1. Member Since 19th Mar, 2012
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  • Tuesday
    The Horoscope Section

    —uck you mean, “when the red light’s blinking”. There are so many red lights in this shit I wouldn’t be surprised if the guy with the headphones tried to sell me a dildo.

    What. What? Ah. It’s on? We’re live? Oh. Cool. Did you add the guitar riff? I don’t think I heard any guitar riff. Harold I said I wanted one. Just give me something cool when this shit starts. Like, after the intro, or when it ends. ‘Cause I like guitar riffs, that’s why! God dammit, I hate you so much. I hate you so much. I can’t fucking—

    Oh right yes, the audience. Yes.

    Hello, Audience.

    I’m your new host.

    I’ll be stepping in from now on, as our previous seer suffered a horrible case of finding a better job. Fortunately, the Union backlisted me ages ago, so there’s no way I’m getting that myself—apparently I was too good for them. Eh? Of course.

    So let’s get going. The tarot cards are ready, the fumes are filling this room, and I just killed a rabbit to read its entrails. This is…

    …The Horoscope Section.

    Oh my God Harold was it that hard to give me a FUCKING GUITAR RIFF AFTER THE NAME DROP CHRIST ALMIGHTY WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM HAROLD I DESERVE TO BE HAPPY TOO I DESERVE TO BE


    The Horoscope Section

    Guitar riff

    Fucking Christ, man. Not so hard, wasn’t it?

    ‘Kay, let’s get to it. You scream the name of them signs, I say what the morrow will bring them. This is gonna be easy. Go!




    ARIES

    Think of the most painful thing you’ve ever experienced, and multiply it by crying children. That is your death, and it’s coming soon. Next!

    …ARIES PART TWO

    Part two? The most important bits are —

    I SAID ARIES

    Oh, come on.

    Okay, okay. So, Aries: there’ll be an international conflict, right? A really large one. Everything that you ever loved will blow up, and turns out you were blessed with a wonderful self-esteem.

    Now, Harold, if you excuse me, we have eleven more signs to go, so next!


    LEO

    In a most ironic twist, you’ll be killed by a shark. Next!

    PISCES

    In a most ironic twist, you’ll be killed by a lion.

    Gotta love that symmetry. Next!

    UM

    Um? I don’t know that sign. Not getting any readings either.

    ARE YOU, UH, ARE YOU GONNA KEEP DOING THIS

    Doing what? Telling the future?

    PROPHETISING OUR AUDIENCE’S DEMISE

    Only if they’re going to die. Harold, you know I’m the best, right? I never miss. But horoscopes are inherently stupid. This shit is based on the month you were born, for God’s sake—I’m predicting the future of one twelfth of the population at the time! Even if I never miss…

    Well, the only thing that many people can have in common is that they all die, eventually. So yeah. Sorry for being statistically accurate. Next!

    GEMINI

    Don’t be Chinese. Next.

    OKAY NOW GEMINI BUT WITHOUT THE RACISM

    Hey! I’m not being racist, I’m being accurate. The best thing you can do this week, if you’re a Gemini, is to not be Chinese. That is a fact.

    Seriously. I have absolutely nothing against the Chinese, it’s just that China will be one of the major parties in that war I mentioned earlier. So sure, the Aries will get fucked, but the Chinese Geminis?

    Hah, hah, wow. Yikes.

    I mean, all the other Geminis are fucked too, sure, but statistically there are more Chinese Geminis than nonChinese Geminis, right? So there you go.

    LIBRA

    You will fuck a goat.

    Wait, wha—

    SCORPIO

    What no fuck Scorpio, what the hell. Libra will what?

    PLEASE MOVE ON TO SCORPIO

    I mean – I just. A goat. Libra, as in, all the Libras in the world, will—okay yeah, there’s only one way to read this. You will fuck a goat. This is a choice you’ll make, and then you’ll carry that weight for the rest of your life.

    This is, like, holy shit. A goat? Are you people aware of the implications here? All the Libras will fuck, or be fucked by, a goat! A goat! This is—

    AQUARIUS

    —think of it, we’re talking about one twelfth of the population. One twelfth of the population! Jesus fuck, do you people have any idea how much that is?! This is, like – Do we even have that many goats? Somebody look that up. What’s the ratio? Fifteen people per goat?

    Fifteen people per goat! Each goat will be fucked fifteen times on average! That’s fucking insane! How does this even work? What about the little kids, the babies, the really old folks? I mean, shit, the logistics make no sense! What about the people who live far away from the goats? Will this be, like, a pilgrimage thing or…?

    And this applies to women, too! Hahah! Ladies, fuck almighty, I both admire and fear your determination. I have no idea how this will work, but damn it if you aren’t gonna—

    VIRGO

    No, fuck Virgo too, Harold—this is important. What is the motivation here?! This is a major cultural movement! One twelfth of the population!

    YOU MOVE ON FROM THE GOATS OR I’M CALLING SECURITY ON YOUR ASS

    ONE TWELFTH OF THE POPULATION! THIS WILL CHANGE THE WORLD!

    MOVE THE FUCK ON

    NO!

    SECURITY

    God dammit.

    Oh, for fu—I’m moving on! I’m moving on, see! No goats, no goats whatsoever—now get your thugs out of here!

    TAURUS

    Yes, yes, yes. Ugh.

    Okay, Taurus. War again. Caused by you, because you were too bullheaded. Hah, hah. Hah, hah.

    In all seriousness, now – you will cause the war, especially if you are the leader of China. Mind you, you will not start the war at all? But you will be too bullheaded (hah, hah) to accept a particular treaty that will apparently offend the shit out of you.

    So, war.

    Gotta love politics, really. Next!

    CAPRICORN

    Capricorn. Capricorn…

    Huh. Hey, maybe the goat thing is metaphorical, and it actually refers to—

    SECURITY

    —OTHING REFERS TO NOTHING SEE I’M READING CAPRICORN. LOOK. I’M READING.

    GOOD

    Asshole. This goes against my civil rights.

    Anyway, Capricorn, I don’t fucking know. An average number of your group will catch a cold or whatever. You’re miserable, and you will continue being miserable. Next.

    CANCER

    If you’re a Cancer, and also the President of the United States, you will declare a war on China.

    Oh. Hey! Yeah, this makes sense—you make an offer to China, right, and China refuses. Then you declare the war. Apparently, this is all because China is the country with the largest number of goats in the world, and they refuse to… share…

    OH MY FUCKING GOD I KNEW IT I FUCKING—

    SAGGITARIUS

    —SAID IT’D CHANGE THE WORLD YOU SON OF A BITCH WELL GUESS WHAT I WAS RIGHT AND WE’RE GOING FULL CIRCLE. WORLD WAR THREE PREDICTED SUCCESFULLY BECAUSE OF A BUNCH OF LITERAL FUCKING GOATS, HAROLD,  IN YOUR FACE

    SECURITY

    —GODDAMN SHITTY-ASS SOCIAL REVOLUTION CULTURAL MOVEMENT HISTORY-SHAPING MOTHER—HEY! HEY! TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF ME! NO!

    GOD D—UGH!

    NO! ARGH! I’M BEING OPPRESSED! I’M BEING OPPRESSED! HAROLD IS TOO SCARED TO TELL YOU THE TRUTH BUT THE GOATS ARE OH FUCK NOT IN THE FACE NOT IN THE—ARGH!

    AND THAT WAS

    ARGH! OH GOD PLEASE STOP!

    The Horoscope Section

    Guitar riff

    GAAAH! MOTHER TAKE ME IN YOUR ARMS IT HURTS SO MUCH! ARGH!

    THANK YOU FOR STAYING WITH US, AND TUNE IN NEXT WEEK

    AAAAAAAAARGH!

    31 comments · 318 views
  • 2w, 5d
    "Hell is Empty": Another Mistake To Avoid When Writing Romance

    I’m not good at romance.

    My dad refuses to use any other word than “the bagpipe” to refer to the human penis. When I was in Elementary School, three songs that came out of nowhere became popular among the students – and they were all about anal sex. A girl once confessed her love to me by changing her wifi password to a portmanteau of our names, then suggesting it’d be a good name for our daughter.

    And among these folks, I was always labelled “the unromantic one”. I believe the uvula counts as genitalia. I giggled at a fart during a funeral. I’ve had two pets in my entire life, and they ate all their children.  

    Hi, I’m Aragón. I’m a colossal idiot, I’ve never written anything romantic, and I’m currently fisting somebody precious to you. Here’s another blog on the subject of shitty romance.


    1. GOD IS DEAD AND YOU CUNTS KILLED HIM.


    I honestly can’t tell if they’re fucking with me on purpose at this point.

    I mean, until now I just sorta assumed all romance writers were idiots. The idea was that only a total cockmonger would write the shit I’ve read – because I’m sorry, I just refuse to believe that whoever came up with “they fall in love because both have hemorrhoids” has a functional brain. This is not something that appears naturally in the human race. This is retarded by design. This is going back in time to feed bleach to your pregnant mother and then high-giving yourself.    

    But then I see shit like the stuff I’m going to point out in this blog, and I can't help but change my mind. You can only go so far with idiocy. This is not the romance writers being stupid. This is the romance writers going out of their way to piss me off.

    What are they doing, you ask? It’s a little tricky to explain. In this blog, I’ll be talking about forced lack of communication between characters. About a discrepancy between character motivation and character action. About a lack of an internal consistency within the story to make room for the author.

    I’ll be talking about the use of artificial plot points and misunderstandings to lengthen the story as much as possible, sacrificing the entire story itself.

    I’ll be talking padding. Fucking padding. Larding, faffing, aggrandizing, filling out. Wearing high heels to the stilt convention. Stuffing your briefs with cotton when hiring a prostitute. Wearing the fleshlight as you penetrate a cavernous vagina.

    I’m talking about motherfucking filler.

    In a romantic story.

    Look: I’m an idiot. I’m the reason why doctors ask you to please not blow bubbles in the glucose dropper. I’m the intended audience for every fart joke in your favorite cartoon. But even I realize that trying to use filler in a romance is like asking a homeopath for contraceptives.

    And yet, here we are! Talking filler! Aren’t you glad you were born. I sure am.

    This is filler done wrong, by the way. Those idiots really aren’t conquering the world any time soon. I don’t even know how to feel about how they still mess up – relieved? Offended? I think I’ll go by offended, because really, this makes me rage. This is where the lines between stupidity, laziness and evil blur into a goddamn mess. This is calling your Eskimo friend a nigger.  

    But first things first: yes, filler is to modern storytelling what casual racism is to Australia. When you’re telling a story that’s episodic in nature – because, say, you’re the writer of a TV show – sometimes you need to throw some pauses in there. It’s good for the pacing of the entire show, and to make sure the audience can breathe between plot points. It can also be well-written, and help us take a peek into the characters’ everyday life. It makes them look whole, fleshed out, like actual fucking human beings. Filler, when done right, can be really immersive.

    When done right.

    But this? This is not filler done well. This is to literature what diaper fetishists are to kindergartens.  

    I have seen filler in bad romantic stories done a thousand times, and so have you. Everybody has, because that turd is omnipresent in the genre. But, precisely because of that ubiquity, it’s really fucking hard to point out the specifics. If we take the romantic genre and picture it as a room, then my blog posts are me walking in and pointing at the huge piece of shit on the carpet. But this time I can’t focus my attention on any particular log, because the writer just farted and left. And at first we think there’s no shit in the room, but then we breathe, and our lungs burn like embers. We can smell the mess, we notice the author ate tacos last night, but we never actually see it.

    But untangle your bollocks, because not all is lost. You can’t fart like that without leaving a mark in your underwear. And holy fucking shit guys, am I going to point that mark out.

    It’s too complicated to explain this in abstract, so let’s talk examples first. I'll explain three cases where this happens, and then I'll make a point to talk about what those scenes imply, and what they have in common. See if they ring any bells.

    Bad romantic filler is when the writer tries to retcon the ending of the story so it’s not actually the ending. When the two main characters finally confess, kiss, fuck, or whatever the shit the endgame is for your particular story – but then in comes the next episode, and they’re back at square one. Because they forgot that they confessed. Or they are too embarrassed to do anything else about it. Or they couldn’t hear what the other was saying.

    Reading this is like pissing with an erection. Swingers would say this is cheating. Onan would deem it a dick move.

    Why? Because this bullshit isn’t a fair move. What the writer is doing here is not telling the story – in fact, the writer is doing the exact opposite. But just one example is not enough, so let’s talk two more before getting to the point.

    Bad romantic filler is when the characters flirt with the finesse of a redneck fucking his shotgun, but they’re still not together. Because that’s exactly the level of social awareness romance writers possess, I assume. The two characters have telegraphed the other what they feel a thousand times, and it’s absurd how they’re still not an item, and everybody knows this. And then, one day, they finally man the fuck up, and decide to confess, and as the words come out of their mouths—

    The phone rings. A building explodes. A dog barks, somebody opens the door, the guy’s anus prolapses – doesn’t fucking matter. Something interrupts them. They get flustered. And then they stop the confession.

    And they act as if nothing had happened.

    So they’re still not together.

    Because Hell is empty.

    And of course, this doesn’t happen once – it happens many, many times. But we’re not done yet.

    Bad romantic filler is when the characters are together and they still doubt if the other loves them. Sure, they have kissed and cuddled and they can still feel each other’s smegma around their lips, but that means squat. Some people kiss their dogs, and you don't assume they love them until they get the peanut butter.

    So in short, the characters assume that physical intimacy does not equal emotional closeness. They don't know if their love interest would jam up their emotional crotch for them, we could say. Okay. Cool. Whatever. I’m Spanish, I think I'm rude if I'm not making out with your wife two seconds after learning her name – I understand that a kiss doesn’t really mean anything.

    But Papa says just ‘cause ye shot yer dick off ain’t mean shotgun’s gonna fuck itself, so of course, right after we establish that in this story we’re aiming for that tone, the protagonist sees her love interest kiss somebody else on the cheek, and then I don’t even bother with the rest of the story. I just hiss the word “retarded”, close the tab, and my soul abandons my mortal body.

    Because if the main characters are the ones kissing each other nobody gives a shit... But the very moment somebody else enters the picture, that philosophy becomes more useless than a woman in Utah. Mr-Love-Interest looked at another girl, so he’s obviously heads over heels. The rules change if it means that we're introducing a love triangle: the gestures that didn't matter before are important now. You kiss it, you love it. Go buy an engagement ring for my asshole.

    Then, of course, cue the thousand episodes of pointless drama and misunderstandings, and "I thought you loved me"s and "I only love you"s. And in the end nobody learns anything. If they get together again? Expect more questions about what does a kiss really mean.

    I gave you three examples of bad filler, but the list goes on, and on, and fucking on. It never ends. Said three examples – “forgot the confession”, “constant interruptions”, and “suck my dick” – are prominent, but they surely aren't the only ones. Padding. Faffing. Bullshit.

    And there’s a thematic connection, of course. There’s a reason why this idiocy feels so tacked on, even though at first sight it shouldn’t – it’s drama, yes, but it’s unnecessary drama. It’s drama that fucks with the plot, with the characters, with absolutely everything that the story stands for.

    Remember how I mentioned episodic storytelling earlier? Yes, that was for a goddamn reason. Episodic stories are told in chunks, with pauses between the chapters, with time skips between the episodes. So they can have filler, because it’s possible to end an episode and then tell a completely different story in the next one. A story that has nothing to do with the main plot. You’re fighting aliens? Good. Here, enjoy twenty minutes of farting around at the beach.

    But see, linear storytelling can’t have that. Because that’s what "linear" fucking means. So if you want to pad out the story, you can’t make it unrelated – there are no side stories, no “off” chapters. Everything has to do with the main plot, the central conflict, the drama.

    However, the shitty romance writers want filler, because they can’t let the story end. So they write it anyway, and they integrate it into the story.

    It’s a retarded solution to a retarded problem. It’s resorting to incest because you don’t know want to memorize an extra birthday. By changing the story to add elements that have nothing to do the previous shit you've established, you’re breaking the characters’ minds.

    In “forgot the confession” and “constant interruption,” the first two examples, there’s no reason why the characters shouldn’t be together already. Their motivation is to be with each other, or at least that’s what the stupid author keeps telling us – but it’s really not. With those scenes, a discrepancy is created, and now the audience realizes that the characters' real motivation is to be in love but never move on from there. The story wants the unresolved sexual tension, the cheap thrills of teenager drama. The moment they get to the point where the next step is unavoidable, something happens and we go back to square one.

    What happens here is that it’s easier to write people in love than to write people that are together. Thinking about a plot is harder when you can’t just trust your colon and go for the clichés. So the result is that the characters become huge hypocrites. They say they love each other, but they don't. They don’t want a relationship, and they’ll use any excuse to dodge that particular bullet.

    The third example – “suck my cock” – is slightly different, but it follows the same idea: the characters, while together, have a particular brand of drama going on. But when that is about to get resolved, the author introduces a completely different plot thread so the story can drag on a little more. Like the junkie that mixes aspirin with the cocaine so he can snort more often because he just doesn’t give a shit anymore.

    There are some rules, some motivations that the story establishes and follows all the way up to the climax. But if they get to the climax, the story ends. So, the moment the story catches its final breath, everything goes through he fucking window, and we’re forced to canter on. Everything looks the same, and we keep hearing that this is going to end in romance, but we can see through that lie now.

    It’s all really meta, and that makes it even worse. It's the author thinking "no, fuck this, I do what I want," and consciously making a bad choice. Consicously lessening the story's quality and breaking suspension of disbelief because it's simpler this way. At least the “tsundere”, horrible as she is, has some consistency. But this is literally a disrespect to the already-shitty-story we’re reading. This is everything and everybody going out of character at the same time. This is CPR-ing a rotten corpse. This is masturbating in Planned Parenthood.

    Because, again, the author believes that writing people together is harder than writing people who aren’t. So it all stops. Cheap drama appears, asinine plots are repeated time and time again, and whatever excuse to make the story last longer is used. This is a choice taken for reasons unrelated to the story. The characters refuse to advance on their own will, the story’s universe seems to conspire against evolution, and the narration kicks our dicks and says it’s a blowjob.

    This is telling a story for the sake of telling a story. It’s degrading the entire thing time and time again to make it last forever, to always have that last plot threat hanging, to make sure your readers don't (or can't) escape. And everything that could have been good about the story slowly fades away.

    With the TMC and the “tsundere” the authors were going for the lazy, stupid route; they’re fucking puppets and I can see the cunt that moves them. But this? This filler? This is the writer cutting the strings, and then assuring us the puppets are still dancing.

    This is cancer for all things literary. All things story-related. This is a son of a bitch making fun of absolutely everything, included the story itself, and believing that storytelling doesn’t deserve at least a little bit of respect. This is treating a story like something artificial and worthless, that you can play with, that you can destroy or reassemble at your own pace. This is insulting everybody who ever gave a shit about your characters.

    This is probably the worst sin that a romantic story can commit. This is one of those things that make me hate a story, no matter how good everything else is. This is bullshit.

    Let me be absolutely fucking clear, Author. You’re not being clever. You’re not staying true to yourself. You’re not “playfully teasing” the readers. If you write yourself into a corner, then continue writing and see where that gets you. If the plot has ran its course, let it end. If the characters demand you to finish the tale, finish it. Because right now, you’re not telling me a story.

    You’re wasting my fucking time.


    To be continued







    This one felt too short, or too weak for you? Worry not. Consider this a breather episode, because the next installment of the series is going to tackle something that makes the “tsundere” and the TMC look like Hamlet.

    Next time: The Harem Protagonist, or “Wish Fulfillment”.

    17 comments · 501 views
  • 3w, 4d
    First Round -- Or, Three Thousand and Six Hundred Words of Lyra and Pinkie Bringing the Thunder

    “So I’m standing there, right? Everypony is smiling and looking at me, and I have my lucky bowtie with me. Everything was going exactly as planned, down to the last detail.” Pinkie Pie took a bite out of the cupcake in her hoof and swallowed without chewing. “So I get the microphone, yes? And I take a deep breath? And nothing comes out!”

    Lyra gasped and covered her mouth with a hoof.

    “I know, right?!” Pinkie Pie slammed the table with both hooves, eyes open wide. “I was completely blank! I’d never gone completely blank before! I had no idea what to say!”

    “Oh my goodness.” Lyra took a cupcake from the plate in front of her and nibbled it politely. “That is so terrible.”

    “It was, it was!”

    Lyra nodded, then left the cupcake back on the plate. She tched her tongue against the back of her throat. “So you couldn’t come up with a single joke?”

    “Not at all!”

    “What a tragedy.”

    “Right? Right? I wasn’t even nervous!” Pinkie sighed and shook her head. “But I wasn’t talking, and the audience was looking at me funny, and I thought ‘Pinkie, you need to do something!’” She took a second cupcake. “So I just went and shoved all my cakes down their throats.”

    Lyra gave her the most honest nod a mare could handle. “Of course.”

    “It was the logical thing to do.”

    “Certainly, you had no alternatives.”

    “Exactly what I said later! When in doubt, use a cake, right?” Pinkie giggled and ate the entire cupcake in one go. “Mmmm, these are so good! Anyway, so that’s why I’m not allowed at the Diabetics Wing of the Canterlot Children Hospital anymore.”

    A waving hoof. Lyra tucked one curl away from her eyes and crossed her legs. “They really don’t know fine comedy when they see it,” she said. “I, for once, believe that you did the right thing, Miss Pie.”

    “Aw, shucks.” Pinkie giggled and winked at her. “You’re gonna make me blush!”

    Lyra replied with nothing but a warm, little smile.

    The clouds had finally gone away from the sky, and warm sunlight came through the windows of Sugarcube Corner. One of them was open, and they could hear birds chirping outside through it. They were surrounded by cooking tools of all kinds and shapes, and the air smelled like sugar.

    Lyra let out a relaxed sigh and rested her back on the chair, her horn flashing faintly. As her cup of tea floated towards her face, she looked around once more. Sugarcube Corner was covered in the pleasant silence of an empty house.

    She puckered her lips to take a sip of tea, only to find the teacup empty, so she put it away with the slightest sound of discomfort. “I have to say,” she said, looking back at Pinkie, “I am certainly enjoying this little chat of ours. It’s, ah, rather refreshing, is it not?”

    “Why, thank you!” Pinkie clapped twice, smiling so hard her eyes closed. “We’re having so much fun, aren’t we? More tea?”

    “Oh, if it’s not a bother, please.”

    Pinkie assured her it wasn’t, and got the teapot. Lyra witnessed her maneuver the vessel with her mouth, wondering if it would be polite to offer her magical help, deciding against it. “Thank you dearly, Miss Pie.”

    “You are welcome!”

    Silence.

    Lyra tapped the table twice, took a sip of tea, fidgeted around. Pinkie just stared at her, the smile never leaving her face.

    Two minutes passed.

    Lyra pressed his hoof against her lips and coughed twice. “Um, Miss Pie? I’m… not sure if I’ll be able to put this into words, but—”

    “You have no idea how or why you’re here and you’re freaking out?”

    Silence.

    “Huh.” Lyra arched an eyebrow and took a sip of tea. “Well. That was easy to explain.”

    “I’m good at this kind of thing!” Pinkie giggled. “Can you remember anything besides your name and mine?”

    “Not really, no.”

    “Childhood? Name of your parents? Goal in life?”

    “I’m afraid it’s no again.”

    Pinkie nodded, eyebrows high. “Sure, sure. That’s perfectly normal. Sense of existential dread creeping into you yet?”

    Lyra frowned and tapped her chin. “Well. I am starting to doubt if by losing my memories I have died already. Is this new ‘me’ is a completely different pony? And if that is true, then what is a pony?” She blinked. “I also have the strangest craving for blueberry muffins.”

    “Oh! Oh!” Pinkie bounced up and down her chair before getting up with a jump. “I can deal with that! I baked some just half an hour ago!”

    Lyra’s ears perked up as she straightened her back. “Oh, thank you so much.”

    “You’re welcome!” Pinkie opened a closet and buried her head inside. “So!” she said while in there, her voice muffled. “You’re freaking out.”

    “I suppose so, yes.”

    “Hah!” Pinkie took her head out of the closet, carrying a tray with muffins in her mouth. Once again Lyra wondered if she should help, but by the time she made a choice the tray was already on the table. “You’ve got a pretty good self-control, then! I can barely tell!”

    “Well.” Lyra took a muffin, bit it, chewed politely, and swallowed. “I suspect it’s just that I was really fancying a blueberry muffin. Thank you so very much, Miss Pie, these are delicious.”

    “Hahah! You’re welcome!”

    Another small pause, as Lyra kept on chewing.

    “Ssssssso.” Pinkie scratched the back of her neck. “You, uh, you want me to tell you what exactly happened, or…?”

    “Oh, of course, of course!” Lyra’s head snapped back up as she put the muffin away. “My. How rude of me. I forgot for a second.”

    “You forgot your metaphysical crisis?”

    “This is a really good muffin, Miss Pie.”

    “Huh.” Pinkie looked at Lyra, then at the muffin. She frowned a little.

    Then she shrugged. “Makes sense to me! Anyway, so it all started twenty minutes ago or so, when you came in Sugarcube Corner yelling murder.”

    “Yelling?” Lyra took a sip of tea. “My. I hope I didn’t come off as rude, Miss Pie.”

    Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeell…




    “RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!”

    “Welcome to Sugarcube Corner! What can I offer to y—”

    PUNCHYOUINTHEFACE!

    “Punch me in the wh—GNERGH!

    TONK.



    “Not gonna lie? You could have been a little nicer.”

    “Oh. II punched you?” Lyra blinked twice, so astounded she forgot to accompany her muffin bite with a sip of tea. “Goodness me, that’s preposterous. I surely didn’t hurt you, did I?”

    “Hahah.” Pinkie smiled at her from the other side of the table. “Not at all!”



    “Hahah.” Pinkie smiled at Lyra from the ground. “I’m in agony!”




    Silence.

    “Heheh, wow, I am bad at lying. Anyway, so that’s how it all started, right? But then it all got silly.”

    “Such an unpredictable development, I must say.”




    “Say, that really hurts, but it was a good joke!” Pinkie said, getting up. Her smile, sweet as sugar, was still there. “Especially the warning. That was really funny.”

    “Hah.” Lyra grinned and raised a hoof. All her teeth were pointy. “There’s more from where it came fr—”

    “Almost elegant!” Pinkie continued. “I like how you said it so fast I couldn’t understand it. Really inspired! Punchyouintheface!”

    Lyra blinked, the grin faltering a little. “Uh. Thanks?” She lowered her hoof. “You know, that’s actually nice to hear! Not many ponies take the time to acknowledge a good joke when I try to beat them up. I mean, I get why that happens, sure, but it’s still a hard job, and some recognition is—GNERGH!

    TONK!

    “Hah!” Pinkie’s smile turned into a grin—a minor but surprisingly important difference. “And the student,” she said, winking, “becomes the master.”

    There was a small pause.

    Lyra sighed. “Today is going to be one of those days, isn’t it.”

    “That’s what my mother always says!” Pinkie chirped, and then she bounced away just in time to avoid Lyra grabbing her by the neck, and ran towards the kitchen laughing.




    “Hmmm.” Lyra swallowed the last bit of her muffin and got another one—not before taking a proper sip this time, however. “I’m wondering if laughter is the right reaction when confronted with such hostility, Miss Pie.”

    “Hey, if you’re going to do it anyway, at least have fun while you’re at it, right?” Pinkie giggled. “Plus, you probably meant well. I was sure we would have the best of times!”

    “Oh. And we did?”

    “You stormed inside the kitchen and threw a chair at the back of my neck.”

    Lyra paused with the muffin mere inches from her mouth. She shot Pinkie the most dazzled of looks. “…A chair.”

    “A chair!”

    “And… And you thought that was fun?”

    Pinkie lost her smile immediately. “A chair to my neck? Fun?” She rubbed the space between her eyes. “Seriously? Lyra, I’m cheery, but I’m not crazy.”

    Lyra blinked. “Oh.”

    “Yeah. That was pretty offensive.”

    “My most deepest apologies, Miss Pie; I didn’t want to imply that—”

    “It was cool, not fun.” Pinkie patted Lyra’s hoof. “You silly Lyra. Chairs are never fun!”

    Somehow, Lyra managed to keep her expression completely neutral. “Of course.”

    “So yeah, chair to the neck. Really cool! I thought I was going to die!”




    And Pinkie fell to the ground like a statue being toppled over.

    Both mares were in the kitchen now, and Lyra took a moment to properly appreciate the structure of room. The clouds had finally gone away from the sky, and warm sunlight came through the windows. One of them was open, and they could hear birds chirping outside through it. They were surrounded by cooking tools of all kinds and shapes, and the air smelled like sugar—




    “Miss Pie,” Lyra said, leaning a little bit on the table, “We’ve been in this kitchen for over twenty minutes—there’s no need to describe it further.”

    “Oh, right. Well then!” Pinkie pointed at the wall right behind her. “See that empty aisle?”

    “Yes.”

    “It was full of pots and pans! And there were four cakes on top of that one, right? And a gigantic blueberry muffin right next to the sink…”

    Lyra turned her head towards the sink so fast she made a whiplash sound, eyes sparkling.

    “…that we can’t eat now.”

    The sparkling turned into dull indifference. “Gorblimey.

    “Also, that pile of splinters and nails in the corner?”

    “Yes?”

    “That was still a closet.”

    “Fancy that.”

    “And we weren’t sitting in here and there was no tea.” Pinkie crossed her front legs and gave Lyra a nod. “I think that’s all! So. Where were we?”

    “I threw a chair at your neck.”

    “Oh, right, yes, that.”




    TONK!

    “OGYA!”

    “AH-HAH!” Lyra’s grin was ferocious. “RIGHT IN THE NECK!”

    “Awawawawawaw!” Pinkie sat on the floor and rubbed the back of her neck, frowning at Lyra. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaw! That really hurt! You know, I think I might probably die, so—wait, why are you swinging your leg like tha—”

    TONK!

    Pinkie went flying.

    “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

    And hit the closet so hard she crashed through the closed doors.

    CRASH!

    “OH CELESTIA I’M IN AGONY!”

    Then the closet toppled down, trapping her inside.

    BAM!

    And then, silence.

    Lyra blew on her hoof to cool it down. It had been like punching a balloon full of sugar, but she had given it her all—maybe it was already over?

    “Hey!” she said, taking a step towards the toppled closet. “You still conscious?”

    No answer.

    Carefully, Lyra approached the closet and poked it. Well, that closet did look pretty heavy, so maybe—

    CRASH!

    She had to jump away when the closet all but exploded right in front of her, splinters and nails flying everywhere, and from it came a pink blur with a—

    KLONG!

    Lyra toppled over her back, her legs perfectly still.

    “Ah-hah!” Pinkie jumped out of what little remained of the closet. “I knew storing the shovel in the kitchen was going to pay off someday! And they called me cra—woah hey, I didn’t know pony faces could go flat like that!”

    Lyra didn’t answer.

    “I’m a little concerned about your horn, though. I mean, that can’t be healthy.”

    ”I’m going to kill you.”

    “You’re going to try!”

    And she sure did!

    Both ponies had a small déjà vu as Lyra got up to choke Pinkie and Pinkie bounced away. It was a nice moment of symmetry, except for the fact that Lyra’s face was still perfectly flat. “Hahah!” Pinkie blew a raspberry at Lyra. “You can’t catch me!”

    “I DON’T NEED TO!”

    “You don’t wha—OH CELESTIA CHAIR FLYING AT MY FACE!”

    BLAM!

    Pinkie stood there, eyes closed, shoulders up. It took her a moment to realize she wasn’t feeling anything. “What?” She looked.

    Bits of chair all around her, but Pinkie was spotless. She was still holding the shovel. She had swung it without thinking.

    She blinked. “Hey, that’s pretty neat! Lyra, did you see th—CHAIR!”

    BLAM!

    “Wow.” Pinkie, still intact, smiled at Lyra. “This time I looked!”

    “RAAAAAAAARGH!”

    Another chair.

    BLAM!

    The remains of the closet.

    BLAM!

    All the pans and pots on the shelves.

    BLAMBLAMBLAMBLAMBLAM!

    Pinkie batted them all away.

    “Hah-hah!” Her grin was almost too big for her face as she twirled the shovel in her hooves. “Oh my gosh, can you believe ponies use this for digging?” She snorted. “Seriously, folks these days don’t know what—”

    Splorch.

    Silence.

    Pinkie Pie’s face was completely covered in sugar, strawberries, and whipped cream.

    Frrrrrrrrrlchof.

    The whole thing slid down her face and fell to the floor.

    Both mares looked at it.

    Pinkie didn’t bother getting the stuff off her face. “Did… Did you just throw a cake to my face?”

    “Uh.” Lyra looked at her hoof, then at the cake on the floor again. “Uuuuuuuh yes.”

    “…Why would you throw a cake to my face.”

    “I… honestly have no idea?” Lyra scratched her temple. Her face was back to normal. “I just… I don’t know, nothing else seemed to work, and I guess it looked kind of logical? Like, as a last resort? You know, when in doubt—”

    “You wasted the cake!”

    “Yes, yes, sorry. Kinda ruined the mood, too. Gosh. Let me just…” Lyra  took the shovel from Pinkie’s hands and used it to get the rest of the cake from the floor and to the trashcan. “Awfully sorry, really.”

    “You need to pay for it now!”

    “Sure, sure. This is—ugh, I feel so embarrassed.” Lyra gave her a warm smile. “You’ll have to pay first, though.”

    Pinkie blinked. “Me?”

    “Yes.”

    “Pay?”

    “Yes.”

    “Why?”

    Lyra threw the shovel over away, and through the open window.

    Silence.

    Pinkie blinked again. “Ooooooooooooooh! I’m so screwed.”

    “You so are.”




    “And that’s when you grabbed me by the mane and smashed my head against the sink!” Pinkie said as Lyra took her third muffin.




    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”




    “And then you did it again!”




    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”




    “And then some more.”




    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”




    Lyra smiled. “Miss Pie, I think I understand what you—”

    “No, no, no, this is important!”




    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”




    “Seriously, Miss Pie, I don’t think this is—”

    “We’re almost done, we’re almost done!”




    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”

    CLANK!

    “Ouch!”




    Lyra stared at Pinkie. “Done?”

    “One more!”




    CLANK!

    “Ouchie!”




    “There, we’re done,” Pinkie said, and took a sip of tea. “Then you just looked at me with this funny face and said—”




    “HOW THE HELL ARE YOU STILL ALIV—oh, hey.” Lyra looked to her left, where the most majestic, gigantic blueberry muffin she’d ever seen laid on top of a silver plate. “Blueberry. I have the strangest of cravings right now.”

    “Hahah. I think I’m going to die.” Pinkie put a hoof on the faucet. “Hey, Lyra! Do you know how the water pressure in Sugarcube Corner is?”

    Lyra blinked. “What?”

    “Really high!” Pinkie said.

    “What?”

    Pinkie kicked the faucet off the wall.

    PSSSSSHHHFFFFFFF!

    “AAAAAAAAAAARGH!”

    The sudden stream of water took Lyra away from Pinkie and slammed her against the wall.

    BLAM!

    “OH CELESTIA THAT HURT!”

    Then the shelves on the wall fell on top of her.

    CRASH!

    Then, silence.

    Pinkie rubbed her forehead and cut the water before looking at the pile of broken furniture that had been Lyra moments ago. “Ouchie,” she repeated. “Lyra? Are you conscious?”

    “RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!” Lyra punched the shelves away from her and got up, completely covered in splinters, her teeth pointier, her pupils almost invisible. “I AM GOING TO KILL YOU SO HARD YOU WILL—”

    “Wanna call it a truce?” She took the giant blueberry muffin and balanced it on her right hoof. “Here! Peace offering!”

    Silence again.

    Lyra squinted. “Can I have the whole thing?”

    “Sure! You still gotta pay for the cake you threw at my face, though. Open wide!”

    Before she knew what was going on, Lyra had the entire muffin inside her mouth. She almost broke her jaw chewing it, but it was completely worth it. “Mmmmmmmmmf!”

    Pinkie smiled at her. “Is it good? I made it myself!”

    “Mfff dlffff-ffff!” Lyra swallowed. “Oh my gosh. It was delicious!” She gave Pinkie the most genuinely warm smile she had ever mustered. “Pinkie Pie, that was the best thing I’ve ever—wait a second.” She frowned. “Is that a shovel behind your b—”

    KLONG!

    Lyra toppled over, her legs perfectly still.

    Pinkie looked at her perfectly flat face. She pondered for a second or two.

    Then she raised the shovel again.

    KLONG!

    KLONG!

    KLONGKLONGKLONGKLONGKLONGKLONGKLONGKLONGKLONGKL—




    “Aaaand that’s why you can’t remember anything,” Pinkie finished as Lyra swallowed the last bit of the last muffin. “I knew having a second shovel under the sink was worth the trouble. I just knew it.

    “My. What an interesting tale, Miss Pie.” Lyra rubbed her forehead. “I certainly wouldn’t have expected such an explanation for this situation, I must say.”

    “Well, what is life without surprises?” Pinkie giggled.

    “So what are we going to do now, if I may be so bold?” Lyra asked. “For what I understood, I might as well be a criminal, Miss Pie—I attacked you without reason, right?”

    “I think so! But that’s all old news, right? You’re nice now! That’s what matters!” Pinkie took her loyal shovel from under the table, even though—Lyra was fairly sure of that—it hadn’t been there a second ago. “And it’s all thanks to this beauty!”

    “I can’t but thank you from the very bottom of my heart, Miss Pie,” Lyra said, nodding and looking at the shovel with reverence. “While I can’t understand all the details, I do believe I had darkness inside of me when I tried to attack you, and you helped me defeat my demons.” She bowed her head. “I owe you more than I can return.”

    “Aaaaaaaw. There’s no reason to do that!” Pinkie said, twirling the shovel. “I just did what I always do in this kind of situation!”

    “You got your head smashed against a sink, Miss Pie.”

    “Not that different from a normal Saturday!” Pinkie arched an eyebrow. “Plus, seriously, I got to prove the whole shovel business was a good idea. That was awesome!”

    “Your foresight certainly saved the day, yes,” Lyra said, then nodded at the shovel. “May I…?”

    “Of course!” Pinkie handed it to Lyra, who took it with her magic. “You don’t even need to be careful. Those things are tough!”

    “Hmmm-hm.” Lyra inspected the shovel and swung it up and down a little, testing its weight, its length. “I see. Miss Pie?”

    “Yes?”

    “Amnesia really doesn’t work that way.”

    Silence.

    Pinkie blinked. “It doesn’t?”

    “No.”

    “Really?”

    “I just wanted to try more of your blueberry muffins,” Lyra explained, still looking at the shovel. “The big one was amazing. Seriously. Top notch.”

    “Oh.” Pinkie Pie looked down and frowned a little. “Then you aren’t really…?”

    “No.”

    “Huh.”

    More silence.

    “Hah!” Pinkie gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Hahah. I’m so screwed.”

    “You so are.”

    KLONG!

    AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

    Lyra watched Pinkie fly away through the open window, and into the sky, until she was just a dot lost in the distance.

    Ting!

    She grinned at the twinkle of light.

    “Boy. She’s totally coming back to get me while I sleep.”

    19 comments · 313 views
  • 5w, 5d
    ...Well, This is Awkward

    I am, for all intends and purposes, a walnut.

    Like a walnut, I'm objectively delicious, and everybody wants a piece of me. I'm also full of nutrients, and I'm sorta shaped like a brain. The metaphor works in many levels. [1]

    Not all of them, however, are pleasant. Like a walnut, I'm completely and absolutely dry. Nothing left inside. Nuh-uh. All the writing liquid that usually fills me up and makes me go into keyboard-smashing frenzies is gone. Can't write at all. No stories, no blog spots, nada. I'm as productive as a ficus in the void of space right now

    For a while I thought this was just me being a little burned up -- I don't know if you noticed, but I released three stories in four weeks not that long ago. I also wrote a fourth one that's yet unreleased for reasons that will be explained next in the blog, but yeah -- I wrote a lot, is what I mean. In very little time. I also wrote blog posts, planned stuff, and overall was super productive.

    Then I finished.

    And now we're here!

    I guess that, if I really am burned up, then I'm slightly more burned up than I thought, and I'm just taking a small break so I can get the creative juices back. Otherwise, I might be going through a weird case of writer's block, because I can plan stuff and I actually manage to get pumped to write, but then the words just don't come out.

    Well, no. Scratch that. Words do come out, but I can't write jokes. I just can't think of any lately. I think I stopped being funny for a while or something. I can plan jokes, but the feeling is not there. It'll come back, I'm sure of it, but it'll take time. And I honestly don't know how much time.

    This also involves the blogs, by the way. You might have noticed it's been quite a while since I posted one of my "Guide To Romance" blogs, because while I know what I want to say, the jokes just ain't there. And I wanna write jokes. So yeah, it's quite the conundrum, because what's a clown without laughing? I mean, aside from a mass murderer?

    Yikes.

    So I guess I'm taking another break, guys. I mean, I was doing that already, but now it's official so I don't kick myself in the head every day when I don't write a couple words. I'll still think about stuff to write, and I'll try to do it -- but I won't force myself to publish stuff.

    Official hiatus-ish, I guess is what this means. Got a couple story concepts that I might develop while I see myself as unable to write. A sequel to Long Story Short, Things Went Down, for example. And a sequel to Would Bang, or NO NO NO WE HATE HIM etc. Lotsa sequels. Creative juices really are low, huh? What about "Celestia turns into a clam"? Never got around to write that one, it's tricky. Or "Vinyl and Octavia gotta hug for eight hours OR THE BUILDING EXPLODES".

    I even know what the next two Romance Blogs will be about, to be honest. In no particular order: Harem Protagonist, Padding Out Your F*cking Story (Communication Edition), and I know there was a third one but I can't find my notes. Oh well. Wait for those and vote for your favorites in the comments or whatever, I don't know.

    So yeah, the thing is -- I'm not leaving or anything, I'm just sorta tired and I guess I need a break. Been busy with college and stuff, so maybe that's the reason?

    Anyway, so there's a story that's actually finished and just needs a couple edits (and a major rewrite, so I guess it's not finished-finished if you're picky) but that I'm not planning on posting unless there's a lot of questions about it, at least for now. Not because it's bad? But because it's not a comedy. It's a slice-of-life/drama. Ish.

    And dude, I just wrote one of those. I'm mainly a comedy writer, you guys are here because you want my comedy, and I like writing comedy. If I like a dramatic story I'll write it -- have no doubts about that -- but I don't want to give the impression that I'm going serious all of a sudden. Two dramas in a row might be a little too much, even if they're short. The comments are nice, I guess, but there's so much of that stuff I can take. I don't like to take myself seriously, and whenever I write a drama it looks like I'm creating ART.

    I mean, I guess I am, if you like my dramas. I go for the weird route. But still, gives me a funny feeling, because wow look at the spaniard idiot, thinking he's better than us with his oscar-bait stories. Gaaagh.

    So yeah. Editing is fine, I can edit -- so I can wrap up that story. But meeeeeeeeeeeh. I don't know. I might post it anyway if I see that absolutely no other content is coming your way, but yeah. Better if that wasn't the case.

    Anyway, tomorrow I'll go and blog about my last two stories, if anything so I can write something and get my mojo back. Wish me luck, check tomorrow's blog (or the day after tomorrow's blog, I'm not crazy about schedules) and tell me I'm pretty. That should get the old horse runnin' again, if I say so.

    Toodle-o, fellas.


    [1] Hey, remember all those times when your mother does something weird and then jokingly says she's "f*cking nuts"? Well, guess what she actually meant!

    13 comments · 335 views
  • 7w, 2d
    So Did I Put My Money Where My Mouth Is?

    4 comments · 260 views
  • 10w, 5d
    Ten Outta Ten

    19 comments · 727 views
  • 11w, 4d
    "It Feels Rapier than ever" -- Another Horrible Mistake To Avoid When Writing Romance

    I’m not good at romance.

    A guy once tried to choke me and then begged for sex, and that’s just the third most horrible confession I’ve gone through. A girl in my high school refused to go out with a guy unless he stabbed his own arm with three needles to show his love. One of my teachers had to go to the hospital on New Year’s because she got a champagne bottle stuck to her vagina.

    And among these folks, I was always labelled as “the unromantic one”. I’m such a fucking asshole gay men have to run for the bathroom whenever I walk by. I wear shorts without underwear and sit with my legs spread open because I like the suspense. The first time I touched a titty, I squeezed it and made a honk-honk noise.

    I explain all this so you know that this blog is not coming from an expert on love and what that word means. I am probably the worst person you could ask for romantic advice. I can neuter cats just by looking at them. I’m allergic to Viagra because Nature wants me to die childless, just like my father.

    And yet, after two weeks of reading romantic fanfiction on my phone, I came to realize some folks have it worse than I. And those folks like to write romance.

    Hi, I’m Aragón. I have never written a good romantic story, I’ve never said anything intelligent in my life, and I have more testicles than neurons. Here’s another common mistake to avoid when writing romance.


    1. “I’M GOING TO FUCKING MURDER YOU,” SHE LOVINGLY CARVED ON THE SIDE OF HIS COCK.

    Whenever you’re feeling blue, whenever you think life is pulling you down, remember that, once upon a time, a bunch of imbeciles wanted to fuck a cartoon lady so hard that they normalized the fetishization of psychopathy. No matter how low you fucking are, somewhere, somehow, someone’s sunk far lower.

    That’s fucking right, people, I’m talking about the “Tsundere” character. Of all the goddamn story-breaking clichés that plague the romance genre, this one probably the worst. At least the TMC (Twilight Male Character, discussed in the previous blog here) has the decency of recognizing it’s pornographic. But this?

    This is the surprise turd to the TMC’s silent fart. TMC writers will fuck their dogs because human genitals rot in their presence, but only “Tsundere” writers will call the poodle a whore afterwards.

    I have seen many things as a romance reader. I once read a story in which a guy romanced his tapeworm. I’ve seen stories where the twist is that both protagonists like shitting in diapers. And I’ve endured every single fucking thing with a stern face and a shit ton of vodka.

    But show me the “Tsundere” tag, or mention that fucking word anywhere in the summary, and I’ll close the tab, reach for my car keys, and fuck your little sister in front of your dad. The TMC made me actively angry. The “Tsundere” doesn’t. I don’t feel mad when reading this shit. It just disgusts me.

    Now, before it all starts—do I think that “Tsunderes” can’t be well-written? No. I have seen good examples of this archetype. I personally know people who have written amazing characters who also happen to be “Tsunderes”. Later, I’ll show you some of them. Likewise, I'm not confusing this term with the "Yandere" (which is like this, but presented as mentally unstable in-universe). That is a completely different topic, to be discussed in a completely different blog.

    So no, I don’t think this child-fiddling concept is the root of all evil. I just think that, if you want your story to give me AIDS, writing a “Tsundere” is definitely a great start.

    So what is a “Tsundere”? Usually, I don’t bother to explain it. Half of you already know what the term stands for, and the other half will probably get testicular cancer the moment you discover it.

    But long story short, it’s a character—usually a girl—defined by a somewhat “dual” personality: she’s shy, romantic, and a huge softy, but at the same time she wants to act like a tough non-nonsense girl. This makes her easily flustered, but then she realizes she’s not acting as the boobalicious version of Predator and reacts furiously—and sometimes violently.

    Man, that is pretty fucking specific, isn’t it? A sane person would think that’s less an archetype and more an actual, developed character. Archetypes tend to be vague. Shit like “Jesus, but not really Jesus” or “like the main character, but with a bigger cock”. You know why?

    Because otherwise you end up with a fucking turd. That’s why. Archetypes need to be vague, so the writer can fill the gaps and make it feel like something distinct.

    What does this mean? That the first fucking thing you need to know about the “Tsundere” character is that they’re all the same motherfucking girl. They all talk the same, react the same, think the same, and have tits the size of an elephant’s ballsack. Seen one, seen ’em all. Just by glancing at the fucking cover of the book, if it has a “Tsundere” character, I can tell how, why, and when it’ll end.

    This is the literary equivalent of the Final Solution. Stories don’t need to be realistic, but there’s so much one can do without alienating the reader, and the “Tsunderes” sure like to fuck up everything they touch.

    You know, when I was in high school, a cunt of a guy decided to grope the openly lesbian girl in his class, because he couldn’t get the dicks out of his mouth long enough to think about his actions. The girl, a fucking bull of a person who once wrestled a horse to submission for the simple hell of it, reacted by kicking his dick.

    She kicked his dick so hard the turdnugget had to rush to the hospital, because she was wearing high heels and those things are pointy. His left testicle was extirpated. I watched that fucking thing live and I swear to God I still cringe whenever I think about it.

    So what did Mr. Unicojorn do after coming back to class? He never approached Horsegirl ever again. He also sold his bike, because he couldn’t ride it—he was too unbalanced.

    And, you see, from a normal, sane, nonretarded perspective, he made the right choice. If a girl high-heels my left testicle away, I’ll take the hint and assume she doesn’t want to rest my balls in her mouth. But the people who write “Tsunderes”? Fuck me, mate, they’ll tell you that girl is dying to shake what your mama gave you. She wants to massage your prostate with her tonsils. She’s just being a huge bitch about it.

    Just by sheer fucking repetition, the “Tsundere” archetype is already more trite than Ariel’s fishy father. I’m going to tackle this issue first, even though it’s the least of this character’s problems: it’s been done. No matter what the fuck do you do with this, unless you make the character an actual character, it’s been done before.

    The “Tsundere” is often explained by the quotes “I-It’s not like I’m doing this for you, you idiot!” or “I-I don’t really like you!” Note the stuttering, to make her feel cute. Note the obviously idiotic denial, so you can see she’s trying to act like she doesn’t care. Note how both sentences imply that she has the agency of fucking Dora the Explorer.

    But there’s more to those sentences. They’re written that way because that’s the core of the “Tsundere” character. That, and the term “floaty cunt”. It’s as if you copypasted the entire bloody thing from one story to the other. This is not writing, this is mass-producing dildos and then selling them like Hello Kitty personal massagers.

    They appear. They are major assholes. They act like fucking monsters towards the masturbatory main male character. They fall in love with said masturbatory main male character. They continue being huge cunts. They continue being in love. They try to juggle both sides of their personalities, and as a result they’re a perfect mixture of a schizophrenic fuck and the creepy uncle who wants you to smell his finger.

    Romance is about characters. We already know the story: they’re going to blow each other at the end. People don’t read romance for the blowing, they read it for who’s going to be doing the blowing. You want the characters to be together, to be happy, to grow as people.

    But, if instead of a character you just show me a fucking cow, which does nothing but eat, shit, and moo, then the plonkering knob of a story you want me to swallow is dead from the start. Why? Because how the fuck can one want to read about something so goddamn gross and predictable. Change the cow with a “Tsundere” and you pretty much know the entire thing.

    You know the ending of the story. You know how the character will act. You know how she will evolve. You know how the relationship is going to go. Why the fuck would you read the story, then?

    Because the “Tsundere”, while the bane of all shit in the story, is not the only good part. Oh, no. If you have a character with this kind of personality, then her love interest—which I already hinted as being a buggering cockmonger—is going to be the plainest thing since bloody Moldova. The story will be about them being cute and then the girl getting flustered and hitting the guy and hahahah whoops I think I just caught leukemia.

    Goddamn fitting. “Tsunderes” are like cancer, only worse, because at least cancer is gentle enough to fucking kill you once it’s done with its bullshit. The melanoma spreads, and soon enough you’re bald and suffering.

    Was the first Tsundere character a good addition to the story? Probably. Apparently it was the kind of cartoon girl that makes you wanna pound her and get all filthy on top of her. You wanted to traumatize her ancestors and make her father go blind, and make her shit on your chest or whatever.

    She had a personality is what I mean, because you can’t do that with just looks. But that’s the thing—being a twittering weirdo can work, if that character’s backstory made her that way. She was shy, and violent, and easily flustered, and hated herself. Thus, she acted in a way that today is seen as stereotypical, but her flaws felt organic.

    This is what I mean with “character first, archetype second”. They designed this girl and then gave her a fitting backstory that justified the way she acted, and thus the reason why your fat, basement-dweller children will all go to hell was born.

    Then it got bloody popular, and some cunts ruined that shit forever.

    Nowadays, “Tsunderes” are made with the motto of “archetype first, tits second”, and then they snort the weight of their giant balls’ worth of cocaine. There’s no character. A “Tsundere” wouldn’t pass a Turing Test, because they’re just action-reaction machines.

    They’re not even good action-reaction machines, because the lack of justification for how they move around life makes them look creepier than Fofo the Rapist Clown at Sunday Church School. They are perfectly normal people who, for some reason, attack the main character every time they can, and then they’ll blush and think that they’re in love.

    But they’re fucking not. They just beat the shit of him because he fucking said something nice, or groped her on accident, or whatever bullshit cliché you used as a plot point. That’s not love. They’re in denial about their feelings? Okay, I can accept that. But they’re not acting like human beings. They’re acting like the result of a doctor not being brave enough to pull the plug.

    What kind of romance is this, in which half of the couple is either fucking crazy or doesn’t know how to behave in a non-murderous way? Can you get any unhealthier? Either you’re forcing her to be with you, because the signals she’s giving rhyme with “luck blow”, or she’s going to stab your lungs one night because she loves you so, so much.

    But she’s not written in a creepy way. The creepy implications are there, but the character is normalized and portrayed as some kind of ideal character, someone that’s desirable—hence, she becomes an archetype.

    And everybody suffers from this. The writers, the story, the readers. Even the character, who gets no chance to shine. Read the script, you bitch, and then make sure all the losers want to pierce you with their dick. That’s the only reason you were born. Be cute and adorable and make them long for what they’ll never have.

    Oh hey, are we getting fucking political? We are! Isn’t this fucking Christmas?!

    “Tsunderes” are the product of the worst kind of wish-fulfillment. Escapism through literature is not a bad thing—I myself started to read to run away from the horrors of having such a humongous cock during my childhood.

    But the place you’re escaping to can be a good one, or a bad one. And guess what, fuckwit: “Tsunderes” are not a good shelter for you.

    What is the message the “Tsundere” gives? Why are they so fucking popular? You already know, if you’ve read this far. The “Tsundere” is a girl who acts like she doesn’t want you, like she hates you, like she despises every move of yours, every pass at her you make, every touch or breath or word you say.

    But she loves you! Really! She’s just being a twat! You just need to push her so she shows her true colors.

    Yeah.

    For once, I’d love to complain about some bullshit romantic cliché without recurring to rape as the reason why it sucks.

    Who the fuck saw a character that was designed to be as off-putting and jerky as possible and decided it was sexy as fuck? The “Tsundere” archetype, at its worst, is designed to make lonely losers long for that cute girl who keeps rejecting you. It presents the idea that “no” means “yes”, because this character just slapped the guy and told him she hates him and then ran to the bathroom to furiously slap his photograph against her womb.

    Clearly, this shows that women don’t know what the fuck they want. You know better, stud. So go rape some chicks; they’ll thank you later.

    The “Tsundere” is based on the idea that girls want your dick so fucking badly they have to be absolute asswipes just to resist your manly appeal. Hence the constant genital trauma: they’re just shy about it.

    By the way, remember how the main character was described as plain? This is why. He’s not there to be an actual character—he’s just a mirror for the reader, who will live happy knowing that the girl likes him, even if she doesn’t know it yet. This is also why 99% of the “Tsunderes” are straight cute girls—because this is clearly directed to heterosexual males.

    Then again, it’s not like changing the sexual orientation fixes anything here. If fisting didn’t exist, lesbian “Tsunderes” would invent it by punching their girlfriends’ vaginas and then getting stuck.

    Does this mean all “Tsunderes” commend rape? No. Most of them, especially if written in the same cookie cutter way, do normalize the idea that women say one thing when meaning the exact opposite—a logic that all rapists use, because they’re fucking rapists—but one can write a “Tsundere-ish” character and still make it work.

    How? By writing the character first, which shouldn’t be too hard. The only thing you need is to avoid being dead from the neck upwards, and you’re pretty much good to go.

    There are thousands of examples of this: Kitsunerisu’s Dust and Harmony has a Twilight that, in his words, “was written as a Tsundere”, and it’s still one of the best AUs in this god-forsaken website. Percy Jackson’s Annabeth was tolerable, and she ended up growing up on me. I would wear bikini chainmail and fuck Han Solo if I had the chance. This happened last year.

    There are ways to make this work, as always. If you’re good enough, or original enough, or not the human equivalent of the sound of Hitler farting cum, then you can do this. But it’s surprisingly fucking easy, judging by the insane amount of works with a horrible “Tsundere” in them, to fuck this up.

    So just stop using this shit if you’re a writer. That’s my major advice. It’ll kill the story, it’ll alienate everybody who’s not a creep desperately longing for human touch, and it’ll imply some messages you might not (and shouldn’t) be comfortable with.

    The TMC was bad because it taught men that they have to be assholes to succeed. It made me angry because I know I’m not the only son of a bitch who studies romantic fiction to know how to behave in society.

    But the “Tsundere” is worse, because it goes the easy way. At least the TMC forces the reader to work on their attitude. The “Tsundere” just says all women are stupid and asks you to ignore the things they say or do, because you know what they really want.

    As I said, it doesn’t make me angry. It makes me feel nauseous. This is not looking into the abyss and the abyss looking back. This is gazing into Satan’s gaping asshole, and Satan farting on my eyes.

    It fucking stings, is what I mean.

    To be continued.

    32 comments · 1,051 views
  • 14w, 17h
    Let All The Children Boogie

    12 comments · 396 views
  • 17w, 6d
    "It Still Feels Rapey": Common Mistakes When Writing Romance, Part Two

    I'm not good at relationships.

    Sex-ed in my town consisted on the oldest teacher we had describing how to fuck a live pigeon and then asking me if I knew what sodomy was. My neighbor read about blowjobs without supervision and then he stuck a drinking straw in his cock. My best friend has a hardcore vegan boyfriend and whenever they argue she covers her tits with whipped cream so he hates himself after sex.

    And have in mind: growing up in this kind of environment, I was always labelled as “the unromantic one”. I defy intimacy by the number of times I can scratch my balls in your presence without it getting weird. Last time a girl confessed to me I interrupted her to ask if gay men have vaginas. I broke three chairs against my grandmother’s back before I finally understood the difference between hugging and wrestling.

    I explain all this so you understand that this blog isn’t coming from an expert on love, or a person who believes he’s normal when it comes to this shit. Last time I gave someone dating advice, she got an abortion.

    To solve this particular problem of mine, I spent two weeks reading romantic fanfiction on my phone. As a result, I didn’t learn a single fucking thing about romance, but I did learn that some people are apparently worse than me at this.

    Hi, I’m Aragón. I have never written a good romantic story, I’ve never said anything intelligent in my life, and this is the second installment of my love-themed blogs. Here’s another common mistake to avoid when writing romance.


    1. OH MY FUCKING GOD WHY IS HE A PSYCHO.

    My understanding of the female gender goes as far as knowing they have two X chromosomes, which means they’re into some kinky shit, and that they don’t have a dick unless they ask me pretty please. But even with that in mind? I kind of get why the whole “mysterious and powerful man” angle is a panty-wetter. Really! After all, who can not love the kind of man who would fuck a cow in front of you and never break eye contact?

    Yes, I’m tackling the oh-so-tackled “Twilight Male Character” – vampires, not pony – or, as I like to call them, “goddamn sociopaths are you fucking kidding me”. In case you’ve lived under a rock for the last ten years, this is a character that has existed forever, but only became mainstream due to the success of the Twilight Saga books. Take a guy who would see an Ethics class as a challenge, add some abs and a fuckton of money, and there you have it.

    It’s a concept that only makes sense if you get jealous every time the kid next door attracts the most child molesters. Proctologists feel raped after treating the people who came up with this. The Twilight Saga is just a goddamn mild example of this bullshit, and modern brains notice no difference between that series of books and the words “book turd”.

    So what is the Twilight Male Character (TMC for short), and why is it so fucking horrid? Long story short, the TMC is the bastardization of what is probably the most common fetish out there to create a character that’s perceived as hot, and then misusing it. This goes beyond stupid. This is being lazy in the most retarded of ways. This is like leaving the barb wire inside in case you want a second abortion. If you asked your grandmother for a blowjob, the results would be less disgusting than the consequences of writing a TMC.

    Look, when it comes to literature, there are majorly two kinds of love story: the one that ends with the girl kissing the boy, and the one that ends with the boy playing fiddle with the girl’s vagina until she dehydrates. This is perfectly normal, and reflects human nature – sex is the next step, because otherwise someone tell me what’s the fucking point.

    This means some romantic books are bound to be more mature than others – I’m not talking straight-out porn, I’m talking stories that include the characters fingering each other’s heart before moving down to the butthole. Some are romances with sex in them, some are mostly sex with a little dialogue, and some can’t spend three lines explaining the characters without describing their nipples. Every single one of these genres, whether you like it or not, has artistic value and can be rewarding, and I’m including porn in here. Sex is not unnatural or unethical, and can be both good for your hand and for your mind. But it can also be an unrepentant piece of cat shit.

    That last category is where the motherfucking TMC enters. Born out of a desire of turning on the reader from the get-go, the TMC is what happens when a person who doesn’t understand sexy tries to half-ass it. It’s like having an acne-ridden preteen writing the adventures of Mister BlackDude FluffyScrotum and then pausing every five minutes to hump her pillow. Necrophiles make a bigger effort to romance their partners, because at least they go out of their way to desecrate your tombstone.

    You know what’s the biggest turn-on for pretty much everybody? Power. Most of you want to fuck someone or something greater than you, because that way you’re assessing your dominance. This is the reason why everybody I know wants to fuck the Eiffel Tower. And the second-biggest turn-on? Lack of power. Most of you want to be fucked by someone or something greater than you, because that way you’re losing control and don’t have responsibilities. This is why everybody I know wants to be sodomized by Batman.

    So, to make use of this, the TMC is just a really powerful dude, and also mysterious. Powerful as in “he could probably rape a T-Rex”, and mysterious as in “he has probably raped a T-Rex”. It’s presenting a guy who can do pretty much anything but in a vague way – the power is hinted, not outright stated. That way, the reader pictures something bigger than whatever the author can make up. It’s saying “this guy is rich, hot, and doesn’t talk much” and then waiting for the dildo sales to skyrocket.

    No matter what the character does or says, it’s guaranteed to tickle someone’s heartstrings, and then give them a raging boner. You’re getting a character – always male, it’s how the stereotype goes – that can be seen as “universally erotic”, and so you can write whatever the fuck you want; you’ve already won.

    Is this bad on itself? Not really. Power is a turn-on, and it certainly works. Saying that just because it’s popular it sucks is completely stupid, and I’m not defending that line of thought. Like everything else, it can be done well to good, if not astounding, results.

    But the problem with the TMC is that it’s never written by people who know what the fuck they’re doing. It’s done by either lazy writers, or people who imitate lazy writers. The imitators are either rookies or misguided, and so they aren’t at fault here. This is not about them. They’ll learn.

    The lazy writers, though? Fucking shit, the lazy writers.

    You see, I’d much rather get stupid romance writers than lazy ones. Because sure, stupid writers will read the words “fuck my ass” and interpret it as an invitation to zoophilia, but at least they’ll fail in spectacular and ridiculous ways. Lazy writers will just write the same turd seven times and then delete half the words so it’s cheaper to publish. They cut the fucking corners.

    This is the real problem. This is why the TMC is hated by everybody with half a brain and more than one gonad. This is why when it comes to literature, lazy romance writers are like Pot Pol on a daycare center.

    Because the TMC is rich and powerful, and the easiest way to present a dude as rich and powerful is writing him as an asshole. A total fucking asshole. The message there is that, look, this guy just walked in and cockslapped your baby. Are you doing anything about it? No? Then shit, Johnny McCockslap here must be a hell of an important man, ‘cause usually that kind of action has consequences.

    Being an asshole can massage someone’s emotional prostate, I suppose. We as a society have managed to fetishize goddamn diapers – it’s safe to assume everything’s fair game by this point. But this concept only works if the person you’re romancing is into that. And that’s something you learn by asking, not something you fucking guess. Otherwise, you just come off as a sociopath, because who the hell cockslaps a baby for no reason?

    Nobody fucking does, in case you were having doubts. The TMC is a rushed character; the sooner the readers need to fan themselves to cool off, the better. Our introduction to him is constantly surrounded by the words “sexy” and “dangerous”. His description is based on the concept of “it has a dick”.

    Which could actually work! There are worse characters out there. But then the dipshit starts acting like a prick. There’s a little variety when it comes to the specifics – maybe he’s self-centered in that his head is so far up his ass he can’t open his mouth without fulfilling a narcissist coprophilic’s biggest fantasy. Maybe he lacks empathy in that he likes stabbing kittens because the squealing is cute. Maybe he’s just so much of a jerk he’s constantly ejaculating. Your guess here is as good as mine, but trust me – I’ve seen ’em all.

    The thing is, sure, there’s a reason why the main character could fall for the TMC – he is sexy, after all, and if by this point we don’t get that the protagonist is turned on by that set of characteristics then maybe we should stop drinking bleach whenever we pick up a book – but there’s absolutely no justification or explanation for the way the TMC acts. I’ve spent so much time insulting this weaselfuck I don’t even know if I have mentioned the exact details of what is wrong with it. I just assumed anybody who’s not an idiot would know, but rather obviously, the existence of this shit proves that I’m wrong.

    I called the TMC a goddamn sociopath, because he acts like one. I suppose a real girl can fall for a total thundercunt like him, because some people aren’t afraid of ending up disembodied in a basement. But we can understand the chick’s actions if we assume that, let’s say, her father farted on her face every morning until she was of age, forever warping her idea of masculinity and proper fart-etiquette. TMC’s actions, though? Inexcusable.

    There’s just no reason why a person would act like that. This goes beyond being a jerk – this is a mixture of creepy uncle and Fofo the Rapist Clown. The TMC will be aggressive towards the main girl and insult her constantly. He will show anger towards any male that approaches her. He will ignore her pleads and stalk her, he will treat her less as a person and more as a possession, he will buy her pretty shit every time she gets angry to shut her up, he will make sure she knows her place and then act weak and troubled so she can never get the will to abandon him. He’ll also knock her unconscious with his humongous cock every Wednesday afternoon, probably.

    And yeah, the girl will fall for this, because that’s a by-the-book abusive relationship. Shit, at least the dad stopped with a fart, but the guy? Why the fuck is the TMC doing all of this?

    Because fucking hell, there are two options here – either he’s genuinely interested in the girl or he’s just killing time, and I can’t tell which one is fucking worse. Either he’s just a sociopath or he’s a sociopath for shit and giggles – “fucked up” is the starting point, and then go downhill. I need to invent new terms to describe this situation. Genocitalia. Crowjob. Voidgina.

    This, I must remind you, is presented as an ideal relationship. It’s not about lust, it’s about love. The girl is clearly moved by a mixture of emotional manipulation and a vagina that’s vibrating so much it phases through her underwear, and the guy is… I can’t tell what the fuck is the guy doing, to be honest. He’s just there, being a cunt. And still the story is about love, you turdnugget, go and fawn over my romanticism.

    Death of the author can suck my dick, by the way. This is a blog about common mistakes when writing romance – and if you tried to write something romantic in a good sense and ended up writing a mentally warped tale of abuse and dependence, then something went fucking wrong at some point. I count that as a mistake, thank you very much. You could argue that, if the result is a good tale of dependence and abuse, then the story is good no matter what the intentions of the author were, but as I already said, death of the author can suck my dick.

    Plus, what the shit, this is not something that’s happened once, or twice. Most of you are probably thinking of the Twilight books – I nicknamed the TMC after them, after all – or maybe Fifty Shades of Grey – I haven’t read the books nor have I watched the movie, so I can’t be sure, but hearsay tells me that trilogy is also guilty of this – but there are far, far more examples out there. It’s fucking scary.

    On a technical level, this is actually a common mistake in bad literature as a whole. The author doesn’t perceive the character as a person, just as a tool. There’s a goal to reach, a purpose for the TMC to fulfill, and that’s to be the wish-fulfillment and thong-destroyer of the story. This makes the actual character itself to end up being blurry at best – his actions don’t make any sense in-universe, because he’s not acting on his own, based on his motivations, needs, and logic as a character. He’s performing for the readers.

    Is this bad in itself? Again, no. I said this was a mistake, because the connotations are negative, but if we want to be realistic this is just a technique. Characters are tools, after all, and they are performing. This way of writing can be used to create astounding stories. It’s all about the execution, and the TMC is the misuse of this philosophy.

    So, a possessive-ish and jealous guy is hot, hence he’ll act this way in this scene. Also, sensitive men are pretty neat, so let’s have him being sensitive here. Let’s show he’s also caring by writing a scene in which he pats the protagonist’s head after chloroforming her.

    What ends up appearing is something that’s less a character and more a bunch of scenes tied together.  At no point does the author re-read the story and say hey, I just wrote three hundred pages of Charles Mason on meth. Inside the TMC’s head there’s no brain; there’s just a duck raping a chipmunk. This guy alone is the reason why vaginas should have teeth.

    And then, to top it all, sometimes the guy turns into a fluffy puffy goddamn puppy at the end of the story! And the characters live happily ever after! Whenever I read this, my brain melts a little bit. So far the TMC has been written like the kind of guy who burns Bibles with a thrust of the hip, and all of a sudden he’s a family dad.  

    This is fucking crazy. We have a TMC, a goddamn anti-character, the antonym of the word “personality”, and somehow we manage to write him out of character. If this guy has kids, he’ll eat the baby and breastfeed the placenta. This is the pinnacle of a terrifying ending.

    The keenest of readers might start to suspect I have something personal against the TMC character. The clues are subtle, but they are there. “But why?” you might ask.

    Well, there are many reasons.

    First, the TMC is such a specific character, there’s just only one way to write him. “Dick Asshole” is the perfect term, because it describes both his personality and the ideas that led to his creation. You really don’t have much wiggle room, so the TMC is always easily recognizable. Not all tall, rich, ripped, sexy, troubled, handsome, elegant, smart, rude men are TMCs, but all TMCs are tall, rich, ripped, sexy, troubled, handsome, elegant, smart, and rude.

    I believe this has become more than just a mistake. This is an entire subgenre by now. But that hasn’t led to any more variety – the character is always the same, and the story is always the same. TMC and main character meet, TMC is an asshole, main character falls for him, they get together, the end.

    All literature is repetitive after a point, because everything has been told a thousand times. But this is less a story and more a template – maybe you won’t notice after the first TMC story you read, but I guarantee you, by the time you’ve read four you might as well read the first page and then move on, because it goes beyond predictable.

    And here’s the kicker.

    I’m not the only motherfucker who’s daft enough to learn about romance by writing. If you write a thousand stories in which the main character is an absolute piece of shit and that’s presented as good, romantic, and the way to go, something bad might happen.

    Notice how I’ve always talked about the TMC as the guy and the protagonist as a girl? Both men and women write this kind of shit, but the stories are mostly written for women. There’s a reason for this, probably, and I’m willing to bet it has to do with cultural preferences and maybe a little bit of sexism. I can fucking assure you that, by virtue of the way he acts, the TMC will come off as sexist as fuck, because he’s an absolute asswipe to all women.

    ‘Course, he’s also an asswipe towards men, but the main thing you read it his interactions with girls. Especially the main character.

    Now, picture someone who doesn’t have any experience with love who reads this shit. They’re selling fetish porn as documentaries, and eventually some motherfucker is going to take this at face value and believe that people should act like this. They normalize this bullshit. This creates more literature of this kind, and more people acting like this in real life.

    So yeah. I don’t like the TMC character. You can make a character similar to him that’s still good, or create something equal and portray it under a bad light. Just don’t sell me diarrhea and tell me it’s custard, because at one point, somebody will eat it.

    And we’ll all have to pay for the stomach doctor.


    To be continued.

    Next installment (probably): the “Tsundere” character, or ‘I’m going to fucking murder you’.

    31 comments · 1,138 views
  • 21w, 1d
    "It Feels Rapey" -- Three Horrible Mistakes To Avoid When Writing Romance

    I’m not good with romance. I am to romance what a fiberglass handjob is to foreplay. I have been defined as “emotionally retarded” by at least three different psychologists.

    I think kissing is so gross that the last time a girl leaned towards me I spat in her mouth and told her to savor the moment. A woman gently whispered in my ear that she wanted to wake up every morning next to me, and I just farted and went on drinking. My father fists cows for a living, and he’s the suave one in our household.

    I’m saying this so you know that, even though vaginas quiver in awe whenever I walk by, I’m not exactly a connoisseur when it comes to the matters of the heart. But I’m making an effort to get better at this – day after day, I force myself to read romance-related fiction with no pause, so I can become an expert on love.

    Losing my computer seemed like the perfect opportunity to dedicate even more effort to this. I focused my attention on AO3, a website rumored to have really high-quality stories in it, because it looked like the perfect place to do this.

    And after two weeks reading romance fanfiction from there on my mobile phone, I can attest that those rumors are fucking bullshit.

    Hi, I’m Aragón. I have never written a good romance, my emotional maturity is measured in pubic hair, and I’m imitating Seanbaby for this blog. Here are three common mistakes when writing romance so egregious even dumb fucks like me can’t understand why people keep making them.


    1. WHY THE FUCK ARE THEY IN LOVE.

    In real life, people choose their lovers for a bunch of reasons, most of which of the pussy variety, both metaphorically and literally. The emotional blowjob that is love tends to appear because the person in question happens to fit your standards, be it personality-wise or looks-wise or whatever. It’s a beautiful thing.

    And it matters fuck-all in writing. If you want me to believe this lovely lady fell in love with the fucking nerd that is your protagonist, then explain me why in terms that make sense to somebody who doesn’t masturbate with pizza crust.

    You see, fanfiction is a terrible medium for romance, because more often than not the author is a fan of the relationship they want to portray (hence the term). This means that the important bit for said author is that the two parties are in love, not why they’re in love or how are they going to make it as a couple. The characters end up together no matter what, as if their genitalia had magnetic fields. Shit, if the genitals were magnets, the story would be more realistic, in fact.

    I am talking about situations like this: A couple, guy and girl. She is a rich, cultured, beautiful lady with a promising future and tits the size of a penthouse. She’s with the protagonist, a dumb fuck who has absolutely nothing to offer as a person. If you asked this guy to entertain your parents for a minute while you’re in the bathroom, he’d piss his pants and then stare at the walls. This dipshit stutters, sweats all over the place, and his personality has the depth of a layer of Nutella on a stripper’s ass.

    And they’re in love. Mad love. She thinks this guy is her soulmate.

    That makes as much sense as two clowns having fun without murdering a single child. That guy is the kind of person who knows how much cotton do you need to make a blow-up doll feel like a sheep. The Government wouldn’t let this sad fuck become a eunuch because his dick is legally considered toxic waste.

    I don’t give a shit about how you see love in reality. Maybe you think that anybody can fall in love with anybody if the circumstances are perfect enough. But in fiction, that’s a fart in a hurricane – unless you show exactly why both fell in love and why, it doesn’t fucking work. A character can’t fall in love without a reason. Dogs will try to impregnate any pillow in sight without a second thought, and even they bother to smell their mate’s asshole before the courting.

    When a character falls in love with some other character, there’s a selecting process going on. They will choose their partner because said partner, in particular, has something to offer that nobody else can give them. This is about unique qualities, and what can the other person bring to the table. If they can’t offer a fucking single thing, they will die alone and everybody will laugh at them.

    The EQG movie was a perfect example of a romance that has as much right to exist as elderly sex. It was there, and it was a reality, but it made us all uncomfortable and so we ignore it and silently euthanize whoever brings it up in public. Twilight Sparkle and Flash Sentry had less chemistry than a block of cement, and their dolls were more realistic than their romance.

    Why? Because neither Twilight Sparkle nor Flash Sentry had any reason to fall in love with each other. They knew nothing about the other person, and they never bothered to find shit out, either, because fuck that noise. A conversation is not necessarily needed to develop a realistic – or at least believable, which is the lowest fucking standard you have to force on yourself here – relationship in a work of fiction, so I’m not complaining about how they didn’t talk. But again, characters don’t fall in love with a person, they fall in love with a quality.

    The definition of “quality” here is not as much “something good” as “something only they can give”. I mentioned uniqueness three paragraphs ago, and for a reason. Twilight is a horse and also a princess horse, and that could be why Flash falls in love with her. She’s weird, she offers something he can’t find anywhere else, and it’ll be both interesting and completely fucked up when she takes off his pants and sees he doesn’t have a monster cock like all the males in her world.

    Healthy relationship? Fuck no, they’re not even the same species. Try to fuck a chicken and you tell me how your first date went. But at least it’s a start. In the fictional example I put above, the girl was an amazing person and the guy was the human equivalent of puking during a motorboating session. It didn’t make sense, because we saw that one character had a lot of qualities and uniqueness and the other was just a fucking dipshit. EQG is the same – we know that Twilight has unique qualities, but Flash doesn’t.

    And even if he had, Twilight never really sees any of them. Sure, he saves her when she’s talking with Luna, but by then she’s already got a crush on that dude. Fucking why? And mind you, the exact same thing happens with Flash, because we know that Twilight has qualities as a person, but he fucking doesn’t, so the entire thing is just a total clusterfuck of absurdity.

    Neither Twilight nor Flash have any idea what the other stands for. The scriptwriter didn’t give a single shit for their relationship, and it shows, because what matters is that they are together, not why. Ironically enough, if you care too much, or just enough but in the wrong way, you’ll make the exact same mistake, as I explained earlier.

    Seriously, the only way for that movie’s romantic angle to work is to picture that, in-universe, Flash is really damn hot. He’s such a hunk that whenever more than three women look at him at the same time the air gets instantly moisturized and smells like fish. Likewise, for Flash to want Twilight so badly and give a shit about Luna screaming at her, Twilight has to be a knock-out; the kind of girl that makes guys pump their muscles, blush, faint, and then cry in the bathroom for sixteen hours.

    So change “love” for “desire to bang each other”, and bam. Now both have a reason to be in love, and their actions are obviously justified – they want to enjoy that quality, the hotness. Fucking Pride and Prejudice right there, and the worst thing is, it’s still better than what we actually got.

    You see, a romantic story isn’t selling the characters to each other. A romantic story is selling  the relationship to the audience. The EQG romance is shitty because the viewer has to headcanon what the fuck is going on to get invested in anything at all, or at least to avoid being alienated. None of the characters show qualities to each other, so they’re all out of everybody’s league. What a goddamn masterpiece.

    So when writing a romantic story, the author should always show both characters as equals, in the sense that both have a reason to fall in love. If one of them is perfect and the other is a piece of shit, then your story makes no sense. Sure, one can be slightly better than the other, adoration can be the basis of a sex agreement, after all. But it still has to feel justified.

    The reader needs to feel like the characters are better now that they’re together. No matter the exact angle – can be emotional, physical, intellectual, philosophical, or whatever floats your fucking boat.

    And for the record, “being nice” is not a fucking quality; it’s the lack of a flaw. It’s like fucking your postman because he didn’t beat up your senile grandfather this morning. Nobody ever got a blowjob for holding a door open, and if “he’s/she’s/I’m not an asshole” is the justification the characters use to explain why they are or should be in a relationship then at least one of them is a rapist.

    You want your dick sucked, you work for charity, or play the guitar, or beat up monkeys with your kung-fu skills. You do something that’s real and measurable. If the story’s relationship is based on thoughts like “at least he doesn’t try to choke me while I sleep”, then you’re not reading a love story – you’re reading a manual on how to make sure your future children stab hobos when they grow up.

    2. THAT IS NOT HOW HUMANS WORK, YOU CUNTWEASEL.

    Of all the godawful mistakes rookie authors make when writing a love story, “learning how an actual human actually operates” is basic enough to just know that everybody will fuck it up. This is a thing that’s justified if you’re thirteen and think that a passionate relationship is crying because you don’t sit next to each other during Arts and Crafts, but if you’re an adult, this shit is inexcusable.

    Here I’m not talking about a general thing, by the way. That would be way too logical. A basic misunderstanding on psychology is normal when you’re writing for the first time; there’s a reason why we pay a lot of money to people who can write realistic characters. No, I’m talking about something so fucking specific that the mere fact it just keeps happening and nobody says a word about it is a slap in the face of God.

    This point is about this particular scene, or minor variations of it: a character is thinking about something normal and boring. All of a sudden, they think of the romantic interest in affectionate terms. And then they say “WOAH, WHERE DID THAT COME FROM?!”

    You know the scene. Showing surprise because suddenly they realize they’ve been in love this whole time, guys. Being baffled because they seem to have developed hyoo-man ee-mo-tzions. It’s been done a thousand fucking times.

    ”I mean, you don’t like anybody after all, do you?” asked Kickmyballs-chan in a way that was kawaii as fuck or whatever. “You don’t care for this stuff.”

    “No, I…” Gilipo-kun shook his head in a cool yet mysterious way. “I don’t...” He blinked, still cool and mysterious, like my homeroom teacher when she refuses to look me in the eyes while she fucks me with a strap-on. It was hard for him to say the words, for some reason. That was weird, right? After all, he couldn’t think of a single person he liked—

    Like a flash, Twat-kun’s face came to mind.

    Gilipo-kun jumped in surprise. “Woah!” he exclaimed cooly. “Where did that come from?!”

    This shit.

    I have read this shit so many times in just two weeks.

    Who the fuck thinks like this? Who wrote this bullshit first and how it got so popular everybody is trying to copy it? Even when it doesn’t appear like this, you can see traces of this line of thinking here and there. Characters suddenly going “Wait, I’m gay?! Where did that come from?!” or having to ponder if they like someone or not.

    I thought “feelings” was the scientific name of that itchy shit you get on your dick after skinny dipping in a polluted lake until last year, and even I know that this is not how this fucking thing works. Guys, if you feel the thirst for balls in your mouth, trust me when I say you at least suspect it already. Ladies, if you think eating pussy is exactly like making out with an alien, I don’t expect you to go “WAIT A FUCKING SECOND” and start a lesbian rampage.

    But then again, shit, at least the gay thing has an excuse. Maybe the character is in denial, or honestly never stopped to ponder about it. Being more than mildly surprised is a total exaggeration, unless you’re a rampaging homophobe, but I can see straight people writing this and not feel like they’re fucking stupid, because playing out of field is always rough.

    The fucking “wait I was in love” line of thinking, though? Unless you’re a robot, that’s just not how it goes. You fucking know when you have a crush, you don’t need to be all startled about it. Trying to surprise the reader by having “X is in love with Y” as a twist is pretty damn stupid on its own, but trust me, you can do it without surprising the character as well.

    The characters either fall in love slowly or all at once. Depends on the story and how the author wants to portray the relationship. But love is not a fucking ninja that sneaks up behind you and slashes your throat with a knife shaped like an erect nipple – the moment it happens, you fucking know.

    I can’t stress this enough. I talked about falling in love with qualities before, and this is actually a continuation of that.

    Some people mistake this for the well-known trope of “jealously equals love”. The idea that a person might discover he or she is in love when their Valentine starts hitting on a stranger or whatever. It’s similar, yes, but it’s not the same because here at least we have a justification for the thought. If somebody wants to take something that you think of as yours, then you get possessive. This might work as an epiphany for love.

    Although it really is not. That’s not love, that’s manipulation. It’s the mental equivalent of throwing a microwave to a girl’s face and then feeling up her boobs. You’re forcing the character to make a choice in a rush – choose him now, or you’ll lose him forever. This is what salespeople do to force you to buy shitty cars.

    But even then, the reader sees why it’s going on. There’s an emotion there, a quality, and a reason why it arises. The jealously, the possessiveness, and the fear of losing a future opportunity get mistaken for actual affection. Even then it shouldn’t be surprised, because if you’re possessive about a person you fucking know it, hence you being possessive in the first place. Sure, you can justify it by saying that “they’re in denial”, but being in denial implies they fucking know.

    Not even having this jealous shit, though? Inexcusable. Characters who go all “OH WOW HOLY DICKS I LOVE HER SO MUCH” for no reason are the kind of people who grow up to be the kind of man who rubs himself against little boys in the subway.

    3. CAN SOMEONE EXPLAIN ME WHY THEY’RE ACTING LIKE LITTLE CHILDREN.

    I’ll admit right away that this is petty as hell, but if two people have been fucking married for, like, seven years, and the guy blushes every time she expresses any affection whatsoever, she has all the right to stab that guy’s temples until his brain finally activates. My instinctive answer to a hug is a suplex, and even I know this is bullshit.  

    If two characters are in a relationship, showing affection is the goddamn standard. It’s not a rarity, it’s not a surprise, it’s not a twilight velvet; it’s the definition of their daily routine. That’s what “being in a relationship” means.  I accept that doing this kind of shit in public might be uncomfortable for some people, and maybe the character feels that way, which is fine.

    But I’ve seen this kind of scene happening all the time, no matter if the characters are alone or not.

    There are thousands of stories out there in which the characters are flustered twenty-four-goddamn-seven, because the author finds it cute. So the characters will be doing whatever the hell they do for a living, and then he will kiss her, and then she will blush and almost faint, because even though they have been going on for over five years this is a new thing for her.

    Look, humans get used to everything with time. We come to this world screaming, covered in shit, and causing indescribable pain to our mother. A kiss is not going to blow anybody’s mind after that. This is just stupid, especially if the characters are supposed to be emotionally developed.

    The reason for this kind of scene, I think, is of a meta-story level. And that’s bad, because it breaks immersion. You see, this is not how the characters would react. It’s how the fans would like them to react. Maybe even what the author would do in such a situation. And sure, everybody includes bits of their own personality in their stories– it’s why all my characters have seven-foot schlongs – but that doesn’t make it any less stupid.

    It’s the first time we see the characters kissing. Some readers might get flustered when reading that, and maybe the author does, too. But the characters don’t. In-universe this makes no sense whatsoever, so having this stuff, especially when it doesn’t fit the characters’ personalities, is not a good idea. The signal here is less “they’re so in love and cute together” and more “she’s holding his family hostage”. It’s not cute, it’s uncomfortable.

    If the characters are alone, and have been together for a long-ass fucking time, then showing affection shouldn’t render them completely useless. Having sex with a person like that must be like rubbing your erect nipples against a bag full of dead cats and one dwarf – there’ll be a reaction, yes, but unless you’re into kinky shit it won’t be what you’re expecting.

    There’s not a lot to say here, because this isn’t as generally wrong as the other two things. I already said this is petty as fuck. Maybe if the character is really really shy this can be justified, but even then – you’re showing that the character cringes whenever their lover tries to show affection.

    Even a mime would think that’s rapey.






    To be continued.

    49 comments · 1,662 views
  • 22w, 6d
    Look, I'm Not Implying Anything (NEW EP SPOILERS)

    11 comments · 624 views
  • 23w, 3d
    The Ten Words That Killed Me

    "What do you mean, I'll have no computer until December?"

    Fate smiled. "You have three guesses."

    "But that's way too long! What am I going to do until then?! I need a new laptop now!"

    "Thought luck. You should have taken better care of the old one."

    "But I have classes and stuff! I need a computer to--!"

    "You won't have one."

    "But why?!"

    Fate smiled like a poet with a new set of bongos. "Well," it said. "Remember that time you and your brother punched my dick so hard my son stopped existing?"

    "Yeah."

    "So do I."

    18 comments · 331 views
  • 25w, 5d
    Fourteen Equals Infinite, Motherfucker

    14 comments · 468 views
  • 26w, 3d
    A Somewhat Serious One

    Hmm.

    As I write this, I can't help but wonder if I'm actually going to post it? I probably will, because, well. That's a hell of a catch. "Oh shit," you're thinking. "This clown is being all mysterious and serious. Mystserious, for short. I'm sure he has something extremely important to say, and also he's handsome and I'm going to give him all my money".

    In which case hell yeah, man. Do that.

    But anyway, yes. This is going to be a weird blog, but not by the usual standards. Worry not 'cause one of those is coming soon. Maybe tomorrow? Who knows. But nah this is a weird blog because it's coming out of absolutely nowhere.

    I am a college student, y'see. I live with other students, in a house for students. Typical stuff. This year I'm the oldest one in my house -- everybody else is at least one year younger than me, and most are way younger. The two flatmates that I get along with the most are seventeen, turning eighteen by the end of the year.

    I just participated in a thirty-minute conversation, in which I saw how they got excited by the possibility of taking drugs. Another of my flatmates has experience and contacts, and knows how to sell his stuff.

    They called the dealer.

    They've already reserved some mushrooms. The dealer is going to provide them with cocaine, ketamine, LSD, and metamphetamines.

    It wasn't pretty, to be honest.

    I mean, I get this is not really any place to talk about this? I write stories in which ponies get hit by giant statues, so I'm not expecting any kind of moral authority over anybody. That'd be silly.

    But just... Don't do drugs. Please.

    I've seen how it ends. I come from a city too big to be a small town, and I've seen way too many people who start doing cocaine for fun, and then go further. Pot, in my experience, is not an opening for harder drugs. I don't do pot (more on this later), but I know a lot of people who do (half my friends -- it's really spread in Spain), but cocaine? Completely different thing.

    It's easy to get into drugs. They call to you, if you have a particular personality. No matter how many times 90s cartoons tell you that doing drugs is for losers -- tobacco is romanticised to hell and beyond, and drugs as a whole have this aura of being cool. They're forbidden, they're an act of rebellion, they're a middle finger to the authority. Wooo look at me I'm so badass.

    "Recreational autodestruction," I call it, because I am serious when I say I'm a pedantic asshole you should kick in the head at any chance. Because that's the thing: it's not just about rebellion. Some people like to experiment. To get to feel things first-hand, to try everything new and then judge by themselves. Drugs are attractive, in that way.

    I get that. I really do! I'm not exactly scared to say that drugs call to me, a lot. Call it being naturally curious, call it being the biggest idiot you'll ever see, but my first reaction whenever I hear of a new drug is curiosity. Then, some other things that I am scared to say. One of those might be about having sex with animals, but that's just because eventually I start to ramble even in my head, so let's ignore that thing.

    But, y'know, I don't do drugs. I've had chances -- way too many, in my opinion -- but I don't even smoke. Never had a joint between my lips, and never will. I don't mind if you do that, because I consider marijuana a really really soft drug. Kinda like tobacco. But I'm still not gonna do it.

    Because I know myself, and I know it calls to me, so I abstain from it. And I abstain from it because I have familiars and friends who have given in, and if you're thinking something along the lines of "oh god is this really going to turn into a sobbing story?" then worry not because it's not.

    But one member of my family got into heavy drugs. He was a really intelligent person in his youth, the pride of the family. He lived up to that potential by taking so many drugs he looked like he was 50 by the time he was 20, and then beating up my mother, his wife, his ex-girlfriend, his girlfriend, and countless people that I never knew. Then he spent a couple years in jail. He went clean. He got out. Recently he's started doing drugs again, and is bringing hell to my family.

    When I was in highschool, there used to be a guy that wandered the main door at 14:30, the hour when we got out. He was big, fat, bald, and had the eyes of a fish. He never talked, he just stared at you and sometimes tried to touch you or hit you, completely at random. Everybody knew him -- he used to be a student, and one night he did something, took something, and crossed a line that couldn't be crossed back. He has to be taken care of lately, I heard, because he's just getting worse.

    There used to be a kid in my highschool. Cool guy. My sister kinda knew him, friend of a friend. I never really talked with him, personally. He took a little too many mushrooms one day, confronted his father about the way he treated his mother, and stabbed the guy seven times or so. Everybody agreed the father was an abusive bastard who hit his wife and maybe did something worse to his son. I don't know. He's dead now and the son is in jail.

    My mother had cancer, and after two years bald, she got better. This happened when she was over forty, and had three children. She had to leave us and stay in the hospital for all that time. When she was around twenty, a friend of a friend passed her a pill, and she took it. She spent three days in the hospital, and came close to death. Way too close. Not so long ago, she admitted to me that she never feared for her life as much as during the second night, when the doctor told her that they had no idea what that pill was, and that the only thing they could do was wait and hope for the best. No, not even cancer was that scary.

    I lost count around nine. Maybe they're less, maybe they're more. I don't know. I do know, however, that around nine of my old classmates left highschool and turned into drug dealers, because there's nothing else to do at this point. My father lives in the same town as them -- he can count with the fingers of one hand how many times he's seen any of them sober while walking down the streets. Their parents don't know what to do, but so far the town thinks that "nothing, they're never doing anything else" is a correct answer when it comes to this. It's not a town with nice people.

    I don't know.

    I don't think that every single time you snort a line an angel dies. That'd be silly. Some people say they only take drugs when they're partying, and that they are happy and can do whatever they want with their lives, and that alcohol and tobacco are more or less the same and we say nothing about it. I get that. I've seen that done.

    But I don't do drugs, y'know.

    They're really attractive. Sometimes, when I'm stressed, I want to do drugs. I want to try them so hard, because it sounds beautiful, to be able to just lose yourself in that kind of way. To live fully instead of living long, even if it's not really shortening your life -- it's the thrill of knowing you're doing something you shouldn't do.

    It's a selfish act. It's claiming that your life is yours and nobody else's. It's suicide on a minor key.

    I get that.

    But I don't do drugs. Y'know.

    Because I've seen that, well. There are many ways that can end. Some are good, some are bad. Most of them are bad.

    Drugs are dangerous. They can destroy what you are. At one point, your personality just disappears, and all there's left is whatever you took that morning. Who cares, right? You're high all the time. At this point, not being high is not being yourself.

    I don't know. I don't like it.

    So I just saw two seventeen-year-olds that I actually like, that I can see as my friends, and they happily told me that oh yeah, we want to do that. And then maybe some more. The old, experienced flatmate admitted that at one point it became impossible for him to party without cocaine. Even if he promises himself that he's not gonna take any, the moment he gets drunk his opinion changes immediately, and he feels like shit afterwards. He sounded ashamed.

    The other two kids thought that was pretty awesome. They really want to sounds like adults.

    Meh. I'm twenty-one years old. I'm probably younger than most of you. Can't really call them "kids". But I saw that, I tried to convince them to maybe think about it twice, and they told me that instead of talking like that I should do drugs. I'd like them.

    Probably, yeah. That's the scary part, I suppose.

    I can't really ask you to do anything. Maybe you already know your opinions about drugs, and this entire blogpost is pissing you off. If that's so, I'm sorry, I suppose. Wasn't my intention. But... if I were you, I'd stay away from that world.

    Don't get in that scene, please. If you can avoid it. I won't ask you to do it for the idiot who writes silly blog posts and has a name most of you think refers to a Lord of the Rings character (it does not). That'd be dumb. But, dunno.

    Maybe do it for yourself. That'd be pretty cool.

    Just my two cents. Sorry if this one was boring, or too personal. I'll post something silly tomorrow.

    31 comments · 384 views
  • 27w, 6d
    So, Birthday Again

    37 comments · 603 views
  • 28w, 4d
    Thoughts On The Character DevelOH MY FUCKING GOD.

    26 comments · 819 views
  • 28w, 6d
    That Last Episode Was Great (SPOILERS)

    7 comments · 656 views
  • 31w, 19m
    A Blog Post With Nothing But True Facts That Actually Happened

    From a couple days ago:

    Aragón: THAT'S IT

    Aragón: THAT'S IT, NUMBERS

    Aragón: I SOLVED IT

    Aragón: LYRA IS POSH

    Aragón: THAT'S HOW THE PINKIE CHAPTER HAS TO GO

    Aragón: I'M A FUCKING GENIUS

    Aragón: DEAR LORD HOW CAN PEOPLE ENDURE MY PRESENCE WITHOUT GIVING IN TO THE URGE TO SUCK MY DICK

    Aragón: HEAVEN KNOWS THE ONLY REASON I RESIST IT IS FOR ANATOMICAL REASONS

    MrNumbers has left the chat.

    So yeah, I'm still alive, yo.

    Sorry for the lack of content. College started, and lots of stuff happened -- A TV disappeared into thin air, the guy who asked me to help him build his illegal porn empire left college, I moved to a new house only to discover my flatmates are four nudist stoners, and I got mistaken for a hobo by my neighbor, so I got my revenge playing my ocarina at three in the morning to wake her baby daughter.

    But new content coming up at some point!

    9 comments · 331 views
  • 35w, 3d
    The Gayest Time of Them All

    Finishing a story you’ve been working on for a long time is weird, but let me tell you, it’s even weirder when the first thing that comes to mind afterwards is “This is it. This is as gay as my stories get. For now.

    And yeah that’s exactly what I thought when I finished the story that, as per now, is completely posted on Fimfiction: A Gay Old Time. A story of which I’m proud as hell, even though it flopped harder than my nether regions when I go to bed with a beautiful woman and realize too late that she doesn’t have a goat with her.

    Seriously, though, A Gay Old Time is gay. Really, really gay. Both as in “happy” and as in “I think I can detect two heterosexuals in the whole freaking story, and they really bend the meaning of that term as the fic goes on.” I didn’t really plan it that way, and I don’t really care for it that much—let’s be honest, chums, that’s not exactly new in this website.

    It’s also a sex comedy, in the sense that there’s a lot of sex going on, but you won’t see any of it. The rating is “Teen”, because I think the comedy is more important than anything else, but… Yeah that could have been written as a clop story and it would have made sense. Luckily (or unluckily) for you, I don’t write porn. So, comedy it is!

    Also shipping, I think. It counts as shipping. I mean, the characters keep fiddling with each other, and without spoiling anything (I know some guys haven’t read the story yet because they were waiting for it to be completed—that’s part of the reason why I’m posting this blog) the thing is tagged “Romance” for a reason. It’s really secondary, though. Y’all know I’m in this only for the giggles. You want sappy, go read Donny’s Boy or whatever.

    So! A Gay Old Time. I started that story with a simple thought: let’s make this short. I told myself I’d write a 1,000-words story, because I’ve never done that before.

    Then I said okay, uh, let’s go for 4,000 words. I can do that.

    Then I said that, well, shit. 6,000. 6,000 words is a good number.

    Two days later I sent a message to my main editor, crying, because the goddamned fic was 22,700 words and growing. Gagh.

    Long story short—fic ended up being 30k, and about everybody who knows me told me that yeah it was predictable.

    So anyway—I started A Gay Old Time with the idea of it being just a random bunch of funny scenes, unrelated, that shared a setting. It was just a party and like seven million characters—let’s see what happens!

    What happened was that a plot appeared out of nowhere, and before I knew it the fic was an actual story, and not just a bunch of jokes hastily put together. Hey, fine by me. I mean, I guess this one’s better, and who am I to say what no to the characters? They wanna live, yo.

    This story is interesting, in the fact that it made me realize a couple things. Mainly, the main dichotomy I’m facing lately.

    Thing is—I write for fun. Or at least, I used to write for fun. I thought it was an interesting thing that entertained me during my spare hours, and it also taught me how to tell a story—something that can be really useful in my daily life (I’m studying to be a lawyer).

    But on the other hand? I try to get better. Try to. And there’s a point in which mere practice is not enough, and if I don’t want to be left behind (as I feel I am, ‘cause some of my friends are really talented and that pisses me off) I need to work harder. To go out of my comfort zone, to try to create stuff that I haven’t written before.

    I have a really set comfort zone, I’m afraid to say. I write dialogue-heavy stories, with many characters, schizophrenic plots, and I have a handful of tricks and shortcuts that I use all the time. If you’re one of those weird guys who read all my stuff, try and list them all in one comment! Whoever wins gets a prize. I’ll write a story for him, or I’ll at least include his OC as a cameo in my next fic.

    I like that, but it’s holding me back. I need to work on my prose. I have a couple ways to get around not writing descriptions (and one of those I like so much I’m not changing it, no sir) and some gags or setpieces appear in many of my stories. The Sassy Raritea scene (a scene in which Rarity appears prominently, drinking tea and being sassy) has popped out in at least three of my fics.

    And they’re fun to use! I use them because I like them, and because they actually work. But sometimes I write stuff that doesn’t do that (Today is a Good Day to Die comes to mind) and if I manage to pull it off? Dang, son. It’s not just fun—it’s exhilarating. But writing like that is both exhausting and frustrating.

    So, there’s the dichotomy. Do I write for fun, or do I write to get better? It sounds like a no-brainer, but I also get scared now and then—what if the people is used to one particular brand of humor and they dislike the new stuff? Writing out of my comfort zone is not easy—it takes long, and the results might be really bad. What if the public gets tired of waiting?

    So far, I’ve been trying to juggle with those—I work on a Not Comfortable Fic, and while I’m at it I pop one or two Comfortable Fics to give ya lads something to chew. But I can’t just write a story in one go without it feeling half-assed, so I end up working for weeks on them, and they’re not easy-to-digest anymore. I like my comedies with a minimum amount of depth, and that means length, and that messes up the plan, because I’m supposed to work on those fast. Look at A Gay Old Time, for example. That was supposed to be 1,000 words!

    I gotta choose, and I think I won’t be happy no matter which way I go. So, eh, screw it, I’ll keep on juggling. If anything, that’ll force me to learn to write faster, which is kind of cool in itself. As I write this, I’m working on three main stories—a sequel, an original (NONCOMEDY!) story y’all will think is boring, and a standard comedy that will be tagged “Everybody” because it’s been too long since that.

    But yeah, I can’t promise they’ll be out soon. I’ll try, but things are hard and half-assing is for idiots or people with more talent. I can’t promise you I’ll get better as fast as some other guys out there, but I promise I’ll try to evolve and keep doing stuff I’m proud of. So far, I can look back at my stories and say I’d write them again if I had the chance. And I think that’s what matters.

    Now comment on this thing and tell me I’m pretty. Been feeling down lately (hence the lack of forced jokes in this blog—the dick joke is a mandatory one, because one of my best friends hates them) so that’ll cheer me up.

    13 comments · 367 views
  • 36w, 5d
    If You Punch A Clown In The Face, It Will Probably Be Horrible And Not Funny At All You Monster

    (This blog was written for Onemansponyramblings, and it’s posted in there as per today. Chris, the guy who runs the site (and one of the curators of the RCL), asked for guest columns and I offered one about random humor and all that jazz. I figured some of you might want to read this too, so here it comes. Make sure to check the blog as soon as you can, it has cool reviews and sometimes I appear in the comments. You can gaze at my username and shake a fist at it or whatever.)




    To say that comedy is “subjective” would be the biggest understatement I’ve heard since my mother described me as “a little bit of an idiot” on my fifth birthday. Comedy depends, and has always depended, on the reader.

    As Steve Allen once said, “comedy equals tragedy plus time”[1].


    [1] Actually, the fella said “Tragedy plus time equals comedy.” But I like my wording better, and this is my blog post, so suck it Steve Allen, I do whatever I want.


    I like to think that it’s true, because, well, it’s a really cool sentence. And, linking this to the statement that started this blog post: it implies that people are going to laugh at pretty much anything, because let’s be serious—almost everything worthy of a tale is at least mildly annoying to someone. So you might be writing what you think is the most tear-jerking thing since Scar killed Bambi’s mom and then said goodbye to Andy, but at least one idiot is gonna laugh at you.

    So yeah. You want an actual, universal rule for comedy? Here you have it: anything goes. If you’re good enough (or bad enough) you can turn pretty much into something extremely funny.

    But of course, there are things that I’d recommend you not to do.

    Trying to explain how comedy works is just like said fifth birthday of mine: useless, frustrating, and once everything is over my mother has a new boyfriend and my dad gets shot [2]. But still, we gotta try something, right? Otherwise I have no justification for hijacking Chris’ blog for a while.


    [2] And nine times out of ten, the shooter is also my dad. He’s good at multitasking.


    “Comedy in general” is too broad a term for me to talk about—think of all the subgenres and variations it has—so I’ll just go and talk about random comedy, as it’s one of the most used, and probably one of the most misused too.

    When I talked with Chris about writing this blog, he mentioned how he thought the same. Random humor is just weird—when it’s well done, it’s really good. When it’s bad, it’s painful.

    Why does this happen? Well, everybody has their own explanation, and they’re all good. I mean, probably. Personally, I think it has to do with expectations, and what actually is a comedy.

    “Comedy” nowadays means “a brand of entertainment that makes you laugh”. I’m sure the Ancient Greeks had a different definition for the term, but who the hell cares about the Ancient Greeks anymore. They’re all dead, get over it.

    And don’t be fooled: at its core, a comedy wants to make you laugh, or at least chuckle out loud. That’s the goal the writer is going for, and that’s what you want to get as an exchange for your time investment.

    So yeah. Comedy wants to manipulate you. You see/read/hear something funny, then you laugh, then you go on with your life. Maybe the comedy also made you think (it should), maybe it had a deeper meaning (it should), maybe it was just a thinly-veiled ‘go to hell’ directed to the writer’s father (WHY WON’T YOU LOVE ME, DADDY). But that’s just window dressing. Laugh at it, you stupid monkey, and validate my sense of humor, then leave me alone.

    And how does a comedy achieve that? Well, there are a lot of studies about laughter. Most of them are extremely serious. Bottom line, though? It’s about unexpectedness.

    Yaddah yaddah subjectiveness blibbidy blobbidy language and catharsis waddle waddle past experiences and coping mechanisms. There’s a different explanation for more or less every single funny thing out there, but yeah, being surprised is probably the only common factor in all of them. If you already know the punchline, the joke is not half as funny. So you gotta surprise them, man. You can’t manipulate someone who knows how you’re gonna manipulate ‘em.

    Okay, so we’ve established that humor comes from surprising someone [3]. That’s cool! So how does that factor in the whole “random humor” business?


    [3] Well, actually I have established that. You, dear reader, have done squat. But I forgive you because you’re a nice kid and your mother told me I should get along with you. We can be buddies! Right? Of course we can! Say, what if we go and get some ice-cream! You would like that, right?

    Woah hey what’s up with that look. I’m not plotting anything here. Just some ice-cream. That’s what buddies do, right?


    Well, another thing Chris said when I talked to him about this blog was how he felt there was “a difference between random for a reason and random because random”. I’m pretty sure most of you know what Chris was talking about here.

    To elaborate: sometimes you see a story that brings something out of absolutely nowhere, and somehow it works. It might be something as stupid as the Equestrian army using their spouses as weapons, or Twilight and Trixie being inanimate paintings in love.

    Now, from a purely logical point of view, that makes sense. You were expecting something in that story, then that something turned out to be different, and really ridiculous. Yes, you were probably looking forward a surprise, but that doesn’t mean you knew what the surprise was going to be. Plus, the wilder, the better, right? The most illogical a gag is, the more unpredictability points, and thus the funnier it gets.

    Man, this was simple.

    Or was it?

    Nah, not really. What I just said sounds about right, but it’s not true. A lot of times you see a story where something zany happens—Celestia plays the harmonica, Luna is revealed to have been a siren all along (turns out her name’s Tuna, yo. She just happens to have really bad hoofwriting), the ponies say something about getting out of bubblegum and the repercussions of such a happenstance—and it doesn’t work.

    At all. It’s not witty, it’s not funny, it’s just forced, and you end up rolling your eyes and never finishing that story [4].


    [4] For rather obvious reasons, I’m not adding links in here. I won’t be talking about any particular story when I say that sometimes people write humor “in a wrong way” because A) that would be really mean on my part, and B) who the hell am I to say who’s writing it wrong and who’s writing it right? I’m talking in broad terms, not pointing fingers. So yeah, I—  

    Oh, come on, don’t give me that look! Listen, I know that your friends’ dads always point out who’s being an idiot and they laugh at them together, but I just think that—yes, I know but—hey! Hey, I won’t tolerate that kind of language in my car!

    Yes, buddy, I know I am not your real father, but I’m the closest thing you’ve got, so you better behave! Now buckle up. We’re going home. No, you won’t get ice-cream today. I don’t think you’ve earned it.


    There’s a reason for this, of course. Mostly, that just surprising the reader is not enough to get humor. You need to subvert the reader’s expectations.

    Now, I know that “subverting expectations” is more or less the same as “surprising” but bear with me for a moment. Nine times out of ten, the difference between a random comedy that works and a random comedy that doesn’t work tends to be about the self-consistency of the story and the expectations it built on the reader.

    Let me explain this in detail:

    Every story has to work on a particular set of rules, and those mandate what can happen and what can’t happen. If you write a horror story, it will follow the rules of a horror story—and likewise, comedy has to follow the rules of comedy. So if a character gets hit in the head with a baseball bat, in a comedy it will be funny and the character will just scream in pain, but in the horror story? Gosh, blood everywhere.

    Now, what can and cannot happen in a story depends completely on what the writer feels. If you think that baseball bats to the head are unrealistic unless there’s a trip to the hospital afterwards, then maybe your comedy will be like that.

    Continuing with physical comedy, as it’s the easier example to explain: MLP:FiM itself has a very cartoonish approach to violence—it’s always slapstick. Even when the M6 fought the changelings in the Royal Wedding it was definitely supposed to be a funny scene, of a sorts.

    In fact, the only two cases of slapstick that had consequences have happened with Rainbow Dash—she was trapped under a rock once, but she didn’t look to be much in pain (it was more about how she was trapped), so it works within the rules of the show. They broke the slapstick norm when Dash ended up staying in the hospital for an injury, but they never showed us how that happened, so our suspension of disbelief didn’t shatter.

    Wait, there might be a third case—Twilight ended up on a wheelchair during the Pinkie Sense episode. But it was funny wheelchair, not tragic wheelchair, so it still counts.

    The whole thing works with almost every type of comedy out there. Once you create the world of the story, even if it’s based on one that the reader already knows (like Equestria) you’re creating a set of rules. Those rules won’t be revealed immediately, but things like the tone or the plot of the story itself certainly make them clear almost on first sight.

    So the first thing you should always try to do when writing a comedy is realize what you can and you can’t do. That’s so easy that almost nobody really thinks about it—unless you’re a robot, chances are you do that subconsciously. But that’s still something that’s going on, and I believe every author should notice it. [5]


    [5] Buddy? Hey, buddy, you awake?

    Look, I know you’re still angry. We both said things we shouldn’t have said, and I just wanted to apologize. Maybe we should make amends and…

    I know it’s hard, buddy. It’s hard for all of us. But… I’m trying. I’m really trying here, and I would be really honored if you did the same.

    I know what it is to lack a father. Trust me, I do. I’ve been in your place before! But you are really lucky, did you know that? You still got your mother. That’s more than most children your age can say!

    You’re a good kid. Look, I know this will take some time, and I won’t force it. I won’t try to replace your dad, because I’m not him. But know that I’ll be there if you need me. We can still be a family, kiddo.


    And inside those rules, you get the expectations that you build. What do I mean with expectations? Well, this is a little more straight-forward.

    If we know that “joking is surprising” is not enough to explain why laughter happens, then we must use a caveat: joking is surprising within some limits. You need to establish a situation with a resolution that should be clear, then do something different.

    The joke works because the reader is expecting one particular resolution, but it doesn’t happen—instead a wild joke appears. It’s a bait-and-switch scenario. It’s not necessary to make it obvious a joke is coming (in fact, that might be pretty bad, depending on the joke) but the reader has to be expecting something.

    That’s why, if the scene is starting and suddenly an anvil falls on the protagonist’s head, it’s really hard to make it funny. The surprise should not be born out of something that comes out of absolutely nowhere, it should come from switching an expected outcome from an unexpected one.

    So the protagonist suffering an anvil-related incident out of the blue is not a good gag. Showing the protagonist carefully putting on a helmet, getting the strongest umbrella in the world, and stepping under a box that says “CAREFUL—DROPPING ANVILS” is a better way to set the joke.

    Then a random passerby shoots him in the stomach. [6]


    [6] Hey, buddy! Didn’t see you there. You getting ready for the big dinner? Yes, you can order whatever you want. But we’re going to a fancy place, so don’t expect a Happy Meal. You can probably get chicken with fries or something, I’m sure.

    Yeah, this is a bowtie. You like it? Nah, it’s not that hard to tie, at least once you get the gist of it—oh, Honey. No, I’m not ready yet. I was talking with the little rascal here! Right? Hahah. Yeah. Nah, I think that dress is better. Oh, no reason to be nervous—they’re just my parents! Sure, they’re a little weird, but I’m sure they’ll give us our blessing.

    Just, uh, don’t bring a gun with you, please? Just to be safe.


    But of course, remember what I said at the very start of this column: the only real rule is that anything goes, as long as you’re able to pull it off. Really good comedians can do whatever they want, and with enough tweaks it works.

    It’s all about practice, really. Sure, you might have a knack for it, or you might have a particular sense of humor that resonates with people, but in the end? Write a lot and you get it. Random humor in particular is hard to master, because its very nature is about being hard to describe. But if it’s self-consistent enough and follows the structure of an actual joke, then it shouldn’t be harder than, say, dialogue-based humor.

    That’s about random humor in particular. But here you have a little bit of advice on general comedy, just to wrap this thing up neatly [7]:


    [7] Uh. Buddy? Is it me, or your mother is looking at my father funny?


    · Pacing is essential for comedy. Usually it tends to be fast, although that’s not mandatory. The timing of a joke is almost as important as the joke itself. It’s less what you say and more when you say it.

    · Likewise, mind the wording of the joke. Presentation is key here, too. The exact same joke can go from merely funny to giggle-worthy with a well-located adjective.

    · There’s a lot to be said about character assassination and its relationship with random comedy. Personally I consider that writing OOC can be justified if it fits the rules of the story and if the joke is funny enough. However, characters acting like themselves should always be the rule, not the exception.

    · A particular brand of joke I find works really well in written form is the Straight Man Scenario. Something ridiculous or funny happens, and then a character reacts to it—usually, the funny bit is the reaction and its contrast to what caused it. On that note, never have the characters laughing at each others’ jokes. The laughs are for the readers, not for them.

    · Related to that: When writing random comedy in particular, I think that having the characters wonder what happened is a must, but they have to underreact. Twilight being confused and saying “wait, no, wait a second, Pinkie, what was that” when Pinkie shoots her Squirray at Celestia, turning her into squirrels, is funny. Twilight never letting that go for the rest of the story is not. If the characters won’t stop commenting just how random everything is, the tone of the fic is of self-congratulation. If the characters are mildly annoyed by the most unpredictable things but they don’t really seem to give a hoot, the joke works better. And God forbid you if you try to solve that issue going meta.

    · Meta jokes are complicated, but to be honest, I don’t think there’s anything intrinsically funny in being meta. Being meta should be the way to tell a joke, not the joke itself. Just breaking the fourth wall is not really funny, unless you have an actual punchline. Same with leaning on the fourth wall, referencing something, trying to break the normal flow of a story with some kind of surreal storytelling technique, or lampshading stuff. [8]


    [8] WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT’S OVER? WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?! I CAN’T BELIEVE THAT YOU—

    WHAT.

    WHAT.

    MY FATHER?! YOU ARE LEAVING ME FOR MY FATHER?! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! THIS ENTIRE THING WAS ALREADY WEIRD ENOUGH, AND THEN YOU GO AND TURN IT INTO FREUD’S BIZARRO NIGHTMARE?!


    · Chris here makes a big fuss about first sentences, and there’s a reason for that—use it to hook the readers, either with a joke or with a killer setup. Assume the readers are going to leave your story if it doesn’t get interesting fast, and the panic will help you write. Or it will make you panic and break down crying—it’s all about tastes, I guess.

    · Mind you, sometimes the reader expects that you will build some expectations, and if you subvert that then you can make an amazing random joke that comes out of the blue. That’s why I said that anything goes earlier. With enough cleverness, even the worst things can be hilarious.

    · Sometimes, comedies have a deeper meaning. A message, a moral—whatever. And sometimes they don’t, and they’re just there to make you laugh. Both are equally worthy of your respect (I said earlier that comedies “should” have a message, but that’s just my opinion because SUBJECTIVENESS HEY WHAT UP). Have in mind, comedy is hard, but it’s probably the least respected genre out there, because people think that “just writing jokes” is funny. I don’t think that’s right.

    · Also, I’d recommend reading comedy before writing comedy, if only to know the typical structures of a joke. TVTropes is the way to go here, as it’s way better than me at explaining it.

    · However, remember to have fun. Comedies written by the book are just boring—you gotta give them some personality, some soul, some pizazz or else it feels like something written by a robot.

    · Puns are the lowest form of wit. Incidentally, they’re also hilarious and you should use them all the time. I’m not kidding. You can tell that by the fact that there’s no pun in this sentence—this is not a joke.

    · The last thing you write is the one they remember the most. Give ‘em a killer ending. Go out with a bang. [9]


    [9] Christ, this is just—ah! Buddy! H-how long have you been there? What have you…?

    Sigh. So, you’ve heard everything, huh? Then I guess… Well, I guess there’s no way around this, is there? Looks like I’m not longer your stepdad. Now I, uh.

    Okay so now I’m your stepbrother. That is intrinsically weird. I mean, it’s just—what? No, I said stepbrother. Stepbrother. No, stepnephews don’t exist. What do you mean, mathematically correct? What are you talking ab—

    Wait.

    What.

    WHAT.

    WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN, YOU’RE GOING OUT WITH MY MOTHER?!


    12 comments · 481 views
Apr
27th
2013

Well, for some reason it's just not advancing the approval queue. It's been there for more than 48 hours now, so... Huh. It's not being denied, it's just that it hasn't been seen yet.

So, eh, I'm going to post the link here, just in case someone wants to, you know, read it. It should go up someday, but till then, I don't want the few readers I have to wait too much.

So, here you go!

LINK TO THE STORY

Report Aragon · 103 views ·
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