it today. Although, I admit I may have been a bit too dramatic when aiming the gun at myself.”

A contradiction for a contradiction. Saying that, a small smile rose on William’s face. It was the smile of a demon.

For a moment, the extent to which he’d misjudged William had made Alan break out in a cold sweat. But he quickly regained his composure.

“I get it — you’re smart enough to know what you’re doing. But now, what will you do? The chance that your gun will fire in this turn is two-in-five. As for me, with one bullet fired and two left, my chances are the same. We’re even now.”

“But that’s not true. I believe you know very well that on your next turn, your gun will fire,” William asserted.

“……What?”

William brushed his thumb over the revolver in his hand.

“It appears that the guns we were given have been rigged, such that the cylinders will stop at predetermined positions when they are spun. These positions have been marked with scratches. In other words, this game has been a lie from the very beginning.”

William looked at Alan, who was in a daze, as he continued.

“That’s why you were able to add two more bullets to your gun with no hesitation whatsoever. You knew that even if Mr Holmes were to face off with five rounds, the gun would never fire.”

He then struck his index finger against the table.

Alan had been thoroughly shocked when the secret behind the guns was revealed. But now, he retaliated in full force.

“That’s right. These guns are for cheats. Why wouldn’t I use them in this game? Counting from the chamber where the cylinder stops, my revolver has three consecutive chambers loaded. But only the last two chambers of your gun are filled. ——Do you get it? This means your gun will not fire this turn, and on my turn, mine will definitely fire. The game has already been decided.”

“I’ll throw that question back to you. Do you understand what it means for us to know about this trick?”

Somewhat stunned by his opponent’s lack of awareness, William proceeded to explain the situation with eloquence.

“In our previous match, I said something to Mr Holmes. ‘Allow me to advance a proposition. Two chambers— don’t fill them.’”

There was another meaning behind those awkward words. “What it meant was, ‘Advance by two chambers’. After that, Mr Holmes violently loaded the gun —— so much so, that he had scratched the cylinder too.”

Alan covered his mouth with his hand as he looked at his own gun.

“……No way—”

“Because the two of us were given new revolvers, and you chose to use the gun from our previous match, you are now holding a revolver with two chambers’ worth of scratch marks added. Although the previous scratches remained…… since it was Mr Holmes who made them, I trust that the new markings were able to fool your accomplices.”

With no need for any further explanation, William fell silent.

In a game of Russian roulette where the number of rounds loaded increases over time, Sherlock had unexpectedly done something rash.

Alan had taken his sudden change in attitude to be mere desperation. But in reality, Sherlock had received William’s message, and while maintaining his composure, he proceeded to act as if he had no regard for his own life. By doing so, his violence in loading the gun, as well as his choice to fill the cylinder to its upper limit, were all interpreted as the products of a meltdown — and they were able to avoid any suspicion that they had seen through his trick.

However, this method of using Alan’s own trick against him was not foolproof. Although they had added new scratches to the cylinder, the original marks still remained. On close inspection, it might be possible to distinguish them.

With that in mind, Alan turned to face his accomplices behind him. But they said nothing, perhaps out of confusion. They had no confidence that they’d loaded the bullets in the right chambers. A sense of unease began to swell within Alan.

If Sherlock’s trap had succeeded, the positions of the bullets in Alan’s gun would now be off.

His revolver had six chambers. Counting from where the cylinder would stop, the first three chambers were supposed to be filled. Now with the markings “shifted” two positions forward, it would be that the first, and last two chambers were filled instead.

Since one round had already been fired, only the other two bullets remained. He was essentially in the same situation as William. In that case, as William had the first move, he would be able to fire on Alan one turn earlier.

In short, in this perverse version of Russian roulette, Alan had employed rigged revolvers, his accomplices had mistaken the positions of the scratch marks, and William had elected to go first. With these three conditions in place, William’s victory had been secured.

“What kind of joke is this……”

From the start, the game’s outcome had been set in stone.

That had originally been Alan’s plan. But William took advantage of it and turned the tables on him.

Despite being in a position of absolute superiority, victory had escaped him a second time. Alan’s blood was boiling.

“A—Again! I will surely win if we play again!”

William put his revolver down, and shook his head in pity.

“Unfortunately, there will be no rematch. Both of us no longer have the time to humour someone like you,” he replied curtly.

Alan lost his patience and slammed the table.

“Do you look down on everyone, you brat?!”

“All you do is envy others, and that is why you have lost yourself,” William said, with the air of an educator.

Before Alan could make sense of that, the sound of a revolver’s hammer being cocked emanated from the floor.

“——Don’t move.”

Then, the fallen detective staggered to his feet. Even though he had been shot in the abdomen, his face betrayed no trace of pain, instead wearing the grin of a child whose mischief had succeeded. In his hand, was a fully-loaded revolver.

“Holmes, why you bastard—”

“I don’t feel like explaining myself right now. Anyway, all of you raise your hands like grown men,” Sherlock ordered sharply, amidst their confusion.

Perhaps they were caught completely off guard, but Alan’s accomplices put up no struggle as they timidly raised both hands. The young man who had been held hostage edged quietly away from them.

William rose from his seat in a leisurely manner.

“From the start, our goal was to create this exact scenario. You have no intention of giving up no matter how many times your opponent wins. In that case, we should overturn the entire stage. To that end, this game, which allowed Mr Holmes to be eliminated by faking his death, presented the perfect opportunity.”

Just as William had planned, his act of near-suicide right from the outset had thrown them off balance, such that no one paid any notice to the fallen Sherlock. Then Sherlock came back to life with perfect timing, providing the key to their counterattack.

With their plan a roaring success, William and Sherlock were brimming with satisfaction.

“You two……”

Alan glared at them with hateful eyes.

“Oh, you’re not going admit defeat at this stage, aren’t you? That might actually be a good idea. Since all of you outnumber us, if you all take your guns out right now, you could certainly kill us. But Mr Holmes is sure to take a few of you down with him too. Is anyone prepared to be one of those ‘few’?”

“Now this is a genuinely fair and exciting challenge. Come on, who wants to join the game?”

Against the two of them, who were proudly putting their lives on the line, not a single person made a move.

In the end, the ‘equality’ that Alan and his accomplices had put forward, was nothing more than a hollow notion bragged about from within their circle of safety.

Having truly fought for his life and come out standing, to these men, William directed a gentle smile.

“Since it seems no one wishes to participate, ——this is game over.”

T/N: You may have noticed that the explanations of the trick are somewhat awkward (haha). It wasn’t explained 100% clearly in the Japanese text — I took a while to get it myself — so I decided to drop more hints within the text, rather than do so in a footnote. I hope it made sense for you!

[vicholas]

Free ask to talk about Odd Taxi? (I'm going to watch it later bc of your recommendation!)

Hmm let's see

A while ago, I was talking to a friend who also liked the show and watched it as it came out, and we commented that after it ended we still talked and thought of it often but it was mostly through sharing fanart or making some jokes about the characters, but with time we kinda were forgetting about the actual substance of the show. 

And so we looked back at the show and the themes and thought about how we had kinda forgotten the heart of the show... I love the characters, I love the humor, but what really feels like the heart of it all is way beyond that and more on how poignant it was. It was a pretty sad show. I love the themes on how we’re all connected yet so alone. It portrayed alienation so well. The way we hop to hollow obsessions to seek some sense of fulfillment. The way people engage in acts of violence for a fake sense of control. The sacrifices made for meaningless labor. 

There was this line from an ANN review that I really liked and stuck with me

The story of Mystery Kiss is also the story of Odd Taxi: big dreams turned sour by a fundamentally exploitative society.

It’s really sad and harsh as a show, but also warm I feel? Not in the most traditional sense of the word, I feel the show doesn’t try to create sugarcoated moments in order to make it less harsh, but there’s something in the way of treating the characters that is so humane, even at its most sardonic. It really doesn’t lose sight of that. Odd Taxi reminds me in many ways of Paranoia Agent but tbh I feel Odd Taxi has a kinder feel to it.

I think there are a lot of stories that deal with such a depressing outlook of the world, but Odd Taxi doesn’t put me down as much as others do. It has a very melancholic tone to it, but it also, despite everything, it has a positive outlook towards life and our connections with people. It resonates with me.

It’s really well crafted, compact, does the things it wants to do and says the things it wants to say in its short episode count and uses its runtime so well.

I think it’s so easy that months after you watch something you begin to forget the more deeper reasons of why something impacted you and you just remember the more superficial stuff, but I want to try to not let that happen here. I wanna remember what it means to me.