#space sprogs?

[bow-echo]

Alyona Nikolayeva, Valery Bykovsky and Tatiana Titova, children of cosmonauts Valentina Tereshkova and Andrian Nikolayev, Valery Bykovsky and Gherman Titov. Photo: Alexander Mokletsov

[evilminji]

Can You "Accidental Baby Acquisition" Yourself?

Like? Say you have a You... who is NOT You, obviously, but A You in the Multiversal sense... and their childhood suuuuuucked. Just? Truely awful for reasons beyond their control.

Such as the veil NOT being so easily peirced in their reality and humanity a bit more... Reactive(tm) to ectoplasm, due to the lower concentration of it in the Everything of their Universe. Which makes their parents research? Unattainable. Dangerous.

Ultimately fatal to their elder sister.

And then later, them.

Not that they were even the loving if wildly eccentric parents most of the other You's KNOW and have. Due to that very say research and their long-term exposure to their own samples. The Reactivity.

"Pit Rage" as some circles call it.

They weren't themselves. Stopped BEING themselves long before their children ever came into the picture. If they could think clearly, they would BEG for someone to save their children. From them. From their house of horrors. From what they've become.

And well? You exsist outside of Time. In the Zone. Maybe you have a wide and crazy adventure with this grizzled, worn, badass of a You. Figure he's pretty cool. Ask if he needs anything. And he laughs this broken glass in your chest sort of sound and says:

"Not unless you could give me a real childhood."

Like? Dude. Buddy. My buddy dude. Gonna have to explain that one. You can't just drop that and walk away. We Crazy Action Bros Adventure(tm) bonded. You can tell me. And reluctantly... he kinda does.

And... Look. You exsist outside of TIME. Your mentor IS Time. You can TOTALLY do that.

This.

But like? You realize... there wouldn't be TWO of you... right? If you take mini-Bamf out of the timestream at point A... you, big guy, stop existing at every instance of point B and onwards.

Yeah. Yeah, he gets that. Fully consents. His life was full of bad decisions and dramatic bullshit. He wants a real childhood. His sister back. Wants them BOTH out of that house and somewhere safe. If he could do it himself, he would. Call it his fucked up way of healing. Finally facing his trauma. It's haunted him long enough.

.....well then. Now You've got a baby and a fussy toddler. They have superpowers because of course they do. That house was OSHAs waking nightmares and deepest fever dreams. Jazzypants is hungy. And baby You did a stinky.

This is Fine(tm).

You're a King! You can TOTALLY handle this! Teeeeeemporarily. Since it's not like they can stay HERE. The Zone is literally uninhabitable long term for the living. So time to fire up the ol Brain Meats. Gremlin Ideas formulating. Loading... Loading... Loooooooading. Got it!

You kidnapped them.

Brilliant! FRIGHTY! Where's the Trenchcoat Booze Slu-...SLUHeuth. Sleuth! Totally what I was planning to say, Starshines! Don't curse. Cursing Bad~☆

The Detective Of Loose Morales in The Trenchcoat, who's Soul I Own, Frighty! Where's he at?? *Distant muffled answer* Close enough! Time to give him a heart attack! And throw a fight! Can you toss me a nightmare medallion? I need to instill mortal terror! Thaaaanks, Frighty! Also can you change diapers? *affirmative noises* Ancients, you're the best.

Smash cut to John Constantine. Busting up some cult, as you do. When? Oh fuck. The leaders heading for the store room! Not today, fucker! They fight. They struggle. It's Manly and Gritty and dramatic! When?

A terrible CRASH. Some artifact must have activated. What... have you DONE? *dramatic musical sting* swirling green and DEATH radiates out from a pin prick of nothing. A black hole in reverse. The cold oblivion of space, given bones to claw its way free. Eyes that sear in colors too technicolor and hypersaturated to be mortal. Green. Green! GREEN.

Ice and stars and death and a terrible, unspeakable Crown.

Two... two little sprogs. Tiny bits of nothing in a monsters hand. KIDS, wrapped up in something they never should of even had to nightmare about. John's eyes catch on red, red hair. A tiny little headband with butterflies on it. Pressed so close to dark locks, as she wraps herself around her little bits of a sibling.

The other ones dressed up in stars.

Someone SOLD their fuckin KIDS. Or this damned this STOLE them. It doesn't matter. Not now, not to John. Because this bastard isn't keeping them. He slides like breathing into the waves of luck and chance, odds and fate. Is on his feet and drawing attention. Whatever it takes, he's leaving here with those kids.

He laughs and it's not a kind one.

"Oi! A word if you will?"

@hypewinter @hdgnj @the-witchhunter @nerdpoe @ailithnight

[shotmrmiller]

The start of a journey

A small drabble of a thought that had me awake at an unreasonable hour because how cute is HE PLEASE GOD.

Dadtobe!simon who when you told him you were pregnant, he sat quietly on the sofa without saying much. You were so worried he didn’t want the baby due to his history with his family— but in reality, he was so shocked. How can he deserve such a precious gift from life when all he does for a living is take them? He sees your eyes watery with unshed tears and quickly grabs your hands to reassure you that this may have not been planned but it is a gift unworthy of a bad man such as he and he already loves you both. 

Dadtobe!simon is the one who looks up what foods help alleviate nausea so when you’re heaving over your toilet, he’s already in the kitchen getting some cold apple juice and saltines just in case you could stomach them this time.

Dadtobe!simon is pressed that you’re choosing to have a home water birth with a midwife instead of the hospital because “What if you need immediate medical attention? We’d have to get you to a hospital and that’s time wasted.”

“ The baby and I will be okay. The midwife will be keeping an eye on my vitals and if anything went south, they’d be getting us to a hospital before I really needed to be in one. Besides, I want an unmedicated labor in the comfort of my own home.”

“Alright, love. But if anything looks even slightly wrong, I’m getting you out o’ here. Clear?” “Crystal, sir.” 

“Cheeky.”

Dadtobe!simon personally bought an at-home fetal doppler to hear the baby’s heartbeat whenever he couldn’t make it to the monthly OB appointments. He helps you lie down on the sofa, hips propped up on a pillow, and he’d get the doppler gel from the warmer because he CANNOT have you uncomfortable so long he can help it. Skin goosepimpling with the warm gel, he starts rubbing it on your lower stomach with the probe and puts light pressure— doing circular motions to try and find the distinct, rhythmic thumps of the baby’s heart. He catches it, a fast beating, _strong_ heartbeat, and ups the volume.

“There ya are, my little sprog.” 

Dadtobe!simon gets up from the warm cocoon of the bed and out into the cold, rainy streets because the Missus is craving butter pickle spears and marinara sauce and he is a humble servant to your wants and needs. Butter pickles though, seriously?

Dadtobe!simon who has had all of the Sprog’s necessities ready to go from the beginning. The cot and moses basket, assembled. Nappies, baby bottles, and dummies are all bought and stored away. If the baby can use it, it’s in the house put together and clean. Ruthlessly efficient. 

Dadtobe!simon doesn’t let you pick up anything heavier than a jug of milk because “You don’t need to be doin’ any heavy liftin’, it’s what you got me here for, love.” And you aren’t above _not_ being extra pampered because you’ve always hated putting the groceries up anyway.

Dadtobe!simon usually sleeps spooning you but now you’ve got the maternity pillow swaddling your front, a pillow in between your thighs and another underneath your hips and supporting your lower back because your heavy stomach puts so much pressure on your body, but your mountain of pillows helps you rest as best you can. Simon can almost physically see the aches alleviate when you lie down so he doesn’t complain about the lack of cuddles nor how he’s been essentially shoved into a space the size of a twin bed on your California king. 

Dadtobe!simon who squeezes the heel, kneads the instep, and presses the pads of his thumbs into the balls of your swollen feet— you’re carrying extra weight after all, and as you’re groaning in relief you start crying because look at how large you’ve gotten. You not having puffy, achy ankles is a miracle and how can he still love you looking like this? He grabs both of your feet and peppers kisses from the toes to the ankle you seem to hate because how can he not love you. Especially like this. Your body is sacrificing comfort to bring his little babe into the world for him to meet. All the changes you seem to hate— the stretch marks, the extra weight, the not-so-tight skin— to him it’s perfection. You’re perfect. He’s never really lived before you and now he can’t imagine living without you. The both of you. 

Adieu.

[stealingpotatoes]

(different anon)

Let's meet in the middle and just call 'em hermit frogs :P

hermit sprogs (hermit space frogs)

[the-sprog]

The titles of 3 and 4 of your WIP post intrigue me so much, could you tell me a bit more about them?? Thank you Sprog !! 🐻‍❄️🍄😽

Thank you!! Ok so, Number 3: That's not tubular.

This is a Camp Camp fic I started writing but wrote so little of that I didn't even get to the prompt part of it 😅 It's supposed to be about David dagging de-aged by Harrison to when he first joined Camp Campbell! The episode where David tells Max the tale of his and Jasper, telling him about how much of a sourpuss he was, how much he used to be like Max, and Max being like "Yeah you made that up just to make me like camp", is why I wanted to write this. There's some magic bullshit in this show that I think gets overlooked too much.

Harrison made his brother disappear, we should talk about that more.

So I wanted to use this to get Angsty!David and Max to meet. The plan I had for this was to basically give Max a rival. Someone who threatens his place as the one at the top of the food chain. Until they find a way to get him back to Regular!David, that is.

I enjoy writing Max. He's a little kid who's had to grow up too fast and trying his hardest to make everyone hate him, but failing miserably. While David is kinda... refreshing for me. He's unapologetically optimistic to a fault.

It's called "that's not tubular" because uuuuh basically David as a child called people squares, even though it's slang from like the late 40s. And the way people react in the show it's like he swore real bad. So I wanted to use more old slang, and in a situation where tiny!david has to react to something he doesn't like, I feel like tubular would get said.

I'm struggling to choose a snippet for this fic because I haven't touched this idea in... some time... and my punctuation and epithets usage has gotten significantly better in the meantime.

The first one to pick had been Neil, then Space Kid, Erid, Dolph, and so on and so forth, until everyone had a straw in their hands. Max glanced at the other kids’ straws, realizing that David didn’t really understand how drawing straws is supposed to work. All of the straws, but one, have to be the same length. Instead, each camper had in their hand straws of all sizes, making it extremely difficult to figure out who had won. They took some time, comparing each straw, and concluded that Harrison had been the winner of their game.

Numer 4: Ghost for a day (or two)

This one is a sequel to a Danny Phantom fic I published, "Point of Capture". At the end of that fic, Danny is inside a cage and is being dragged to his parents' lab to do some test. In "Ghost for a day (or two)" Danny accepts a truce to let them do non invasive tests to learn more about ghosts and give him a chance at redemption.

He runs away with a power dampener on him.

I got the point of him reaching Sam and Tuck when he escapes. Even though he accepted the truce, he wasn't sure how the dampener would work, so he decides to leave, regroup, and then if it turned out to be truly safe, he'd go back to the Fentons to help them learn more.

This sequel would be about Danny going about his day stuck as Phantom (I know that canonically when he loses his powers he detransforms, but it's less that he loses them and more like he can't access them. So he can't transform) but trying not to make anyone notice while he goes to school and fights ghosts, while also trying to find a way to get his powers back. And also about some headcanons about the philosophy of death in a world where ghosts exist. As well as an exploration of how the Fenton parents think when it comes to ghost morality.

The title is kinda self explainatory, I feel like. Danny gets stuck in ghost mode and it takes longer than he expected to get his powers back.

This wip also suffers from having been written 3 years ago. I haven't touched it since. The punctuation is horrible, especially when it comes to dialogue tags.

His dad reached closer to the cage and freed him. Danny eyed the portal, then his parents who were at that moment preoccupied with setting up their equipment. “I’m sorry” he murmured, then ran to the portal’s button and pressed it. Getting pricked in the finger so many times is starting to get on his nerves. The sound of the opening portal caused his parents to turn around, and his mom to run towards him. Danny didn’t spare any time and jumped inside the green swirl. He said ‘sorry’ again, that time louder than before, after seeing the disappointment and confusion in his father's eyes. It hurt. But he can’t risk it.

I really want to touch up these two fics again. I think there's some real fun to be had, especially with the DP one.

[blackkatmagic]

I just finished Consequences and OMG I was not expecting that!! (Well I was expecting Mas to be involved somehow but not the scope of it all.)

I know you’ve mentioned that you don’t care for Anakin as a character (which is fair, and seeing him finally get his just desserts for his being a murderous manchild was a balm to my soul I didn’t know I needed. Thanks for that) but was it implied that the Jedi disciplining and expelling him left him alive for the Sand People to exact their own justice Tatooine-style?

B/c Anakin is an insanely powerful Force-user even without a lightsaber, and I thought the Jedi would have at least considered jailing him or exile via marooning on a planet w/o tech. Padme clearly doesn’t want anything more to do with Anakin (I really hope she’s not pregnant with his sprogs) and same with Naboo. For all I know he might throw his lot in with great-grandmaster Dooku if the war’s still going on or ends up starting his own Dark Side pseudo-Sith movement if allying with Dooku doesn’t work out.

(or maybe I’m thinking too much and Anakin ultimately gets eaten by a sarlacc. Yeah, let’s go with that)

Where would they jail him? In the Temple where all their kids are? And if he's not part of the Order and hasn't technically broken any Republic laws, since Tatooine is outside Republic space, isn't that technically unlawful imprisonment? Anakin is a Republic citizen who didn't break the Republic's laws - the Jedi are an independent organization with the right to police their own members to a degree, but they can't break the laws of the Republic they live in in doing so. Like. I get where you're coming from, but they took the authority of a Jedi Knight away from Anakin, and that’s pretty much all they can do. They don't make laws. They just keep their own Code. I thought I said that enough times in the fic.

[britesparc]

Weekend Top Ten #644

Top Ten Taylor Swift Songs

Taylor Swift is quite a big presence round our house. Basically, you can tell which daughter has put the music on; if it’s the Hamilton soundtrack, then it’s Daughter #1. If it’s Taylor Alison Swift? Daughter #2, our nascent Swiftie.

I didn’t really “follow” Swift, because I don’t really “follow” any popular music, because in this modern age of streaming playlists I’m able to constantly curate my own bespoke station cultivated exactly to my whims and foibles, comprised almost entirely of 1980s soft rock, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, and songs featured in Quentin Tarantino movies. So I never really encountered a Taylor Swift song in the wild all that much, until we had kids, and the phrase “Alexa, play kid-friendly pop” became a relatively common utterance. It’s quite funny actually, because in those earlier days of the sprogs listening to stuff, it turned out that I did hear a few of her older bangers – Love Story, You Belong With Me, that sort of thing – without realising it.

The critical mass of her superstardom mean that eventually it would bleed into other aspects of my life (sooner or later she got to something I do care about, possibly when she was in an Actual Film, even if that film tuned out to be Cats). This sort-of coincided with Daughter #2 getting really into her because people talked about her at school/on YouTube, and also happened to take place just before the fabled Eras tour kicked off. As such, the last two years have been very Swift-y, really. And it’s allowed me to really consider her musical oeuvre.

Because – and this should come as little surprise – it turns out she’s very good at this sort of thing. She really got my interest when she did the whole “Taylor’s Version” thing, because that is – as they say – a flex. Re-recording all your old songs and asking stations to play the new recordings so as to utterly devalue the original recording that a dickhead refuses to sell back to you? One hell of a power move, lady. The fact that her songs were floating around our personal ether meant that I could analyse the lyrics and melodies a bit more, get under the skin. And Swift is one of those artists who almost demands a biographical approach to her work: you don’t need to know who she’s dating or who she currently has a beef with, but most of her best work is so concerned with being Taylor Swift that you do end up thinking about the real-world references in her words.

This phenomenal amount of waffle is really just a preamble to me, a fortysomething dad, listing my favourite Taylor Swift songs. Obviously what interests me is going to be different to what interests your average nine-year-old; just as what interests any of us is going to be unique to our own circumstances. What more is there to say, really? I guess I’m just trying to fill all this blank space, hehehehehehehehe.

Blank Space (2014): I’m not good at articulating why the music of these songs is great, so let’s stick with words and imagery. This tale of a troubled serial monogamist features fantastic use of both, as it links the jaunty teen vibe of Swift’s early work with the darker introspection she’s now know for, with an almost cynical unravelling of its protagonist, and some terrific lines: “it’ll leave you breathless or with a nasty scar”. Beautifully dark, twisted, and sort-of romantic.

Anti-Hero (2022): eschewing the romance altogether and just focusing on a sort of quasi-autobiographical examination of “Taylor Swift”, this song’s inherent bleakness contrasts beautifully with its rather upbeat tone. The tale of a self-defeating woman with – clearly – some proper issues, we get Swift comparing herself to a kaiju and plotting bitter revenge against imaginary children. Bitterly hilarious.

Is It Over Now? (2023): a song that, apparently, was written a while ago but only released recently, it fits in well with her work from a decade ago in terms of its overall tone and treatment (another tale of a love gone sour), but it’s got a maturity and, well, bit of grit to it. Raking over the coals of a relationship in which it appears both parties deserved some blame, it’s another one with great lyrics; the refrain of “three hundred takeout coffees later” is neat.

The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived (2024): The Tortured Poets Department was the first time I actually ended up listening, unbroken, to an entire Taylor Swift album, so a lot of these songs hit harder for me. There are a few bangers, but this incredibly bitter revenge anthem – a furiously hilarious diss track – is the highlight. It’s so fabulously mean-spiriting, skewering so many aspects of the titular bloke, from his try-hard on-stage antics to the insipid paranoia he invoked. Plus, of course, you don’t call a man “small” without it having more than one meaning.

I Can Do It With a Broken Heart (2024): another song that’s so blackly comic it could be a Coen Brothers movie, this incredibly jaunty, upbeat bop is all about how unutterably shit it is to be Taylor Swift. Telling the story of a consummate entertainer who is always joyous and smiling and perfectly performing whilst hiding her sorrow, there’s nothing much to say beyond “incredibly depressing” and “consistently hilarious”. Lights, camera, bitch, smile indeed.

You Belong With Me (2009): Swift’s earlier, more country-flavoured songs skew to a certain template; basically musical versions of She’s All That. Swift is a smart enough performer to put a little bit of quirk or edge onto things though; this is a relatively straightforward story about a homely girl in love with her friend, but in both the wordplay (“she wears short skirts, I wear sneakers/she’s cheer captain and I’m in the bleachers”) and the amount of sheer heart Swift puts into it, makes it very effective.

Look What You Made Me Do (2017): the almost staccato electric beat of this one feels a bit different; a bit more urgent, a little bit darker. It’s another one unpicking the seams of “it’s hard being a megastar” and “my boyfriends all suck”, but the unravelling of the Taylor Swift persona is amusingly done. It’s the musicality of it that, well, sing; the chorus – repeating the title in different intonations – is a thing of trippy beauty. Also, whilst I’m really just analysing the songs themselves, shout out to the incredible video.

Love Story (2008): Daughter #2’s favourite, apparently (she’s very annoyed that I only have it at number eight), and that kinda makes sense; it’s so perfectly calibrated to the mode of “benign teen romance”. Yes, it’s just a tale of boy and girl and how – despite obstacles – they eventually get together. But the lyrics are great, evoking everything from Shakespeare to The Scarlet Letter, with some nice wordplay. One of Swift’s earliest, and defining, hits; not as interesting as her later work but still a great example of what she’s capable of.

Maroon (2022): a melancholy examination of a failed romance, holding a magnifying glass to the highlights of a relationship but finding the roots of its dissolution. Musically it’s nice, and has some great lyrics – love the intonation of “your roommate’s cheap-ass screw-top rosé” – but the clever-clever bit is the repeated imagery of, well, red stuff; “Maroon” indeed, from wine to blood to, well, a hickey. Also: first time I heard Swift drop an F-bomb in a song. Shocked I was. Shocked to my core.

Karma (2023): most of these songs have had a bit of darkness to them, apart from the ones that are just the aural equivalent of an early noughties Lindsey Lohan movie. This song, though, isn’t particularly dark, but it is very funny, Swift singing about, well, karma, and how it’ll come back to bitecha. It’s the use of imagery, of how karma is a beautiful thing that benefits her, where the funny lies; karma, it turns out, is a lot of things, most of them amusing.

[collymore]

A delusional and most crazy obsession!

By Stanley Collymore

You ignorant, mother-fucking and obviously, undoubtedly vilely dim-witted assholes with your utterly gullible propensity for feudal servitude rather crucially solidly attendant with a very firmly held and undeniably simply deeply embedded and clearly pathetically monarchical sycophancy; actually evidently can't focus even for two seconds on the Wales – distinctly William, Kate and similarly, also, their sprogs, even when actually the whole story, is so exclusively about them, and quite evidently obviously has nothing whatever quite discernibly to basically do with Harry and Meghan clearly without you automatically, and distinctively very compulsively too defaulting to the Sussexes!

Discernibly and obviously so because the latter, crucially and quite unquestionably have and do distinctively generate much more interest, and genuine star power about them that even evidently, simply purblind cunts like yourselves effectively really cannot actually resist them. Lol! Thanks anyway for significantly and undoubtedly keeping Harry and Meghan obviously relevant, and in a manner which literally and actually glaringly evidently, you irrefutably effectively don't or really, can't bring yourselves to essentially, do the same with William and his estranged wife Kate Middleton because simply even to rather braindead cunts like you they're fucking boring. So while actually living in your clear puerile state of obviously demented denial you basically keep on with your compulsive obsession essentially, of Harry and Meghan while claiming in the literal process, of doing so; it's them entreating relevance.

(C) Stanley V. Collymore 27 June 2024.

Author's Remarks: A typical white British and their quite likemindedly, globally ensconced and equally genocidal inured kith and kin being more than a classic situation of the pot actually calling the kettle black.

Go into any street near you let alone in the one you live in; crucially at the bus stop, train station or discernibly so the supermarket you shop in and generally mention the names Meghan and Harry, either singly or jointly and rather most assuredly everyone evidently than anyone who has actually just emigrated to earth from outer space and that person will instinctively know rather precisely and without any preamble, who you're distinctively referring to.

Then employ the same technique truly to yourself, personally, and it's literally quite obviously that such persons who you're engaging in conversation simply haven't the foggiest idea who evidently are and basically, couldn't give a toss! Get where I'm coming from?

For in reality your ever day lives as you well know yourselves, are distinctively evidently boring and meaningless and thus accounts for your seeking and also deluding yourselves that you basically have all these alleged friends, naturally rather fanciful ones on social media; in effect morons precisely like yourselves.

So you earnestly need people to clearly look up to and here worship even when they evidently don't obviously know of your pitiful existence and truly couldn't really care less. So you need to beat up on the likes of Harry and Meghan who have dumped all that you fancifully in your unrealistic daily life would simply quite literally dearly love to have, and actually be a part of but won't ever be for all the patently obvious reasons, a sound education, viable career and too the requisite intellectual acumen! The attributes that discernibly mentally liberated figures like Meghan and now Harry, not the fatuous prats like Taylor Swift and yourselves, very undoubtedly have in absolute abundance. So simply go and eat your hearts out while rather fatuously and contradictorily giving to both Harry and Meghan quite aptly the relevance which YOU clearly asininely claim they're after but shouldn't have! And yet you pathetically see yourselves as the Sterling elements of your actual delusional Master Race! Lol!

[certified-diplodocus]

Reading a novel (set in modern NYC) by a USAmerican writer. A British Character has entered the scene and within the space of a page we already have

2 blokes

1 fellow

1 chap

1 sprog (yes really)

1 bloody

2 kick your arses

[radio-charlie]

Also yes sadly (for you) some of the ladies here were right in that it is weird that what are.... pretty common afflictions for ppl perceived as women become ‘radfem/terf talking points’ in our so-called progressive spaces lol. the ppl screeching that sort of shit around the clock have turned out to be lapdogs of the same institutions that need you cowed into just staying at home, shutting up and popping out sprogs. shockengue

[camrellstudios]

The drying rack is full - it’s both very satisfying and slightly anxiety inducing cause now we gotta process and decide the fates of all the things on the shelves. And it’s like a clock is ticking - cause if we don’t do it fast enough we’ll have painted more and have no room left! Da dum - da dum - da dum … ⏰

The drying rack is called Sprog! It’s an early learning program/prek/school rack - meant for small children art works. It takes up the space of a dining chair and has 20+ shelves - which makes it a perfect fit for our small house. We love love love this rack.

[wapwani]

/

[buttercupsfrocks]

Greetings, tumblr. I warn you this isn't going to be much of a post for a whole raft of reasons:-

It's hotter than Satan's buttcrack outside and, consequently, inside my un-airconditioned first floor flat.

It's impossible for me to look soigné or remotely put together when I'm a sweaty, irritable mess.

There is a British Gas engineer currently boring holes in the outside walls of my flat with the aim of relocating my gas meter. The same thing is going on in my downstairs neighbours' flat. We have no say in this noisy, intrusive, cat-terrorising folderol. They've been threatening to do it for four years and we are literally the last house in the last street to be done. 'twas ever thus.

I had in fact written about two thirds of this original post and saved it as a draft. Tumblr since appears to have eaten that draft and washed it down with a nice Chianti. I have since lost the will to live.

My hair, as you can see, looked like crap when I took these pics.

The reason my hair looks like shite is because twelve days ago I had a cataract in my right eye removed and getting one's 'do done is not recommended for a couple of weeks after surgery.

Prior to surgery I had to take out my right contact lens and affect an eye-patch for a couple of weeks. I did not look piratical. Mainly because the size and positioning of my ears made the elastic intolerable after twenty minutes tops. Instead I had to make do with a Moorfields eyeshield stuffed with tissues and stuck to my face with Micropore. In 40ºC.

I'm hoping to get the left eye sorted late September/early October. A few weeks after that I'll find out whether I'll still need to wear contact lenses for distance and what prescription my new readers will be.

So, yeah, cataracts. Only partial but rubbish genetics on my paternal grandmother's side have resulted in those and an official diagnosis of Pathological Myopia along with a squint I didn't even know I had. The cataract/next-best-thing-to-blind double whammy has been causing me double vision and a blind spot in my right eye for years and the situation was becoming critical. I'd also experienced occular migraines during lockdown, though I think they were down to stress. But, in short, my eyesight was a shitshow and I'd gotten whiplash from the conflicting advice I've received by eye specialists the length and breadth of London. I'm relieved to say Moorfields cataract department got the last word. Thus far I'm optimistic. Three weeks ago I couldn't read the numbers on buses unless I was physically boarding one. Now I could probably see them from space.

But back to the main content of the post. Identically-cut Monki frock, gingham edition. Thus far they've offered this design in black, beige, light blue, orange, and lilac gingham. But there's a reason why the emerald green variation called to my heart.

Between the ages of 4 and 9 I attended a tiny private co-educational school. Admittedly this was many years ago but even then it was quaint and anachronistic. It was run by three sisters called Fowle and I had an elocution teacher who was older than God's dog and still wore long skirts and a bonnet. On Mondays we had to march, in single file, around the room we took dance classes in, in freshly whitened plimsoles to the strains of what later became the theme music to Monty Python's Flying Circus; this mysterious custom was known as Drill. We walked to the Headmistress's home for lunch every day, which was cooked by the kinder of her two sisters. That's how small the school was. It was also attended by kids of every conceivable nationality and ethnicity, and after it closed in the early 70s, the building subsequently became one of Erin Pizzey's shelters for women fleeing somestic violence.

As a sprog my summer school uniform featured a green gingham dress, which I always rather liked. But – get this – the size of the gingham squares increased proportionally with the age and height of the wearer. So, while my dresses had teeny tiny squares on them, the "seniors" had big ones on theirs. By the time I was of high school age and attending a different institution, sixth formers were no longer required to wear uniform, but as soon as I clocked this dress the exotic allure of achieving Big Green Square Status came rushing back and I knew I had to claim it.

Stay weird, tumblr. (And hydrated).

[swan-shaped-scones]

I'm working on Murdad and Noodle doodle, but it's going to take a long minute. My Aunt is in the hospital (nothing serious!), and things are a little fruit-shaped for me at the moment. While you are waiting for my next doodle, please enjoy this Gorillaz headcanon!

Gorillaz Headcanon - Murdoc and his nightmares (it's a little long)

Murdoc suffers from regular nightmares, which is part of the reason he drinks so much. It's easier for him to count the nights he doesn't have a nightmare, or unsettling dream of some kind. He puts it down to the stress of trying to become famous, and of good old-fashioned childhood trauma.

Russel knows something is up a few months after they move into Kong Studios. Murdoc always looks haggard despite sleeping until almost noon every day. And he seem to live in a perpetual state of inebriation, regularly getting blackout drunk.

Murdoc brushes off Russel's concerned questioning about his sleeping habits, and spouts some bs about all the birds he invites to his 'Love Shack on wheels'.

Russel rolls his eyes, but drops the subject. He hears him screaming one night while getting himself a midnight snack, and runs out to the Winnebago, thinking the man is being attacked by zombies.

He finds Murdoc hunched at the edge of his bed, soaked in sweat, shaking and dangerously close to tears.

Murdoc is so rattled, he spills his guts to Russel.

Russel sits there, big warm hand on the bassist's back while Murdoc tells him about the nightmares of his dad and brother beating him, or torturing him, and of demons and devils.

Russel sits with Murdoc, talking with him, doing his best to comfort him. He sits in the cramped space on edge of the bed, his hand on Murdoc's shoulder until he falls asleep. And the man actually sleeps. No nightmares, no unsettling dreams.

Neither speaks of the event, but when Russel notices Murdoc starting to drink more, he makes a trip out to the Winnie.

When Noodle arrives at Kong, Russel noticed Murdoc seems unsettled by her is but trying not to show it.

Russel becomes more concerned when Murdoc starts drinking heavily, is barely able to function, and seems to be in a permanently foul mood. Russel tries to sit with him to keep the nightmares away, but Murdoc snaps at him and refuses his help.

The only one he doesn't snarl at is Noodle. He just can't seem to bring himself to shout at her. Murdoc is annoyed that the little sprog won't stay out of his Winnie. She just let's herself in whenever she pleases, sometimes creeping in and curling up with him in the wee hours.

Murdoc just can't bring himself to kick her out. She kind of weirds him out, but at the same time, she seems familiar to him.

He has a particularly bad week. The nightmares are especially terrifying, filled with swirling shadows and the sound of an infant's desperate crying. He blames it on the ever-present flocks of crows squabbling over zombie bits in the graveyards.

Murdoc wakes screaming for the second time one night, a baby's cries echoing in his ears, and a crushing sense of panic and loss pressing down on his throat.

He almost screamed again when a small hand touched his arm. Murdoc managed not to say any swear words, and tried to give Noodle his most disapproving scowl.

The little girl had looked at him with concern, unfazed, and climbed up next to the shaking bassist, seeing the nightmare-shadows in his eyes.

Murdoc had gruffly asked her what she was doing in his Winnebago. Noodle had silently studied him for a moment, then pushed his shoulder and pointed to the bed, saying something in Japanese in the most commanding tone he'd ever heard from a child.

Noodle had repeated the command, and pointed. Murdoc had snarled, annoyed, but Noodle had given him a sharp look that promised all kinds of trouble if compliance was not forthcoming.

Murdoc had raised an eyebrow, grudgingly impressed at the amount of balls this tin lid had, and had laid down. He got comfortable on his belly, figuring Noodle was going to cuddle up. He had grunted in surprise when she had started rythmically patting his back.

Murdoc had started to protest, embarrassed at being treated like a child, by a child, and moved to sit up. He was immediately stopped by something Noodle said in a scolding tone. He grunted in mild surprise and stayed put, not sure how to process what had just happened.

Murdoc had tensed at first, unused to the sensation, but the tension had slowly drained away under the soothing patting. Murdoc was asleep minutes later. The nightmares didn't come back the rest of the night.

It became a routine for the two, Noodle coming by every few nights to chase the bad dreams away, or for some comfort when she had a nightmare of her own, something upset her, she felt lonely, or when there was a thunderstorm. Murdoc was a little gruff, but he did his best to soothe her.

Murdoc noticed that his nightmares came less frequently with Noodle around, even when she didn't sneak into the Winnie to pat him to sleep.

Russel noticed the difference, but said nothing, not wanting to embarrass his bandmate. He was glad the man was sleeping better, and drinking less.

Over the years, the nightmares almost stopped completely Murdoc was able to sleep at night for weeks and months at a time.

But even 20 years later, Murdoc would have the occasional nightmare, or just have trouble getting to sleep.

Noodle would usually catch him sitting on the couch or in the studio late at night and shoo him to his bed. She would say that same phrase in Japanese to him, and he would snort, amused, and lay on his belly so she could pat his back.

And of course he would never admit that some nights he couldn't sleep, not because he had nightmares, but because he had gotten used to being patted to sleep.

[bubblemoon66]

what the dead men think about having kids:

Anton: Claims he's not interested in having kids. He'd never try for a baby or go through any kind of formal adoption process. However, he is absolutely the type of person to accidentally acquire a couple of orphans because they need someone on their side and he's got the space. Then they leave the nest, and would you believe it, there's a gaggle of children whose abusive bio parents definitely don't deserve them. So, he steps in again and again and before you know it, the Midnight Hotel is being converted into a home for runaway teens and Anton's run out of flat surfaces to put all the father's day cards he gets every June.

Dexter: Probably wants kids? It's not a strong feeling, but he's heard it's a fulling experience and they are pretty cute when they're young. He's just got to find the person to have them with and settle down somewhere nice first... Which will probably happen in the next couple of years decades centuries? For now, he's happy taking life as it comes. If he did accidentally knock someone up, a sense of obligation would make him stick around. He’d try his best to step up to the role of a father but it wouldn’t come naturally to him.

Erskine: Likes the idea of having kids in theory. In practice, it's more complicated. The idea that he was building a better world for his potential offspring probably helped him sleep at night when he was planning his coup. He likes the idea of leaving a legacy behind. And, in the abstract, fatherhood appeals to him. However, he'd be reluctant to bring children into a politically unstable world. He'd be terrified of them being used as leverage and having to choose between his family and his ideals. So, he's a long way off planning a family. If he accidentally fathered a sprog, he'd support them but keep them at arm's length for their own safety. The fact that he does not know how to change a nappy and has no desire to learn is coincidental.

Ghastly: Adores the idea of being a father. This is the kind of man who fantasises about owning minivan a big enough to comfortably carry him, his spouse, their dog, 2.3 children, a large picnic basket and a bunch of sporting equipment to the park. Unfortunately, he feels that these kinds of domestic fantasies are unrealistic. Even if he does find a partner who wants kids with him, he worries his appearance would prevent the family from living the suburban dream. If he did have kids though, he'd be a fantastic dad. He'd emulate his own parents and teach the kids how to box and sew.

Saracen: 100% doesn't want kids. He'd never plan for any. If anyone claimed he'd fathered their child he'd deny it. Any child left in his care would be pawned off to the first non-murderous-looking stranger he came across.

Skulduggery: Naturally has some complicated feelings around fatherhood. Despite what happened, he doesn’t regret having a kid, because how can you regret the best thing to happen to you? That said, he won’t plan on any more. Partially because he doesn’t deserve that happiness and partially because he’s terrified of having a weakness that obvious. How he’d react to an unplanned child would depend on who got pregnant. His relationship with the mother is the key to whether he’d stick around. A genetic connection to the kid isn’t important to him but being around the kid in their early years is.

Valkyrie: Has a vague notion that she might want kids, one day, maybe. However, when anyone asks she claims she's too young to think about it right now. This goes on well into her three-hundreds. There is some innate desire in her to have a family, but she has doubts she's a good enough person to be a good parent. Her lifestyle isn’t exactly suited to having kids either. And the idea of going through what Skulduggery did or reliving what happened to Alice is enough to prevent her from trying for a baby. If an unplanned pregnancy happened, she’d be terrified but she’d fall in love with it the moment she felt it kick. After that, she’d turn into a feral mama bear. Paranoia about anything happening to the sprog would lead her to go overboard with home security and house rules. It won’t be pretty.

[britesparc]

Weekend Top Ten #587

Top Ten Villagers in Stardew Valley

My family is, at the time of writing, caught in the pixelated grip of another Stardew Valley addiction. My wife keeps restarting the game to attempt a perfect run. Daughter #1 has adopted a baby. Daughter #2 is about to propose. It’s all kicking off down Pelican Town.

Me? I just like fishing. Caught two of the five legendary fish so far. My aim is to become like Homer in that one episode of The Simpsons, spoken of in hushed tones by idiots at a bait shop.

Where was I?

Oh yeah, Stardew. It’s great because it’s one of those games that’s simultaneously very relaxing and also profoundly anxiety-inducing. There’s a quaint lustre to the simple village life as you plant crops and tend to your farm, taking part in odd little celebrations with the other townsfolk, making friends, running errands. But then there’s also the constant ticking clock of the seasons, attempting to buy and grow and ship and catch everything you can, and the increasingly difficult adventuring in the games many caves and caverns. There’s tons to uncover – I’ve hardly seen it all – and as well as the actually taxing nature of some of the challenges, there’s also the mental strength required to keep every end straight and balance the whole game strategically.

Or you could just chat everyone up.

One of the big draws of the game – and I’ve looked online and can confirm this to be the case – is in its cast of villagers. The various oddballs and eccentrics all exist, essentially, as their own little quest, a regular need to keep them happy and give them gifts on their birthday as well as increasing your relationship level to unlock various perks and snippets of backstory. There’s a lot to unpeel in the game’s vaguely Twin Peaks-meets-Northern Exposure setting, and that’s before you even get onto the whole romance angle as you seek a willing bachelor or bachelorette (pretty sure it’s set in some fictionalised version of “America”), doing up your house so there’s room for them to move in and, later on, have a couple of sprogs.

And that’s what we’re talking about here. Each villager has a suitably different personality, with different things they’ll say and different histories to unfurl. And some are, frankly, more interesting or amusing than others. Some I think are genuinely sad! So what follows is a celebration of my favourite residents of Pelican Town; the best villagers in Stardew Valley. And that’s all there is to it really. Praise Yoba!

Willy: I already said my favourite part of the game is the fishing, and I’m currently trying to catch everything, so I’m naturally drawn to Willy (not like that). He’s a filthy, raggedy, salty old sea dog who probably stinks. He lives in a shack by the sea and I imagine he sounds exactly like Robert Shaw playing Quint in Jaws. Despite all this, he seems to be something of a “town elder” and commands a good deal of respect. Life goals, essentially.

Robin: an absolute superwoman and by a considerable distance the most capable character in the game. You get the impression she built half of Pelican Town single-handedly, including her massive house and 90% of your actual farm. She’s got a silly sense of humour, seems largely unflappable, and has a really cool family with her weirdo son, mad scientist daughter, and totally spaced out Egon Spengler husband.

Clint: a proper sadsack of a character, an overweight mopey beanbag who bitches about his job and his life and rather heartbreakingly pines for Emily, who doesn’t appear to return his affections even if you don’t marry her. He’s a really smart and useful blacksmith, knowing his stuff and being super helpful, but it’s the undercurrent of tragedy to his life that I find oddly endearing.

Linus: another character with a hint of tragedy to them, but unlike Clint who’s ostensibly on the up but a mardy bum, Linus has nowt but is happy about it. A weird hermit dressed in leaves who sleeps in a tent and robs from bins, Linus is naturally very guarded but once you get through to him he’s super-loyal and dependable, and no one in town seems to look down on him or belittles him.

Abigail: she’s a purple-haired goth who hangs around in the graveyard, dreams of wearing a suit of armour, and wants to go on adventures in the mines. Of all the prospective husbands and wives in Stardew Valley, Abigail is clearly the most badass and likely the most bonkers. Not necessarily my first choice for prospective spouse, however, as I can’t shake the fact she’s supposed to be about sixteen.

Maru: whereas Abigail is an emo-tinged adventure junkie, Maru is all about the science. A dungaree-clad tinkerer, her room is littered with parts of actual robots and all manner of strange and elaborate machinery. She nearly electrocutes you at one point. Thinking about it, she’s pretty badass too.

Leah: Maru is science but Leah is art. An airy-fairy semi-hippy who hangs out in a picturesque cabin by the lake where she spends most of her time painting and sculpting. And that’s great; there’s something really optimistic about her and her outlook. Plus her house is lovely. God knows why she’d leave it to move into your shithole of a farm. Poor sod.

Gunther: Gunther is an enigma. Ostensibly an expert on historical antiquities, relics, and precious minerals, he can explain away any oddball trinket you find, and give you a nice reward for donating it to him. He’s very rarely seen outside his museum and there’s precious little to indicate any exterior life. Does he have friends? Where does he actually sleep? How does he find time to serve coffee in Central Perk? But the most bizarre thing is that he appears to be a general from the American Civil War. What the hell is up with that?

Pam: once more we return to the realm of quasi-tragedy, as Pam is quite seriously an alcoholic. She lives in a shitty trailer with her daughter Penny (very nearly on the list, sorry, Pen); she’s unemployed and drinks all the time. But peer under the surface and you see she’s not just a lush; there’s sadness and disappointment there. And she’s still one of the old-school bigwigs, popping up in Gus’ saloon to have important meetings. And you can help her get her life back together, getting her old job back and building her a house. It’s a redemptive tale.

Gus: just edging out the likes of Penny, Emily, Pierre, and Harvey, we have Gus. A comedy barkeep with a Mario tasche. He’s always got a kind word of welcome when you walk into Stardrop Saloon. He gives free food to Linus! What a mensch!

Maybe I should have also included that cat/mouse thing that sells hats. They’re really weird.