I am Rodrigo

If you want to see more of her work try:

Doctor: *has a doctorate in English Lit* I’m sorry, it’s a little more challenging than we thought. We analyzed your imagery, and it appears that you symbolize the fleeting nature of the American dream

An elderly British man with an accent - you can picture exactly what he looks like and what he is wearing, somehow, and you know that he will explain the important concept of Yorkshire to you at length if you make eye contact - is saying “And w’ four snickets t’ wicket, Umbleby dives under the covers and romps home for a sticky bicket.”

There is a deep and satisfied silence. Weather happens over the radio. This lasts for three minutes.

A gentle young gentleman with an Indian accent, whose perfect and beautiful clear voice makes him sound like a poet sipping from a cup of honeyed drink always, says mildly “Of course we cannot forget that when Pakistan last had the biscuit under the covers, they were thrown out of bed. In 1957, I believe.”

You mouth “what the fucking fuck.”

A morally ambiguous villain from a superhero movie says off-microphone, “Crumbs everywhere.”

Apparently continuing a previous conversation, the villain asks, “Do seagulls eat tacos?”

“I’m sure someone will tell us eventually,” the poet says. His voice is so beautiful that it should be familiar; he should be the only announcer on the radio, the only reader of audiobooks.

The villain says with sudden interest, “Oh, a leg over straight and under the covers, Peterson and Singh are rumping along with a straight fine leg and good pumping action. Thanks to his powerful thighs, Peterson is an excellent legspinner, apart from being rude on Twitter.”

The man from Yorkshire roars potently, like a bull seeing another bull. There might be words in his roar, but otherwise it is primal and sizzling.

“That isn’t straight,” the poet says. “It’s silly.”

“What the fucking fuck,” you say out loud at this point.

“Shh,” says the person who likes cricket. They listen, tensely. Something in the distance makes a very small “thwack,” like a baby dropping an egg.

“Was that a doosra or a googly?” the villain asks.

“IT’S A WRONG ‘UN,” roars the Yorkshireman in his wrath. A powerful insult has been offered. They begin to scuffle.

“With that double doozy, Crumpet is baffled for three turns, Agarwal is deep in the biscuit tin and Padgett has gone to the shops undercover,” the poet says quickly, to cover the action while his companions are busy. The villain is being throttled, in a friendly companionable way.

An intern apparently brings a message scrawled on a scrap of paper like a courier sprinting across a battlefield. “Reddy has rolled a nat 20,” the poet says with barely contained excitement. “Australia is both a continent and an island. But we’re running out of time!”

“Is that true?” You ask suddenly.

“Shh!” Says the person who likes cricket. “It’s a test match.”

“About Australia.”

“We won’t know THAT until the third DAY.”

A distant “pock” noise. The sound of thirty people saying “tsk,” sorrowfully.

“And the baby’s dropped the egg. Four legs over or we’re done for, as long as it doesn’t rain.”

The villain might be dead? You begin to find yourself emotionally invested.

There are mild distant cheers. “Oh, and with twelve sticky wickets t’ over and t’ seagull’s exploded,” the man from the North says as if all of his dreams have come true. “What a beautiful day.” Your person who likes cricket relaxes. It is tea break.

The villain, apparently alive, describes the best hat in the audience as “like a funnel made of dove-colored net, but backwards, with flies trapped in it.”

This is every bit as good as that time in Australia in 1975, they all agree, drinking their tea and eating home-made cakes sent in by the fans. The poet comments favorably on the icing and sugar-preserved violets. The Yorkshire man discourses on the nature of sponge. The villain clatters his cup too hard on his saucer. To cover his embarrassment, the poet begins scrolling through Twitter on his phone, reading aloud the best memes in his enchanting milky voice. Then, with joy, he reads an @ from an ornithologist at the University of Reading: seagulls do eat tacos! A reference is cited; the poet reads it aloud. Everyone cheers.

You are honestly - against your will - kind of into it! but also: weirdly enraged.

“Was that … it?” you ask, deeming it safe to interrupt.

“No,” says the person who likes cricket, “This is second tea break on the first day. We won’t know where we really are until lunch tomorrow.”

The commentator said sadly, “He had nowhere to go, and it followed him.”

because of the new tv show. and it’s only going to get worse as we get closer to the show’s release. take notice of it — who’s advertising, who’s talking about it, who’s encouraging you to watch it. it’s going to keep happening. there’s going to be more chocolate guys, more nicholas hoults, more kiera knightleys.

take no shit. give rowling an inch and she’ll take a mile. i don’t care how much you like or don’t like someone — if you see them interacting with harry potter positively in ANY way, drop them. unfollow, block, pretend they don’t exist. scorched fucking earth.

He had a choice: Give your heart to a Fire Demon and live in an ever moving castle as you are being hunted by a vicious witch who wishes to consume you

OR

Pay back your student loans

No but for real, his undergrad would've been virtually free, in the 1980s in the UK. For the sake of the bit, he likely did not do much teaching at all to support himself in grad school, let alone taking a part-time job, and would've been cobbling together some grants for his tuition and "research," but would have taken some loans for buying books, paying rent, eating, and living on. On the one hand, he went to Swansea, at a time when rent was cheap, and his car is garbage; on the other, he spends all of his money instantly on fabulous outfits, skincare products and instruments he can't play, so he probably could rack up debt in a really impulsive irritating way. Megan does imply that he received more financial support than he deserved, and squandered it.

August 2015

October 2016

April 2017

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September 2018

December 2018

June 2019

February 2020

August 2020

July 20, 2023

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A quailfied person: