Mel > Recent Status Updates

Completely unenthused and debating DNFing. Anthony is a manipulative asshole who took advantage of his vulnerable friend. Forced the transition Michael was trying to fight against. All to satisfy his own urges. This feels like the worst sort of trans horror. There is no repentance or accountability. Hugh is the only sane person here dressing him down, asking, "What's your excuse?"

I don't care if it's alien toxins or whatever, Ant is an unwavering asshole and I cheered for Michael to punch his stupid face in. I'm only angry that he was forced to stop.

Oh no, the secondhand embarrassment is real!
Doctor exams and bodily functions - so awkward! >_

"Good. I hope you are motivated by this positive reinforcement. If not, I can put a jar of sugar solution in the break room."

Ohhh, entomologists!

He was handsome in this weird picture-in-the-attic sort of way.

This book has me cackling at random lines, and now I'm very frustrated with myself for not taking note of them earlier. I definitely made an inappropriate caw on my lunch break today.

Like I know we've shagged and that changes things, but I didn't think my cock was the Ghost of Christmas Past.

He stares into his coffee. He takes it the same colour as his eyes.

The way I leaned back, closed the cover on my bookmark, and just grinned. What a line.

"And Jack, how many times must I tell you not to smoke in my house?"

"At least a few more times, I dare say."

Hahahaha!! Legit laughed at the outrageous queer sass. That Marlene Dietrich, Cruella deVille cigarette holder. Such a queen.

The moment the carrier's open, I dash over and try to cram Gollum in. It mostly goes okay, apart from the help-I'm-being-murdered noises, except he manages to get one paw sticking out the end like he's in Jurassic Park and he's just been dragged into the velociraptor enclosure."

Never mind, all is forgiven. Imagining the Jurassic Park rewrite with just a massive cat paw instead sent me!

"Because Croydon is the head office, it's in a slightly nicer retail park than our home store up north. It's not quite a proper shopping centre like Meadowhall back in Sheffield or Liverpool ONE back home, and it's certainly not an American style "mall", but they share a car park with the Vue cinema and there's a PizzaExpress a few doors down, so-"

OMG contemporary fic is so fucking BORING why do I even bother!?

"Dev points to his ear, like someone is shouting in his headset, so he doesn't have to acknowledge her casual homophobic comments."

You're the one in charge, Dev. Step up and nip that sort of talk in the bud. Ugh, what an unreliable coward.

So the show creator is making overtly racist and biphobic comments, and the MC is defending her? Yikes.

Oh no. Are they literally going to walk through every episode of this terrible reality show, with every single pointless contestant squabble? It's bad enough as a framing device. Please don't make me actually have to "watch" this slop.

"Dev wants to call bullshit. A reputation of being difficult isn't enough to blacklist you from any industry when you're as white and male and traditionally handsome as Charlie, not to mention a certifiable genius."

Yeah, I'm calling bullshit too. Oh no, the poor multimillionaire is out of work? And a dating show is going to help with that? The author is simply lampshading what a terrible premise this is.

So there are "book breaks," and then there are, "It took me over 3 months to read 25 pages." ^_^;

I began The River Has Roots at the start of October. Gorgeous book. Took it on vacation to Turkey with me. It has lived scruffy and wild in my backpack since. I could’ve finished it in a sitting, easily. But when I finally picked it up during lunch, I realized most of what had been left was a bonus story! 3 months, ppl!

Esther and Ysabel Hawthorn had voices that ran together like raindrops on a windowpane.

*Sigh* I had to start over and read the first few pages to a friend before bedtime, the rhythm of the words dip and sway like a lullaby.

Their roots knobble the water's surface from beneath, twist together into a braided sort of bridge; their branches above tangle and pleach into a vast, vaulting canopy.

Holy shit! I carelessly grabbed this as I ran to catch my train, completely unprepared for such poetry! The twinned consonants, the rhythmic rise and fall of words cradling me in their current. I want to read aloud to the man across from me: listen!

"Mission accomplished!"

OMG how are they both this cute and goofy together? This is a the fluffiest fluff to ever- how are you so adorable?

Will you help me keep you?

🥺🥺🥺
OMG I just melted.

"Did you just call me JJ?"

*Snort*
I'll never be able to hear that nickname without thinking of Yuri! On Ice: "It's JJ Style!!!" *Pose*

Huh. Was not expecting for this book to start out in Munds Park off the I-17. Drinking Four Peaks beer.

Six years earlier, on a Tuesday in September, I woke up in my basement apartment in Kingston, Ontario, and realized I had slept in- Not so flagrantly as to make it impossible to make it to my first college class...

Eyes skimming along the words, I wondered, How do people recall their life with such clarity? I couldn't tell you if I slept in on a given day-- Something traumatic is about to happen isn't it? Oh. Right.

And so we left; have been leaving ever since.

Your papers, he said.
My father pulled out his paperwork. Without reading it, the soldier tore it in half and threw it on the floor.
Your papers, he repeated.

[The Gulf War] transformed from a thing no one talked about to a normal mechanic of everyday life. ... The endless footage on CNN that at first provoked such shock- these shadowed Baghdad cityscapes detonating sporadically in balls of pale white light- soon caused no reaction at all. It was just what happened to certain places, to certain people: they became balls of pale white light. What mattered was, it wasn't us.

[My daughter] wants to double-check the spelling of "welcome." I shut my computer, quickly. In various browser tabs, there is footage of a girl not much older than my daughter, pulled out of the rubble after an Israeli airstrike. In another is a recording of a girl begging for help, shortly before her execution ... I tell my daughter she spelled the word correctly. She returns to her park, light as air.

I wouldn’t bother to leave a mound or sign indicating that the remains of a human being lay there. I would remember, and there was no one else to tell.

Perhaps, somewhere, humanity is flourishing under the stars, unaware that a daughter of its blood is ending her days in silence.

There will always be something appealing about survival stories. From childhood books like Hatchet, to prehistoric fiction like Clan of the Cave Bear, to sci-fi colonies and apocalyptic survivors, I'll never tire of people in difficult situations finding ways to live.

I'm also reminded of Primitive Technology on YouTube. Judging by the channel's popularity, clearly I'm not the only one who thinks so.

Is there a satisfaction in the effort of remembering that provides its own nourishment, and is what one recollects less important than the act of remembering?