#askflightybroad

I'd say they're a lukewarm subject. Perhaps I would have a more favourable opinion of these gaudy hall-mark apparel of the winter tides if my mother did not insist upon the traditional buying of such garments to "get festive".

It seems your presence has been requested by my adoring fans. Perhaps I was mistaken in the online worlds need for my advice and input when truly a more charming and intriguing member of society presents himself so brazenly.

At the behest of certain parties close to me, I have been persuaded to make a blog for myself.

yo lalonde did you get the blog set up yet look if youre having trouble im game rose you telling me this is official

I flip the lever.

After this hypothetical completely smoking babe is decimated, I approach her smoldering remains so I may courteously contact her family — who have, between her shaky reconnection with an ex-lover and her steady trend towards substance abuse, long-since expected this downfall. For she is no less grieved, I attend her funeral. I offer my remarks. She was a fine woman, a loving daughter, and most certainly did not possess a dubious fascination with the existence of incestuous dynamics. The family wails, moved by my sincerity — I was, after all, their daughter's killer, and there are things you can only realize of a person once you have felt their blood on your hands. As soon as I conclude the remark, the closed-casket slams open; from it emerges transfeminine Sigmund Freud, who makes loud and offensive corrections at my misinterpretation of her work. I flee the scene in a panic, disgusted and embarrassed.

I have a great fondness for strange and esoteric creatures, especially of the feminine variety. The Gryla, also stylized as Gríla, the antithesis of Santa Claus and mother of the Yule Lads; or the Kumiho, who would undoubtedly respond to your propositioning if only to devour your liver; and any of the sirens for the aforementioned reasons.

What avid inquiries into my preferences of literature. I suppose it's only polite to indulge with a response just as enthusiastic. Brace yourselves for, as a certain Strider would say, a shit ton of text.

Approximately two-thirds of the work I peruse do not have titles. I am inclined to believe they are more akin to a literary fever dream than anything I, or any other currently existing mortal soul, have the capacity to fully comprehend; much less describe. I will, however, in good faith, suggest some texts that I consider widely-known.

I particularly enjoy Studies on Hysteria by Freud, though I suppose I more-so enjoy exploring the founding text from which he would later establish his psychoanalytic kingdom. And in any case, acknowledging just how frequently he injected his patients with copious dosages of morphine deserves further recognition, don't you think? I have a re-interpretive historical text in the works regarding his potentially homoerotic relationship with physician Josef Breuer, and studying the paper directly has been of instrumental significance.

Other takes I've greatly enjoyed include The Meaning of Truth by William James; The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman; The Collected Poems by Sylvia Plath (especially the pieces Recantation, 1956, and Monologue at 3 a.m.); and Aye, and Gomorrah. by Samuel R. Delaney.

Oh my, and how could I forget. The all-time classic, the delightful vixen of this ungodly hour, the pinnacle of modern creativity that Shakespeare can only weep at the mention of.