#hypergraphia

[hypergraphistwriter]

Chapter 18

This is an old one..figured I’d share.

[fehck]

[lunarriviera]

the year in fic: 2024

So every January, @programmedradly and I go through the @ficwip list of year in review questions and pick 5 we want to answer, and 5 for the other person. This saves us having to answer all of them, and saves you having to read it! You’re welcome! Plus it’s more fun.

This year she picked these for me:

8. What fic meant the most to you to write? 9. What fic made you feel the happiest to work on? 16. What’s your favorite title of the year? 23. If you had to choose one, what was the most satisfying writing moment of your year? 30. What would you like to write next year?

And I picked these for myself:

5. What ships captured your heart? 11. What fic was the most difficult to write? 19. Share your favorite piece of dialogue. 20. Share your funniest line. 21. What’s something that surprised you while you were working on a fic? Did it change the story?

Without further ado! Endless palaver behind the cut!

5. What ships captured your heart?

Oh my god [swoons a little bit]. Since I read Mo Du I’ve been absolutely shattered about Luo Wenzhou/Fei Du and I’m starting to think that’s never going to change. The grumpy one and the sunshine one? Red oni/blue oni? The lion and the raven? Oh please, spare me. Try “the one with the unwavering moral compass who will throw himself unhesitatingly into the line of fire for you, even though you’re a lying liar who lies and you’re constantly yanking his chain but you have his whole heart anyway,” paired with “the one for whom it’s still sort of up in the air whether he's a sociopath or just traumatized to the point of insanity, but he's also clearly a genius and has been crafting this plan his entire life so I guess his new cop boyfriend will help him carry it out, oh and by the way guess what he's now falling in love with the cop's innate compassion and goodness, haha you didn’t see that coming did you Fei Du, SURPRISE.”

Honestly I’ve never read anything else like it.

In raw word count I wrote the most for Du Cheng/Shen Yi (something that also feels like it will never change, because they’re so similar to Zhoudu). But I got truly blindsided by Ruan Nanzhu/Lin Qiushi, who took me out at the knees—I’d never read infinite flow before and I had no idea Nanzhu would break my heart (thanks in large part to Xia Zhiguang and his stupid eyes). Finally, at the end of the year Zheng Bei/Gu Yiran burst through the door and said, hey we’re also deeply fucked up and perfect for each other, will you write a bunch of fics for us, and after I was done crying I said, sure I guess. Why the fuck not.

Basically it’s been a solid twelve months of clutching my chest and whispering weakly, they’re in love, so, you know. Like that. (Having said this, Guardian is forever. I got wobbly about pingxie all over again when Tibetan Sea Flower aired—plus all I have to do is see a gifset of Ji Chen and Ji Xiaobing to be racked with heihua feelings. Do these things ever go away? I keep thinking of lines by Adrienne Rich: "We who were loved will never / unlive that crippling fever.")

8. What fic meant the most to you to write?

This will surprise exactly no one, but “asylum.” It’s been five years since I wrote anything much longer than 20-30k, and that experience (100k, a very made-up crossover) had been so fraught and left me so mind-wiped that I was scared to try again. And yet. I couldn’t stop thinking how 1) UTS still has no English fic longer than about 30k, 2) Chinese procedurals won't admit corruption exists even though it’s rampant, and 3) UTS repeatedly teases us with Shen Yi’s Dark Past but refuses to divulge anything more than the tiniest glimpses. Anyway it wouldn’t leave me alone so now it’s posting, sorry everyone for putting the entire cast plus all of us through the fucking wringer. The good news is there’s a ton of fluff and crack and smut and gen for this pairing (an alarming amount of which @elenothar and I have written), so you can always find solace there after I’m done heartlessly torturing the detectives of Beijiang.

9. What fic made you feel the happiest to work on?

There were two: “what are you doing to me now” (the Du Cheng amnesia fic, which was supposed to be purely cracky and wound up being unexpectedly kind of poignant) and “middle of the night (and you’re not here” (aka “Gu Yiran has a problem.”)—I think they made me happy because they were both so relatively easy? They came together early on in my head as visual scenes unfolding, and once I can picture a scene it’s mercifully straightforward just to write it out.

11. What fic was the most difficult to write?

Obviously “asylum,” simply because it has so many moving parts; but unexpectedly, also my fic for Yuletide, “which could mean nothing.” It was supposed to be a couple thousand words, ballooned into 12k, I panicked and nearly gave up on it and was saved at the last moment by @programmedradly and @sangcurcumasvp, who persuaded me to finish. I fervently wish I would write in sections, episodically; leave more to the reader’s imagination, summarize more. And yet I seem doomed to writing in-scene. I don’t know why. It’s exhausting.

16. What’s your favorite title of the year?

Honestly they were mostly so dumb—“undercover” and “the vacation” both stand out to me as exceptionally stupid. I guess I don’t mind “the branch, my mouth, your sword,” with its echoes from both hanahaki and Beijing opera; and “to hope your son becomes a dragon” isn’t bad either, coming as it does from an idiom, 望子成龙.

19. Share your favorite piece of dialogue.

I admit I love a lot of the dialogue in “what are you doing to me now” just because I'd finally cracked the elliptical yet blunt way that Du Cheng and Shen Yi speak to each other. It’s terse because neither of them is given to saying much, yet it’s also iceberg-like, with unspoken volumes submerged beneath each utterance, and it’s taken me a while to get that rhythm. This comes after Du Cheng has recovered his memory, in that handwavy way people do in fic:

They have some arguments. The arguments aren’t about anything recent, but Du Cheng having just remembered certain events all over again, he feels freshly aggrieved about them. “You just stood there, and you let him stab you.” “He stabbed the painting.” “It was a good painting! And you were on the other side of it.” “You and Jiang Feng were right behind me.” “But what if we hadn’t been?” “Then I wouldn’t have just stood there.” “Goddammit,” says Du Cheng, because he’s lost this one too. “Don’t, okay? Next time?” Shen Yi compresses his very pretty mouth into an unyielding line, and doesn’t promise anything, because he’s still a pain in Du Cheng’s ass.

20. Share your funniest line.

People seemed to like vastly different bits this year, e.g. @omaenanimonoda was amused by people “dancing like sweaty pickles in a jar.” But a few readers commented on this text exchange between Du Cheng and He Rongyue, initiated by a nervous Du Cheng about to go on a first date with Shen Yi. This is from “still have to change,” in which Shen Yi keeps interrupting all of Du Cheng’s blind dates—when, that is, they're not interrupted by major crimes.

何溶月: what’s up 杜城: nothing 杜城: i meet shen yi in an hour 杜城: at that place you suggested 何溶月: du cheng, it’s fine. it’ll be fine 杜城: what if he hates it 何溶月: he likes you, not a restaurant 杜城: how do you know 何溶月: he literally interrupted an autopsy 何溶月: to ask me why you keep going on dates 何溶月: with people who aren't him 杜城: what did you say 何溶月: i told him it was because you were an idiot

21. What’s something that surprised you while you were working on a fic? Did it change the story?

I’m a terrible pantser so that always happens, characters are always rearing up and opening their mouths and saying the most outrageous shit, and then I have to scramble to accommodate them. This happened again and again in “asylum” but it also came out of the woodwork in “held you close and breathed your name,” one of the year’s two DMBJ fics. Bai Ma really did just keep up and saying/doing stuff and then I would have to figure out how to jam that into her and Xiaoge’s story somehow. Again, I wish I were different, and would plot everything out beforehand, but I seem compelled to subject myself to characters just popping their heads up like prairie dogs and announcing their goddamn preferences.

23. If you had to choose one, what was the most satisfying writing moment of your year?

I really loved writing “when you hold me (it holds me together)” for Fei Du’s birthday. I was honestly starting to wonder if I’d ever be able to write for that pairing, because needless to say Priest is a pretty fucking tough act to follow. And then it happened, and now I’m working on a new story for them, too. It’s such a knee-weakening feeling of relief when you’re able to do something terrifying that you wanted so desperately, but really doubted you could ever pull off.

30. What would you like to write next year?

I already have a list and here it is. I realize I am thus tempting the gods and now probably none of this will get written but instead I’ll write two dozen random fics for some miserable machine-translated drama no one has ever seen. Because that’s how these things work.

• little uts2 fic about [redacted] i’m writing with [person] • finish posting uts longfic (edit chs 6-21 without unaliving) • “gu yiran gets roofied” (sorry to this man) • wang yang rpf ft. some twink crying, not sure whomst yet • post-canon ptsd zhoudu ft. messed-up [redacted] roleplay • turn someone into a cat (shen yi again probably?) • lose omegaverse virginity (kod? rnz already gave lqs a claiming bite) • beach episode part 2? (nanqiu get drunk in tahiti bar, hijinks ensue) • Very Secret Project I Will Not Be Discussing Ever So Don’t Ask • something serious about uts s2 but I don’t know what yet (though I do now have two I hope shorter fics outlined, working titles “fang kaiyi gets out of prison” and “du cheng solves a tricky case”)

Thanks for reading, darlings; your ongoing presence—baffling, astounding, salvific—honestly keeps me from walking into the sea. Happy 2025, and I hope you enjoy everything you write.

[worldisahouseonfire]

I think something has happened to me, from a lifetime of trying to communicate with people who seemed committed to misunderstand me. I say one thing, and the way they respond, it's like they were listening to another audio track, or radio frequency. I think something happens when nothing a person says gets understood, believed, acknowledged, for years on end.

It becomes impossible for me to understand what even the point is of language. The more I try to correct, the less I make sense, even to myself anymore. And I worry that all the reasons people gave for not understanding me only served to make me more anxious and difficult to understand, even for people who wanted to make an effort.

I read things that Mel Baggs and other disabled writers wrote, and they're things that make sense with what I'm going through now. On the one hand it's validating to know I'm not the only one experiencing these things. On the other hand, many of those disabled writers are now dead, and the people who should be reading their words never have and possibly never will. If I send posts to people and they refuse to read them, and refuse to listen to me and what I can now quote from memory, then what would be the point of me writing or speaking at all?

I think a lot of people lose their voices and words this way.

I think a lot of people die this way.

Not because they're not articulate, not because they lack insight into what's happening around them, but because the people crammed in thickly around them are determined to misunderstand them, until the frustration boils over, meltdowns and 'behaviors' are had, and this is used as justification for chemical restraint, institutionalization, coercive control, and brilliant minds are vanished to silence their voices.

I don't want this to happen to me.

I think this is something that's been happening throughout the history of language and oppression to a lot of people, and it's a dangerous razor's edge to walk sometimes. Every word. Every facial expression. Every tone. Every movement. Every variation in volume. Where it's not merely about the perception of people in the immediate vicinity, but what they can write into charts and notes. What they can report to doctors, paramedics, agencies, therapists, and the sort of kangaroo courts that preside over involuntary commitment, guardianship, conservatorship.

Where anything you do or say or write, and even how you do it, can and will be used against you in the court of public opinion, so easily manipulated by those who can benefit from shutting someone up and away.

No staff have to be smart to do this. All they have to do is be more credible than those in their care. And this credibility is a function of their position. It's built into disability support services and welfare agencies, places and systems where we wind up when there is nowhere else to turn.

I live in an adult residential facility. When I was placed here, it was supposed to be temporary, to get me out of a dangerous shelter, to keep me off the streets and out of some inpatient situation. Much was not disclosed to me until after I was shuffled in. I am still legally my own person, and I'm alone.

The facility is getting paid over $10k a month for my board and care.

This facility has the highest restriction possible for a facility of this type, in order to be able to charge the maximum legal amount.

I have been here over a year. In that time I have not been able to access actual medical care.

Even in this expensive area, that much money a month could have paid rent, paid for a car and a printer/scanner, and paid for a graduate student from a nearby prestigious university to come over for a couple of hours twice a week to help me unfuck my life and actually access care.

When a business provides care for profit, they keep whatever they don't spend on those in their care. They keep whatever they don't spend on the staff salaries or training. They can hire people who don't even speak English, can barely read or write, and staff will be motivated to do whatever they're told by those who sign their checks. They see just how easily they could wind up in much worse jobs, working for people who haven't been groomed into terrified passivity, under the watchful metal eyes of Ring cameras in almost every room, whose footage is only accessible to the people signing the checks.

It doesn't matter what I say, what I understand, what I write. It doesn't matter what I experience.

All that matters is I have disabilities and I am poor. That is what is heard, instead of me. Like a loud, insistent, ringing alarm that drowns out my attempts to communicate. Like something that, once you know it, you can't ever un-know it, that undermines any willingness to understand, to feel respect for what I'm going through. Pity feels degrading, demeaning to put up with. It places me beneath the person feeling it, expressing it, exuding it.

It doesn't matter that I feel like a veteran of some of the worst shit imaginable, like I was born into a war on my very self, and I have largely had to fight and survive it alone.

Mel Baggs wrote about something -- I think sie called it the 'rule of two.' Where when there is just one other person accompanying you into a situation with a care provider, a doctor, someone in a position of power, then we get listened to more, treated a little more fairly. And the person doing the accompaniment may be mystified, if the expected discrimination and interpersonal badness doesn't actually happen. They may think we were exaggerating for dramatic effect.

But people thought that about femmes' overwhelming experiences of sexual harassment and assault, and Black people's overwhelming experiences of cop violence and harassment violence. It's not an accident that it mostly only happens when someone with too much power is alone with someone who is not considered a credible reporter of their own reality.

As a trans human I experience this also. As I child I experienced this with my abusers. And many, many, many disabled and chronically ill people experience this with care providers and caregivers, compounded the more marginalized and disbelieved we are in other ways.

I think there's a strong, strong tendency to want to differentiate and distance from people sharing stories of interpersonal harm. I don't think it's necessarily conscious, which is part of what makes it so difficult to interrupt. I think there's an instinctive, socialized, acculturated response that happens, in the knee-jerk responses people have to being told that a human is hurting another human. Interrogating details, heaping pity and unsolicited advice, a listener trying to feel safe again in their own experiences, in their own skin, in their own humanity. Trying to find reasons the victim of misfortunate brought it on themself, choices and mistakes the listener will of course never make. Never to live like that, or lose their job, or wear that, at that time of night in that neighborhood, with a person who in hindsight is easily evaluated as dangerous and harmful.

I don't know what to do or say about this. I think the more we ignore the reality that people don't have to mean harm to do harm, the more harm can proliferate. Like ignoring that termites can eat wood will wind up ensuring the house gets chewed to pieces around you -- like ignoring that black mold can grow in damp poorly-cleaned places inevitably ensures an equally unhealthy home -- ignoring the ways we all fuck up and fail to course-correct ensures that it's going to keep going, and going to get a whole lot worse, and eventually it won't be people making choices you're careful not to make yourself.

Eventually we will all harm others, and be harmed by others.

Denial is something that goes around and comes around. It seems like a harmless habit at first. But eventually you wind up dependent on so much denial, and so many people cooperating in that denial, that when some really bad shit goes down, you're alone.

And you're stuck in a place you can't leave.

And there's nowhere else to go.

And things are happening that are so bad that they are unbelievable, because everyone seems so Nice™ and everything looks so Pleasant™ whenever anyone with any power is watching. And the people who are saying that this shit ain't kosher struggle to string words together in a way that makes sense, and seem constantly afraid that if they speak up, things will get worse for them.

They seem, on the surface, quite Mad and unreliable. Paranoid, even. In spite of the fact that there are literal cameras watching them, and people 24/7 monitoring them and writing little notes in files that are kept under lock and key, that the subjects themselves can't see and can't contribute to.

And one of those subjects is you.

And people who don't have to live like you do tell you to be patient. Day after day. Week after week. Month after month.

They ask, over and over, if anything bad has happened. But they don't seem to understand or even believe the things you do say, or if they do, then what they do about it makes things even worse for you.

If you're lucky -- very lucky -- you have held onto a laptop computer, and have managed to stay off the worst of the mind-scrambling drugs by staying quiet and keeping to a minimum interactions with the people in a position to panic and administer those drugs. If you're very lucky, you have a lifelong habit of responding to confusion and anxiety by reading and reaching out online to find other people writing about situations like yours.

Unfortunately a lot of the people in situations like yours are just as disbelieved and anxious and afraid and wound so tight you and they set each other off all the time. It will be like interacting with other burn victims while still trapped in the burning house. You will argue over whose burns are worse and how far away you have to stay from each other, and who should get priority for any ointments and bandages hurled in through the flames. (Metaphorically speaking.)

You will realize just how many of you there are. And you will find writing by people who are now just charred skeletons, who never made it out. You will wonder how many others didn't have the great good fortune to have words to put to paper, who died voiceless, stories untold.

You will try to help each other, but there will never be enough soothing or healing or supplies or support to go around. You will wind up hurting others. You may wind up feeling just as awful as the people who are calling platitudes on the outside, telling you to just be patient, asking who set the fire, and not believing you when you tell them that the arsonists, wearing flameproof suits, are still wandering through the house setting and feeding fires.

They will tell you that those people are firefighters.

The arsonists will tell you they are fighting fire with fire.

This will seem like absolute bullshit. No one who's not an arsonist is coming into the inferno anymore, so there's no one to tell except each other. But it feels horrible to keep harping on it, so doing almost anything else, anything distracting, is essential so as not to just lie down and feed your pain-wracked exhausted flesh to the flames.

You will get really, really pissed about the trollish people who ring the house and mock you and others like you for 'letting' this happen to you. You will yell back sometimes, and they will become absolutely unhinged and go round up their trollish friends to investigate your entire life and say horrible things about your personal private business, both to you and everyone in earshot.

You will, understandably, be feeling a bit misanthropic and apathetic.

You will probably hate people who tell you that the only fire is a bad attitude, and that if you wanted to get up and leave, you could.

You will probably hate people who think you need a therapist to fix your way of thinking about and responding to being in hell.

On the bright side, you will probably come around to appreciate the really dark humor of the people you're burning with. Laughs will be your only morphine, sometimes, and they may sound maniacal, because you all need them so bad.

You will probably wonder if this is actually what Madness is -- pain whose context is not understood and experienced by others.

And if you are lucky, and have the capacity for it, you may read and listen to things Mad people have written and said through history.

You might come to think that the real madness lies not in your perception of what's actually happening, but the yahoos outside calling syrupy-sweet reassurances and platitudes in to all of you, chasing the denial dragon like absolute fiends.

You may wonder if there was ever a time when your world was not a house on fire, or if it was just a dream you once had.

You might write. You might sing. You might cry. You might rock. You might roll. You might sleep. You might even come to enjoy your nightmares, because at least they go away when you wake up into the nightmare that never ends, and they're a change of fuckery.

You may develop more of a taste for swearing, especially really creative swears. They will be honest.

You may start writing and be unable to stop.

You may despair, knowing that no one has the patience and attention span and desire to read that much anymore. Especially if there aren't any cat pictures to go along with it.

You may post it anyway. And include a cat picture at the end as a reward or apology for anyone who read all the way through. Gods only know what someone who read all the way through this is going through (as long as they're not out trollin' & hatin').

And even though you don't know them, and may never compare burn scars with them, or trade cool rocks with them, you'll feel love for them, as I love you, right now. And you'll hope, as I do, that your love -- so painfully necessary to feel right now -- is received with understanding, and can be passed on, as it was to me, as I pass it on to you.

You matter. Your voice matters. Your words matter. What you have to communicate without words matters. It really fucking sucks that you're stuck where you are, wherever you are. I hope one day you get out, and laugh in the rain, and cry in the sun, and do all the things you love and want to do. You are human, and you matter.

Here it is, your moment of cat:

[ratznatz]

tw: puke/blood/vent art

venting art I made lately, I got hypergraphia lately (mental illness related) so I spend hours writing/drawing and not sleeping.

perhaps I may delete, perhaps I shouldn't. Wish i could draw better that's for sure.

[fandomconfessiondump]

I have ocd with hyergraphia so low key the Bart Simpson line writing detention looked kinda soothing to me as a kid

[eorzean-capitalist]

Hypergraphia.

I've been on a journey since Nov. 1st. A wild one.

I decided this year to do NaNoWriMo again. I've completed it two other times, albeit a very long time ago. 2001 and 2003. I've tried a few other times, but never successfully and it's been a very long time since I've thought about trying again.

But hey, I've been off antipsychotics for 6 months now. I figure I can write again. Maybe sustain enough of a momentum to cross the finish line again.

If I knew then what I know now, I may have decided not to. Maybe I would have anyway. Hard to say.

I did some prepwork. Decided I wanted to write a ghost story about a house haunted by the ghost of a disabled girl, killed by her father in the 1940s. I was calling it Astrid's Attic. Made a basic outline. Created and fleshed out some characters.

But then Nov 1st rolled around and I found myself staring at a blank google doc with no idea how to kick it off.

I had music on. A Skid Row song I used to like back in the early 90s was the next track. And I dunno. It was like lightning struck. A memory from my childhood roared back to life and the words jumped onto the page.

Only it wasn't Astrid's Attic. All that prep work, the outline, the idea of it, just vanished as I drew from ancient memories of a 14 year old in the early throes of mental illness and the storm of adolescence.

I'd started this strange world of psychics and secret societies. And a fake rock band was my vehicle at the time to tell the tale. The characters were an amalgamation of the bands I listened to at the time. Rock and metal from the 1989-1991 era.

But this time, I wasn't 14 and struggling to find the right words to convey the thoughts in my brain. I wasn't writing with pen and paper, filling notebook after notebook with whatever my brain was vomiting up with the limited vocabulary and writing skills I had at the time.

Now I'm several decades older, I type something ridiculous like 160 words a minute, and I know how to craft a narrative.

So 12 days later.... I'm over the finish line and my brain is not done. Oh no. By the end of November, I dropped everything into a word calculator. Over 200k words. The main story doc itself, and miles of notes and brainstorming I did over the month as I worked out the details.

Hypergraphia is a weird thing. A blessing and a curse. Because since embarking on this journey, I can't do anything else. I can't think of anything else. My days are either spent writing, or thinking about writing.

I could put a stop to this. I've already told my therapist what's going on and we're trying to figure out how to contain it. Direct it. But it's really gd hard. I could go back on a low dose of antipsychotic.

But I don't really want to. At least, not till the boys' story is finally told. The demon sleeping in my memory since 14 finally exorcised.

I think I owe younger me that much, at least.

[deadeyes-o0]

Fyodor Dostoevsky was actually just like this 😍😍😍

If this wasn’t on clickhole I think I’d pretty easily believe he actually said this

[hypergraphistwriter]

Chapter 19

[irrationaliris]

My hypergraphia sometimes gets out of control and it gets weird when I yap 100500 words per second for no apparent reason and while forgetting the topic I previously talked about when I got to explaining some random detail that was unnecessary.

[iamnotaxl]

Valiant Polar Trooper

As a clinically diagnosed with PTSD and Bipolar 1, I believed this affective disorder was NOT simply a mood swing; It was beyond the latter.

Despite reading of materials about my diagnosis in order to understand psychosocial disability better, yet somehow, I could not explain myself the high and low of having psychotic symptoms.

In order to control my episodes, I adhere to the advices of any available Psychiatrist in National Center for Mental Health, and seriously apply the tips from legit resources of what I have read.

Nevertheless, it was easier said than done and maybe having psychosis was a blessing or a curse? Well, I opted to reject the malediction.

However, I have accepted the mere fact that it was part of my life before and now. Thus, up to the future, as the cliche saying goes, "acceptance is the key."

There are times that I have to fight my manic and hypomanic episode to stay in a normal phase yet most of the time, I am battling with depressive episodes that crashes my emotions, losing my only hope, which results of sending my love with full of patience for people around me to oblivion.

I know this mental health dilemma is not an excuse to appear unethical. Believe it or not, it was neither my nature nor my demeanor.

People who come cross with me, know me personally, and better - logorrhea does not suit my personality. I am the less talkative type, and mostly possesses the intense desire to write or hypergraphia.

I barely speak in a social gathering or in a team that I was part to; to the point that my former superior was giving me an option to speak now or forever hold my peace.

Being a polar trooper is a wild adventure and long drive; it does not end after taking prescription and by following your healthcare provider's variably suggestion- It is a never ending battle of the crazy things going on your brain that needs a lifetime holistic control.

[lilliaespi]

Considering the fact that I have stories being edited and created in my head CONSTANTLY, even when I'm actively trying to focus on work, I genuinely believe this exists for me. But it's not really well known or understood in the medical world.

I cope with it by writing with my partner and drawing but Jesus Christ it like a loud voice in my head sometimes.

Image ID: an image explaining what hypergraphia is.

[russellmoreton]

Camera Obscura : Reflections and the dark room. by Russell Moreton Via Flickr: pictify.com/user/russellmoreton

[ceramicbeetle]

had a thought of 'oh i could do a cute thing of going through my old middle/high school sketchbooks and redrawing old art with my new ocs' and clearly forgot what an overtly miserable teenager i was, that shit is unsalvageable in a desperately sad way. uh oh.

[inlovewithaspiderguy]

L&O svu 10x12 was unexpectedly terrifying to me like I’ve watched a season and a half and this is the one that scared me the most of them all

[eorzean-capitalist]

Brain demons: Hey when you finish this, wanna make it a TV script for funsies? Me: Please let me go back to other things. Brain demons: You're so cute. But seriously, start looking up how to do TV scripts.