Ten and Donna end up on a fucked up deadly space newlyweds show despite uh. Not being newlyweds but they get almost all the questions right. They start to sweat when the final question is "what's one secret desire you have involving the other?" And Donna writes "sometimes I wish I could occasionally shrink down the doctor real small so I could carry him around in my pocket and make sure he doesn't get lost' while Ten writes "sometimes I wish I was small enough that Donna could carry me around in like a cat backpack or maybe a shirt pocket" and they look at each other like AYYYYYY because not only are they deeply drift compatible they're also fuckin weird about it 💖
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Do I even have a choice when
I'm gonna have to pick my poison?
Hard Place, H.E.R.
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at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"
like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.
"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."
... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.
and i'd still keep writing.
i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.
i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley
"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"
and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.
it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.
you create because you're greedy.
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Danny was tired, like 'I feel it in my bones and soul' tired.
And he didn't want sleep at home because there's only so many nights, he could spend lying awake making sure his heart was beating in case his parents checked on him.
Currently he was flying aimlessly not really taking in his surroundings, but he could neither sleep while flying or fly forever.
Normally he'd sleep over at Sam or Tucker's, but the Mansons had made it clear that he wasn't welcome at their house anymore and Tucker was grounded.
Both would sneak him in if he asked, but he didn't want them to get in trouble for him.
Which leads him to decide between his two choices, sleeping in a graveyard, or sleeping in a forest.
The graveyard was a little crowded with all the ghosts that called it home but he could probably find a quiet spot to sleep.
The forest had a great view of the stars but was filled with traps from both his parents and the GIW after tracking his ecto-signature.
Both options weren't appealing, but he wasn't about to chance sleeping on the roof of his house again.
There were too many ghost detecting guns attached to it now.
Danny sighed, graveyard it was, at least the ecto from all the shades/ghosts would hide him well enough.
Decision made, now all he had to do was make his way over there.
But first, where the heck was he?
Danny looked around at the unfamiliar grey sky and gargoyles littered around and realized he had no clue where he was.
He must have flown too far away from Amity without noticing...Again.
It was really becoming a bad habit.
Danny stared down at the city's inhabitants that were going home or heading to nightshifts or whatever and dreaded the long flight back to his town.
And maybe it was ghost instinct, or maybe it was just his exhaustion.
But his brain suggested 'What if I just possess someone?' And to him that seemed like a perfectly logical train of thought.
He wouldn't control their body or anything, just sleep in their skin...That did not make it sound better at all.
Before he could think twice, someone left a general store, arms filled with stuff and somehow projecting an aura of safety.
The two thoughts of 'They look comfy' and 'screw it' clashed together in his head as he made the very stupid decision of performing a swan drive right into the someone.
"WHAT THE-" "Don't worry, I'll be gone by morning I just need to sleep" Danny cut off the persons freakout-he should really get their name at some point- he would have explained more but the sleep gods had already done their job.
This left one very confused, scared, and freaked out Batkid.
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steddie fake dating au that starts because robin’s mom keeps pushing for her and steve to get together and robin gets so fed up that she yells, “it’s not gonna happen because some people are gay, mom!”
and upon seeing the utter horror and fear on her face, steve swoops in and says he’s the one who’s gay. cue mr. and mrs. buckley, local hippies, attempting to show how supportive they are, and all the while steve gets eddie to agree to fake date to get the buckleys to prove they’re safe, so that robin will feel comfortable enough to come out to her parents.
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