Madwoman In An Impala

Today, Amazon announced the imminent launch of its newest endeavor, Kindle Worlds, a publishing platform for fanfiction. When I read the announcement, I was horrified, then angry, then sad. I want to take a moment to explain why this is such a tragedy.

“By using the platform, authors give all rights to the work to Amazon, who can then license your elements to other authors with no compensation to the original poster.”

The Last Unicorn 2019

Am I the last? Am I truly the last Unicorn?

Full walk through with images, breakdown and video here:

So it turns out cooking isn’t anywhere near as difficult as Crowley imagined it would be. And he has quite the powerful imagination. So when he sits down on the wooden stool provided in his first cooking class he isn’t expecting the instructions to be so... simple? 

Yes, technically it requires a level of skill and coordination. And a sense of taste, obviously. Their first lesson was in poaching an egg. Which is not as easy is it sounds. But he got it right on the third try. Unlike the young lady at the same station as him. She needed 7 goes to get it right.

By the end of the third lesson, Crowley is feeling fairly confident in what he’s learned so far and decided it’s time to invite Aziraphale over for dinner. Not out, as they always have gone, but actually over to his flat. Where the contents of his kitchen have never once been used for anything more than aesthetic pieces.

To say the angel is confused would be an understatement. The confusion doesn’t clear from his face until the smells start to waft out from the kitchen. Then he’s all for staying in instead of going out as they normally do.

“Did you order in?” Aziraphale asks as he walks into the flat with a bottle of wine in hand. He’s been there enough to know where everything is, and he quickly locates the liquor cabinet and pulls out two glasses for them.

“I cooked,” Crowley says proudly as he closes the front door and saunters over to take a glass of the red wine he believes is from a stock the angle procured sometime in the 1800′s.

That earns him a soft chuckle from the angle that has Crowley rolling his eyes. “Did you, now? Alright, you’ve piqued my interest. What have you made for us tonight?”

“Come along, angel,” Crowley sing-songs as he turns on his heel and leads the way to the dining room. It’s a room previously only used to house several of his plants, but he took the time to shift them around the room and make it feel a bit more inviting while they eat.

They have beef wellington with roasted potatoes with garlic and herbs, and green beans almondine. Crowley even attempted baking and threw together a decent chocolate mousse torte with fresh raspberries.

By the time they’ve finished their meal, Aziraphale looks ready to burst. Having had seconds and clearing his plate both times. “That was scrumptious. I wasn’t aware you knew how to cook, dear.”

“Oh, I couldn’t before two weeks ago. Turns out it’s quite easy once you get the basics down,” Crowley says easily, though inside he’s preening under the bit of praise. “I could show you sometime if you like?”

“I’m a therapist and keep this poster in my waiting room, apparently it’s saved a few lives.”

I don’t like the phrase “a cry for help.” I just don’t like how it sounds. When somebody says to me, “I’m thinking about suicide. I have a plan: I just need a reason not to do it,” the last thing I see is helplessness.

I think your depression has been beating you up for years. It’s called you ugly, and stupid, and pathetic, and a failure, for so long that you’ve forgotten that it’s wrong. You don’t see any good in yourself, and you don’t have any hope.

But still here you are: you’ve come over to me, banged on my door and said, “HEY! Staying alive is REALLY HARD right now! Just give me something to fight with! I don’t care if it’s a stick! Give me a stick and I can stay alive!”

How is that helpless? I think that’s incredible. You’re like a marine: trapped for years behind enemy lines. Your gun has been taken away, you’re out of ammo, you’re malnourished, and you’ve probably caught some kind of jungle virus that’s making you hallucinate giant spiders.

And you’re still just going, “GIVE ME A STICK. I’M NOT DYING OUT HERE.” “A cry for help” makes it sound like I’m supposed to take pity on you, but you don’t need my pity. This isn’t pathetic. This is the will to survive. This is how humans lived long enough to become the dominant species.

With NO hope, running on NOTHING, you’re ready to cut through a hundred miles of hostile jungle with nothing but a stick, if that’s what it takes to get to safety.

All I’m doing is handing out sticks.