the eighth stricture

the problem with writing fantasy is that i have to constantly stop myself from having people say "jesus fucking christ." jesus didn't exist here dammit. i need a fake swear that means the same thing i think

do me a favor and reblog this and put in the tags what time it is for you and what you're currently doing/thinking about

big fan of a character seeking comfort in the arms of the thing that’s going to kill them. and i am psycologicalily normal too.

The time period shown in Pathologic is so beautiful. Ah, I miss those good old days when the average normal family was a bipolar time traveler with drugs who wanted to shoot death, his giant husband who lives in a factory with someone else's kidneys in his pocket mixed with lemon, coffee, and the fish he eats, their plague sister who could kill people with her bare hands, their daughter with autism and the ability to speak to the earth, and two sons: a little thief who will become a doctor and a talking bull.