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  • 3w, 3d
    The Great Ones -- The Hardships of Communication, or "Oh God Let Me Suck Your Dick"

    Fucking shit, I’m getting feeling self-conscious now that I’m writing the blog. I feel like I gotta meet some expectations or something – which is mighty weird, let me tell you. Usually I write blogs like I break wind in a classroom: whatever happens, happens, and if people look at you weird you just do the fingergun thing and crack a joke. Fuck it, I smell anyway, so who’s gonna care.

    Damn it. See? Forty words in, and I already made a fart joke. Diddly-fucking-doodah, we’re just shaking the goddamn conventions of art and literature here, aren’t we. Step away, Homer, buddy; there’s a new player in town.

    Well, whatever. I guess it’s ODDLY APPROPIATE that I feel insecure about this all of a sudden. I’m like a cougar feeling shy in front of her newlywed husband, even though they’ve tried everything in bed already. They’re so used to this shit the dude only gets hard if there are live wires up his ass by this point.

    I’m digressing. I guess what matters here is – let’s just be natural? Fuck it, that seems to be the best way to go. We’re not even past the intro and I’ve already made what’s probably going to be the most disgusting joke in the blog, so from here on we only go uphill.

    So why do I feel insecure all of a sudden? What is this blog even about? Well, many things. Mostly, it’s about self-awareness (OH, THE FUCKING IRONY) and about the hardships of judging your own ability, both for the good and for the bad.

    Fuck, that’s a vague thesis. Aight, let’s try this: THIS IS A BLOG ABOUT ME SUCKING OFF SOME PEOPLE, AND ALSO, ABOUT COMMUNICATION.

    Bam. Fuckin’ easy. Should’ve started with that, really. Anyway, so how come I’m writing about this?

    Well, it all starts with a conversation and a discovery that didn’t blow my mind, but sure managed to, say, give it a hell of a handjob.

    I’m sure you have a list of your own.

    This is a conversation I’ve had with a lot of people over the years, so I’m fairly sure – while tastes may vary, everybody recognizes that there are some authors in this website that are just better. Better than what? Better than anybody else, really. I’m talking about the big guns, the heavy-hitters. The ones who write shit that’s so good that part of you is angry while reading, ‘cause FUCK I wish I’d written this instead.

    I like to call them “the Great Ones,” and chances are you’re already noting down who you would include in that list.

    These people, the Great Ones, are to writing what whipped cream is to masturbation. Shama-Lama-Dingdong, baby; I measure their shit by the amount of jealousy I experience when I glance at their stuff. Everybody will have a different list of Great Ones, but I’m sure some we can agree with. You’ve got your Ghost of Heraclitus, your Chuckfinelys, your Colds in Goddamn Gardez…

    So what does it take to be a Great One? I have no idea. If I knew, I’d be one of them, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation – I’d be too busy mating with everybody in my vicinity. Like, I don’t know about you guys, but if Ghost of Heraclitus randomly walked into my room and demanded I sucked him off, I’d thank him before dropping to my knees. If you get what I’m saying. [1]

    [1] Hey, Ghost. So, I’m just assuming MrNumbers – or some other cunt – linked you this blog, with the only purpose of embarrassing us both.



    Great, so we’ve established that I’m deeply intimidated (and slightly aroused) by some members of this community. I’m sure your day has been brightened by this revelation. I’m sure you’re also eagerly awaiting for the moment when I reveal that I’ve lost a wrestling match against a tumbleweed or some shit, because this is the world we’re living in and this is the life I’ve chosen.

    But bear with me for a second, here.

    See, I believe I’m rather self-aware, all things considered. Sure, I didn’t realize that reading the Kama Sutra out loud was a faux pass, and as a result I got kicked out of a mall? But that’s more on me being an idiot than anything. We’re talking awareness here.

    What does ‘awareness’ mean, in this context? Well, that I know where my strengths and weaknesses lay. So I know that I can talk like no other, and I don’t as much hold conversations as I fucking win them, but on the other hand, I’m as threatening as a ladybug. A slightly muscled baby can fuck me up. I once got cornered in a room by a Chihuahua for around twenty minutes, and I had to beg a 90 y/o woman to save me from the horrible beast. She swatted it with the broom and I almost cried.

    But yeah, see? I know the ups and lows. This also applies to writing: if you ask me what I do best, I’ll tell you that I’m good at dialogue, and character interaction. If you ask me what I do worst, I’ll point at my prose and apologize for your eyes bleeding. Sure, I appreciate the criticism when it comes to me – but most of the time, I can see my own flaws no problem.

    …Or so I thought.

    See, there’s always a gap between the readers and the authors, when it comes to an artistic work. An author sees it as the sum of its parts – all the effort that went into it, the careful plotting, the amount of drafts they had to throw away. They also see it as a translation of the ideal work they had in mind: when you start a story, you are trying to convey the platonic picture you’re imagining, and hoping you do it justice.

    But when you’re a reader? Fuck. Face value that shit. You see a story about Luna pooping, you read Luna pooping. What you see is what you get. Readers don’t have a preconceived notion of what your work should be, and they don’t appreciate the invisible parts you added. They judge by the end product, and the end product alone.

    Cool? Cool. This is why Magnum Opus Dissonance happens, by the way. Writers see one thing, readers see another, and in the end everybody’s crying. Really sad. Communication’s hard, the artistic process is a bitch, be nice to each other. Neat, thesis stated.

    So. Why the fuck am I telling you this. What the fuck does this have to do with the Great Ones.

    Easy-peasy, bro. C’mere, look at my lips when I talk. That means you’re concentrating harder. Gaze upon my beauty, and contemplate the following:

    Have you ever talked with one of the Great Ones?

    Have you ever noticed how fucking humble they are?

    This is people who constantly and consistently put the best stuff out there, and yet, when you go to them and earnestly say something – “Holy shit, Chuck, this story was on point. I have no idea how you pulled it off, but that sex scene in the kitchen, what with the rolling pin and shit? One of the best examples of character interaction I’ve ever read, also I’m super horrified now” – they sorta… Awkwardly smile.

    And go hahah. Thanks!

    Now, there are reasons for this. There are only so many ways you can react to praise – I mostly fingergun at people whenever they tell me I did something good, and that’s it. Most of the time, that doesn’t properly convey the level of gratitude, but what the hell is one supposed to do? You can’t just hug the other person and start crying. You can say thanks, and add that they made your day. And that's sorta it.

    But there’s more to it. Yaddah yaddah communication, all that shit, you already know. Problem is, some people might not know this. And the message you get is different.

    ‘Cause if I go to Cold in Goddamn Gardez and tell him that holy shit, man, you’re really good at this, and he just smiles and continues the conversation – that’s a perfectly normal reaction. But I might get the feeling that he’s just… self-aware?

    I mean. I said “yo, this is good.” Because, yo, that was good. And I know it, he knows it, your mother knows it, EVERYBODY knows it. It was THAT good. So Cold in Goddamn Gardez appreciates your praise, but it’s also sorta obvious. Thanks! Also, yeah, it was good. Moving on!

    So yeah, dude’s self-aware. Of course he is, he wrote that masterpiece himself, didn’t he? Why wouldn’t he? Man might have his ups and lows, but as a whole? Saddle me up and ride me to the sunset, cowboy, baby’s got quality content.

    Self-awareness. Authors are aware of their own strength. Also of their own flaws, of course. But if you’re going to comment, well. They already know it’s good, so better to give some criticism, if there’s room for any. That makes them better. That makes them stronger. Praise what needs to be praised, but they know what their strong points are. So, don’t sweat it much.

    For the longest time, I believed this. Of course the Great Ones know they’re great. You can’t be that good and not notice, right? That’s just impossible.

    Enter the conversation that gave my mind a handjob.

    It’s easy to write it down, don’t worry. Long story short: I met Scarlet Weather the other day, and turns out she’s a fan. We start talking, she mentions that she really likes my prose, apparently I do some really good prose, and oh hey that’s nice to hear and—


    Hold the fuck up.

    My prose? Did you just praise my prose?

    Yeah wait no give me a second. Read back a little – I’m not good at prose. Prose is my weakest. Prose is my worst. I have an extremely bad prose, no matter how you look at it. Sure, I’ve got style, or at least a recognizable voice, but my prose is—

    Good, she assures. Your prose is good. That’s why I said that.

    What followed was something that’d never happened to me: there was a small argument on the subject of me having or not the ability to write well, and I was arguing against myself. Fuck me, I’m a diva. I can’t masturbate unless there’s a mirror nearby, and I was being AGGRESSIVELY self-deprecating here.

    This isn’t being humble, this is being outright confused. At one point MrNumbers joined the discussion – of course he did – and he started yelling at me ‘cause apparently he also thinks that my prose is not bad.

    And just… This went on for several minutes.

    And a couple things started to make sense.

    Now, do I have a good prose? I have no idea. I think I don’t, those two assholes think I do, and honestly who cares at this point. Go read my shit and tell me, that’d be neat.

    No, what started to make sense here was the modesty. The self-awareness. ‘Cause, holy shit. Do these people know they’re Great Ones?

    Because I’ve talked with Ghost of Heraclitus and Chuckfinely a couple times, and they always sorta wave me away when I mention they’re Top Shit. You’re heavy-hitters, I say, and they sorta nod and go on to their business. ‘Cause I don’t give much more detail, and people rather focus on the criticism.

    Holy shit. The Magnum Opus Dissonance thing, the whole gap between authors and readers? It goes both ways. An author will think highly of a work of theirs because of the creative process behind it, but they’ll also undersell other works because they can’t appreciate their quality.

    Sum of its parts. Amount that effort that went into it. When you’re an author, you compare what you have with what you wanted to create, and you only notice the differences. I was absolutely fucking unaware that my prose was, apparently, one of my strong points. And I consider myself self-aware! It’s the only thing I’ve got going!

    They’re not being humble, they’re being honest! They don’t think they’re Great! Or rather, they don’t fucking know it! At one point, a story by Ghost of Heraclitus is guaranteed to be amazing, so why even elaborate on it? We say it’s good, but we don’t say why. Or we say it, but they think we’re being polite.

    The fucks.

    The absolute fucks.

    So there’s a gap, there’s a lack of communication. When you see someone creating something that far out of your league, you assume they have the same perspective as you, but they really don’t. They don’t judge their works by your standards. They get a bar, set it as low as possible, and then try to Mambo their way down.

    They don’t know they’re good, and they don’t know how much their work affected you. If you tell them, they won’t know how to react? But fuck that. Just, showed those assholes with praise.

    This is pretty much my message here: tell them. If you find an author that you think is good, for the love of God, tell them.

    Ghost: Your stories read like the highest of literature, because your prose can’t be described with any adjective other than “delicious”. It all feels so right, so in-place, so meticulously well-thought. You do things with the English language I didn’t know were possible. You make telling stories look effortless, but reading one of your fics is like looking at an old cathedral: everything is so in sync, so perfect, that I get overwhelmed just by looking. Doing what you do, writing stuff with as much depth as yours, sounds impossible until one looks at your stuff. And your sense of humor is magnificent.

    Chuck: Your characters are so goddamn complex that every single one of them could be the protagonist of its own book series. Your prose is light and punchy, you read like the best kind of pulp fiction. As far as I’m aware of, you’re the only author out there who’s managed to make me literally cry of laughter while reading you. There’s character interaction and good, punchy, interesting dialogue, and then there’s what you do.

    Cold in Goddamn Gardez: Fuck me, man. Stories about ponies are stories about people, and I think you alone do enough justice to that motto for the rest of the fandom. There’s something inherently wonderful about your writing. Technically, you’re flawless, but that’s not all. Your stories have heart. Amazing characters, great dialogue, you can pull everything off – but mostly, you have heart. Everything you write feels beautiful, just by language alone. And I think that’s really it: you create beauty. I can’t think of higher praise than that.

    Am I sucking cock right now? Fuck me, I’m choking on them. I’m gargling ballsacks like a champion, but god dammit, when somebody’s good at what they do they deserve to know it. And if there’s a chance – a tiny, minuscule chance – that they don’t know it, then I sure as hell I’m going to get in their faces and yell at them.

    So go out there, and praise people. Give criticism, point stuff out if it doesn’t work, but also give praise. Give specific praise, give elaborate praise that explains exactly what you like and why you like it.

    Because, hell. I had no idea I could write prose.

    And it would kill me if any of the Great Ones felt the same.

    25 comments · 563 views
  • 10w, 16h
    Aye, Y'know? Sunsettle For This (Comin' Soon) and Teeth Galore

    You here for Sunsettle for This? Ctrl+F it, yo, or look at the end of the blog. Explanations on the delay there. The rest is just... Thoughts? On things? I'm thinking about things.

    Aye, weird. But y'know? You just gotta own it, if you're corny, is what I think. You just, you need to look at yourself, and be like -- y'know what? Fuck it. I'm having fun. Who gives a shit.

    That's why I'm not ashamed to say that, man. There's an almost primal pleasure to feel when one just finishes a final exam, one that you've been working on for what feels like ages, and then you just sorta. Like. Walk out the building.

    You're alone, squinting at the sun. Your jacket is open, and it sorta flaps behind you, in the wind. There's a moment of quiet.

    Then you wip out your phone. "ONE DOWN," you write. "THREE TO GO."

    Then you put on your sunglasses,

    Put on your headphones.

    Blast some shitty 70's Rock'n Roll.

    And then you just fucking bust a move so fucking hard that you don't walk home as much as you dance home, g'dammit.

    The more and more busy one gets, or at least this happens to me, the more you sorta need to stop and remember -- it's okay to have fun? Like, things are serious sometimes, and you gotta take them seriously because fuck, I'm almost finishing up my time in this university, and things are going uphill lately. But you can just dance on your way home, y'know? Just have some mindless shitty stupid fun whenever you have the time.

    Lotta people ask me lately how the hell do I manage to stay so hyper, because that's apparently a thing that I do. It's not as much staying in a constantly cheery attitude as just remembering to have fun whenever one can. 'Unno, sometimes it feels like being dark and brooding and miserable is the cool, intelligent option.

    See? That's why I like to be an idiot. A smart person wouldn't have danced to Still Loving You all the way to his house. A smart person probably wouldn't have been looked weird by every fucking passerby. And I couldn't care less, because y'know what bliss is?

    Bliss is to be dumb and own it, man. Bliss is to be as corny and melodramatic as humanly possible, and then unironically think of yourself as the coolest cat in this dog city.

    Am I high as fuck on anesthetics? I might be. Am I overmedicated due to an ill-timed tooth infection? Absolutely. But when I went to the doctor and said, man. Bro. Broski. Brosephanie. Broseanne. My tooth hurts so much I can't fucking sleep, and I can't go to the dentist. I physically don't have the time -- gotta study and shit, final exams.

    And the doctor, who was a woman, looked at me. And she said, bro. She said, bro, you gotta go to the dentist, aight. You gotta just. Go. But in the meantime. Have a fuckton of analgesics and anesthetics to brave it all till the time your schedule is clear comes.

    And I said, damn. I said, fucking sweet, bro. This? This is why we're friends. This is why I come here.

    And she said, I've literally never fucking met you, please go outside.



    I'm on drugs at the moment, if we take the scientific description of 'drugs', and maybe that's what made me dance? But fuck you, I left your friends behind, and I'm living the dream. Literally, as I'm loopy as can be.

    Anyway, so yes. Final exams. Busy schedule. Remember to have fun. I'm in so much pain I need to take like seven different kinds of pills every eight hours just to get by.

    I'm sorry for the weird delay in Sunsettle For This -- I am actually on schedule in a way, as every time I have the time to write I sit down and pop a couple thousand words. So the problem is not lack of inspiration or anything, it's that plain and simple I do not have the time to go tap tap tap on my laptop.

    Wait a bit, anyway, as the third chapter is halfway done. Moment I get it, to the prereaders it goes -- and moment the exams are over, we're bakc on schedule. Almost there, fellas, so don't give up. I said I'd update every two weeks or so, and I'm gonna keep my word as soon as I can.

    In the meantime? Go have fun. Being dumb is good, sometimes -- you should give it a try. Life's too short to be dark and broody anyway.


    15 comments · 371 views
  • 11w, 3d
    To Curse God, then Seeking Lightning -- AMA answers, or "How I Ruined the GHiE Podcast Folks' Evenin"

    I'm back from my holidays with my family! Regular posting will resume (and this means updating stories, too -- we're back on schedule). Now, on to the AMA and that interview...


    I mean, you can say many things about me, right? But you can’t say I lied. I talk a lot. I warned them that I would take a lot.

    They didn’t listen.

    I talked a lot.

    So yeah. Answers to the AMA, and some comments about the podcast, below the break. And happy new year, peeps. Feels good to be back.

    So I was in the GHiE podcast, and it was absolutely horrible for everybody except for me. They had some big numbers in the audience – more than usual, at least, I don’t think I attracted crowds – because people wouldn’t believe I could be speaking non-stop for so long.

    But I was! And I did! Podcast is, I shit you not, two straight hours of me talking No pause. Full steam. At one point my microphone fucking blows itself up, but I manage to get back online and continue talking as if nothing had happened. The podcasters manage to talk really now and then, but just—

    Look. Just, click on that video, go to any random point of it, and you'll get it. Some questions were interesting, some answers were -- I guess -- not bad, but the thing is, I ranted for two hours, about many things, and I never stopped. No matter the question. I think two moments define the podcast perfectly:

    A) One user asks me to define every princess in one word (counting Shining Armor and Flurry Heart as Princesses, for the sake of it). I proceed to do just that, but I preface every single one of those words with several minute-long explanations on why I chose that word. As one comment of the podcast chat says: “You tried to get him to answer a question in six words. He took the chance of giving six normal-length answers.” As one of the hosts said, "Holy fucking Christ why are you doing this."

    B) Majin Syeekoh asked me how many cakes I’ve had sex in the last week or so. This is clearly a joke question, that you answer with some witticism that takes two seconds or so. Me? Takes me fifteen minutes to reply, as I take the question seriously, and go on a rant about sexuality and why do we find sex with objects – which is just glorified masturbation – inherently funny. Even Majin Syeekoh himself is impressed by just HOW MUCH I dragged on the topic.

    So yeah. You give me a chance to talk? I talk. I almost feel like apologizing to the podcasters, cause they sure didn’t have a good time. As another comment (easily my favorite) said around 49 minutes into the video: “I have been here, like, ten minutes. And clearly everyone should retire from the podcast except for Aragón. Just hold his beer. He’s got this.”

    You can’t even understand what I say most of the time – I was sick, and my accent really went overboard. So, two hours of me talking gibberish nonstop.

    Which brings me to one of the questions asked on the AMA, weirdly enough. Everything else is answered in order, but this one I’m jumping on first ‘cause it’s probably the one that serves best as an intro. This’ll be a long blog, so just Ctrl+F your name if you’re only curious about your questions.

    And then go back up and read the entire thing.

    You pussy.

    Monarch Dodora asks: What's it like in your head when you talk?  

    White noise, or silence. I don’t think while I’m talking.

    Really – I don’t think before talking either, now that we’re at it. I mean, being an idiot aside, I just never really think of anything in advance. Talkative people (I mean, I assume – I’ve never asked this) don’t really… plan on what they’re gonna say?

    You just improvise, as one would say. I literally think out loud – whenever I want to say something, I say what first comes to mind, which tends to be related to the conversation. You just make connections and talk, or listen to what the other is saying and then reply with something appropriate, or with…

    Unno. Like I said, it’s just – you know how you can plan the answer? You plan it out loud. Which means you’re already answering.

    Guess this means you stutter a little, or repeat yourself, or sometimes even miss your point – this has happened to me many times – but literally all I do is spur-of-the-moment contributions. Maybe this reminds me of a story and I tell it, maybe I have some quip to say, maybe it just came to me? But I don’t really THINK when talking. I just TALK.

    This explains a lot, eh?

    Mind you, this means I repeat myself a lot. I don’t’ remember what I’ve said to whom. So maybe I start some conversation with an anecdote, or something weird that’s happened to me recently, and the other person goes “yes, I already know. You told me. Ten minutes ago.”

    And I go “whoops.” I remember telling people about the thing, but unless it’s something REALLY PARTICULAR or private (like, something you can tell to everybody) there’s no way I remember what I’ve told or I haven’t told.

    When writing it’s the same, mind you. Blogs, at least. I go full-on stream-of-consciousness, which is why some people say that I talk like I write my blogposts. I mean, yeah. That’s kind of the thing.

    Not the same when I write stories, though! Those, I edit and re-edit. Comments, chats, blogs, talking, etcetera, though? Total opposite. I guess it just comes with being relatively shameless, or just disliking silence. I think out loud when I’m alone, too, and I’m alone a lot. As I said in the podcast, I’m an introvert.

    Hella outspoken, mind you. Not shy at all. But, introverted none the less. I guess the trick is to just stop caring, or building up enough confidence/practice that you know you’re not gonna fuck up a conversation. I haven’t fucked up a conversation in some time. At least, nothing that I could have prevented (like making a comment or joke that affect someone for personal reasons I wasn’t aware of, or stating an opinion based on faulty information) or couldn’t be immediately fixed with an “oh, sorry, I didn’t know – I will keep that in mind from now on, my mistake.”

    So yeah. Neither thinking “they’ll find this witty! And this! And this!” as I talk, neither clinging to a wall of desperation as I roll down the metaphorical hill that is my rant. What you see (or hear) is what I got: I literally think the same I’m speaking, at the exact same moment.

    Makes it surprisingly easy for people to either love me or FUCKING HATE ME ON SIGHT, I might add.

    Kingmoriarty asks: What kind of story have you always wanted to try, but never got around to?

    Octavia Harmony asks: When is your OctaScratch hugging story coming?!

    Cinder Vel asks: How do you decide which one of your ideas will become a story and which ideas will bite the dust?

    I sorta reply to all three questions at the same time here, so I just put them all together. I’m sure y’all won’t mind.

    I think it was a couple weeks ago that I approached MrNumbers with one of those sentences that make him wonder if I’m drunk or just fucking stupid. Paraphrasing:



    MrNumbers: This is one of those sentences that make me wonder if you’re drunk or just fucking stupid


    MrNumbers: Uh-huh

    Aragón: like

    Aragón: from an absolutely cynical perspective right

    Aragón: I wanna write something that’s – I mean, not fucked up as in AAAGH GORE but fucked up as in you go quiet and think “oh God”

    Aragón: one of those sad stories that is not as much sad as just a reminder that life is fucking horrible sometimes

    MrNumbers: Any particular reason for this?

    Aragón: I was talking with my mother about Apocalypse Now and then I went you know what, Mom, I need to write something fucked up

    MrNumbers: Well, I mean. As good inspiration as any

    MrNumbers: so what’s the story?

    Aragón: I have no idea

    Aragón: never really got past the “AHAHAHA IT HAS TO BE FUCKED UP” part, to be quite honest

    Aragón: but I’m sure that’s all I need, really

    Aragón: FUCKED UP, BRO

    Aragón: FUCKED UP

    As you can see, I am artsy when I write. Really artsy.

    Fucked-up-stories aside (which is an answer to this question, in the sense that I wanna write it but I haven’t got around to – although I have started a couple drafts, so who knows?) I have an actually lengthy backdrop of story ideas I’ve never used.

    Some of them, the most avid readers of my blogs – a group of people that APPARENTLY EXISTS – have heard of, as I’ve namedropped them now and then: Celestia turns into a clam (“A Shell of a Time”). Vinyl and Octavia have to hug for eight hours or the building explodes (“Pressed for Time”). A dare by Magello, screwball comedy with the LSSTWD crowd (“The Saddest Hoofjob”). A sequel to the Two-Oh-Six story, the one where Octavia and Discord made out (working title “Coda Duello”). Another sequel, this time to Would Bang, dealing with further adventures of the bros (working title “Bro Bono”, because I am awful at titles).

    The list goes on and on. Some of those are more than mere ideas. Others, I have a shit ton of notes taken around them – “The Saddest Hoofjob”’s fucking prompt is several paragraphs long, and it made MrNumbers himself admit that it was “overly complicated, but in a good way”. So that’s something, I suppose?

    I don’t know. The stories I write, I tend not to plan, or to write as soon as I come up with them. The stories I plan, I tend to plan a lot and then never get around to.

    I guess that’s why the commissions are such an interesting experiment (if a somewhat lackluster one, by reader views), because it’s ideas that I like to think about, and that I plan extensively, and then I sit down and fucking write. Because somebody is paying me for them.

    True, though – so far I’ve got a lot of freedom to plot, write, and pretty much do whatever the fuck I want with the commissions… so it’s really not that much a task for me. After all the buyers want “an Aragón story”, with all the pitfalls that implies. And to get that, I guess you need to give me a lil’ bit of leeway.

    So yeah. Short answer: Yeah. Slightly longer answer: Yeah, ‘cause the way I write is rather disorganized, and overall unprofessional. Even longer answer: Read everything above.

    Themaskedferret asks: Why do you write in English as opposed to your Spanish?

    I have written in Spanish. I wrote an entire book in Spanish, in fact, which y’all never see or hear of because I wrote when I was 15 all the way till I became 17, and it’s absolutely horrible. The protagonist is nicknamed “Fast Fingers”. Not “Quick Fingers”, but “Fast Fingers”. His superpower is that he’s right-handed, and also left-handed, sometimes. There are a lot of apostrophes in the names. At no point does any character eat, sleep, or take a shit.

    I love that book to smithereens, but I will burn whoever dares to look at it. It’s my dirty little secret. What was the question again?

    Ah, yeah. Audience, really. I started writing in English because why the fuck not – Fimfic looked like a neat website. As time went on, I became more and more comfortable with this website’s audience, format, and overall feeling. There’s simply not as much of a fanfic movement in the Spanish language – and what little exists is simply not as good as this one.

    I used to be big on spanish fanfiction, really. I was one of the most well-regarded fanfic writers in the biggest Spanish-speaking anime forums of the internet. This is akin of saying you’re the ripest apple in the cemetery: pointless, probably poisonous, and chances are somebody’s been buried alive near you.

    I just prefer the English audiences, and the English websites. Most of my friends are English-speakers, too. My family would rather I wrote in Spanish. They’d also rather I did not write about ponies. I’d rather they hugged me in Christmas. They rather I’d first take a shower.

    It’s a give-and-take relationship, the one we’ve got going, I suppose.

    Themaskedferret also asks: How many dicks can you fit down your throat? Whatever happened to your twink roommates?

    Tinmane asks: Well, how many?

    Both of these questions are extremely correlated. I apparently have a very deep throat. Had to change roommates after the old ones mysteriously disappeared.



    Nyorus asks: Also, what story of your own do you feel the most fondly for, and what story on the site that is not your own do you feel everyone should read?

    Super Trampoline asks: What are 3-5 of your favorite stories on this site and why?

    Shinygiratinaz asks: What's your favorite story that you've written here on fimfiction?

    Okay, we’re 1k words already and I’ve answered like two questions. Right. Let’s try to keep things short.


    It’s a little hard for me to say which story I feel the most fondly for because, really, I feel fondly for all of them. Every single story has like a little story, and most will get an “Oh man I love that one so much” reaction from me.

    By pure sheer of what it means, though, Crime and Punishment is probably the story I hold in highest regard. Written in the span of seven months, and one of my few long, serialized fics, it was a blast to write, and also extremely difficult at points.

    It’s an exercise in escalation, in that for 80k words, the jokes never stop coming. I just kept pouring my “best” at it, consistently, for seven months. Which means, of course, that half of the fic is dumber than a sack of rocks, holy shit.

    I feel immense pride for that story, flaws and all, though, and I have to admit it’d be neat if more people read it. Would appeal to my inner diva, really.

    Story that y’all should read? Hands down, Pipsqueak’s Day Off. Might not be of your tastes, might not be your favorite – but it’s, to this day, Fimfic’s best comedy. At least, for me.

    Runners up would be Mercy, Mercy, Mercy, and the always-wonderful Yours Truly. But Pipsqueak’s Day Off? Clear. Fucking. Winner.

    Also, Super Trampoline, of course we can chill. You buy the beer, though. And the Netflix.

    Thatotherotherguy asks: When will there be a patreon so we can contribute to your personal mount rushmore?

    Probably never, yo. You can commission me shit, though, which also implies giving me money. Or just donate to my Paypal if you’re fucking weird, ‘unno.

    Thing is, if you want to give me money? You can give me money. You might get a story in exchange, though, so be careful.

    Thatotherotherguy also asks: Ever going to make a Hie fic? With your own Aragon sauce of course.

    Eeeh. Doubt it.

    I have an interesting relationship with HiEs, in that I don’t like them at all and they probably don’t like me either.

    I could go on and on on this subject? But, I honestly have no idea why I’d do that – it would just annoy people who genuinely like the genre, and there’s not a single “real” reason why I dislike HiEs. It’s all subjective shit, like “unno man, I guess it ain’t my thing”. You know how some people are into feet, and some aren’t? Think of it that way.

    So yeah, seeing how I am “not into that”, and how I honestly consider writing myself in a story that way kind of masturbatory, I doubt I’ll ever write the wacky adventures of Aragón, Cunt Extraordinaire, in Equestria.

    Caveat: admittedly, I’ve written myself into stories. There are REASONS for this, that are probably REALLY FUCKING BORING, so who gives a shit – but Hear the Baby Laughing is a story about Aragón being forced to write a story (sort of), and includes me by name and shit. And Flip a Coin and She Smiles is me telling you a story – I speak directly to the reader for the entirely of the fic.

    Also, Thesuperfantasticalstory has a character named Aragón because I needed an “author” to fit the narrative. But that character is definitely not me, and we don’t talk about that story. Half the words in that shit aren’t typed properly, for fuck’s sake.

    Wait. Wait, I forgot – there’s The Conversion Burro. As a parody of The Conversion Bureau stories, it’s about a human going to Equestria. So I guess I’ve already done this! Hahah. Wow.

    Fanofmosteverything asks: Also, how's it going with that accidentally seduced teacher of yours?

    AppleTank asks: How's that lesson plan going? Does the first step include "Class, please watch me consume vast quantities of caffeine"?

    I’ve gotten PMs about this, funnily enough. People seem to be awfully interested in the ending of this story. Maybe it’s worry for my wellbeing, maybe it’s just a wish to see just how far this fucking trainwreck goes.

    And I mean, who can blame them? I’m probably going to get mugged at the end of that class. 50% or so of my class seethes me, and now I can talk to them for 90 minutes, and they have to listen to me? And take notes?

    I’m going to insult at least one guy, because come the fuck on. That won’t be a class. That will be a fucking stand-up routine, and oh God there’ll be blood running.

    Sadly, so far the story seems to be put on hiatus. I’m wrapping up this semester soon, and with the teacher gone for the last three weeks (she had to attend some conference in California or something) we never really talked about this again. Next semester I have a class named Tax Law II, with the exact same teacher, though, so chances are something is happening… Only, not yet.

    I mean, she has clearly not forgotten about this. I doubt this will end up in nothing; she’s adamant on seeing my impression on her. It’ll probably end badly, but OH WELL WHATYOUGOT.

    Multiversecruise asks: Where will the romance blogs go after you're done beating Harem stories to death?

    Oh, man, I had this super long list of mistakes I wanted to talk about all written down and shit? And I lost it. So I have no fucking idea!

    Mind you, this isn’t “I am running out of stuff to complain about”. This is just “I don’t know what to tackle next” – there are many, MANY mistakes I can rant out for hours to no end. Seriously, top of my head: reactions to a confession, chemistry, lack of communication, Ikea Romance, Casanova Clause, Perverted Characters, sudden romance, pairing up the spades, lolicon.

    Bam. There’s a lot of shit I’ve seen while reading romance, and a lot of it is really, really bad.

    So yeah. I have a really special rant inside of me about the lolicon movement, and the whole “it’s a little kid you can fuck” thing – maybe it’ll be about that, I just had the idea as I’m typing this answer.

    I’m sure I’ll get a shit ton of interesting yet reasonable PMs explaining how much of a fucking idiot I am if I post that. Eh? How you’re not hurting anybody by popularizing the idea of fucking children. Eh?

    Not it down for the future: catharsis ain’t the same as normalization. I accept catharsis. I despise normalization. Some idiots don’t know this, and hence, I label them as idiots. And I call the police on them. Fucking Christ.

    Jade Ring asks: Superior director; Spielberg, Hitchcock, or Kubrick?

    Holy fucking shit, did this question make me remember some things.

    See, I know nothing about cinema. This is something I understand, both because I’m self-aware enough to realize how much of a fuck-up I am, and because my sister and father keep telling me. Mind you, if anyone can tell, it’s them – Sis writes professional movie reviews for a job, and Father watches like, what. Three movies a day?

    They’re junkies of the big screen, is what I mean. I accept that they know more about cinema than me – but, weirdly enough, I also think they don’t have any taste. I like storytelling, while they really don’t, or at least not in the way I do. So I look at the new Mad Max and I praise it for the plot, while they say it’s got none. “It’s showing instead of telling!” I say. “You’re really just looking ,” they retort.

    It’s a fun past-time, really.

    It becomes less fun when my sister’s friends join the discussion.

    Holy fucking hell, people – I’ve met many people in my life, and I can say WITHOUT AN INCH OF DOUBT that the absolute worst are always, always, professional movie reviewers. Sis gets a pass, she’s not completely contaminated. But, her colleagues?

    Stick a nail through my forehead and call me a pussywrinkle, boy, because those people eat infomercials and shit propaganda. They will spit upwards and quote Schopenhauer to save face when the saliva hits their eye. They will buy a Murakami book just to have something to hold under their arm as they walk into a Starbucks, and then comment on just how good is that guy’s English. Why, you can barely tell he’s Japanese.

    They are idiots, but that’s not the problem. The problem is that they’re idiots who desperately want to be seen as the smartest person in the room, and in doing that, they show their true self.  

    So they’ll talk about how Kurosawa is great and amazing, they’ll lie about how much they love it, but they will never be able to explain why Kurosawa was good. They’ll explain that J.J. Abrams is bad, and to support their words they will just wave their hand and act smug, because the easiest way to avoid explaining something you don’t understand is to act as if the explanation is obvious.

    I don’t know shit about cinema, and when I talk about why I like David Fincher, they roll their eyes and ask me why. And when I explain why, they will say that I’m probably repeating the words of someone smarter, only to quote me whenever they want to fuck a woman.

    They repeat. They don’t have opinions, they just act depending on how they feel they should act. I know there are good movie reviewers out there. I know people who watch cinema and critique it out of love can be amazing. But I also know that the ones I’ve met treat it not as a hobby, or as a love letter to the medium – but as a way to get famous. And I just can’t accept that. Art is not your fucking podium, and what you do is the reason why the term “derivative” has awful connotations. You piece of shit.

    I had dinner with my sister’s colleagues recently. My wit is as sharp as baseball bat, but I still beat the shit out of them with it. Because they’re not low-hanging fruit, they’re a peach that fell from the tree into an excrement, and now not even flies will lay on it.

    I made sure to make my opinions on them clear. We’re not having dinner again any time soon.



    I like Kubrick a lot, I think his movies are super pretty to watch. I also love Spielberg and Hitchcock (admittedly, though, I’ve watched very little Hitchcock), but Kubrick has always been one of my favorites.

    And Murakami is a shit writer. Just, throwing that out there. He wrote one book, once, and has been repeating the same shit time and time again. Read 1Q84, then forget about the man, ‘cause he’s not worth your time. He’ll win the Nobel for Literature eventually, and that day, Aragón will be sad.

    Jade Ring also asks: Is the existence of life a highly overrated phenomenon? Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

    ‘Quis custodiet ipsos custodies? Your grace.’

    ‘I know that one,’ said Vimes. Who watches the watchmen? Me, Mr Pessimal.’

    ‘Ah, but who watches you, your grace?’ said the inspector, with a brief smile.

    ‘I do that too. All the time,’ said Vimes.

    If I’m allowed to take off the clown mask for a second – life is not overrated, in the sense it’s all we know. Life creates people, people create art, art gives a meaning to life. I think it all fits nicely, once you look past the really bad stuff. And the movie reviewers. Fuck 90% of movie reviewers.

    Unrelated, but -- it’s amazing how, no matter how long it’s been, Pratchett’s passing still makes me teary-eyed. I won’t cry out loud, but that’s just because I choose not to.

    If I ever had a hero, and I’ve had many, it was that man. Here’s to you, old friend I never met, and who would have probably not liked me that much. This shitty blog is dedicated to you, and I do that with the straightest of faces.

    MrNumbers asks: If you could steal one celebrity for a day, and have them all to yourself, who is it and what do you do?

    It’s actually super interesting how, when I heard that question, I immediately yelled “DAVID TENNANT,” causing my mother to think that I’m going through on of those episodes again. I am not (well, maybe a little), because this was a spur-of-the-moment kinda thing.

    If I stop and think about the question, though, I have a million different answers. I mostly read shit as a hobby, so nearly every single famous person I wanna meet is a writer. Kafka, Borges, Tolkien, Lewis, TERRY PRATCHETT, Asimov, Gaiman, Bradbury, Gabriel García Márquez…

    But, leaving aside the fact that nearly all of them are dead – I just don’t think of them as “famous people”. They are famous, a lot of people know about them (and that’s the DEFINITION of famous), but I just don’t really think of them as, well. Celebrities.

    ‘Cause celebrities are distant, right? Sorta, not approachable. Or, approachable, but not really approachable. Whereas writers tend to be more… private? You read their words. You can tell when they’re the ones writing, you feel something of a connection to them. You love their work, a and what they create, and pretty much when you get down to it you just like what they think and say and imagine and are.

    So I guess that’s why I yelled DAVID TENNANT. ‘Cause I love the man, I really do, but I think of him as a celebrity. Pratchett, though? If I met him, I would – well, first I’d scream ‘cause the man passed away. Then I’d have a seizure and be unsure of what to say, as he’s one of my heroes.

    But, even though that’s what would happen, and even though I never met him? I think of him as a friend. Celebrities, you admire. Writers, they change you.

    MrNumbers also asks: Have you ever considered writing a story without Celestia in it?

    Oh, fuck off.

    Yeah, to be honest, it’s become almost a running joke for myself that, whenever I’m blocked in a story, or I don’t know what to write – or maybe I do, but the words aren’t coming out – I just write a scene with Celestia in it. Bam, done. Before you know it, I’ve written a thousand words.

    Really! I never noticed this, until I looked at the cover art in my stories – and saw that the vast majority have Celestia in it. You look at the tags, and Celestia is almost always there. It’s almost humiliating how much of a fucking one-trick-pony I am. There’s a pun in there, but I’m not gonna step so low. I am not a movie reviewer.

    One has to wonder, truly, what the fuck do I see in this character. I guess by this point she’s my favourite, and I’ve given it a lot of thought. I think it’s less about Celestia herself (God knows she has little to no personality in the show), and more about what she represents.

    It’s really less the immortality bit, or the queen bit – and more about the authority. I also find, admittedly, her relationship with Luna rather fascinating. I’m a middle child, and I get along with my siblings rather well – so that’s something I relate to, I guess? It’s just, here you have two characters who are not particularly mushy, but they are extremely close with each other. They had a big fight, but now it’s all over, and they’re back at being comfortable with each other again.

    I just like that juxtaposition between Celestia the ruler and Celestia the sister. Her mother figure is also cool, but with Luna she goes from superior to equal, almost seamlessly and without really thinking about it. Add some character so they have chemistry on top of that, and have in mind that they’re immortal and (in my headcanon) probably out of touch with the normal ponies?

    And, shit, there’s just so many things to talk about. Comedy, drama, whatever, I don’t care. If I don’t know what to write, I’ll just explore Celestia and the million little bits of her that I find interesting. Shit – right now I’m working on three stories; one of them is long, the other two are one-shots. All three of them involve Celestia.

    At some point in life I’ll just tattoo her goddamn face on my penis. It’ll be faster.

    MrNumbers also asks: Have you tried turning me off and on again?

    Honey, we both know I can turn you on whenever I want to.

    Jeray2000 asks: Are you religious? Do you have strong political opinions?

    Boy, not only do I have opinions about both issues, I have OPINIONS. Which is pretty much the same, only LOUDER.

    I could go on and on about my personal beliefs for hours, really – but I probably won’t. Both of these things are highly subjective, and highly personal. If I say that my spiritual beliefs are this or that, someone is bound to be rightfully offended, and I’d hate that.

    Also, this is the internet. I can post a picture of a cat and somebody will be offended. More on this later.

    Ditto politics, really. I study Law and Economics/Business Management, I wouldn’t be able to survive if I didn’t have a somewhat solid background of rules to guide myself. Did you know that we have to study philosophy and morals on our first year of Law? Fucking crazy.

    Still, part of understanding this kind of issue is realizing that your beliefs are simply yours, and you can’t – and shouldn’t – force them on others, or discuss it in a way that isn’t civil. There’s one truth and one truth only: nobody’s cold and calculating when arguing politics. Passion is bound to that topic, and with passion comes dumbfuckery.

    And nobody beats me at dumbfuckery.

    So rrrright back at ya. Religion is politics, ten times squared (and with fewer books), and like hell I’m discussing what I believe or fail to believe. I can say I come from a really varied background, when it comes of religion, tell you that. One member of my family for each faith. Fucking crazy.

    Guess I can admit I’m left-winged, or at least that I tend to lean for the left – but let’s be honest, that’s true of the majority of young people on the internet. Exceptions vary, but for fuck’s sake, this is Fimfiction. I’m a Spaniard. From my point of view, Obama is at best liberal right. So, yeah.

    Yaddah yaddah I believe in democracy, guns scare me, and once I petted a dog even though the barks make me jittery. Honestly, mate, I’m dumb as a rock. My beliefs and shit are the opposite of interesting. I just know enough about all this shit to realize I don’t know ANYTHING.


    Fourths asked: I had a dream last night where I came on fimfiction and you had died but then I talked to Swan Song and they said that you just left the fandom and pretended you'd died so people wouldn't bother you about it.

    So... are you dead?

    How did you know Swan and me are friends?

    We don’t talk much, though, that’s true. They’re never online, and neither am I lately. I guess she’d know if I pulled one of these out, really.

    Nah, if I went out of the website, I’d probably make a HUGE deal about it. I am, after all, a diva. I crave that attention like your mom craves my blood to complete her Ritual. Trust me when I say the length of the blogpost that explains why I’m going would outshine the fucking Sun.

    Would you believe me if I said I’d given thought to the idea of what would happen to my Fimfic account if I died? I think I have it sorted out. With my dying breath, I’d tell my sis my password, and then I’d let someone post about my passing or whatever. To bring some closure, I guess. I can also use that dying breath to ask for help, or maybe tell my family I love them? But, y’know. Priorities.

    And don’t be mistaken – if there’s an afterlife, once I’m dead, I’ll look down from there to read the comments in the blog that says I kicked the bucket because a truck full of naked women ran over me or whatever.

    Uh, that is, if your mother doesn’t manage to trap my soul in her Altar first. So far I’ve avoided it, but fucking hell, that woman is resourceful. Tell her to chill, Fourths, it’s getting creepy.  

    PretentiousNarwhal asks: Why?

    Obligatory answer: Why not?

    Less obligatory answer: For a pretentious narwhal, that is a rather simple question. I’m sure you barely review movies at all.

    PresentPerfect asks: How are you able to handle all of your own sexiness on a day to day basis?

    By constantly friendzoning every woman that ever steps in my way. The list keeps on going, because there are a lot of desperate people out there, and I guess if you’re deaf and dumb I look like a good catch. ‘Unno.

    That aside, I check myself in every reflecting surface I walk by. Every time I step out of the shower and look at my reflection, I say “People would say whatever they want, but I’d fuck the shit out of me.” When they hear me, some think I’m kidding.

    Some think I don’t.

    The latter are the ones who really know me.

    Doomguy666 asks: What color are oranges?

    This question was answered in the podcast. If I remember correctly, it drove the hosts crazy, because I managed to take ten minutes to answer a question that anybody else would have answered in six seconds.

    It’s sort of my thing, really. You’ll notice how it’s not a good thing at all.

    Anyway, abridged answer: I wondered, as a kid, if ‘oranges’ are called that way for the color, or if the color is named that way for the oranges. In Spanish it’s the same thing (“Naranja” refers both to the fruit and to the color) so it was twice the question I was asking. So, I looked it up.

    Turns out, “orange” referred to the fruit only, at first. The color we call “orange” was seen as a shade of red. Only, with time, people started referring to it as “orange red”, for rather obvious reasons (it was the easiest way to get people to know exactly what shade you were talking about, I guess?) and from there it just went to “orange”. The color of oranges.

    Blame the natural evolution of language; now we think it’s its own color.  So that’s your answer! Technically, oranges are red. Tadaaa~~

    Cinder Vel asks: How hot do you consider yourself?

    Exactly as hot as I am!

    Cinder Vel asks: What was your thought process when you decided to write the " Oh! Let's Write a fanfic, let's write a fanfic! I'll call it 'Thesuperfantasticalstory'! "?

    Fucking hell. I said we don’t talk about this story, God dammit.


    To the people who have no idea – that story, which I call TSFS, was the first one I posted on Fimfic, long ago. It’s stupid, it’s bad, and it’s full of typos as the editors went away halfway through and I was still learning how to write in English.

    My thought process back then was just a music box endlessly humming Yankee Doodle in my head, so I guess that’s what I was thinking about. I also had the EXTREMELY ORIGINAL idea of a writer struggling to write because the characters won’t let him. I was, after all, an author struggling to write. Because I was writing in English. I guess I thought that was clever?

    Everybody and their fucking mother has done that fourth-wall shit before, but I guess the story got a mind of its own midway through. The plot, which deals with some weird fuckery – the author, is revealed early, is just another character, so who the fuck is writing the story – as it goes into dimensional stuff. If you’re created by a character, you’re a sub-character and less real, and so on.

    It was me playing around, learning how to write. Don’t read that story, man. I improv’d most of the plot, tho at one point I had it all really thought out. Not going to lie: I tried to read a random chapter not so long ago, and I didn’t understand shit. You really have to read the entire thing to get it. It’s Homestuck convoluted – which is to say, not the right kind.

    It also has, if we use the most technical definition of the term, a self-insert character. There’s a reason I don’t talk about the story, dang it.

    Cinder Vel asks: How hot you actually are?

    Exactly as hot as I think I am!

    Raugos asks: Is the hooting pigeon still bothering you?


    I fucking dragged my father to my room so he could hear the goddamn thing, because he’s a vet and says pigeons don’t hoot, they coo. I said, yes. This one hoots. He said that’s stupid. I said oh yeah come and see.

    So he came and saw.




    That fucking thing kept CRRHORGHing at me – in a way that really makes it sound like an owl, hence why I said it hoots, and why I wrote its dialogue as ‘hoot’ – up till the temperature went super cold, and then it just shut up. I have no idea what happened to it, but you can be pretty fucking sure I couldn’t leave my window open at night BECAUSE IT JUST KEPT SCREAMING.

    Raugos also asks: Did you have a rematch with the streetlight?

    God, did my family have a fucking laugh at this during the Christmas dinner. Aunt Andrea said I have to stop being so childish like that or I’ll hurt myself. You always talk like a kid, Aunt Andrea said. You even look like one, seriously, Aunt Andrea said. Would it hurt you to try to be manlier, Aunt Andrea said. You need to take responsibility for your actions, Aunt Andrea said.

    Golly gee, Aunt Andrea, I said, you look really fucking old this year, eh. Lotta new wrinkles. And how are those hemorrhoids going. Can you finally take a shit without bleeding or does your bathroom still smell like a slaughterhouse on its period.

    Christmas is fun. Family is funnier. This kind of conversation is super awkward to get through, but once you’re done? These are the things you remember.

    (Also, man, did I get yelled at. Thank God they all realize I’m an idiot.)

    Shinygiratinaz asks: What are the top three things on your bucket list?

    Christ, all the items in that list are just “getting outta college as fast as possible.” My degrees last five and a half years, I’m almost done, and I can’t wait to stop studying for exams.

    This answer could be much, much longer – but fucking hell, this blog is going to end up being like 7k words. I’d rather my readers don’t have a brain hemorrhage by the time they’re done with this shit.

    I’d also like to travel the world! And get people to pay for my trips because I’m a cheapstake. And be rich so I can be less of a cheapstake. Going to the USA/UK/Australia/Singapore would be pretty neat, so I can visit some folks. Pay for my plane tickets so I can annoy you in person, people.

    Phew. That one was long. I’d add some final words? But I think you’ve got enough of my opinions for a while.

    Tho, writing this blog has made me realize one thing – next time I talk with Aunt Andrea, I’ll tell her to become a movie reviewer. She’s the woman for the job.

    23 comments · 427 views
  • 13w, 15h
    Podcast Starting

    Guys, podcast is live. Click on the link if you want to hear me be an absolute tosser for two hours. Ish. It's kinda vague because, you know, I never shut up.

    Anyway. So. Link.

    Here we go.

    EDIT: There, it's done. I never shut up.

    I'll blog about it once it goes to YouTube. Spoilers: I never shut up. It's me talking for two hours, with the host slowly but surely growing from liking me to hating me, 'cause I was draining their life away with my fucking nonstop blabber. It was fun!

    4 comments · 175 views
  • 13w, 4d
    Well, That Was the Absolute Worst Fucking Time to Make an AMA -- GHiE Podcast

    Oh my fucking God.

    I seriously fucked up an AMA.

    This is a new low. I am defeated. This is like -- How is this even possible? This was a chance to talk about myself and nothing else. That is literally my favorite activity, and yet this fucking -- Add it to the list of Aragón Failures: kicked out of a mall for reading the Kama Sutra out loud, lost a fight against a lamppost, read fetish porn without realizing it, tried to do an AMA and failed.

    Not because he didn't get any questions, even! He legitimately fucked up the answers!

    I'm not even being cheeky here. This is genuine distress. I just phoned my dad and told him about this, and he's still laughing. I know, because he and my sister are talking about this on the family Whatsapp. Minutes before Aunt Andrea sees it, and then she phones me, and what the fuck did I ever do to deserve this. My life is a neverending torture. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, and the light is God flipping me the bird.

    I am never living this down.


    An explanation on why I messed up the AMA under the break, I guess.

    Okay, so this is only made worse because the motherfucking AMA blog has like some vague foreshadowing that I added because I think I'm cool or something. Fucking heeeeeeeeeeeell.

    Right so the plan was, right -- I wanted to do something original here. It even sounded interesting! See, instead of writing down the answers, like some kind of lame-o, I would reply out loud!

    How? Easy. I wouldn't actually post any video, or audio file, or anything. No, what I'd do would be: get a recorder, right, and some people who know that I write, and what I write. Family, friends, flatmates. Maybe it's a reunion with a lot of people! Maybe I just phone them one by one! Who gives a shit?

    Thing is, we'd read the questions out loud, and I'd reply to them in front of those people. Who, in turn, would also have stuff to say I assume. So we'd end up with something that is an AMA, but has a higher degree of objectivity, and I guess a little bit of an outsider's perspective. Sure, you can get me talking about politics and writing and shit, but then you also have my roommate, who's seen me write IRL, and he can tell you that actually no he doesn't stop masturbating when he wips out MSWord. Yes, I've recorded it. Yes, you can have the YouTube link.

    So later, once this is done, I'd get that recording and I'd write it down (or use voice-to-text with heavy edits), and BAM!

    Genius idea.



    See, one little problem. Because I am to intelligence what smiles are to Aunt Andrea, I thought it'd be funny to ingest large quantities of coffee before getting into the discussion. For auld lang syne, and because some of the questions reference the time I drank a lot of coffee and shit. All in good fun!

    So I skype my siblings, a friend says he'll join soon, and I read the first question. The caffeine is making me twitch a little. I'm sure that's not an issue.








    Long story short: nobody managed to say a fucking word because I was there having a psychotic breakdown. Eventually, they all left me. This has been a colossal waste of time. Plucking my asshole would have been more productive.

    I shed a tear.

    And then this gets even worse.

    See, right as I'm confessing this to my friends (and they laugh at me), I get a PM from Flutterpriest. I'm invited to the Good HiE podcast, that will happen this Friday. They had a better dude in schedule, but he canceled, so I'm the afterthought. And I'm like, yeah, sure. I'm all up for it. I don't really write HiE though. He goes nah, it doesn't matter, it'll be about writing in general. I say, oh, then I'm absolutely doing it.

    "Great! Here's the link for the thread, tell your followers to ask you questions!"

    This is where the scope of my failure truly comes to light.

    See, if this had happened LITERALLY ANY OTHER WEEK, it wouldn't have been an issue. Sweet, I'll just pop the link in here and call it a day. But, this way? The timing couldn't have been worse. Because now how the flying fuck do I reply to the AMA now? In the podcast? But you're not asking for the podcast, you're asking for a blog. So do I just write the answers in here? But then it looks weird, because -- hey, you just asked me whatever, but IN CASE YOU NEED MORE ME, YOU CAN ASK AGAIN.

    So I just reply to the AMA and do the podcast? But the podcast is on Friday, and it's almost midnight where I am right now. I don't have time to write the blog today -- I'll be away tomorrow till midnight again, and on Wednesdays I have my first final exam. So I can write this on Thursday, in the bus... But then I have the podcast on Friday. This is like, two different AMAs, two days in a row. I'm bound to repeat myself, and it feels like a waste of time because I'm answering questions twice instead of just once.

    Okay. So what if I just reply here, and don't do the podcast. But I already said I'd do the podcast. They already made a thread saying there's gonna be a podcast. And I like appearing on podcasts. It's fun. Wait. Is people even going to ask shit on the podcast? I just did an AMA! Any fucking reader of mine who wants to know shit has already asked! They're waiting for the fucking answer! What the FUCK do I do?!

    Of course, this wouldn't be a problem if I had tried to answer the AMA in a normal way. It would have taken me one afternoon, tops. But no -- I had to schedule that shit. It took me like four days or so to gather them all. I haven't written a single word in the meantime. Friday approaches. Six days have passed. I am still not done with the first question.

    Christ almighty.

    Aunt Andrea saw the Whatsapp. She says she doesn't know what's this "podcast business" all about. She didn't know I write either. My sister tells her I write My Little Pony Fanfiction. The podcast is like a radio show about My Little Pony fanfiction, she elaborates. Aunt Andrea is phoning me tomorrow. She seems to imply this wouldn't have happened if I didn't have homosexual friends.

    Fucking heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeell.

    Okay, you knwo what? Fuck it. I'll take the questions here, and I'll just answer in the podcast. If I can't, I'll just write the AMA later. This time I won't drink this much coffee. You can get a final update of Aunt Andrea's merry misadventures there. On Friday. I guess that's where I'm moving the AMA? Is that even fair? Can we do that?

    God, I hope we can do that.

    So, uh. Wait for the AMA answers, guys. They're... coming? Paste them here so I can reply sooner? I have no idea what I'm doing. I am so tired.

    Fucking heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeell.

    17 comments · 587 views
  • 15w, 6d
    Does "Complaining About Your Headcanons" Equal "Actual Criticism"? Nah -- A Celestial Tirade

    Hey, remember that time Celestia beat Chrysalis without even trying? And then revealed everything that’s ever happened in the show has been part of her plan? And then she flew around Equestria solving every problem and Luna popped out and gave you a blowjob?


    Well, shit. I wonder why.

    …That’s pretty much the entire blog explained in exactly fifty words. A more in-depth analysis on this subject after the page break.

    Pick up some flashlights, folks. ‘Cause we’re gonna throw some shade.

    So, I was actually slightly angry when I started this blog, but thankfully enough a butterfly flew by and I ran away chasing it. Ended up in a forest, got lost, fucked what I hope was a tree, and now I’m back and definitely not mad anymore—so worry not, I won’t be foaming at the mouth while I type.

    However, I will continue writing what I believe is an incredibly nitpicky blog post, because I thought this issue only affected me (and not even Aragón gives a shit about Aragón), but then I saw that, holy shit, a friend was going through the exact same crap. This calls for a couple thousand words of me whining, if I’m the one to judge.

    But enough beating around the bush – like the man who sweetly whispers “no homo” before fucking his Dalmatian, I’ll go straight to the point: sometimes, characters fuck up. This is not the story’s flaw. This is the character’s flaw. And that is good.

    As you, astute reader, might have inferred from the title of this blog, I’m talking about the Princesses in particular, and why they should be allowed to have flaws. Because, sadly, a lot of people want them to be absolutely perfect… But, alas, that can’t be. For a perfect character is like juggling with komodo dragons: you better know what the fuck you’re doing, or else someone’s getting his dick bit off.

    So, okay. Back up, you say. You’re not making any sense, Aragon. Wait, is it “Aragon” or “Aragón”? Can I call you Aragon? It’s easier to type. To which I reply: why, you can call me whatever you want, buddy. I don’t really care. We’re all friends in here. Make yourself comfortable. There are drinks and peanuts on the table, if you want some.

    This is a long story, so I’ll try to make it short: when the show started Princess Celestia was a mysterious figure. She was a mentor, a wise idol for Twilight to look up to, and adore. In the first season, we get but mere glimpses of her: she raises the sun. She’s an alicorn. She planned Luna’s return and bet her life on Twilight, and the bet paid off. When the best night of the year comes around, Twilight’s only wish is to spend it in her company.

    It’s a powerful image. There’s a reason why Celestia and Luna are so popular – the less you know about a character, the more you want to know. You want to fill the blanks, because they are just teasing you, and every time they appear they let you catch a glimpse, big enough for you to get your hopes up, but small enough to let you wanting for more.

    Sounds familiar? It’s really similar to that thing creepy people say when they want to sound smart: eroticism is sexier than outright porn. Suggesting the shape of a nipple under a white cotton shirt is better than thirty tits plastered against you TV screen with sax music in the background.

    Am I saying people want to fuck Luna and Celestia? Yes. Exactly. But on top of that, I’m saying they are interesting because we know little of them. For all we know, they might as well be gods – infinitely powerful, infinitely wise, older than we can imagine. The show knows this, and plays with it; the start of Season Two has that moment where Celestia, for the first time in the series, is shown as scared. And that’s how we know Discord is bad news: he scared Celestia. If Celestia is scared, then he’s a great threat.

    So far, so good. Luna had even less screentime, so she was a total wild card, but what little we knew of Celestia painted her as simply superior to any other life form in Equestria.


    And this is a huge but.

    That shit is in the past. Gone. Bye-bye. Flew through the window, went down the drain. Kicked the bucket. Gave up the ghost. Shit be no more.

    The mystery was solved, folks, and it went away not with a bang but with a whisper. Chrysalis defeated Celestia. Episode 100 showed the Princesses bickering with each other. Tirek won until Twilight came around. The comics had Celestia fall in love for fuck’s sake.

    Are the Princesses normal? Nah. They’re immortal, and another species – that, alone, is enough to differentiate them from the common folk. But we got our answer: they’re not impossibly wise. They’re not impossibly powerful. There are enough clues in the show to assume that they are, in fact, way more normal than expected. They’re just really fucking old.

    Which, I mean, is not something to scoff at? But I don’t assume my 93-years-old grandmother knows all the mysteries of the universe and has power over life and death. I assume she’s got a lot of stories to tell, and is a little bit racist. Her omelets are to die for. That’s all.

    There’s this big problem in… pretty much any fandom, really, in which people assume their headcanons should be (and most times actually are) shared by everybody. That’s perfectly normal: when you give something for granted, you stop thinking it’s merely “your opinion”. And some interpretations are really damn popular—nowhere in the show will you see Luna calling Celestia “Tia”, but you would suspect otherwise if your only source of information was the huge amount of fanworks that use that nickname.

    But that becomes a problem when it makes some folks see flaws where there ain’t any. I’ve had my share of people angry at my stories because they didn’t follow their headcanons… And they honestly believed that, because of this, the story was somewhat against canon, or stupid, or faulty, or personally offensive. Sometimes the offending bit was be something minor, like how in this story Berry Punch doesn’t have a daughter, and they would be somewhat polite about it. Sometimes, it was something major.

    And, I mean – chances are the story is indeed stupid or personally offensive? But that’s because we’re talking about my stories, and I’m a fucking idiot.

    By far, the most common faux-criticism my stories have got, though, is “Celestia would never allow this to happen, she is too smart/too powerful/ not mentally prepared to insert so many things in her vagina”. And sometimes the comments are polite, sure, but sometimes they sure as fuck aren’t.

    “Wow, Aragón,” you must be thinking. “I had no idea that was an issue, you never talk about this. You surely react to this in a mature and calm way, right?” Hahahah. You’re hilarious. Man, when we’re talking about me, always assume the worst.

    This kind of “THIS SHIT DOESN’T FOLLOW MY HEADCANON” comment is usually not enough to make me think twice about this issue. Hell, most of the comments I get aren’t even on the story proper. They come from private chats, PMs, and reviews on places I won’t link.

    And you know what? One could even argue that they have a point, which makes my ‘faux-criticism’ appellative a lie: a lot of my stories rely on character assassination. I believe that OOC is relative, that the format of a story should be malleable, that grammar rules are to be defied for the sake of a greater story, and pretty much anything that makes smart people think that I’m a huge idiot.  

    So, is my brand of character assassination an issue? I honestly have no idea. Maybe? I find it fun and I’m not hurting anybody, but hey, maybe it’s propagating the stereotype that all ponies are actually starfishes or some shit. Christ, weirder things have gone down in this website.

    But here’s the thing – at least those comments have a point. Indeed, I once wrote a story in which Celestia happily desecrates a body in public, and that strikes some as weird, for it would never happen in the show. Hence, they point that out, and one can argue if they’re missing a point or not, but their argument is at least nominally right.

    So this is not what pisses me off. What pisses me off is what I saw today – a person criticizing a story (that is not mine, and that I think is pretty good), explaining that the fic sucks and it should have never been written, because it included Celestia acting in a way that they saw as faulty. Real, objective faux-criticism, in which the issue was, and I quote, “this goes against my personal headcanon, so anything you’ve ever written is shit and you’re a fucking idiot.”

    (I might not be quoting literally, but, shit, if I can’t make a strawman then what is the point of this blog?)

    I’ll go a little in-depth here. I won’t give out the name of the story, or the name of whoever commented, because by the lack of testicles sprouting under my chin I infer I’m not a colossal dickhead? But I will explain, roughly, what happened:

    • The story includes a plot point that affects Celestia in a particular way.

    • Said plot point is a pretty big conflict in the universe of the story.

    • The conflict could be fixed if Celestia was immensely powerful, immensely wise, immensely proactive, or any combination of the three.

    • As the story is competently written, that is not the fucking case.

    That, apparently, was enough to drive the person commenting absolutely insane. And the worst thing is, this wasn’t an isolated incident – this has happened many, many times. In many stories, with many angry people commenting.

    I suspected this was a thing, but I didn’t realize it was an issue till today. And, frankly, it pisses me off because it’s just pretty damn dumb.

    It’s insane the number of stories that have got downvotes, and horrible comments, and a constant influx of rage out of something as simple as “Celestia wasn’t all-powerful here”. I understand that, if one writes something like Rarity saying she hates fashion, some people may call you out on it. But that’s because Rarity is shown as liking fashion in the show, so it contradicts canon in an explicit way.

    Maybe I’m exaggerating this a little bit, or being overly dramatic. I don’t know. The point is: this is not even about Celestia anymore, I think. This is about a lot of stuff that people are unhappy with. Twilight being an alicorn, Flash Sentry existing, Twilight being a Princess but not having any apparent authority, Celestia not being omniscient, Luna openly admitting she dislikes heavy metal. The list goes on and on and on, brah.

    See a pattern? They’re all new things. Things that weren’t there at the start.

    This is not about actual criticism. This is about change, about nostalgia.

    At some point in life, every change is perceived as derivative, because you’re used to shit going one way and now it goes the other way and what the fuck do you mean, “Disco music is not cool anymore”. Fuck you. Fuck you. I just—don’t talk to me. Don’t fucking talk to me ever again. Jesus fucking Christ.

    And this is normal! It might even be good or whatever, I have no fucking idea. But above it all? This is your opinion. This is not objective. Unless your argument as to why the changes are wrong is based on MORE stuff, then your opinion is only an opinion and has the weight of a feather fart.

    Look, I hated Flash Sentry when he appeared. Part of the reason why I did so is because, well, I liked it better when Twilight had no romantic interest. I thought it made things more elegant. I was nostalgic about the times when she was single and ready to mingle. But I also thought the romance was badly written, and could explain you why.

    So, was that opinion subjective? Yes. However, I weighted said opinion against some more obejctive arguments, to see if I was wrong or right. And then I used that as a ground for criticism. Sure, I was still biased, but I was at least trying to make a point. Also, Flash Sentry is a cunt, so like. You get me.

    But a lot of people dislike the new stuff just because it’s new, and they don’t elaborate past that. This makes sense, but it means fuck-all when you’re talking to a writer. He's just there to write, man, and he's got his own ideas. I get that a lot of people liked Celestia better when she was mysterious and we could imagine her as all-powerful, or even a literal god. I get that the show peaked at Season Two, and that Seasons Three and Four were… controversial. I get that, for some, this change is derivative.

    But, uh. Is there any actual, grounded reason why an all-powerful Celestia is objectively better than a more grounded, flawed one?

    ‘Cause, shit.

    I can’t think of any.

    Try as you might, but this shit’s got the words “personal opinion” written all over it. Call me a freak, but you’re not gonna have sex with me if you act like this, brosephanie. This sweet ass is not gonna kiss you goodbye if you walk that road. I’ve got standards. Low, sure. I just fucked a tree. But standards nonetheless.

    The show has changed, Celestia has changed, and you’re perfectly entitled to prefer her past interpretation over the one we have now – but you are not entitled to force this interpretation onto others.

    Every character is flawed, really. It’s foolish to expect them to always be reasonable, always take the most logical option, and never make any mistakes. This might happen – there are some killer stories out there that have characters that never really do anything wrong – but it’s not mandatory.

    Some people confuse genuine, reasonable in-story mistakes with the author being an asshole, but that might not be the case. Just because the character is an idiot, or an immoral monster, doesn’t mean the author is the same.

    Ugh. The more I think about this issue, the more complex it gets. This has to do with nostalgia, with reader trust, with people mistaking headcanons for actual canon material… Just like my penis, it’s endless, and it makes girls cross their legs and fan themselves with her hand.

    Doesn’t mean I’m going to give up, mind you. See, I believe you simply can’t have an all-powerful entity solve every problem. You can’t expect your favorite character to just do whatever and make the fucking plot a non-issue. Stories have conflict, that’s what moves the story forward. “But Celestia could just zap away every monster!” Shit, or maybe she can’t. We don’t know. The show sure doesn’t think that, so why should the author do this? If, in-story, it’s established that this can’t happen, then… Why should it happen?

    You know what’s a good definition for a dramatic story? “An exercise in frustration”. Giving the readers what they want immediately can work sometimes, but most of the time, it doesn’t. I get that, as a reader, you want the characters to be happy. You see a misunderstanding, or the characters struggling against a foe, and you want them to win. Because you’re invested.

    But if they fix it all, the story ends. And maybe the characters can’t fix it all, because A) the plot doesn’t work that way, and B) the characters literally cannot do that for reasons that are explained in-universe.

    (Actually, this is a good thing to talk about. Write it down for a later blog, yo.)

    Wait, I think I just – see this? This thing I said? I just realized that's why this annoys me so much. Because this specific complain shows a total lack of understanding on how stories work in two different ways:

    • From a metanarrative point of view, what you’re asking for here is called an “anticlimax”. The name itself means “the opposite of an orgasm”, so you can see why it’s bad. It breaks momentum and it ends the story prematurely. Nobody is left satisfied with this. You’re developing a threat, a conflict to—NEVER MIND, THE MAGICAL FLYING IMMORTAL ALIEN JUST POOPED A LOVE POTION, WE'RE DONE.

    • From a narrative point of view, Celestia is not necessarily an omnipotent character. She might be, if you write her that way. She might not be, if you don’t write her that way. Depends on which interpretation you prefer.

    Is this petty? This feels petty. I think I’m being petty.

    But whatever, honestly. This applies to other issues of similar nature – I’m sure that if you’re a writer, you can somehow relate to this tirade I’m throwing here. It’s one thing when the story establishes Celestia as all-powerful, and then does fuck-all with it. That’s a plot hole. It’s another thing when the story doesn’t establish Celestia as God without a beard.

    ‘Cause that’s just not the standard anymore. You might write her that way, but not everybody does, and that’s not a mistake. If the story doesn’t say Celestia is all-powerful, then Celestia is not all-powerful. If you assume automatically that she’s omnipotent, then you’re headcanoning. Which is nice! But don’t insult the author over it.

    ‘Cause it’s a dumb thing to do, really. It shows a bad attitude, and some weird misconception on how a story or a character works. And, also, seeing how the show itself doesn’t see Celestia as an end-all for every problem, it shows a weird misunderstanding of canon too.

    Sigh. I’ve rambled a lot here, I believe. But the point still stands.

    It’s just—

    Remember that time Celestia beat Chrysalis without even trying? And then revealed everything that’s ever happened in the show has been part of her plan? And then she flew around Equestria solving every problem and Luna popped out and gave you a blowjob?


    Well, shit. I wonder why.

    30 comments · 613 views
  • 22w, 17h
    On The Conversion Bureau And -- Wait Holy Shit, Already?

    Man. It took, like three seconds for the POTENTIAL DRAMA IN THE COMMENTS to appear. At least the guy who posted it (unintendedly, I'm sure) was a bro about it, and deleted the comments.

    Still, shit, they weren't kidding when they said this genre was dangerous.

    So that was the first commissioned story, folks. Give it a go, even if you don't know anything about the Conversion Bureau -- it's supposed to work no matter what. Good ol' iisaw gave me a title and asked me to Aragón all over it, and that was pretty much the entire prompt.

    Now, back to the lab. Gotta work on the other commissions (which will have a more broad appeal, as they don't deal with a niche). Still, I'm proud of this one. It deals with Celestia. Also, donkeys.

    Anyway, later I'll post a blog sharing thoughts on how I wrote this, and the CB in general. Or maybe something that has NOTHING todo with that. WHO KNOWS. I'M MYSTERIOUS LIKE THAT.

    Cheers, yo.

    5 comments · 381 views
  • 22w, 4d
    There's a Bad Moon on the Rise

    42 comments · 527 views
  • 23w, 18h
    Prereader Call

    So. Remember the little caffeine stunt? I went to class while still on the high, more coffee than human, and, uh.

    I think I either seduced a teacher, or became a part-time lecturer myself. Or both. I'm still not sure.

    Anyway! That will be explained in detail later, in a different blog, because I'm being actually serious, and this is the kind of story you share, god dammit. I thrive on the attention.

    For now, let's talk prereaders.

    As in, let's talk about how I need some.

    Yeah. Not a lot of depth to this blog, 'cause I'm currently busy as hell, and I figured business comes before pleasure for once. Wacky hijicks will come in a couple days, sorry 'bout that.

    So! I have proofreaders. A lot of proofreaders. People who check my story, judge the grammar and more technical side of it, and then move on. What I need now are prereaders, people who give me an opinion on the story's quality. Character, plot, dialogue, all that stuff. Actual critique of the least quantitative elements of the story.


    I'm currently on the very last steps of editing a story I've written. It's based on a commonly shared fanon subgenre that I've never touched (for many reasons), and you know what? I'm actually not gonna tell you what's about, exactly, 'cause god dammit the story is supposed to be enjoyable even if you know jackshit about the genre.

    (I know my audience, yo).

    Comedy, I can say that. On the 10k words range. Really Celestia-focused. Really character-driven. Really "Today is a Good Day to Die" -ish.

    Any volunteers? Or any questions about the teacher thing, I suppose. I'm seriously swearing off coffee for a while, 'cause fucking hell.

    31 comments · 404 views
  • 23w, 4d
    A Short and Simple One

    So. Fifteen tips for y'all, straight outta the mouth of the biggest idiot this side of Europe:

    1) If you're used to drinking coffee with milk and you like things that are bitter, try black coffee! It isn't nearly as strong as you think it is, and you can always add just a tiny bit of sugar to make it easier on the tongue!

    2) In case you follow the previous tip, always remember that the amount of caffeine you take depends on the amount of coffee you drink. Coffee as in the brown/black stuff that you brewed.

    3) It's not, I repeat, it's not measured in the number of mugs of liquid you drink.

    4) Because if you are used to, perish the thought, coffee with milk, then one mug is actually very little coffee, which implies VERY LITTLE CAFFEINE.








    12) IT'S 2 AM ON A MONDAY.

    13) AND I THINK.






    30 comments · 750 views
  • 26w, 20h
    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!

    Price for stories is going to be 5$ per 1,000 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. Just assume it'll be 5$ per 1,000 words and call it a day, yo.

    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.

    The price for blogs is also going to be 5$ per 1,000 words, 'cause why fix what ain't broken, I guess. 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 · 356 views
  • 27w, 6d
    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 · 350 views
  • 28w, 5d
    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 · 600 views
  • 30w, 2d
    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 · 378 views
  • 33w, 3d
    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.

    26 comments · 839 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 · 135 views ·
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