Evil Atlas

Pros: I’ll have access to them later because they’re fucking hilarious

Witch: And that is?

Like. I’ve always sorta understood that things grow moldy or stale or sour or such if left out, but I never really internalized it in a meaningful way.

But now I’m just like.

Yeah. The hungering dust. There exists omnivorous dust in the air that will eat my food if I don’t.

Those bagels have been sitting there for a week. Are we going to eat them soon or are we leaving them for the hungering dust?

Pizza’s been sitting out on the counter for an hour. Everyone’s enjoying the pizza, but if we don’t want “everyone” to include the hungering dust then we should probably put it away soon.

That’s just. That’s how food works to me now. There exists an invisible predator in the air that hungers for your yummies, and it will not hesitate to eat your food if you don’t make the effort to protect and preserve it. And eat what can’t be preserved before the dust can.

“go bad”, it just gets eaten

by something else first

I'm sorry to everyone who lives on the entire continent.

(via bsky)

“We’re engaged now and setting out on the sea of life together in our little raft.” dude you’re both rich as Midas. you’re setting out together in a yacht, minimum

Increasing amounts of “per my last email” in letters between Husband and Father-In-Law discussing Wife’s income from the family fortune

Husband: “HAVE YOU HAD THE BABY YET I’M SO WORRIED I WADED THROUGH A FLOOD TO GET TO THE POST OFFICE”

Husband: “Get the baby a suit of armor or I’m sure to crush her with hugs when I get home”

Wife: “Teenage Daughter, could you send me my gold lamé turban?”

I sat there staring into space mouthing “what” for like a solid minute

I want to see this hat SO BADLY

Husband: “Son was firing his toy cannon at my office door, so I had to sally forth and valiantly seize the enemy munitions!”

Teenage Daughter: “My friend and I had our mutual admirer guess which of us had made which pudding to win a pair of gloves from one of us.”

Wife quotes Byron NONSTOP

Wife: “Fuck slave-owners and fuck the Missouri Compromise.”

Yes, they were abolitionists

Yes, they actually did treat their servants well and pay them fairly

Husband: “That old widow I rent to is behind with her payments, but don’t evict her because that would be inhumane, especially since it’s winter.”

Husband: “Wife, remember to wear your flannel petticoats to stay warm- and so I can take them off you when I get home.”

Also Husband, not paraphrased: “How close I should lie to you and how hard I should love you if I were there.”

WONDER WHY THEY HAD 11 KIDS

Husband: “On our tenth anniversary, I just wanted to say that you’re as beautiful to me as always and I love you the most that anyone has ever loved anyone else in the history of the world.”

Wife: “Hi yes I also love you the most that anyone has ever loved anyone else in the history of the world.”

Wife: “My handwriting sucks and I’ve burned three attempts at this letter already but HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT THIS AWESOME TREE I SAW BESIDE THE ROAD YESTERDAY”

Husband makes so. many. puns. Help.

Wife: “Send two or three pounds of the best chocolate you can find, please.”

Husband: “We have ice cream with dinner every day here- don’t be jealous!”

Husband: “Young Adult Daughter, I wrote a poem about your rejected suitors. Here it is.”

Unfortunately I cannot remember the poem at the moment. But there was a part like, “And as for Frank Lyman/He’ll never be my man.”

Just roasting a bunch of young men with surnames you now see on Boston street signs

the man’s name was Salem Towne. yes, really. Husband said that his parents were a few miles off when they named him

“They called you Salem Towne, but they should have called you Marble Head [Marblehead being a town near Salem].”

you've grown to hate this place, this castle gifted to him for war victories. The halls are barren, the garden yet to bloom. The maids are pleasant, but they keep their distance, as if you'll strike. Maybe your husband is the kind to hit. You wouldn't know.

When he looks at you, it's only in short bursts, his eyes suddenly low. There's a long stretch of silence between you and you consider introducing yourself, but decide against it. He knows who you are.

"The maid is drawing me a bath," he says suddenly and a sick feeling pours over you. This day was always coming, but you aren't sure you're ready to lay under a stranger.

"Am I expected to join?" you ask and his nose crinkles.

"No." He steps back and away. His departure is brisk and driven. You retire for the night by yourself and awake alone. Your husband is set to leave again in a few hours; a few soldiers have already gathered in the front garden.

"Don't you wish to give your new wife a goodbye?" one asks, unaware of your open window. "One night and you've already had your fill? Or has she been filled too much?"

"I refuse to believe she is real!" says another. "What kind of woman has worn down our brute and turned him into a family man? Should we expect a gaggle of children in the upcoming year?"

Your husband growls. "You will leave the poor lamb alone. She suffers enough."

That softens you. Just a bit. You rise from you bed and go to the window, leaning out enough to catch the men's attention.

"Until next time."

He watches you, expression caught between more emotions that you can count, then turns his gaze back to his mount. The two men share a look, wide, wide grins on their faces.

(he must have lovers, you imagine. He hasn't touched you; he must be getting his fill with women in other cities, maybe women he actually loves. these are trinkets to keep his wife amused while she wastes away.)

none of the gifts come with a note.

one day a bolt of fabric arrives, yellow and ornate. It's only a small amount, not enough to make a dress, but enough for you to unravel and admire. It's beautiful and clearly expensive, golden threads woven into flowers and vines. Your father was a silk merchant; while you never wore the silks, you can recognize their quality.

the following week, the delicious man rides up on his steeds and presents a letter. The handwriting is rough. Knights that come from the lower class do not have the schooling of highborns; as fair as you know, your husband was born a street rat and worked his way theough the ranks to glory.

-I have been told by my secund that I did not send you enuf fabric for a gown. I do not no these things.

The spelling mistakes screw a smile out of you.

"Wait a moment." You stop the boy before he can leave. "I wish to send something back."

You take your time and use your finest calligraphy, tucking your note in with a handkerchief you had spent the week on. It's fine work-- one that would please even the hardest of hearts.

-Dearest husband,

Please take this handkerchief as a sign of my thoughts.

Your patient and thoughtful wife

A second letter arrives within the week.

-are you cros with me? A scrap of fabric for a scrap of fabric?

The response is what makes you cross. The poor messenger boy has to stay the night while you percolate over a response.

-Dearest, sweetest husband,

A handkerchief is a traditional gesture of affection. I have embroidered the edges by hand, with your last name and your roses, and it smells of my perfume. It is a piece of me for you to carry. If you do not appreciate my kindness or if you think it will turn away your lovers, you may return it. I do not wish it wasted on you.

Your less than patient and less than adoring wife

The poor boy scatters off in the morning and returns a few days later.

tortured wife,

I wil cherish it. I am sory, pour lam. I wil do better.

It's rude. You're making someone take their time to read something you couldn't bother to write. You're telling them they were so unimportant you couldn't be bothered to actually take the time to say something yourself. And frankly, you're lying about it while you're at it.