unruhe

Cubellas, Barcelona

#local man is desperate for a threesome with hot cop friend and extraterrestrials

#two detectives mudblock and skeleton work for the illuminati #one of them never sees the actual aliens bc shes always too busy tying her shoes or st

#gillian anderson is responsible for a lot of girls’ gay or bi awakening  #she rolls her eyes at david duchovny who gets excited about aliens 

 #hot ginger woman eyerolls through sexual tension and some man with a jawline wants to know if aliens have tiddies  

a hetero couple does the will-they-wont-they trope for 19 seasons and in the background theres bigfoot or something

murder and scallop have adventures

Aliens and one of them keeps fucking around

she babysits him but they’re in love

Three cops who like to talk on the phone while in bubble baths

two cops eyefuck also they hunt aliens and government is evil

She is done with his shit but he is very intense about his shit. They all have a bubble bath and deny it

this guy called mouldy ((?)) annoys gillian anderson a lot but it’s fine bc they sometimes punch aliens

Two badly dressed white people never kiss while looking for aliens or something

Mr and Mrs Goodhair spy on the truth, which is out there

Alien falls in love with man but their love must stay a secret

Mumford and Sully have sex while talking about aliens. One of ‘em doesn’t believe in aliens. I think they work together, too

An FBI agent decides to wear as many pantsuits as possible

the tall man shows the grumpy lady all the spooky stuff

muldur and sculls r fucking and there are probably aliens at some point. there also a guy named skinner but he’s not a cool skateboarder he’s a bald guy who’s in a bubble bath??

so there’s a man with a pointy face who believes in aliens and… maybe other supernatural stuff? and then a lady who a lot of lesbians like who DOESN’T believe in aliens. and I think they’re in love, maybe? and they wear coats?

and last but not least:

The Incredible Machine

it’s the hardest thing in the world for a creative person to rip themselves out of their talent in order to survive. it feels like a part of yourself is being torn from you. and we do it. we work at starbucks and smile when you shout about how “these aren’t the normal size names”, we work as waitresses and serve you politely when you whisper to your kids “stay in school”, we stock shelves with food that we will not be able to afford and nod gently when you turn to your husband and hiss “that’s why you don’t get tattoos.”

actors, painters, poets, dancers, musicians. except we can’t be those, not really. and we’re laughed at for that. we all should have known better. artists starve. the occasional one of us is remembered once we die. many of us know that we will fade. we chase our dreams even though someone better - or not even better, just better selling - will erase our trail completely. we jump out of warm beds to pen bad poems, we coat our bodies in writing, we leave the shower to sketch, we sit in achingly early hours just working at it. and that is love. a love that cannot feed us, cannot house us, is just love.