Sad, sick Dracula

My good people, gather around for today I bring you the magnificent tale of…

(Spoilers!)

What happens when you shoot a person you love

Let’s assume you love someone. You love them so much that you would sacrifice anything to make sure they’re ok. To help them get out of a situation where, oh I don’t know, they’re blind and locked in a place that’s about to blow up and they could get out of there, if only they could see the code which will unlock the door, and the code is right there, they could see it if they weren’t blind but they’re blind and it’s impossible for them to punch in the damn code. Let’s say you love that person -not madly, just enough to ask some weird, creepy looking monks for help and they’d gladly help you, for a price. What price is that? You don’t know, it could be anything at all, anything goes. But it doesn’t matter because you love that person and you want them to live. So you take the monks’ offer.

Sherlock: The Abominable Bride

*sighs* I can't believe I watched the whole thing again so I could take notes. Honestly, it's getting frustrating watching Moffat fuck things up. Aaanyway...

There are spoilers under the cut.

Fairy Morals

Sometimes I write about things people don’t care to read. Like, for instance, this.

Dark Water

... and how it placed my heart on the floor and stomped on it.

In response to a very persistent ad

Most of the time, the ads on my facebook timeline are pretty much relevant to my interests, stuff I've googled and such. But there's this brilliant thing which shows up everyday, without fail, and it's starting to really irritate me, especially under the current circumstances...

Young boy's diary: I am the night

Dad has been agitated lately. I caught him talking to himself a couple of times and I'm sure I heard a fight between him and Mom last night. I don't know what's going on but I thought, maybe he'd like to play catch with me, maybe physical activity would distract him and help him deal with stress. What a fool I was...

Young boy's diary

Martha doesn't get it.

Post the whatever, during which I sit tight and hate everything [...]

[...] and patiently wait for the crying fit to pass, wondering if this pain in my chest is a sign of an impending heart attack. Aren't I too young to die after all? (Rather long title for an utterly pointless post. You can leave whenever.)

Thought-provoking conversations

Today was... interesting.

I was going to have a mole removed because it looked a bit weird and people believed something might be wrong with it. Sadly, it wasn't shaped like New Zealand, a fact that would have made the mole worth discussing, if only to justify why I am now typing a blog post about it. (Spoiler: this post isn't really about the mole.)

Afterwards

Welcome back for another round of Fun Times with Lu! Today, we'll be examining the entertaining subject of the afterlife. Is it real? Is it a myth? Who cares? Many people apparently. Let's begin!

Because I dream of distress

The shutters are always closed. Always. And the curtains always drawn. At some point in her life she has to make peace with sunlight. In the distant future, she can see herself standing in front of the window with her eyes open. But not today. The light is successfully locked outside and as soon as the dream begins -and she knows it's another dream- she wishes for light, hoping she doesn't have to open her eyes and face darkness, the material of illusions and melancholy.

It's not a proper nightmare this time, except it is. It's a memory, that's how she knows she's dreaming. She looks at her hands, resting on her lap and then out the window of the car. Looking to her right is not an option. She carefully avoids to even glance towards that side. It's a long ride and yet it seems too short. She could have gone at least another hour like that, looking outside, not talking, just breathing. Sometimes she curses her brain for having shown her all the possible scenarios, finally picking the one most likely to happen and yes, she knows how it will go. It's not about premonitions or a sixth sense at all. It's about knowing who the person sitting next to you is, it's about knowing how life works and it's about sucking it up and being an adult.

I've been here before and I didn't like it the first time either, she thinks. Perhaps I should try to wake up. It doesn't come as a surprise when she doesn't manage to wake up and she has to go through it again. The dream is very kind however, offering different angles from which to view the scene, as though it could soften the blow somehow. The lighting is the same as it was that day, curiously bright around the gloom. Nobody else seemed to notice.

She starts counting steps which is something she does when stressed. Not that it helps relieve the stress, it just happens instinctively, mechanically, much like blinking. This time however, she's counting someone else's steps. She doesn't like it, it's only making things worse but both her dream self and her mostly asleep real brain are counting in tune, like a creepy and extremely cruel duo. At least this will be over soon, she knows because the creepy voices are beginning to fade and, well... deja vu. Watching from somewhere above as the other her turns away and practically runs outside, she hums the way people do when they're in pain.

When she wakes up, she wonders why she can't get up and wants to go back to dreaming instead. It would be a stupid choice, she knows and she gets out of bed, resolved to ignore the heaviness in her chest for as long as possible.




(Exorcising my demons by means of very short stories.)

On the subject of children

One of my friends has 3 of those strange creatures called children. Another friend is trying to create one. I also have a friend who doesn't want any. I observe these people, my friends and their children or lack of. And I am trying to figure out what my position is on that subject. Do I really want what I think I want? Do I want it because I was I taught that I should want it or because science says I can't have it? Is there really a biological clock inside me which has started ticking? And if so, does it run on batteries I can remove?

Creativity or lack thereof and... other stuff

Lately I've been frustrated because I couldn't seem to write more than a few verses at a time. Verses which only made sense to me. I mean, symbolism is cool and all, but people should be able to understand pieces of your work at the very least, not stare at a poem or a story like it's written in an alien language. Feeling like shit didn't help, as you can imagine. I became desperate. I looked up "binaural beats".

Hello, Doctor!

Good news, everyone! We know who the new Doctor is! Will be. Is. Whatever. Big ball of wibbly wobbly...

Homo Sapiens, my sweet bottom!

(I don't even know how to begin...)

Ok, speech is important, we've mastered that. Opposable thumbs and walking on two legs? Check! Wearing clothes and not living in trees? Check! Buying useless things so we can rub our wealth in our neighbour's face? Check! Not throwing feces at each other during an argument? Check! We consider our species to be intelligent. So much so, that we've crowned ourselves kings, rulers of all other living beings, superior. We are, in fact, not.

On the importance of "no"

Seeing as I have trouble saying it, I am perhaps the right person to explain why "no" is so important. You see, in the mind of one who is so eager, so desperate to please others, saying no is a terrible thing to do. What if someone is offended by it? What if it makes them sad? But the thing is, you can't say yes to everything. Even if you do, somehow, manage it, there will still be people who won't be pleased. Because you can't please everyone. And that's fine.

Anger/Disappointment/I don't want to live here anymore

I fell

Both literally and metaphorically.

Not ok, K.

K. is one of the many doctors I've met in my life. She's also one of the doctors I kept seeing. Not very often, not as often as I should at least. The first time we met, she almost forced me into a panic attack. A lot has changed since then, I don't get panic attacks when I see her. I think it's her voice, she's changed it somehow. Made it softer. Perhaps she's doing it only for me but I'll never ask, so I'll never know the truth. We're getting along better now, that's the point.