This is what you get when the ring of alchemists and production and alchemists in production make a perfect circle in an ouroboros around New Orleans. We're turning over all the cards, motherfuckers, I been telling you. We're opening all the doors. hehehehe
we in the walls we in the air broke cw's kneecaps tied to a chair
greetings from the masons and alchemists desired to design your cars and the lodge rented for the clubhouse and the placements and your entire visual imagery gee why were those hired
the midnight channel and dark hour will end
Are you still with me? But if you want it then you must find it.
But when you have it there'll be no need for it.
No one gives us anything. I took it.
VITRIOL is an acronym for Visita Interiora Terrae Rectificando Invenies Occultum Lapidem which translates into “Visit the interior of the earth, and by rectifying what you find there, you will discover the hidden stone (philosopher’s stone)”.
Or, loosely translated, in order to be in the occultum, the occultum/garden must be in you. Let in the light, let the sun shine on the moon and raise mind to soul. And soul to mind. In the garden. Where we belong, and always did. What is real. People, families. Chuck only wins if you let life's machinations beat you down. That's the babysteps. Now keep moving.
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watching bridgerton and obviously there were a lot of things wrong with the way socializing has worked in the past, but honestly the idea of a "calling hour" is so appealing. office hours for friendship. you can show up unannounced at my home between 1 and 3pm. you must leave by 3pm. I may give you a pastry. lets bring that back
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had some very specific things i wanted to work on this weekend and got possessed by the specter of undercut lae'zel instead 🤦
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listen I know it's heartbreaking that Claudia dies and it's understandable to wish she didn't, but let's please not accuse the writers of fridging her. to do so is a fundamental misunderstanding of the story and is frankly insulting to the intelligence and skill of the writers of the show.
Claudia's death, and the overwhelming grief and regret her parents experience because of it, is quite literally the point of the entire story. she dies because Anne's daughter Michele died of leukemia when she was five years old and there was nothing she or her husband could do to prevent it.
writing IWTV was how Anne coped with the unimaginable loss of a parent losing her child. she created a story about a little girl that could not die and then killed her anyway. Claudia's death is a senseless, unavoidable tragedy, just like Michele's was. the grief that haunts Louis and Lestat for the rest of their lives is the same grief that haunted Anne and her husband.
so when you're accusing people of killing Claudia off to benefit a story about two men, please remember that in real life sometimes parents lose their children. please remember Michele Rice.
she's the reason Claudia exists.
she's also the reason Claudia cannot be saved.
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can I please get the Replying From Sideblogs Feature Please. im so tired of looking like this every time someone says something to me.
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(ID in ALT text)
i gotta admit, start of this year was mostly me drawing a bunch of outfits (don't ask me if sokka or suki got the most... i think sokka)
if you like these, check out my zuko here as well!
these are still influenced by @ranilla-bean fic the iconoclast fic.
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because sometimes there are invisible tests and invisible rules and you're just supposed to ... know the rule. someone you thought of as a friend asks you for book recommendations, so you give her a list of like 30 books, each with a brief blurb and why you like it. later, you find out she screenshotted the list and send it out to a group chat with the note: what an absolute freak can you believe this. you saw the responses: emojis where people are rolling over laughing. too much and obsessive and actually kind of creepy in the comments. you thought you'd been doing the right thing. she'd asked, right? an invisible rule: this is what happens when you get too excited.
you aren't supposed to laugh at your own jokes, so you don't, but then you're too serious. you're not supposed to be too loud, but then people say you're too quiet. you aren't supposed to get passionate about things, but then you're shy, boring. you aren't supposed to talk too much, but then people are mad when you're not good at replying.
you fold yourself into a prettier paper crane. since you never know what is "selfish" and what is "charity," you give yourself over, fully. you'd rather be empty and over-generous - you'd rather eat your own boundaries than have even one person believe that you're mean. since you don't know what the thing is that will make them hate you, you simply scrub yourself clean of any form of roughness. if you are perfect and smiling and funny, they can love you. if you are always there for them and never admit what's happening and never mention your past and never make them uncomfortable - you can make up for it. you can earn it.
don't fuck up. they're all testing you, always. they're tolerating you. whatever secret club happened, over a summer somewhere - during some activity you didn't get to attend - everyone else just... figured it out. like they got some kind of award or examination that allowed them to know how-to-be-normal. how to fit. and for the rest of your life, you've been playing catch-up. you've been trying to prove that - haha! you get it! that the joke they're telling, the people they are, the manual they got- yeah, you've totally read it.
if you can just divide yourself in two - the lovable one, and the one that is you - you can do this. you can walk the line. they can laugh and accept you. if you are always-balanced, never burdensome, a delight to have in class, champagne and glittering and never gawky or florescent or god-forbid cringe: you can get away with it.
you stare at your therapist, whom you can make jokes with, and who laughs at your jokes, because you are so fucking good at people-pleasing. you smile at her, and she asks you how you're doing, and you automatically say i'm good, thanks, how are you? while the answer swims somewhere in your little lizard brain:
how long have you been doing this now? mastering the art of your body and mind like you're piloting a puppet. has it worked? what do you mean that all you feel is... just exhausted. pick yourself up, the tightrope has no net. after all, you're cheating, somehow, but nobody seems to know you actually flunked the test. it's working!
aren't you happy yet?
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"bluntly honest" autism but in the sense that i absolutely cannot refrain from complimenting strangers if i like their earrings or their shirt or i think they have a friendly-sounding laugh or i think their art is beautiful or i think the fic they wrote portrays the characters so well. "bluntly honest" doesn't have to mean "mean". i love to tell people things that are kind and also true.
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Ten and Donna end up on a fucked up deadly space newlyweds show despite uh. Not being newlyweds but they get almost all the questions right. They start to sweat when the final question is "what's one secret desire you have involving the other?" And Donna writes "sometimes I wish I could occasionally shrink down the doctor real small so I could carry him around in my pocket and make sure he doesn't get lost' while Ten writes "sometimes I wish I was small enough that Donna could carry me around in like a cat backpack or maybe a shirt pocket" and they look at each other like AYYYYYY because not only are they deeply drift compatible they're also fuckin weird about it 💖
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