i love you

you have to forgive the printer because it's one of the most machine-ass machines we interact with on a day to day basis. that thing says kerchunk. hardly anything says kerchunk these days. you can't get mad at her when she kerchunks up a little.

Crazy that tech has gotten so bad that we're doing printer forgiveness now

I MISSED A CALL FROM THE GRS CLINIC FUUUUUCK

ok i spoke w the nurse <3333 now i wait several months more to speak with a surgeon

wait time is currently more than 6 months. trying not to have a meltdown over this

and its only this long for ppl living in this province. literally make it make fucking sense.

I MISSED A CALL FROM THE GRS CLINIC FUUUUUCK

ok i spoke w the nurse <3333 now i wait several months more to speak with a surgeon

wait time is currently more than 6 months. trying not to have a meltdown over this

I MISSED A CALL FROM THE GRS CLINIC FUUUUUCK

ok i spoke w the nurse <3333 now i wait several months more to speak with a surgeon

Narrative inertia...once a story starts, it can't stop. The ending has been coming since the first page. She's been dead since the beginning. Etc.

“That’s the second, and most important, thing you need to know about fairy tales: once a story starts, it won’t stop on its own. There’s too much narrative weight behind a moving story, and it wants to happen too badly. It won’t stop, unless somebody stops it.” - Seanan McGuire

my father was a tailor. in leeds. as was his father. and his father’s father. time was, if a man on the avendale road asked where he could find the finest clothes in northern england, he was pointed towards the shop of a man named rackham. THEN: the men who sell wool decided they would rather not compete with the men who sell cotton. and as the men who sell wool have the ears of the men who make laws, an embargo is enacted to increase profits. and calico disappears. and my father’s business - that he inherited from his father… and his father’s father - begins to wither and die. and my father suffers the compound shame of financial failure seen by the eyes of his son, and descended into drink. i’d sit beside him as a boy at the sunday services as he shouted at the pastor. at the altar. at anyone who would listen, really, about the injustice of it all. and i’d put his arm over my shoulder as the insults began, and i’d carry him out of the church GOD THE INSULTS. at his funeral, our neighbors were kind enough to whisper them instead of call them out loud. SO. i set to work, determined to rebuild what had been taken away; i was thirteen years old, but i was determined! until a man arrived at my door claiming to hold debts belonging to my father, debts accumulated as my father drank, debts he claimed that now belonged to me, debts i could not possibly have hoped to repay. debts over which that man would have seen me imprisoned… imprisoned in a place where the debts would only have been discharged through hard labor. hard labor at no wages, working at - wait for it - the production. of textiles. “you people. incapable of accepting the world as it is.” says the man to whom the world handed everything. if no anne, if no rescue, if this is defeat for me, then know this: you and i were neck-in-neck in this race, right til the end. BUT JESUS DID I MAKE UP A LOT OF GROUND TO CATCH YOU.

don't mind me just feeling insane about how olruggio and qifrey are fire and water but not as in fiery temper and soothing water, as in a warm hearth and unfathomable depths.