My Brain Randomness

the absolute worst thing to ever ever EVER happen to a disordered person, especially those of us with anxiety based disorders (or disorders with a side effect of anxiety) is for our fears and/or unhealthy coping mechanisms to be validated. and in most media where a disordered character takes the focus, writers try to show them Not being validated, to show that the Disorder is Lying and you can get better!! the disorder is lying to you and you need to know that!

but alastor? oh hell no. every fear and maladaptive habit he has is validated over and over, and it just pushes him further into his poor coping mechanisms and one day it's gonna get him. oh it's gonna. analysis posted per the request of my honorable mutual @alastor-insanity, who got to hear all this first. when the dm reply reads "you should post this actually," who am i to refuse the call?

Oh yeah it’s all coming together

The weird Oreos don’t sell… but the weird Oreos just being around and visible make people buy more regular Oreos.

"He's anti-Brexit!" Good.

"He's anti-Trump!" Good.

"He's anti-establishment!" At this point I think you're just trying to make me like him more.

"His manager once called Farage a horrible cunt!" Well Farage *is* a horrible cunt, what's your point?

"He's making a joke of British politics!" Well that's very appropriate given that current British politics *are* a fucking joke.

"He's a left-wing liberal elitist!" I don't know if you can be all of those things at once, but I do know that Count Binface isn't the one getting millions in donations from cryptocurrency billionaires sooooooo...

I don't know what to say it just possessed me. My only wish is that I had drawn the mug even bigger.

Simon Grace Gay as fuck, statement.

:) :) :)

“What the hells,” said Bajie, staring down at his hands. Even by the thin uncertain light of dawn, it was clear: they were were long-fingered, blue, and slightly webbed. 

They were Wujing’s hands.

Except they were clearly Bajie’s: they made a fist when he told them to, and a rude gesture, and when he pinched one of them with the other, it hurt.

Bajie patted his face. He wasn’t surprised, exactly, to fail to encounter his snout, but the beard was a bit startling. “What the hells,” he said again, louder. “Ugh, I knew we shoulda paid more attention to that stupid mirror demon.”

It had been more a novelty than an actual obstacle: a weird faceless creature with silvery reflective skin had reared up out of the lake behind the monastery they were staying at, Sun had killed it—splashing them all liberally with silvery reflective blood—and the thing had sunk back into the lake, wailing unintelligible curses in its death throes and poisoning the water. Master scolded Sun, Sun sulked, life went on.

“Gnrk?” said the person in the bedroll next to his: a fine bulky person wearing Bajie’s black silk shirt. Sha Wujing rolled Bajie’s body upright with a grunt of effort and blinked over at him, blearily. 

And then blinked again. “Wha’ th’ hells?” he slurred. He raised one hand. He squinted at it. 

“Urgh.” 

He flopped back into his—Bajie’s—bedroll and pulled the blanket over his head.

Man of sense, was Sha Wujing. 

Still—

Bajie thumped him until his head re-emerged. “I gotta piss,” he told his brother. “That gonna be too weird for you?”

“Urgh,” said Wujing again. “No. Me, too, actually. Gimme a sec.” He rubbed his eyes. “Elder Brother, you are really not a morning person.”

Bajie snorted agreement. It was a strangely small, uninspiring sort of noise, coming from Wujing’s undersized nose. 

Together, the two brothers stumbled out of the monastery’s guest room and down to the privy near the paddock. By the time the necessary business had been accomplished, Wujing was alert enough to find the situation rightly hilarious. 

“How do you fight with this thing in the way all the time?” he demanded, hoisting his belly in both hands. He bounced on his toes to make the belly bounce as well, and snickered. 

“Brilliantly, is how,” Bajie retorted. “How pissed will you be at me if I shave off the mustache?”

“Extremely pissed,” said Wujing. 

“But it tickles.”

“What the hells, you have a tail?”

“Obviously I have a tail?” Bajie said. “You have known me three years now, how did you not know this?”

“I can wiggle it, look.”

“Stuff that back in my pants immediately, Wujing. Wait, that sounded—Shut up, stop laughing, snrk—”

Wheezing and cackling, the brothers made their way back to their rooms in the monastery, collecting a grazing Bailong Ma on the way. “We gotta show Master and—”

But at this point, they were cut off by a screech of absolute horror: Sun Wukong. A moment later, it was joined by a more familiar scream, no less horrified: Tripitaka.

“Ah,” said Wujing. “The mirror demon got them, too, I guess.”

The screaming continued, more urgently.

“…Drama queens, both of ‘em,” said Bajie. He slapped the dragon horse companionably on the shoulder; Bailong Ma glanced up at him. “Don’t suppose you’ve been swapped with anyone else overnight?” Bajie inquired.

Bailong Ma rolled his eyes. 

Inside, the screaming had devolved into hysterical shouted accusations.

“Let’s just…wait out here for a bit,” said Wujing.

Man of sense, was Sha Wujing.