1. Member Since 19th Mar, 2012
  2. offline for 5h, 2m


More Blog Posts156

  • Friday
    Commissions, or How to Own Aragón (Ever So Slightly)

    That's right. The title of this blog is not lying.

    You can buy a little Aragón now.

    ...With that, of course, I mean that you can buy a little piece of me, because I POUR MY SOULD AND BLOOD IN EVERY STORY I WRITE. I don't mean you can purchase a miniature spaniard that talks really fast. I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. I know that's been your dream for decades, but science hasn't got that far yet. Give it time.

    So anyway! Have you ever really wanted to see a particular story on the site? Have you thought of something I could -- or should -- write, and for some reason I'm too stupid to think about it myself? Do you enjoy the idea of forcing a handsome person like me to sit down and write, instead of frolicking in the fields alongside a beautiful shepherd who only speaks Old German?

    Then boy, do I have good news for you. You can turn those dreams into a reality now!

    EDIT: Or not. Story commissions closed, people! That was fast. You can still contact me, but unless your story is under 5-4k words, know that it'll be put on the waiting list, and maybe even if they're short enough (you can ask now to have priority for when the current commissions are done, though, I guess). Blogs are negotiable, send me a PM.

    My stories tend to end up on the long side price for stories is going to be 6-7$ per 1,500 words. The price might vary a little depending on the story -- for example, really mature stuff like explicit sex scenes, gore, or whatever might be more expensive, while long stuff might end up being cheaper 'cause you're buying by the bulk -- but that's as temptative a guideline as any. If you want a shorter story, we can talk about it.

    I specialize in comedy, as you might know -- in case you had no idea, have some examples -- and I'm confident that I can write pretty much any kind of humor, from slapstick to satire to dark humor. However, I can also write romance, adventure, drama, and weird experimental stuff.

    So I can write whatever genre you want me to, is what I mean. Mature stuff is absolutely allowed, although I reserve the right to chicken out of something if it's too extreme. Case-to-case thing, though, so don't worry too much about it. Specifics vary.  

    I can also write blog posts. It's come to my attention that some people seem to enjoy my blog posts more than they enjoy my stories (here you have some more examples), so you can commission those too. They are short, entertaining, and easy to read.

    Blogs are easier to write, so the price for blogs is going to be 5$ per 1,000 words. Again, I'm perfectly willing to negotiate the price here. I'm a real gentleman. I also have little knowledge on the field of arithmetics.

    I'm aware that it's hard to categorize what kind of blog you can commission. Really, they rangue from story analysis, to reviews, to funny stories -- and there's also writing advice or tutorials, too. You can ask whatever you want, and I'll find an angle. I personally think the most obvious thing to ask for would be a commentary on a particular genre -- take my Romance blog series, for example -- but in all honesty, anything goes. You can ask for the story of why I'm not allowed at the Buddhist Temple, or why I can't sleep unless I have two pillows and an Italian lady caressing my hair. Take a look at the blog backlog, and you'll see what I mean. I might create a list of possible blogs you want me to write in the future, but this is a huge hypothetical. WE'LL SEE.

    Nothing much to add! Send me a PM with what I want to write and how many words you're expecting, and then we'll start TALKING BUSINESS in a way that will convey MATURITY AND PROFESSIONALITY. I'll also probably DO SOMETHING SILLY, but THERE'S NO WAY TO KNOW.

    NO WAY.

    TO KNOW.

    15 comments · 199 views
  • 2w, 1d
    I Did Ten Situps Before Posting This Blog, 'Cause My Back Did a Fart Noise When Hitting the Ground and It Made Me Giggle

    No, for real -- the title ain't lying. If I arc my back a little when touching the ground after a situp and then let it down slowly, my shirt creates a weird bubble of air and it makes the fartest noise I've heard in my life. It was hilarious.

    Shut up. It's 4 am and I can't sleep. I just heard that due to some bureaucratic mishap I don't have a house near my university yet so I'll be forced to skip the first couple days. Let me enjoy my back farts in peace.

    Oh, and before I forget, quick little thing before the blog starts -- here's a Paypal link, I've got one of those now for if you wanna give me money. In case you're feeling generous, eh? Eh? EH?

    Hey, had to try it.

    Anyway! So, a couple months ago, while I was away in Hungary, a question popped up in the middle of a conversation: "If you were to be paid for writing, Aragón, what is the worst piece you could produce for any sum of money?"

    This sparked a long-winged debate. However, we settled on a consensus, eventually:

    Spike from the future, now an full-fleshed adult dragon, goes back in time.  He kidnaps Rarity when she's just a foal, and then goes to the present and uses baby Rarity as a condom to fuck adult Rarity.

    Of course, now the question was -- would I be able to fucking straightface that, or would I turn it into a comedy, seeing how that shit is the most hilarious prompt I've heard in a while? It definitely sounds like the polished and high-quality prose my readers have come to expect from me, that's for sure.

    Guess we'll never know!

    Story ain't over, mind you. Keep reading, there's no more weird erotically festive prompts under the cut. OR MAYBE THERE ARE. ONLY ONE WAY TO FIND OUT.

    So ages ago, I made a Patreon. No, really, I did. I just never published the page, or link it anywhere, and then I quickly forgot about the project. There are many reasons for this, but one was the most prominent: I had no idea how that shit worked.

    I mean, do you... Like, link your credit card to it? It's that how it works? I get that you sacrifice a goat or whatever to send money to Patreon, but then how does Patreon send me the money? Is there any way to -- okay no, fuck this. That bridge burned long ago. Maybe, if the stars align I might resurrect that project one day, but so far, screw it.

    However, there's a reason why I bring this up: the page was written. I just found the text floating around on a text file in my computer, forgotten. When composing it, I got adviced to "avoid being an idiot about it, son, please. Just. Just try to be serious, for once in your life. Please. It's all I ask you. This money could be of great help, and I just---this is all I ask for. Please. Please take it seriously."

    I did not take it seriously.

    Patreon Milestones that I Wrote.

    5$ Goal: Hard Writing, Smashing the Keyboard.

    What does the name of the milestone mean, you ask? Why, it means that I will write pretty much exactly as fast as I normally write, but HARDER. What does this mean to the average number of stories per month, or blogs per month? Fucking beats me. Chances are they won't change. But the stories themselves? They'll be stronger. Tougher. Meaner. Hair-chested. I assume at least seven explosions per paragraph (and one cuddly kitten to obtain that pussy market).

    15$ Goal: Soft, Gentle Writing; Caressing the Keyboard, Sweetly, Like a Lover.

    My writing speed will not change, but the method will, as I WON'T BE THAT HARD. You catch more flies with honey, so there will be a lot of flowers in the stories, and also talking about feelings and friendship and puppies and chest hair. Won't be taking away the fucking explosions, though.

    Also yadddah yaddah more regular blogs. Whatever. I'll average one story a month. I might also use the fifteen bucks to buy me a speedo, which I'll wear whenever I write. The INCREASED COMFORTABLENESS will surely help the quality of my prose. Also, it'll make it easier to SCRATCH MY BALLS.

    30$ Goal: The Keyboard Feels My Love, And, Smiling, Blushes.

    I blush back at the Keyboard. For a moment that we both fear and hope for, there seems to be a spark in the air between us.

    This is the point where I gotta make my writing more regular, I guess? I already have the speedo, so it wouldn't be that hard. Have you seen those things? They're a dream come true, man.

    Anyway, I was thinking something like a blog every twelve days. Both non-sequiturs and blog series, like the Bad Romance Blogs or Chronicles of My Life: Why I'm Not Allowed at the Buddhist Temple Anymore (I'm Really, Really Sorry, Guys).

    50$ Goal: The Keyboard and I Share Long Walks on the Beach, but Trouble Arises: The Keyboard Has the Same Eyes as My Dead Wife.

    This discovery, the green eyes, shatters me. My dead wife, dear Annabelle, was my only reason to live. Am I ready to move forward?

    Heartache brings inspiration. Blog a week while I woefully ponder my existence, and the nature of love, both present and past. Why, dear Annabelle? Why did you have to leave me? I'll write one story a month at least, I'll try to average two, but will that bring you back to my side?

    Oh, but what is a story to you, Reader? You barely care, there are more important issues at hand. You heard the Keyboard cry yesterday, late at night. You talk to it, but there's no use. It thinks I'll leave it, for no keyboard can live to the memory of dear Annabelle.

    50$ Goal: But I Am Not Afraid to Live Anymore. I Choose New Love: I'm Ready To Get Over Dear Annabelle.

    It's a sunny day. The birds are singing. Spring begins. It's a happy day.

    The keyboard dresses in white, and as you walk it to the altar, you think the smile in its face could rival that of an angel. Then, the Keyboard and I share our bows, and they bring a tear to your eye.

    And even though it might be a trick of the light, for a second, you think you catch a glimpse of dear Annabelle, by my side, smiling. I moved on.

    She can, finally, go to Heaven.

    Three stories a month, around 4k words.

    100$ Goal: The Doctor Looks At Me With A Stern Face.

    "Okay. So, why the hell do you have so many keys stuck to your dick, again?"


    All said, part of the reason why I never posted the Patreon is also the fact that I stopped needing the money that badly. Real life things, you know how it goes -- I got a scholarship and I managed to relax. I feel a little queasy asking for money, to be honest. This is a huge blow to whatever scrap of dignity I have left.

    Then again, I told you how a lampost beat the shit out of me, so what the hell. It's not like you're gonna think less of me at this point.

    Anyway, money is needed again, so I'm opening commissions. I'm willing to write you shit. Blog tomorrow detailing it. AND MAYBE THAT WILL ALSO INCLUDE EROTICALLY FESTIVE PROMPTS FOR FANFICS. ONLY ONE WAY TO KNOW.

    17 comments · 248 views
  • 3w, 5h
    I Went to the Dentist and I Was Sure the Anesthetics Would Do Wonders to my Dignity, and Oh Fucking Shit Was I Right

    There's no fucking way to preface this in a dignified way, so screw it. I'm being upfront.

    I lost a fight against a streetlight last week.

    Now, before you say anything: there’s a story behind this. First of all, the streetlight fought dirty – I wasn’t in a clear state of mind. Second of all, you can hardly blame me, damn it all to hell.

    I had barely slept, because there’s a fucking pigeon nesting on a tree near my window, and the son of a bitch didn’t stop hooting until dawn (I know pigeons don’t hoot, they coo, but this one was hooting, trust me). After confronting it [1] I went to the dentist without having enough breakfast, and then I came back high as hell on anesthetics. I wasn’t thinking straight is what I mean. I have a weak constitution.

    [1] Dramatization of the events that went on at around 7 am, when the sun rose and I realized the bird had kept me awake the whole night:

    Pigeon: HOOT.

    Me: FUCK OFF.

    Pigeon: HOOT.


    Pigeon: HOOT.


    Neighbor: OH MY GOD. SHUT THE FUCK UP.

    Me: WHAT.



    Pigeon: HOOT.


    I’m aware this implies I started off the morning by losing a debate against the most retarded of birds.

    So after this I'm going home, walking in sunshine as you can imagine, and my sister asks me why the long face. I say “Oh don't get me started, it's because of a bird. It wouldn’t let me sleep. I hate that bird so goddamn much.”

    At this point, the streetlight was right next to me. I lean against it as I leer at my sister.

    “See,” I continue, drunken rage in my voice, “I’m gonna fuck that bird up. I’m—I’m gonna fuck it up. I’m gonna go to its tree, right, and then I’m going to go all AAAAARGH.” I turn against the streetlight. “And I will PUNCH IT! LIKE! THIS!”

    Like a bullet shot from the depths of hell, my fist soars through the air, breaking the sound barrier, straight towards the streetlight—

    And I miss.

    The powerful roar turns into a yelp.

    Momentum makes me twirl towards the left.

    My head smashes against the streetlight.

    Really fucking hard.

    Sister: Did you. Did you honestly just. Get beaten up by a—

    Me: NO. DON’T.

    Sister: You lost a fistfight against something with no arms.

    Me: SHUT UP.

    Sister: You’re never living this down. Ever.


    Sister: …We’re just walking out the dentist office. You’re more anesthetics than human at this point. It’s impossible for you to feel any pain.


    Sister: How can you be so clinically bad at life.


    Thanks to that wonderful invention that is Whatsapp all my family knows that a fucking streetlight got the best of me on a – completely unfair – fight. Sister was right, because I'm never living it down. This is it. This is how I will be remembered. THIS IS MY LEGACY.

    And the bird is still hooting next to my window.

    I haven’t slept fully in three days.

    I have another dentist appointment in two days. My sister won’t be here to take care of me after the procedure.

    I’m afraid I might get mugged by a mailbox on my way home.

    31 comments · 416 views
  • 4w, 4d
    Oh My Fucking God

    I have a dentist appointment tomorrow. I gotta get up early to get my wisdom teeth removed.


    Holy SHIT I had no idea I was afraid of dentists, but I apparently am. It's 3 AM. Less than five hours to sleep. There's an owl hooting by my window. I hate this fucking owl. What the fuck is it hooting to. GO HUNT SOME MICE YOU FLYING CUNT. LET ME SLEEP.

    Oh god I'm gonna have nightmares aren't I. Fuck me why couldn't I be born with perfect teeth.

    Wait that's not an owl. That's a. A pigeon?

    What the everloving sweet fuck ass-backwards double-dipped banana is a pigeon doing at 3 am hooting like a dog bit its bird dick. God damn it.

    Christ almighty I'm not gonna sleep am I. Fuck. Fuuuuck. Do I need to be well-rested before getting anesthesiated?

    I'm gonna fall asleep as they go through my mouth, aren't I.


    Okay uh. Guys. Distract me. Comment with something funny, or, or some silly picture. Go read my new story -- it's about clever stuff and it talks about a chimpanzee playing the bagpipe -- and comment there, or start drama, or GOD FUCKING SHIT I'M TERRIFIED.




    And I'm weak to anesthesics. Tomorrow I'll be high as your dad when I put cocaine on my cock. Cockaine. Oh fucking lord I'm panicking so hard.

    36 comments · 296 views
  • 7w, 5d
    An Overwatch Fic, By Someone Who Doesn't Know Shit About Overwatch

    “Widowmaker? Can I… ask you a question?”

    Reaper’s voice was soft like a pillow being fucked by a Rottweiler, but it still echoed through the empty corridors of Schoolverwatch.

    Widowmaker’s answer came as fast as a French man. “Non. Fuck offé.”

    “Do you think that… If you still had feelings…” Reaper gulped. “Do you think we could be friends?”

    This made Widowmaker actually turn around and look at Reaper. More than that: she actually regarded him. Nobody ever regarded Reaper, out of fear of turning retarded.

    There was something different about him today. True, his owl-skull mask and black longcoat looked as emasculating as ever—but there was something else. Under all that macho bravado, there was clearly a scared child, desperately looking for some kind of human contact.

    Widowmaker had no feelings, but she was still a sexy French lady—and all sexy French ladies knew how to say exactly what men wanted to hear.

    “What le cheesefucké are you talking about.”

    “Oh, I-I just… wanted to know. You know?”


    Reaper’s face couldn’t be seen under his whole Reaper Gear, but Widowmaker could tell he was trying to smile, because he looked sadder than usual. “Well,” he said. “I’ve been having a bad day, and I think this is something I need to hear. You see…”

    The sun shone brightly in the sky, that morning, as Reaper walked towards Schoolverwatch. Really brightly. Really really brightly.

    It made Reaper think about his life, this kind of day.

    Adulthood had never been easy on him, oh no. From the day he’d arrived to Schoolverwatch, he had been shunned away by the rest of the students; doubtlessly, because his mysterious and brooding figure inspired fear as well as awe. Only Widowmaker, the woman with no feelings, felt like hanging around with him now and then—and only if he paid for all her stuff.

    And with the sun shining this much, and with all those groups of happy students going to class together around him, it was really apparent just how lonely Reaper really was. But it was his burden to carry: he who donned the heavy coat, donned the heavy solit—oh God he was so alone oh Jesus Christ why was his life like this what had he done to deserve this.

    “Holy shit, it’s like forty-three degrees in here.” From behind him, Reaper could hear Reindhart’s deep baritone. “This is insane. I’m sweating like a—”


    Ah. Of course. Wherever Reindhart was, Soldier 76 followed. Reaper slowed down a little, till he was walking side by side with the other two men. If he tried really hard, he could imagine that they were friends and he wasn’t so goddamn—

    “What? Oh, shit, Celsius. Yes, yes, I know, I was just…” Reindhart pointed. “I was just reading that, y’see, the thermometer on that sign says—”


    “…Says nothing, ‘cause you just shot it. Fuckin’ell.”

    Soldier 76 managed to sound red, white, and blue when he talked. “I REFUSE TO READ ANY SINGS.

    Reindhart waved a hand. “For Future-Christ’s sake, I know.”


    “Still pretty fucking hot, if you ask me.” Reindhart noticed Reaper, then, and almost on instinct he got away from him. “Oh. It’s you. Are you seriously dressing like that in this weather? Holy shit, you’re dripping. Your mask is all wet. You’re gonna die in there, Reaper.”


    Then, Reindhart blinked, and squinted at Reaper. “Wait a minute. That’s not sweat dripping from your mask.”


    “Fuckin’ell. Reaper, are you…? Are you crying?


    Reaper almost managed to whimper back a reply. Almost.

    But then they turned a corner, and she appeared.

    Hana “D.Va” ApparentlyNotJapanese, the hottest, greatest, smartest girl in Schoolverwatch. She was short and slim and smelled like Doritos and sweat. Her hair, both on her head and over her upper lip, was smooth and silky. She walked with the grace of someone who masturbates to anime figurines.

    And she was Reaper’s dream girl.

    She played videogames, too. That’s right: a true gamer girl, straight out of the Old Myths! Rumors say she played real games—like Hatred, or maybe Call of Duty—and not just vagina games—The Sims, Tetris—but Reaper could not be fooled. He’d read enough about women to deem himself an expert, and such a thing was impossible.

    Still, a nerdy girl.  It would be so amazing, if they were together. She would surely listen to everything Reaper had to say, and she would love how cool Reaper was, and she would kiss him and hug him and tell him how much she loved him, and he would be the best boyfriend ever, because he was a true gentleman and knew how to treat a lady and—

    “Look’at her go,” Reindhart howled, and he brought Reaper back to reality. “Boy, before coming to this school, I’d never imagined women chicks could be neckbeards. You heard the rumors?”


    “No, not that. I’m talking about the Prom thing.”


    Reaper felt his heart jump in his chest.

    The Prom, indeed. He also approved of the Prom. He had been doing nothing but approve of the Prom since the day he heard of it. The picture of him and D.va dancing together in cool black leather clothes was all he could dream of before crying himself to sleep.

    Dancing slowly, carefully, yes. And she would have a corset, and she would press herself against his chest, and then she would lean towards him and close her eyes and—

    “What? You wanna go to the Prom?” Reindhart asked. “You got a chick to bring there or…?”


    A moment of silence.

    “The robot ninja?”


    “And the robot ninja.”




    “Sure, buddy.” Reindhart patted Soldier 76 on the back. “Sure he is. But I’m, talking about D.Va here. Apparently...” and Reaper could swear Reindhart paused and winked at him here, “…someone is inviting her to the Prom today.”


    “Nein. And she probably heard the rumors, too. I mean, she looks happy, moustache floating majestically in the wind and all that.”

    It was at this moment that Reaper felt he knew what he had to do.

    Sometimes, Destiny calls us. Sometimes even the greatest man must make a choice, and answer to the Call.

    Reaper was a cool guy, melancholic and sad, but also dangerous and deadly. He was not one to invite girls to the Prom—he was to be feared, to appear uninvited and steal the hearts of all women in the hall while doing so.

    Plus, talking with D.Va made him sweaty.

    So till this very moment, his plans on Prom Night had been pretty much stay at home and watch Sonic the Hedgehog tribute videos to dull the pain. But maybe that wasn’t the only option.

    Maybe he could dare to hope.

    Something changed in Reaper, that moment. Reindhart had clearly sent him a sign here, telling him to not be scared, nudging him in the right direction. Maybe he’d found about his crush, somehow.

    And maybe they believed in him. Maybe he could be like them, like the people who had friends, and parties, and dates. Maybe this was the day.

    Never mind the sweat—he was sweating, yes, but it was pretty hot anyway, so it wouldn’t look suspicious. And never mind his cool and quiet nature, which could easily be mistaken by crippling shyness. He would manage to speak without stuttering, if he really tried.

    D.Va was in front of him.

    D.Va was going to get a date.

    D.Va was going to get him as a date.

    For the first time in what felt like years, Reaper smiled. He took a step towards D.Va. He opened his mouth, ready to call her name…

    And a green blur passed him and stopped right next to D.Va.

    “Hey, Hana!”

    “Oh! L-Lúcio!” The blush made her cuter. “Fancy meeting you here!”

    “Hahah, right? Hey, how you doing? Everything good?”

    “Yeah! Y-yeah, of course!” She was playing with her hair now. “I, uh. I’m great! What about you?”

    “Peachy as always!” Lúcio shot D.va a million dollar smile. “Hey, wanna go to the Prom together? It will be fun!”

    D.Va almost tripped, and Lúcio had to make sure she didn’t fall down. “T-the Prom? With… With me?”


    “I…” And she shot him back the smile. “I’d love to.”


    And they fastened their pace, and soon there was almost fifty meters between Reaper and D.Va and Lúcio.

    Then, Reindhart patted Soldier 76 on the back once more. “See? Told you. People were saying Lúcio would do that. He’s such a cool guy.”


    “I know, right? If anything else had asked her out of pity, it would’ve been pathetic. But with Lúcio? I don’t know, I just think it’s great for him to bite the bullet. It feels like he did something really selfless right there. Wish she doesn’t scratch her crotch while dancing, though.” A pause. “Or at least that she doesn’t smell her fingers afterwards.”

    “Hahah!” Another green blur, and suddenly Lúcio was back there with them. “Hello there, Reindhart, Soldier! Did I just hear my name?”

    “Yeah, we saw what you did with D.Va there.” Reindhart gave him a thumbs-up. “You’re a good person, Lúcio.”


    “Aw. I’m sure that’s, uh, that’s a compliment, coming from you, Soldier.” Lúcio crossed his arms. “I just… Don’t be mean to D.Va, okay? I really wanted her to go to the Prom with me. This is not me trying to—”

    “Yes, yes, we know. Future-Jesus, you’re so cool, Lúcio. Anybody else, and that would have been the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.” And then, an evil spark—perhaps hinting at his German nature—appeared on Reindhart’s eye, and he pointed at Reaper, still walking in silence near them. “Of course, that’s a heavy thing to say, this guy existing and all.”

    “Oh! Reaper!” Lúcio blinked, then smiled at Reaper as if nothing had happened and then he put an arm around his shoulders. “Yikes, I didn’t see you, buddy! You sure are silent, huh? That’s so cool! So what’s up? Anything new? Anything I can help with?”

    He sounded completely honest. Completely, absolutely honest. He really wanted to know about Reaper’s day, and if he could help with something.

    He was the closest thing to a friend Reaper would ever have.

    There was a pause.

    Reaper ran away, crying.

    “I… I just thought, you know.” Reaper fiddled with his HELLFIRE SHOTGUNS. He’d created the weapons himself, in his basement, and they were extremely cool. “That, that maybe, as we hang out together now and then, that maybe we are friends and…”

    His words petered out into silence.

    Widowmaker looked at him. She looked at him hard.

    They hung out together now and then, all right. And there was a reason why.

    It had been three months ago, that Lúcio had given her the money.

    “Just, try to hang out with him now and then?” he said. “Give him someone to talk to? I think he doesn’t like me, but I believe he might be a good guy, if he’s given the chance.”

    Widowmaker looked at Lúcio. Then, she looked at the money.

    “I have no feelings,” she explained. “I can not give a fucké.”

    “Yeah, that’s… I mean, you won’t feel as disgusted by him as the rest. That’s why I’m asking you.” Lúcio bit his lip. His voice was sincere. “Please? I just hate seeing Reaper like that. Poor thing is so alone.”

    “I still can not give a fucké.”

    Lúcio sighed. “So you won’t take the money? Not even from me?”

    There was a slight pause.

    Widowmaker snapped the bills from Lúcio’s hand. “I expect a monthly fee.”

    Would they be friends, if Widowmaker had feelings? She thought about it. She wondered if Reaper wanted the truth, or a comfortable lie.

    She wondered if she cared.

    She found an answer.

    Softly, silently, she leaned towards Reaper. And when she talked, her accent was thicker than ever.

    “Non. Fuck offé.”

    And the sound of her high heels against the grounds echoed through the empty corridors of Schoolverwatch as she walked away.

    23 comments · 621 views
  • 10w, 6d
    Please Ignore Your Broken Window; I'm Writing a Review

    A review? “How strange!” you might think. I only know Aragón for one thing—sneaking in my house uninvited and eating all my food—and that has nothing to do with reviewing! Well, that’s a wonderful thing to say, my dear. Put down that telephone, please? I cut the line anyway, so it’s not like you’re gonna contact the police even if you try.

    Thank you! Anyway—it’s always hard for me to review stuff, because I tend to be really excited when I like things. I can’t really explain why I love Indiana Jones so much, y’see, I’m busy using this belt as a whip and punching the closest thing to a Nazi I can find, which just so happens to be your wife. As such, it takes a toll to actually stay still, calm down, take a deep breath, and articulate why I—

    Oh? Oh, I hid your wife under the sofa. Yeah. Well, I think she was unconscious, but, I mean, if she wasn’t then she sure is now. One heavy sofa you’ve got there, I gotta say. No, I wouldn’t really move it if I were you, actually. I heard something go “crack” a while ago, and—eeeexactly.

    See, I said it takes me a lot to review stuff, but I do it when it’s needed. If I can help the author by doing so (and if I’m allowed to be completely honest, I guess) then what the hell, I’mma do just that, don’t you think?

    Hence, I’m reviewing something that you probably haven’t read, what with the majority of mankind not knowing of it. Shame, if you ask me, but I’m going to review it with that in mind, so think less spoilers and more impressions to build hype and discuss literature in general. I’ll be talking about a little indie sci-fi book named Company Town, by one Edward Pink. You might know him as Chuckfinley here in Fimfiction.

    Neat, huh? One smart cookie we’ve got there, writing books and all while we’re all distracted with our unconscious wives. Okay yeah I see you’re going to call the police now no matter what I say, so just go ahead. Here, take my phone. Ask for Sergeant Molly to come, if you don’t mind? She’s sweet on me, so she won’t beat me up so hard.

    What? You aren’t calling the police? Woah! Thank you very much! I knew you were a nice person—I’ve always got a good eye for people. I really should come rob your house more often, but what can I say? Your wife scares me. There’s Nazi-looking, and then there’s Nazi-looking.

    So, seeing how the cops won’t come to brutalize me, let’s talk indie sci-fi! Wanna sit down to…? Oh. Oh, right, yeah. Crushed wife, better not. Let’s walk around the house then.

    Nice kitchen, I dig the curtains. Oh, no, no! No need to offer me a cup of tea, thank you! I already swallowed all the bags when I raided it and all. Yeah, while you were sleeping. Wasn’t that yummy, not gonna lie—I can’t for the life of me stand chamomile tea. It tastes like lava.


    I heard of Company Town from the author itself, when he blogged about it and explained that “Edward Pink” is not his real name either, which is probably the most indie thing you can do without being a white girl with a guitar and a so-so singing voice.

    Not much to say about the book’s presentation, I guess. It’s just a book you read on Kindle, which is a thing I’d never used—but it has a free app for your PC and it’s easy to use, so I can’t really complain, I’d say. I spent around half an hour trying to download the thing, though, but that’s more because I’m bad with computers.

    I mean, turns out you gotta log in Amazon to buy stuff. I had no idea. I legitimately thought it sorta was like, I don’t know, like when you buy bus tickets or something. No, I’d never bought anything over Amazon before. No. Yes, I know. No, I’m not sixty-seven years old. Yes, I am slightly idiotic. Anyway, it took me a while to realize this, and once I was logged in the sodding website asked me about my address, and as I was trying to buy a digital book, I assumed I had messed up somewhere, so I closed the tab and…

    …yeah I had to, uh, to ask for help to do this. They didn’t laugh at me too much though, so there’s that. It’s surprisingly easy to buy the books once you know how to do so, however—you log in, you put your info in there, and then the book is sent to your Kindle account. In case you don’t have a Kindle, you just download the free app, open it, and voilá! Book is there.

    Amazon should really give you a goddamn .PDF file.

    Nah, I don’t mind if we take a walk, being in the kitchen is dumb if we can’t have a drink. Upstairs? Uh, sure I guess.

    So now, to the book itself—Company Town is indeed a sci-fi book, and Chuckfinley really knows about sci-fi. You don’t need to know anything about the genre to like it? But I’ll say, and this is important so listen up because it’ll come up later, I’ll say that he’s clearly aiming for a pulp angle, a pulp feeling to the whole thing.

    This is hardly a surprise if you’re familiar with the author’s work, but as it stays, I’d really say Company Town works as an introduction to pulp if you don’t know the genre, or as a celebration of it, if you’re already familiar with it. The pulp inspiration never really takes the spotlight, however—it serves to tell the story, but the plot is what matters the most, and the book doesn’t seem to be afraid of dropping the standards of the genre to try to make the most of every moment.

    Man, these are a lot of stairs. Oh, the plot? Yeah, I haven’t really said what the plot is about yet, that with all the talk about genres and celebrations. Well, it follows Detective Clay, a standard pulp not-by-the-books detective—not noir, though, don’t expect long monologues from her—who is tasked with what sounds like an impossible case.

    Sounds like, because it kind of is. The world is falling apart around her after something destroyed FTL travel, most AIs and computers if not all, and overall anything that’s remotely technologic. Society is kind of destroying itself because you try to take Iphones away from us now and see how long we last, and so Clay gets her assignment:

    She has to catch a dangerous criminal. But nobody knows who that person is, how does that person look, what’s their gender, what’s their age, what’s their race, what’s their nothing. And anybody who’s ever known about said person is either dead or amnesiac. There, Clay. Go and find this thing, you’ve got sixteen hours or you’re dead, bye-bye.  

    And Clay goes hahahah f—uh. Um. Excuse me, but this room is…? I mean, it kind of looks like, you know. Oh? Oh, your daughters? This is their room?

    Ah. So they’re named Sylvia and Sonia, then? Beautiful names, beautiful names. It’s just, ah, with your wife looking the way she looks, don’t you think writing their initials on the door like that is kind of…?

    No? It’s just my imagination? Okay, if you say so. It’s just that it looks sorta weird, sorry.

    Anyway. So that’s the hook of the book, which is fairly good and fairly standard for pulp fiction—impossible mission, smart hero who doesn’t play by your daddy’s rules, and of course, there’s a twist at the ending.

    This twist is what convinced me to review the book? But to be honest, all that came before sure planted the reviewing seed in my womb before it.

    The thing is, literature is hard as it is, but immersive literature is harder. Company Town is not perfect—the start feels too sudden, almost rushed, and feels oddly rougher than the rest of the book. The ending brings closure, but the very last scene could have used a little more fleshing out to really hammer it home—but what it does well, it does extremely well.

    If I’m bringing this out, it’s obviously because—Wait, this is your room? This? Huh. That’s… that’s a lot of swastikas. That’s a lot of swastikas. Wow, that one’s signed? That must have been expensive! Hahah. Hm.

    Neat portrait, I suppose. Really brings out the, uh, the tiny mustache. I…

    Okay, I need to ask. Is this a sex thing? I can’t tell if this is your actual ideology or just a sex thing. I wonder if this being just a fetish is better or worse, morally speaking, though. Now, that’s a question for the ages, eh?

    Woah! I’d never seen a bedroom with a hidden staircase. Sure, I don’t mind going first, hand me the torch. Hahah. This feels like a dungeon! I’m having so much fun. I really love the hospitality of this part of the city. Way better than the people in the suburbs, am I right? They’re so coldhearted.

    Anyway, so Company Town again.

    Immersion is the name of the game, because when you get to it, sci-fi is all about that. Worldbuilding is outright mandatory when detailing a completely different world. But Company Town is about the character’s mission, not a sorry excuse to gush about the planet the author invented.

    So the world, while fully fleshed out, is presented to us at an organic way. Everything is perfectly planned out—I wouldn’t be surprised if Edward Pink had planned the entire sewer system of the planet, judging by the amount of detail the book throws at you now and then—but it’s never sluggish, because everything is introduced when it needs to be introduced.

    Nothing is unnecessary, is what I mean. It all feels tight, like part of a bigger picture. The reader discovers how this particular part of the Police Department works, and the tidbits of exposition we get are succinct and fall naturally into the narrative.

    The reader feels that the world is alive and breathing, but not that the author is trying to dunk our face in his bathtub, so as to say. We immerse ourselves instead of drowning in needlessly convoluted prose.

    Here’s where the twist comes in, by the way.

    Because, so far—okay wow, this is a dungeon, no kidding. What’re those shackles for?

    What, me?

    To the wall?


    Well, okay. But the surprise better be worth it!

    Anyway—so far, in the book, the reader just follows the narrative, because the adventures of Clay are actually rather fun. It’s sci-fi detective work, which is always a pleasure, and it has all the ingredients for a good fun adventure: red herrings, investigations, foreshadowing, quick pace, neat dialogue, lots of legwork. Clay is a smart lady, and it’s a joy to follow her.

    But the world is in the background, covering it all like a cozy blanket, and that really helps to suck you in. And the book knows this! I won’t give away the twist, but it works both as an in-story twist and as a meta twist.

    It takes your expectations and plays with it, you see. This is what, in my book, elevates Company Town from merely an entertaining book to something that you have to read.

    Because you look at it and see it for what it is: a short story with a clear pulp inspiration. Remember that? I said that was important. So you go on with that, but then the twist comes, and turns out the book has been in the same ride as you from the very beginning.

    I can’t really say anything else without spoiling it, and I won’t do that to you. It’s not a fourth wall thing, in case you’re fearing that—I can see it in your eyes!—nor is it something that requires you to be genre-savy. It’s the kind of twist that, if you’re somewhat experienced in this kind of book, will throw you out for a loop. And if you aren’t? It’ll throw you out for two of those. The story is perfectly self-aware, but in a subtle way, so you don’t realize it’s self-aware till you’re done.

    And then you close the book, frown, and go “damn. Damn!”

    I couldn’t stop grinning for the last fifteen pages or so, when everything unfolds.

    So that’s why I’m reviewing it! I usually don’t do that, but the book is indie as hell—it won’t be known unless people talk about it—it’s short, it’s cheap, and it’s available on Amazon. I can’t force you to buy it, but I sure did buy it myself, and I don’t regret it.

    Don’t judge by the first scene, though. As I said, it feels oddly rushed. Company Town isn’t perfect. But it’s the best short sci-fi pulp story I’ve read in over two years, and I read a lot of those every month.

    That’s my humble opinion, and—what? Why would I scream for help? Especially if you say nobody would hear me. I mean, it sounds counterintuitive. Congratulation on the insulation, though, if that’s true. An entire dungeon that’s soundproof? That has to be useful!

    I gotta say, though, these shackles aren’t really comfortable. Does it need to be so tight around my wrists? I can’t move.

    Oh, hey. What’s that knife for?

    10 comments · 363 views
  • 14w, 4d
    So That Was a Thing; Back to Work

    11 comments · 441 views
  • 15w, 1d
    Stream Goes Live!

    EDIT: It's over! You can watch it fully in the same link, I think. Now I'm off to sleep. God I'm beaten.

    So, you can see my beautiful face in here.

    Once it's done, I'll make a recap of it or whatever. Join us and ask questions! Or ask me to go fuck myself. With a question! The possibilities are endless!

    14 comments · 307 views
  • 18w, 5d
    On the Subject of Being Cool

    43 comments · 743 views
  • 20w, 6d
    I Found a Fetish Porn Comics Website and I Fucking Mistook It for a Safe Website, and It Took Me Way Too Goddamn Long to Realize My Mistake

    God dammit.

    I'm not good at romance, but just.

    God dammit. God fucking dammit.

    This is a thing that actually happened and it honestly took me over two hours to realize that something was amiss. I spent two hours reading the weirdest goddamn fetish porn shit ever. The following is the conversation in which I realized what was going on.

    It's been edited to make it more readable, and to add a little more content? (And to censor some bits, like how I don't call MrNumbers "MrNumbers" in Skype -- I use an incredibly hilarious pun with his real name instead) But it's very much based on reality.

    Starts slow. Sadly, it didn't stay that way.

    Extremely safe for work, worry not. However, it's safe for work in the most horrible of ways.

    Aragón: uh

    Aragón: so

    Aragón: numbers

    Aragón: mr numbers

    Aragón: are you there

    MrNumbers: No.

    Aragón: I need to share this with you

    MrNumbers: Fuck off.

    MrNumbers: <3

    Aragón: okay so you know how I read lesbian comics, right

    Aragón: like that’s a thing that I just

    Aragón: do

    Aragón: like in my free time

    MrNumbers: Yes. Yes, I’m aware of your hobbies.

    Aragón: I call them lesbian comics ‘cause they’re comics about lesbians

    MrNumbers: …Yes. I’m also aware of that.

    Aragón: well I was reading this lesbian comic, right

    Aragón: and it started cute

    Aragón: and then it got

    Aragón: uh

    MrNumbers: It got lesbian?

    MrNumbers: They tend to do that.

    Aragón: no it

    Aragón: it got

    Aragón: it got fucking weird.

    Aragón: like it starts with two girls just hitting it out right

    Aragón: a la hahahah we’re lesbians having a fun time just here laughing because we’re gay, which is a pun that works in many levels

    Aragón: but then they get, like, steamy right

    Aragón: a la hahahah we’re lesbians having a fun time let’s

    MrNumbers: Okay, let me stop you right there. Question:

    MrNumbers: Is this porn?

    MrNumbers: Are you reviewing porn all over me now?

    Aragón: no, no, that’s—that’s the weird thing, dude. I don’t read porn, I read cute shit, and this is Hello Kitty levels of safe vanilla stuff

    Aragón: I specifically seek out the SFW tag

    Aragón: and as the comic goes on, it’s perfectly normal

    Aragón: but then suddenly one of the girls suffers a fucking aneurism or some shit

    Aragón: and then she

    Aragón: licks the other girl’s tears

    Aragón: like outta fucking nowhere

    MrNumbers: What.

    Aragón: and it’s drawn in this extremely detailed way and it totally feels like a money shot in a porno or some shit



    MrNumbers: What the fuck.


    Aragón: [[url=http://d]http://d[/url][REDACTED_FOR_YOUR_SAKE]#5]

    MrNumbers: HAHAHAHA

    MrNumbers: HAAHAHAH

    MrNumbers: Oh god.

    MrNumbers: Why is your taste

    MrNumbers: So terrible.

    MrNumbers: Why do you have this.

    MrNumbers: What the fuck.

    Aragón: I’m in a bad mood okay

    Aragón: so I said

    Aragón: fuck it

    Aragón: lesbian comics

    Aragón: this one works

    Aragón: and then I find this

    Aragón: and I'm like okay

    Aragón: that is not what I was looking for at all

    MrNumbers: I propose a completely different reading:

    MrNumbers: This is exactly what you were looking for.

    Aragón: yeah so anyway I’m livereading the next one now

    MrNumbers: By all means, do so.

    Aragón: neato peato

    Aragón: okay then

    Aragón: so two friends (platonic so far, but heavily shipped, implied to be in love) quarrel

    MrNumbers: Okay.



    MrNumbers: …

    MrNumbers: Excuse me?

    Aragón: yeah no

    Aragón: no context

    Aragón: they just fucking do that

    MrNumbers: They fight.

    Aragón: yes

    MrNumbers: In sexy swimsuits? Well, I see the appeal.

    Aragón: wait now they're making out

    Aragón: Christ how is this so fucking japanese


    Aragón: now they're making out again

    Aragón: random boob shot

    MrNumbers: Dude why do you read this shit.

    Aragón: why was that there tho

    Aragón: that’s what I wonder

    Aragón: like

    Aragón: aren't they around fourteen or so

    MrNumbers: Is this a Japanese comic?

    Aragón: yes

    MrNumbers: An Indie Japanese comic?

    Aragón: you gotta get your lesbians somewhere

    MrNumbers: Then why are you even surprised? It’s weird that you didn’t get a boobshot earlier rather.

    Aragón: this is catered to little girls!

    MrNumbers: The indie lesbian semipornographic Japanese comic.

    MrNumbers: Is catering to little girls?

    Aragón: yes

    Aragón: because it’s cute

    Aragón: that’s how this works right

    MrNumbers: You’re adorable sometimes.

    Aragón: OH MY GOD

    Aragón: DUDE


    MrNumbers: Weren’t they sumo wrestling?



    MrNumbers: So like your mother whenever you open your mouth in public?

    Aragón: YES

    Aragón: SO ANYWAY



    Aragón: WALKS IN

    Aragón: LEANS OVER




    MrNumbers: What.

    Aragón: WHAT

    MrNumbers: No, seriously, what?

    Aragón: I HAVE NO IDEA



    Aragón: ah

    Aragón: nah they don’t explain shit

    Aragón: now they're making out

    MrNumbers: Is

    MrNumbers: Is the toothbrush still there?

    Aragón: yeah

    Aragón: of course

    Aragón: random boobshot

    Aragón: I'm starting to find a pattern here

    Aragón: they keep making out

    Aragón: I think the artist forgot to draw the toothbrush here

    Aragón: that or they just fucking swallowed it

    Aragón: ‘cause holy shit they’re really trying to eat each other here

    MrNumbers: I’m trying to picture the author’s thought process as they were drawing this.

    MrNumbers: I keep coming up short.

    MrNumbers: I mean, what is this?

    MrNumbers: Some kind of weirdly specific dental hygiene denial fetish porn?

    Aragón: it’s not porn! it’s tagged SFW!

    MrNumbers: Pretty fucking sure that ship sailed by the third boobshot, dude

    Aragón: for little girls!

    MrNumbers: Dude.

    MrNumbers: Just.

    MrNumbers: Okay, you know what?

    MrNumbers: Just—never have children.

    MrNumbers: Easier to do that than to explain anything to you.

    Aragón: wait

    Aragón: okay this is

    Aragón: so one of them talked right

    Aragón: up until now there’s been little dialogue—mostly just hmpfs and aaahs and grunting. Kids like that shit apparently

    MrNumbers: No, seriously, never in your life go near a vagina, dude.

    Aragón: an then after the furious make-out that preceded the last boobshot

    Aragón: Girl 2 goes and says

    Aragón: "It was an accident! My foot slipped!"

    Aragón: and like, okay

    Aragón: what exactly was an accident here

    Aragón: 'cause darling you bit one toothbrush in half (WHILE THE OTHER WAS STILL HOLDING IT IN HER MOUTH WHAT THE FUCK) and then you just furiously make out

    Aragón: and then it's just

    Aragón: oh no it was an accident hahah

    Aragón: what happened

    Aragón: is this normal

    Aragón: is this how lesbians work

    Aragón: is this like

    Aragón: their version of farting

    Aragón: like we go oh shit hahah sorry dude I let that one rip and now this stinks

    Aragón: do lesbians just go oh whoopsie I think I just swallowed your toothpaste and then licked your tonsils.

    MrNumbers: And the tears.

    MrNumbers: Don’t forget the tears.

    Aragón: but of course

    Aragón: seriously what the fuck is going on

    Aragón: they’re trying to be cute now

    Aragón: like “I-I didn’t mean to do this” and shit

    Aragón: they’re going fucking tsundere on my ass

    Aragón: are you shitting me

    Aragón: I hate tsundere so much

    MrNumbers: Yeah, I know. You made that clear long ago.

    Aragón: also now they're making out again

    MrNumbers: What?

    MrNumbers: Weren’t they, like, doing the “I don’t really like you” routine?

    Aragón: they were but I think the artist got bored

    Aragón: so now they’re making out again

    Aragón: oh

    Aragón: toothbrush breaker smells toothbrush breakée's boobs

    Aragón: that also counts as a random boobshot, I think, but emphasis is drawn upon the smelling action, not the boobage

    MrNumbers: You mean she, like, motorboards her and then sniffs, or…?

    Aragón: no no that’s

    Aragón: she’s like

    Aragón: toothbrush breaker is inserting a fucking nipple in her right nostril dude

    MrNumbers: Oh.

    Aragón: snorting that shit

    Aragón: scarface ain’t got shit on this

    MrNumbers: Why are you reading this again?

    Aragón: because it’s not porn

    Aragón: it’s cute lesbian comics

    Aragón: now they make out again

    Aragón: the end

    Aragón: …

    Aragón: boy

    MrNumbers: That was a trip.

    Aragón: that was a fucking journey

    Aragón: I think this is officially my most favorite comic ever now

    MrNumbers: Mind giving me the link? I want to read this out loud to my MsNumbers

    Aragón: may I ask why

    MrNumbers: So we can both laugh at you.

    MrNumbers: This is fetish porn you dumbass.

    Aragón: are

    Aragón: are you sure

    MrNumbers: Look, instead of doubting me?

    MrNumbers: Go read the next comic.

    Aragón: okay

    MrNumbers: Tell me how it stars.

    Aragón: a girl tells her girlfriend she’s sweaty and couldn’t get a shower

    Aragón: girlfriend wants to lick said girl’s armpit because she says that’s what love is

    Aragón: …

    Aragón: FUCK

    MrNumbers: There you have it.

    Aragón: FUCK ME

    MrNumbers: The moment we were all waiting for.

    Aragón: DUDE I’VE





    MrNumbers: You’re literally the only person I know who would ever have this problem.

    Aragón: WHY


    MrNumbers: I’m dying to see what Google Ads thinks of you now.

    Aragón: I’M A DEGENERATE



    MrNumbers: Yeah, see, next time your mother walks away from you in shame?

    MrNumbers: Next time she does that?

    MrNumbers: This is why.

    MrNumbers: This is why that happens.

    MrNumbers: …

    MrNumbers: …Hello?

    MrNumbers: Oh my God you’re still reading.


    Aragón: AND I’LL BE CLEAN

    Aragón: I’LL BE CLEAN

    Aragón: first page: “I want to see my girlfriend be fucked by a dog”

    Aragón: GOD FUCKING DA—

    43 comments · 1,065 views
  • 21w, 5d
    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.


    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!


    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!


    Part two? The most important bits are —


    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!


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


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

    Gotta love that symmetry. Next!


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


    Doing what? Telling the future?


    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!


    Don’t be Chinese. Next.


    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.


    You will fuck a goat.

    Wait, wha—


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


    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—


    —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—


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






    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!


    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…

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




    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.


    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…






    GOD D—UGH!




    The Horoscope Section

    Guitar riff




    33 comments · 546 views
  • 24w, 4h
    "Hell is Empty": Another Mistake To Avoid When Writing Romance

    Audio version, by Imrix.

    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.


    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”.

    19 comments · 901 views
  • 24w, 5d
    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!”


    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?”


    “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.”



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


    “Punch me in the wh—GNERGH!


    “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!”


    “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!


    “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?”


    “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?”


    “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.”



    “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—”


    Pinkie went flying.


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



    Then the closet toppled down, trapping her inside.


    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—


    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—


    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!”



    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!”


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


    Another chair.


    The remains of the closet.


    All the pans and pots on the shelves.


    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—”



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


    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?”





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


    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.



    “And then you did it again!”



    “And then some more.”

























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

    “No, no, no, this is important!”





























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

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













    Lyra stared at Pinkie. “Done?”

    “One more!”



    “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.


    Pinkie kicked the faucet off the wall.



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



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


    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—”


    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.




    “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?”


    “Amnesia really doesn’t work that way.”


    Pinkie blinked. “It doesn’t?”



    “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…?”



    More silence.

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

    “You so are.”



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


    She grinned at the twinkle of light.

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

    20 comments · 491 views
  • 26w, 6d
    ...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?


    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 · 419 views
  • 28w, 4d
    So Did I Put My Money Where My Mouth Is?

    4 comments · 367 views
  • 31w, 6d
    Ten Outta Ten

    19 comments · 1,007 views
  • 32w, 6d
    "It Feels Rapier than ever" -- Another Horrible Mistake To Avoid When Writing Romance

    Audio version by Imrix.

    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.


    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.


    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.

    33 comments · 1,479 views

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!


Report Aragon · 116 views ·
Login or register to comment