I Don’t Know Her But I’m At Dashcon

My time at this “dash-con” has come to a close. I have learned much about the “tumblers” in my time. My gay husband assures me that I haven’t the faintest, but I disagree. My studies have prevailed upon me the importance of this unique society. I have three travel tips for any other brave interlopers who dare to come to the con in the future.

1. The ball pit will never be piss free and sitting amongst the piss laden balls is a critical rite of pissage required of all visitors. The locals call this the “piss tax.”

2. The locals have not yet developed any form of legal tender. Goods and services can only procured through the exchange of trinkets. I was lucky enough to get a Thomas Jefferson Mini Binder in exchange for my wedding ring. My gay husband does not know this.

3. Here be clowns. All those who fear fun should stay away.

My gay husband has promised me we can now have a cheeky Nandos. Farewell and Hoozah!

No more reports to follow. Sad.

Haha JK…

My gay husband took us to a wedding ceremony at this “dash-con.” No Teen Wolf, though. Sad.

We finished learning about gay organizing. Do I have ADHD? Perhaps. My gay husband seems unimpressed by this revelation. This is not news to him. Much to think about. Sad.

My gay husband has begun singing a song with a guitarist and banjo player whilst we wait in a line. He claims the song is called “wonder-wall.” I do not know her. I exclusively listen to Freeform Jazz and Gregorian chants. Sad.

We met the knight strange, who shockingly seemed quite normal. I have yet to understand the naming conventions of the people here at the “dash-con.”

We then wandered the market where I found many fine bobbles and trinkets. The locals seem to trade primarily in paper with adhesive on the back. I received one which read “I ❤️ toxic yaoi.” I am told by my gay husband that I do, in fact, heart toxic yaoi. I do not know what this means.

I was feeling quite ill but my gay husband whipped up a warm glass of the sludge—a local cure-all consisting of Tums and Juice I’m told—that was quite soothing. It reminded me of the rocks I once ate as a child.

Despite my earlier “travails” and a call to my mommy to take me back home, my gay husband has convinced me to once again attend the “dash-con.”

No band of Mikus was at the Tim Hortons this morning to greet us, but there were many other “Tumblers”—my gay husband corrected my previous misunderstanding of their naming conventions—who were keen to talk with us about the panels for which they are most interested.

We now are waiting to speak with a noble and advocate for the state sponsored violence yesterday. Who knows what sorts of secrets we will learn.

I frew up :(

sorry gay husband

My gay husband has relented. I shall be trying the battery acid spaghetti.

Perhaps I have been amongst the people of this “dash-con” for too long. My single tear at the horrors of state sponsored violence earlier today was replaced with a hearty whoop at the fateful end of Robespierre this evening. My gay husband is my Waterloo.

My gay husband would like for me to forget my quest to have battery acid spaghetti by pointing out the smell of the lasagna had by many “tum-ballerinas” at the “dash-con.” While the allure of marinara and ricotta is quite tempting, I seek a much eviler Italian tonight. I must understand these people!

Also the raffle is soon. Fingers and toes!!

Alert! I’ve grown sleepy. I need a nap. I’m just a little guy. This is not a test. My gay husband won’t let me. Alert!

My gay husband has grown weary, as have I, so we have colonized two seats at the main stage. I have learned much at this point, but I fear that Delta Ruin might be beyond my comprehension .

What is it?

Is Sans Undertale in it or what?

Why is that goat mom kinda…?