Doll

kind of weird how parts of your soul are left in various locations without any warning… like yes i’m always at the top of that hill, sitting at the bus stop, in the cool light of the Japanese restaurant, standing at the pier etc etc

neither a morning or night person but a secret third thing (always tired)

i unironically love riverdales dialogue. why is it that when succession does unrealistic shakespeare-esque dialogue its treated as an actual stylistic choice but when riverdale does it it must be some wacky writing quirk that cant be taken seriously and is only attributable to poor writing ability. other than the fact that one is riverdale and the other is succession i mean. i love intentionally unrealistic dialogue. the writers knew that nobody uses the word demimonde or alliteration ("mobsters and molls," "belly up to the bar with the big boys") in real life-- anyone who is familiar with the word "demimonde" also knows that its an archaic term from 19th century france-- but using it in veronicas monologue added to the effect of creating a 50s mafia movie/old-school dynastic drama atmosphere inherent to the lodges. im not even here to defend the artistic value of riverdale i just get really passionate about defending "unrealistic" dialogue because it can be such an interesting stylistic choice and the point of fiction isnt to create a world identical to reality

hope people realize that it’s impossible to be normal about foundation. you’ve got soaking wet buff lee pace, a man who has two holograms each with their own custom mental trauma, a 20,000 year old genderfluid robot with impeccable taste AND trauma, a daughter who’s older than her mother, and three men who are the same man ruling an empire, one of which btw is lee pace. and he is naked. watch this show.

I am keeping a secret. I am sucking on it like a lozenge that just won’t get smaller. I am passing it back and forth between my teeth, like a ball on a field between the legs of a bored player. It is not a happy secret, like a diamond in a velvet box in a sweaty pocket. It’s a secret like a loaded gun sewn into the lining of my sweater’s hood, aimed directly for the back of my head. It is a cartoon piano suspended above me. It is a manhole threatening to spontaneously collapse beneath my feet. It is a cloud of noxious gas meticulously attached to only the molecules I misguidedly breathe. It is in my shadow, and it singes the concrete where I stand. It is the sad clink of an empty glass on New Year’s Eve. It is a nap in the passenger seat from which I will never wake up. I am keeping a secret. I am hoarding it. You will find it amongst yellowed mountains of books in a garage, when you find me. This is not a promise, it is a confession. I am keeping a secret.