she breasted boobily into my office, all legs and no feet, arm,s like snakes - hissing and green - and hair like a tornado of cats. she draped herself over the coatrack and reached for a cigarette, tossing it daintily into her mouth and chewing it. Whats The Matter Dame i said, hazily, through a cloud of wood alcohol

i slipped through the back door and sat down at the bar, sliding into my stool “ The Usual…” i murmured, slipping a quarter into the automat and pulling out a plate of cigarettes and an ersatz-coffee. i took a sippy of my noir coffee, burning my tongue, and chewed at the plate… no leads on The Case. FUcking Murders!!! i thought Aaargh!!! This Suck!!!!! but i only let out a low growl and tipped the automat the same quarter again (it was on a string the first time)

welcome to body world (inhales shakily through my clenched teeth) a world where everyone has a body

Also sory no i can't give you my perfect cheesecake recipe you have to find the cheesecake that's right for you and i really can't make that call man

if you think about it, the social contract of the Car largely mirrors antiquated notions of patriarchial chivalry... the Big, Strong Automobile, which inherently has the power to maim and kill, must yield the right of way to the misogynized pedestrian, as a show of the Automobile's power & potential lethality. "ladies first," all in a world where more and more space is carved out day by day for the Automobile... now, contrast this with the locomotive, where all passengers are equal... thus you can see that not having a car is emasculating, having to ride public transportation with other people is emasculating, and women are even derided as being poorer drivers. Men do not like the train because it renders them effectively homosexual; they thrive on the upper end of inequality and feel like nothing without it. Taking the train is essentially lesbian frotting

truly some people have no genre savviness whatsoever. A girl came back from the dead the other day and fresh out of the grave she laughed and laughed and lay down on the grass nearby to watch the sky, dirt still under her nails. I asked her if she’s sad about anything and she asked me why she should be. I asked her if she’s perhaps worried she’s a shadow of who she used to be and she said that if she is a shadow she is a joyous one, and anyway whoever she was she is her, now, and that’s enough. I inquired about revenge, about unfinished business, about what had filled her with the incessant need to claw her way out from beneath but she just said she’s here to live. I told her about ghosts, about zombies, tried to explain to her how her options lie between horror and tragedy but she just said if those are the stories meant for her then she’ll make another one. I said “isn’t it terribly lonely how in your triumph over death nobody was here to greet you?” and she just looked at me funny and said “what do you mean? The whole world was here, waiting”. Some people, I tell you.

Thank you propranolol I owe you my life

ancient roman women whose husband keeps looking at the neighbour's boy quintus and he never looks at her that way and she can't even chainsmoke in the kitchen because they don't have marlboro blues in ancient times. and she can't even go to the club because they haven't discovered drum and bass music yet. her friend clodia's having visions of a woman named doechii but neither of them knows what that means

guild navigatorgirls will see a space and be like "is anyone gonna fold that?" and not wait for an answer

patricia taxxon is one of the best and most inventive producers working today and has been influential on me for her ideas on music theory and practice on drum compression. and it is shameful that she is known mostly for being stalked and harassed and lolcowed and having extensive documents made on her by kiwifarmers that a significant portion of otherwise "good" queer leftists online uncritically take as fact. she should be known for her bespoke synthesized snare drums