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Aragon

Quoth the raven: "CAW CAW CAW CAW CAW CAW CAW CAW CAW" (Patreon)

Aragon Joined 19th Mar, 2012 · Offline

More Blog Posts269

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Nov
16th
2019

Aragón at Bronycon 2019 -- Day Four · 11:20pm Nov 16th, 2019

Bronycon 2019 lasted four days. The show lasted nine years.

This is how it ended.

Smile, kid. The world’s looking at you.

Disclaimer: The purpose of this blog is to show you the way Bronycon felt, as realistically as possible. Due to the nature of storytelling itself, this sometimes implies taking some minor liberties. 

Everything told in these blogs is true, and dramatised to the best of my memory. Every line spoken has been kept verbatim whenever possible, and only changed when the flow of the scene or the grammar of the sentence required it so. 

That said, while everything explained here happened, some events have been shuffled for convenience’s sake and to make it easier on the reader to follow the narrative. As such, the order of every scene here shown isn’t strictly chronological.

PART FOUR

It smells like plastic and sweat, like deodorant and concrete floors. Picture that specific feeling of shoving ice up your nose every time you breathe—that’s the AC—mixed with a slight warmth on your back, because you’re wearing a jacket. You’re not sweating, but all it takes is one run and you’ll be drenched.

You think that sounds unpleasant until you’ve been to a convention—then you know it’s intoxicating. It’s manic. I could punch a tiger right now, and I’d break its teeth. Breathing ice and burning fire; that’s what Heaven feels like to me.

Welcome to Vendor Hall.

It’s the last day of Bronycon 2019, and most merchandising has been bought or put away. The crowds are smaller than ever, so you can stand in the middle of a corridor without danger of being ran over. 

That’s what I’m doing, in fact. Arms crossed, chin up; by my side, Pear’s got his hands on his hips. We’re both staring at the same picture. It’s a good one—not entirely show-like, it’s stylized, the ponies have smaller eyes and look fluffier—and it portrays Starlight, and Trixie. Hugging each other.

Smiling warmly.

“That’s pretty cute,” Pear says, his accent peppering his words. Pear talks like a shotgun: many words, all at once, very fast, but there’s a certain musicality to his sentences. If he learned to keep the beat, he could be a good rapper. “That’s a cute picture.”

I nod. “Mmm.”

“Shame someone’s gonna fuck it.”

The picture is printed on a pillow cover. On the other side, Trixie and Starlight are still hugging and smiling, but they’re showing you their bum.

“Microcosm of this fandom right there.”

“Man.” Before I look at Pear, I make sure none of the good people—R5h, RBDash47, Undome Tinwe, you know the lot—are within earshot. I want to make sure I can be mean. “You know, last year? I saw a guy carrying at least twenty Starlight Glimmer plush toys. I think he was wearing an ahegao hoodie, too.”

Pear looks at me, surprise in his face. “Really?”

“Yeah. And the plushies weren’t cheap, either! They were like…” I look around, but I can’t see any plushie stand nearby, so I have to wave a hand in the air. “Custom plushies, you know? Some were really really big; dude carried a cart with himself.”

Pear nods. “Fuckin’ hell.” He says it like ‘ell’. Very charming. “That’s a lot of money.”

“Have you seen the prices of plushies this year? That man spent thousands on those plush toys. Plural, thousands.” I look at the cute Starlight hugging the cute Trixie. “And I remember I told Regidar, you know? That guy with the hoodie is going to fuck at least one of those plushies.”

Pear looks at me again, this time speechless.

And I shake my head. “I tell you. Tens of thousands spent in one single character? Those plush toys won’t go unfucked. His cock will go in one of those, at the very least. A the very least.”

“Fucking hell.” This time Pear says it without the accent. “That’s probably right. Jesus.”

I smile. “We’re always two steps away from fucking a plush toy we bought for a couple thousand dollars, Pear. Never forget that. We gotta be our best selves, or else this is how people will see us.”

No light without darkness, right? This is part of the experience. We all play the wholesome game, but that doesn’t mind we gotta blind ourselves to what’s around.

We walk away from the Starlight and the Trixie. 

“Remember that print we saw yesterday?” Pear asks, as he looks around. “The one with Starlight and Trixie?”

I do. Starlight was wearing Trixie’s hat in that one. “Yeah.”

“Do you still want it?”

“Yeah!”

“Let’s look for it then.”

It was a great picture. Very stylish, though I gotta admit—the art wasn’t as good as the one in the fuckpillow. It was cuter, less sexualized, and the artist had a less clear grasp on anatomy. Only came in print form.

We don’t find it. They ran out, you see? Sold out all the prints of that particular picture on Day Three; I was too late. A lot of the cuter artwork is gone by now. Vendor Hall will close soon, after all.

The pillows remain, though. They don’t sell as well. So I guess that’s also a lesson—this is what you see, this is what you find when you come to Bronycon, this is what people think of us, and we’re two steps away from fucking a plush toy at all times.

But at the end of the day, the prints sell. The pillows not so much.

Some of us, we take solace in that.

“Raugos! Raugos! Raugos! Raugos!”

I storm into Quills and Sofas, grinning, eyes wide and spring in my step, and there’s sweat on my brow that I don’t bother to sweep away. 

“Raugos!”

That’s me yelling, but it’s a good yell. 

“Hey!” And then I stop, but I don’t quite stop. I was running, and I’m wearing sneakers, so when I try to halt I slide on the ground like I’m wearing wheelies. It’d look cool if we were in the 90s. It’s not the 90s. “Sorry for leaving earlier! I wanted to stay and chat, but I had promised some friends I’d have a drink with them first, and we were running late, and—well, you know.” I shake my head. “Anyway! We can talk now. Hi!”

Raugos smiles, and shakes my hand, completely unfazed by my bullshit. “Hi,” he says. “Pleasure to finally talk to you.”

Raugos is tall and dark. He’s the librarian in a horror movie, he’s Alfred if Batman hadn’t been a weirdo. He speaks at a pace, with a very low voice, and leans down so we’re at eye level. He hesitates a bit before taking a step in a new direction, likes to stop and take a look around, to make sure everything is okay.

“It really is!” I say. “A pleasure, I mean. I didn’t know you’d be attending!”

“I didn’t make a real fuss over it. Glad you could come in the end, too. GoFundMe worked?” 

I wink at him. “Sure did.”

Raugos and I have an interesting relationship. Raugos spent seven years as a very active member of Fimfiction.net—he’s good at writing, has a following in the thousands—but he never followed a single user himself, since he’s there to write, rather than to read.

And then he discovered my blogs. 

He gave up, after a while. He liked not following anyone—there’s a lone wolf appeal to that I very much get, and Raugos is James Bond without the gun or the tuxedo—but I swept him off his feet. He told me, too, with mild annoyance. I fucked up his track record.

So, what can I say, we get along. I’m a diva, and he likes my jokes. It’s a pleasant, cocktail-party relationship; perfect for chitchat.

“You know, I brag about that often! You following me, I mean.” I talk more slowly now, I’ve relaxed y shoulders. Raugos does that when you talk to him; he drags you down to his own pace and marks the rhythm of the conversation without even trying. “Whenever you pop up, I go oh, that guy follows me! And only me. They find my bragging insufferable.”

Raugos hums a chuckle, and then frowns slightly. “I pop up in conversation often?”

“You’re a popular writer.” I wink at him. “Did you know my book sold out? Three times! I don’t like to talk about it.”

“Oh. I didn’t know, no.” Raugos looks at me, up and down. “You know, you’re exactly how I pictured you’d be.”

“That’s a hell of a compliment.”

Raugos laughs again, probably in self defense, and then he raises a finger and takes his backpack off. “I brought you something, actually,” he says. “Wanted you to try it. Tell me what you think!”

And he places a bag of crisps in my hands. Only they’re not crisps, turns out, they’re something else. I don’t understand what’s written on the bag, but I can see the pictures—the bag is silver, and shiny, and plastered with depictions of—

“Durians?” I ask. I seize the bag up and down and look at Raugos. “…Is this a durian?”

“Bits.” Raugos grabs the bag again, and opens it. It gives off a satisfying pop!, and I think I can see yellow powder floating in the air afterwards. “It’s freeze-dried durian. It’s better when fresh, but I couldn’t bring that onto the plane, and this is the next best thing.” He tilts the bag towards me, smiles. “Want some?”

I blink, frown. One of my best friends is Singaporean. I know about durians. “Isn’t this supposed to be really strong? The flavor, I mean.”

“Sure.” Raugos nods, and shakes the bag a bit. “Want some?”

I hesitate, and then raise a hand—and grab a piece.

“It’s like I have farts,” I heave, grasping the cup of water. “Inside my mouth.”

“Mmm.” Octavia Hamony is chewing durian by my side, swishing his cup of water side to side. “It’s better when it’s fresh.”

“Farts.” I cough. “Jesus, that’s—shit.” I cough again, and point at the door. We’re still in Quills and Sofas, by the water fountain, and I see someone outside, chatting it up with the crowd. “Is that Bad Horse?”

Octavia Harmony looks. “What?”

“It is! HI, BAD—” I cough, choke, sip water, swallow. Start again. “HI, BAD HORSE!”

Bad Horse turns around and leaves.

I sip some more water, and then I look at Tay. “I swear we’re friends,” I say, nodding towards the door. My throat is so closed up by the durian I can feel my eyes tearing up. “He probably just didn’t hear me.”

Tay frowns. “Uh-huh. Um. Aragon?” He squints. “Are you okay?”

I grin. “I’m not,” I say. “Let’s find Raugos, I want some more durian. Maybe you get used to the flavor over time?”

You don’t get used to the flavor over time.

Starbucks, to cleanse the sins of the durian. There’s quite a crowd—Pearple Prose, of course, and Singularity Dream. But Oroboro and Curtis and  Eliott are around, too, and so’s DJThomp, though he’ll leave soon. The Starbucks is inside the Convention Center proper, so you don’t need to leave the building to get a coffee. A bit overpriced—but which Starbucks isn’t?

Monochromatic is over there, in the distance, you can tell her apart by the pikachu hat. She’s sitting in a circle, talking to her people. I already went to say hi; we’ll talk more in depth later.

“So are we getting a table or…?” That’s Pear talking, checking our surroundings. “Oro got a table over there, we could sit with him.”

“Sure. Or we can walk around, I guess? I just need something to—eh?” Something soft punched me in the left shoulder, and I recognize the feeling: a boxing glove. I turn around. “What the—ah.”

And Kuairu raises a gloved hand, and winks at me. “Hey.”

“Hey, man!” I go for a handshake; he’s wearing boxing gloves. So we settle for a fist bump instead. “Nice to see you!”

That last bit, I say in Spanish. Kuairu doesn’t understand it, I speak too fast and my accent is too European for Paraguayan minds—but it’s the thought that counts, and we both know it.

Kuairu is a summer day in human form; whenever he rides a bike, you hear anime songs in the background. He wears his smile with pride and excitement, and talks like he was born at a sports bar: clearly, loudly, sharp e-nun-ci-a-tion. He leans forward when paying attention, and leans backwards when surprised. 

He’s dressed, head to toe, as a boxer. Boxing gloves—colored red, white, and blue—boxing shorts—the USA flag plastered over the left leg—and a wifebeater shirt—with the USA flag on the chest.

“Someone’s looking fancy,” I say as he takes off his boxing gloves and hangs them by his neck. “Cool to see you, man.”

“Same here! What are you getting?” We’ve moved to the queue in front of the Starbucks, and he’s pointing at the counter. “Let me pay for you!”

What the hell is up with Americans and buying me drinks. “Nah, I can’t accept that.” I go for my wallet, and open it in front of Kuairu. “I’ve got enough cash! See? I’ve—”

I’ve got like five bills, and seven million coins. I really need to start paying for stuff with coins, and I’ve no idea how to use them, and we’re the next ones in line.

So I close my wallet, and smile with a closed mouth. “You know what,” I say. “Fuck it. You can pay for my drinks.”

“Cool!”

So we order. I want a coffee, and I’m hungry, so I’d fancy a treat—Kuairu insists—and every single pastry on sale is cinnamon-flavored, so cinnamon muffin it is, I guess. I let Kuairu order, and Pear approaches me from behind. He’s reading the program you get when they give you your BC badge. It essentially contains every single panel that’s happened or going to, here at the convention.

“Some of these are pretty wild.” Pear tugs at my arm like an orphaned child asking for more porridge, and lets me peek over his shoulder. “Take a look.”

I do. I see what he’s pointing at. “Avatar: the Last Pathfinder.” I pause. Pathfinder is a tabletop roleplaying game; essentially Dungeons and Dragons but worse, and thus, more fun. I look at Pear. “Is that an actual fucking panel?”

“Yes.” Pear reads the description of it. “You play Pathfinder but it’s in the world of Avatar: The Last Airbender. Like, the show?”

“What the shit does that have to do with horses?”

“Literally nothing.”

I lean closer to Pear so I can read the description, too. It’s essentially what Pear told me. “I can’t believe they approved that but they didn’t approve Mono’s Rarity panel.”

Kuairu is back with us. “Mono had a Rarity panel?” Then he point to the side. “We gotta wait for our order in there.” Then he repeats: “Mono had a Rarity panel?”

“That was the idea.” I move to the designated waiting zone. “Wasn’t approved though.”

“A Rarity panel.” Pear is still browsing the program, but he looks up his shades to shoot me a look first. “What was it about?”

“Mostly just Monochromatic talking about Rarity for ninety minutes, and Swan Song and I sit by her side and nod now and then.” I shake my head. “No questions, no audience input. Just, this is why we like Rarity: the panel.”

“And they didn’t accept that?” Kuairu asks.

“Nah.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Pear mutters.

Something catches my eye in the program. “Hold up, what’s that.” I point at a panel in particular. “Life lessons with pony?”

Pear reads it. “It’s like some kind of self-help panel. Get your life together kinda deal.”

“Self-help.” I frown. “But like, actual self-help? Or just some Jordan Peterson bullshit?”

Pear snorts. “Fluttershy says: wash your dick.” He then looks at me. “I mean, knowing this fandom…?”

“Yeah, it’s a toss-up. You know, I had to read some self-help books in college,” I smile fondly at the memory. Kuairu looks at me with surprise, Pear nods in acknowledgement—he’s heard this story before. I look at Kuairu and nod too. “It was an assignment, sort of. A teacher asked me to.”

Pear pages through the program some more. “Didn’t he think you were poisoned or some shit?”

“Yeah. Brilliant man, one of the best Law theorists in Spain by far. Was sure I had heavy metals in my blood.” I look at Kuairu. “Like, not the music. The actual metals. Lead and so on.”

Kuairu blinks. “What the hell.”

“Yeah, he noticed I didn’t pay attention in some of his classes. Mostly because they were boring, but I obviously couldn’t tell him that. So, he figured I had heavy metal poisoning.” I shrug. “He ran some tests on himself once and turns out he had like, a shitton of mercury in his blood, so he’s paranoid about that.”

Silence.

“Your life’s a fucking cartoon,” Pear says.

“Sometimes.” I look at the Starbucks. “We’ve been waiting in here for like half an hour. Did they forget our order?”

Kuairu blinks, and looks at the Starbucks. “No way,” he says. “Give me a moment.”

He calls the bartender. 

While Kuairu’s busy, Pear looks at me. “So did you actually have lead poisoning?”

“I’ve no idea! I never got tested.” I shrug. “He also told me to read some self-help books just in case anyway, and since I was the teacher’s pet in that class, I thought fuck it, why not, that’ll make him happy.”

“…Why would he make you read those.”

“Lead poisoning causes depression? Fuck if I know.”

“They forgot our order,” Kuairu says. He’s back with coffees and my cinnamon muffin. “They also forgot about your cinnamon muffin.”

I blink, and point at the pastry in Kuairu’s hand. “Then what’s that?”

“Your cinnamon muffin.” He hands it to me. “I mean more they forgot to charge me for it, but they gave it to me anyway.”

“Oh. Huh.” I take a bite off it. It’s terrible. “Wow this tastes and looks exactly the same. Hey, what’s that.”

Pear looks at me. “Hmm?”

“That panel.” I point at another paragraph in the program. “Cosplay Fights?”

There’s a pause. We all look at Kuairu. Kuairu looks at the boxing gloves around his neck.

Kuairu squints. “I’m going to dominate that shit.”

“You’re straight-up going to deck a Sailor Moon between the eyes?”

Kuairu nods. “Yes.”

“Probably not what Cosplay Fights means,” Pear chimes in.

“He’s still going to deck a Sailor Moon between the eyes,” I say.

Kuairu nods. “Yes.”

Vendor Hall, one last time. 

“Rapey Trixie, Big Dick Spike, Celestia fuckpillow—and there’s the big butt cheesecake Star Wars anthro Fluttershy. Neat.” I turn a corner, and smile. “And that’s the bookstore!”

I don’t need to buy any more books—I got all the ones I needed—but I like to wander, and talk to the people. I’m standing near the bookstore, chatting people up, catching wind of Horse Voice and giving him a wave and some fingerguns. Life is great, and so am I.

Then I see a badge with a name I recognize.

“Flutterpriest!” I have to nudge my way through some people—the bookstore is still popular enough to get a consistent crowd of onlookers; it’s part of why I love it in here. Then I wave. “Hey, Flutterpriest! It’s me!”

“Oh?”

I grab my badge, turn it around so my name can be seen. Writer or somethin. “Aragón!”

“Oh!”

And Flutterpriest smiles.

Flutterpriest is one of the people running the Barcast, a My Little Pony podcast that’s interviewed me twice—so we knew each other’s voices, but didn’t know each other’s looks. That’s why he’s so surprised. Anyone who’s heard me speaking over the phone assumes I look like a little French girl from the Nineteenth Century reciting her monthly prayers. 

Priest though, he speaks like he could fill Notre-Dame; if he’d been born some centuries ago, his work would’ve been to tell you the Black Plague is in your town.

But he’s not intimidating. I think he could be, but he’s not. In person he’s softer, gentler, smiles with his mouth closed and tilting his head to one side. Speaks quietly, far more than I’m used to, giving the conversation an intimate look.

“Aragón!” He smiles, shakes my hand. “I’m glad to see you made it. How are you?”

“I’m doing great! You know, I don’t like to talk about it?” I puff my chest out, and nod at the bookstore in front of us. “But my book sold out.”

Priest takes a look. My book is on display, proudly wearing the “sold-out” sticker.

“Three times,” I add once Priest looks back at me.

“Congrats!” Priest says, patting me on the shoulder. “How does that work?”

“They kept finding new boxes. Ah, sorry.” Some people want to actually buy some books, so we move away and to the side, near Aquaman’s table. Aqua is still working the cash register, typing numbers on a calculator to tell the prices. Something by his table catches my attention. “…What is this? Can I grab these?”

Priest looks over my shoulder. “Yeah, they are.”

“Yes,” Aquaman says, not looking up from his calculator. “As many as you want, they’re free.”

My eyes shine, and I my fingers twitch.

They’re bookmarks, but they’re custom bookmarks. One of them is from Ponyfeather Publishing, ran by RBDash47, and the publishing house that got my book out. There’s another that’s literally about the Bronycon Bookstore, and says so proudly.

“Featuring the following authors…” I’m reading the latter bookmark, holding it close to my eyes—it’s a pretty damn long list of every single author that’s selling stuff at the bookstore. I find my name. “Holy shit, I’m in here. I need to get this one now.”

Flutterpriest arches an eyebrow and looks at it. “We’re all in there,” he says.

“Yeah, but so am I.” I stuff the bookmark in my purse, and then look at the other one. It has the cover of every book published by Ponyfeather Publishing, which obviously includes The Essential Aragón. “I mean, I can’t not get this if I’m in there. It’s like, superior to me.”

“I guess?”

There are more things on the table, not just bookmarks. I see that Admiral Biscuit brought business cards asking you to check out his books, and—

I pick up a card that’s slightly too long to be a business card proper, but slightly too short to be a bookmark. It’s got a picture of Fluttershy in it, surrounded by hearts, and she seems to be dancing.

She’s wearing a priest’s collar.

“What the.” I frown. The card has a message, written in white letters against a blue background: Crap my Book Sold Out. Flutterpriest.

I turn it around. A smug Fluttershy, still wearing a priest’s collar, looks at me. I’m sorry my book ran out! the small print next to the smug pony reads. If you would still like to purchase a copy, feel free to buy it off my online store on Lulu!

And then it has a QR code, which, I assume, leads you to the Lulu page where you can find the book.

“Priest?” I turn around and wave the card up and down so he can see it. There’s an entire pile of these on Aqua’s table. “What the hell?”

“Oh, yeah.” Priest smiles, and points at the bookstore display. “My book sold out too.”

I look at the display. Indeed, I can see Priest’s book in there now, also wearing the sticker that says there are no more copies available. So I frown and wave the card again. “And you prepared this in advance?”

“I felt bad about the people who wanted the book but couldn’t get it.”

“…You knew your book would sell out?”

Priest shrugs. “Figured.”

I blink. I think back on The Essential Aragón—it literally starts with me musing on how well the book will do, and wondering if anybody would buy it at all. It then says many more things, but that’s one of the first thoughts I put on the paper, because that’s what went through my  head when I wrote the intro.

And Priest over here, he just went, fuck. I need to bring as many books as possible, and then I need business cards to apologize to the people who will surely come here and try to buy my book once it inevitably sells out. I need to take care of them too.

I chortle, and pocket the business card. “You know what?” I say.

“What?”

“I should be a little more sure of myself. It can’t be good for my health, being this humble.”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, probably.”

Let me tell you a secret:

I do it on purpose. 

I try to make it look natural, and most of the time it flows out of the conversation without issue, but it’s very much premeditated. Deliberate. If you’re one of my friends, you might’ve seen me doing it—for no particular reason, other than me goofing off, I’ll describe a person in the room.

I like to do it with abstract ideas. I’ll say Majin Syeekoh has Weird Uncle Vibes, and Dubs Rewatcher is more of a Younger Cousin sorta deal. You attach a positive label, one that’s personalized and describes the general feeling a person gives you. You try to distill their character, their personality, in as few words as possible.

It’s always fun. I enjoy doing it, and people like it. Soon enough we’re all participating, doing a list, trying to assess who’s what, who’s who, etcetera. “What about me? What’s your read of me” is a sentence I’ve heard many times. 

People remember those labels, right? They’re proud of them. The more specific the better. I’ll look at MrNumbers and teasingly describe exactly which kind of media he enjoys, and how it all fits two very basic categories. I’ll message Posh and say, hey, there’s this pattern to your stories, I’ve noticed, and I appreciate it a lot. This is how I describe your writing style in one word only. I’ll chat up Caligari87 and say, hey, if you were a subreddit? You’d be this subreddit.

Corny, yeah, but suck my dick. It might not make someone’s day, but it always makes them smile, it makes them re-read what I just wrote over and over, taking it in, rolling it in their head a little.

We all crave validation. We all want to feel we matter, that we don’t go unnoticed, and that’s perfectly fine. I know that feeling more than most, believe me. So I play with that. Now and then, for the hell of it, I’ll try to describe a person, I’ll try to make them realize that I know them, that I pay attention to them.

Most of the time, when I say something like this, people remember what I said about them, and quote it back at me. They smile about it a lot.

It never fails to make me smile back. A little private joke. Because it is on purpose—why do you think my descriptions in these blogs are so elaborate?

“Here you go!” Nyronus hands me his copy of my book, and a pen. He’s smiling, and talks with theatrical flair. Everything Nyronus does has theatrical flair. Nyronus is the Phantom of the Opera as written by Lin-Manuel Miranda. “All yours.”

“Thanks! You know, I don’t like to talk about it? But it sold out three times.” I open the book by the first page. There’s  a quote on the second page, though, so I pause for a moment. “Uh.” I look up at him. “Where do you want me to sign?”

Nyronus smiles. “Wherever!”

Nyronus is not overly tall, but he moves like he were a giant. At all times he talks like he’s giving a speech, he makes a flourish with every move, he walks like an actor dancing on the stage. When he speaks you feel his mother tongue is Shakespearean sonnets; his first full sentence was an alliteration.

I genuinely can’t tell if he wore a cape, gloves, and a cane at all times, or if I simply added those to my memories. They fit him. Nyronus would be a Transylvanian figure if he weren’t smiling all the goddamn time. If he were a vampire, he’d drink liquid candy.

The thing about Nyronus, though, right, is that he’s so goddamn nice. Whenever he reads one of your stories, he chases you so he can talk in-depth about it, which is pretty much the best thing you can do for a writer. Fucker will apologize, say sorry for the bother, utterly unaware that few things brighten your day more than someone with a cane and a top hat going “Good morning, ol’ chap. Would you fancy a philosophical diatribe on the ins-and-outs of your latest piece of fiction?”

(Oh, yeah, Orbiting Kettle is also like that. It’s such a shame Orbiting Kettle didn’t make it to Bronycon ’19. I fucking love Orbiting Kettle.)

I wish I had the time, or the ability, to do that. I wish I weren’t tired most of the time, or busy, or about to be both of those things. 

But my brain’s not big enough. I have a short attention span, and I’ve got a terrible memory. I’m bad at replying to messages or getting stuff out in time; I continuously forget to comment, to reply, to engage with the people that deserve more of my attention.

That’s why I do my little thing. The little private joke.

I’m only telling you because I’m aware—sometimes people struggle with flattery. Giving it, receiving it, etcetera. Been noticing that these last few weeks, and it’s got me thinking. because it’s the one thing I know something about.

Sometimes you want to cheer someone up, or you want to brighten their day, or you simply want to show that you appreciate them. But it feels odd to bring it out of nowhere, or to say something out of the blue. That’s when this is useful. 

You don’t have to say “I love you.” All you need to say is “I think of you when you’re not here.”

So I grab the pen, and I frown, and I squish my big dumb brain till I think of something. To Nyronus, I write. For the DnD story.

“Here you go!” I say, handing both pen and book back. “I’ve got an amazing signature, by the way. Very professional.”

“Huh.” Nyronus opens the book, and his eyebrows go up in surprise. “Huh. You actually do?”

“Why does everybody sound surprised when they say that.”

“Wait.” Nyronus’ eyes dart left and right, and then he looks at me. “DnD story? What are you talking about?”

And I grin. “Last year!” Internally, I’m sweating bullets, because it just fucking dawned on me that I might have gotten the person wrong and I’m about to fuck up royally, but like. Bit late to realize that. Fuck it, just push through it, test my luck. “We were sitting at Quills and Sofas and you told a pretty good story about a DnD character. Went on for a while, too. Some kind of like, Naruto-inspired vampire, and you still made it work just for the challenge?”

Pause.

“…That was you, right?”

And Nyronus smiles, eyes open wide. “Yeah! That was me! That was my story—I didn’t know you were there?”

“What, when you told the story?” Oh my fucking God, I got it right. Fuck. I’m so good. How am I this good. “Yeah! I came halfway through it, sat behind FanOfMostEverything. Probably why you didn’t see me. 

“Holy shit.” Nyronus looks at the book again, re-reads what I just wrote. Smiles a bit harder. “You know, the guy who played as that character is here too! Here, let me introduce you to him!”

So I follow him, and I’m introduced to the guy. 

I go to Quills and Sofas, and I’m immediately kicked out of Quills and Sofas.

So I sit in front of the door, by the chairs near the entrance. Pearple Prose is by my side, and on the floor, sitting with their legs crossed, are Forbloodysummer and Soge.

I’ve been ranting like a sexy madman for the last twenty minutes.

“So the book, right,” I’m saying, gesturing wildly at the space in front of me, where nobody’s sitting, “is set during the Cold War? During the Cuba missile crisis. And they figure out that this guy’s erections can predict the launch of V-2 missiles. Like, random American soldier in some forgotten base, and every time he pops a stiffie, bam!” I punch the palm of my own hand. “Missile attack!”

Forbloodysummer blinks. “What the hell.”

And Soge squints, going “what” under his breath.

I take this as the passionate cheers I’m used to get from my audience, and nod along. “Yeah! That’s Gravity’s Rainbow. That’s what Gravity’s Rainbow is about. The U.S. Army trying to investigate this guy’s magical penis to predict when there’ll be a missile attack. It sounds great, doesn’t it? It sounds like it’s going to be weird and fun and shit, and you wanna check it out.” I squint. “But then you grab it and it’s just like, indecipherable dense mumbojumbo and it’s just miserable to read?”

Pear shifts in his seat by my side. He’s checking his phone, but still clearly listening to the conversation, so I smile.

And I look at Soge and Forbloodysummer again. “So yeah, that’s Pynchon in a nutshell, isn’t it? Like, fucking Crying of Lot ’49. I read that one ‘cause King of Beggars found a manga based on it—one that like, wasn’t porn? But it had so much sex shit that it was definitely fetishistic, creepy as fuck, and then I went oh well shit I gotta read the source to properly appreciate the layers of garbage. The depth of the filth, right?” I wave a hand in the air. “And turns out, the Pynchon book has the usual Pynchon trappings, where the concept is great, but I feel the execution is muddled by the—”

There’s a pause, as I look down. Forbloodysummer and Soge are looking up at me. Both are wide-eyed, and utterly lost.

I squint. “You know, it just dawned on me that I’ve been ranting about Thomas Pynchon for like half an hour, and I never bothered to ask if you even know who Thomas Pynchon is?”

“No.”

“Nu-uh.”

Pear leans towards me. “You didn’t,” he says.

“Right.” I join my hands under my chin, and then look at Summer and Soge. “…Do you know who Thomas Pynchon is?”

“No.”

“Nu-uh.”

Pears pats my shoulder. “You’re not very good at this.”

People come and go and blur together. I don’t have a constant circle of fans around me like Mono does, but I do walk around with an ever-shifting posse of folks. Every time I’ll walk into a room, three-to-five join me, and two-to-five leave. 

This is relevant because I talk a lot, but I don’t keep check on what I’ve told to whom and what I haven’t, you see. Pearple Prose, the person who hangs out with me the most, has heard me tell certain stories at least four, five times by now, because I keep repeating myself. It’s great. He hates it.

But there are downsides to this, too: situations like these, for example. Who the fuck was the person that mentioned they knew Pynchon earlier? No idea. We’ll never know.

Both Forbloodysummer and Soge have been hanging around for a chunk of the day, and we’ll see each other later at random spots during the con. I’ve no idea if they were friends before this, or if they even knew each other—pretty sure they weren’t—but they make an interesting picture together. They oppose each other, in a way.

Forbloodysummer is the singer of Guns’n Roses in a PG-13 universe, he’s the cover of a book about Vikings whose author happens to be into twinks. He’s tall, dangly, thin enough to be slender, and walks with a swagger and a sway in his hips. When he talks, he nods and fiddles with his hair, and when you talk he looks into your eyes, and never blinks. 

He’s wearing a Spitfire cosplay, skintight, and when we first met he asked me if it’s true Spaniards say hi to women with a kiss on each cheek. “Yeah,” I said. “Casual setting only though.”

He asked me if I could say hi to him that way, and I did. 

On the other hand, there’s Soge. 

Soge’s the second Pokémon in an evolution tree leading to a Hell’s Angel, the reincarnation of the vegan sharks in Finding Nemo. He’s polite, contained, conducts himself in cordial manner—but then he speaks, and the illusion is broken. His speeches are enthusiastic; Soge shakes his head to accentuate the words, moves his hands and his head on beat to the rant, becomes borderline verbose when discussing stuff that matters. 

He’s not intense, but he’s excited, and the smiles tend to be contagious. He’s also my height, which means that he isn’t the tallest man around, and between this and that, there’s a clear contrast when he’s standing next to Forbloodysummer.

I think of this as I sigh, and take off my glasses to scratch the space between my eyes. “Right,” I say. “You’ve no idea who Pynchon is, sorry—he’s like. I guess he’s the perfect Wikipedia writer? Like you love reading about him, about the plot in his stories. You know Kilgore Trout? Vonnegut’s persona thingy?”

Forbloodysummer and Soge look at me in a way that makes it clear they’re really trying to be polite.

So I look at Pear. “I’m indecipherable, aren’t I.”

“Yes.”

“Right. No, so, okay. Kilgore Trout was a persona Vonnegut made in his books that wrote weird-as-shit stories, and Pynchon is exactly like that but in real life.” I wave a hand in the air. “He’s some hermit fuck who never leaves his house, we don’t even know how he looks like, because he sends his manuscripts through mail. And all his stories are like Gravity’s Rainbow?” 

Soge blinks, and opens his mouth to talk. “So…?”

“So it’s weird as shit, and it sounds quirky and interesting, but then you read it and it’s just dry postmodernist fuck-your-face humor. The kind you feel you should read when dropping acid? The Crying of Lot 49 is the same.” I clench my fist, washed over by literary passion. “It’s about a woman who discovers a secret society named Trystero that exists to send mail at a slightly faster pace than regular mail. And it’s just so fucking—you know who’d like it?” I look at Pear. “Regidar would like it. Regidar likes David Foster Wallace, and if you like that, your brain is galaxy-size enough to appreciate Pynchon.” 

Pear nods.

I look at Soge and Forbloodysummer, lighting up all of a sudden. “Fuck, speaking of David Foster Wallace, did you know Moana has a David Foster Wallace reference? Dude who wrote Infinite Jest? He has a book of essays called Consider the Lobster, and there’s a lyric in Moana that goes ‘consider the coconut’, and—wait, why am I talking about this if we just established none of you give a shit about Thomas Pynchon.”

“Um.”

“I don’t know?”

“I’ve been trying to guess that very same thing for a while now,” Pear says, patting my shoulder. “But you do you, I guess.

“Right, well.” I make a huff. “Let’s change topics, then. What else I’ve been reading… Oh, yeah!” I punch the palm of my hand. “Wheel of Time. Fuck me, I’ve read the first book and the more I think about it the less I like it. Robert Jordan only knows how to write one woman, and it gets extremely fucking annoying. And the story so far is very basic, but it’s like—fuck me, it’s fifteen books long? Some odd shit has to happen if the series lasted fifteen books, come on, it has to—”

Pause.

I perk up, looking around. There’s something echoing in the distance. “The hell.”

Pear perks up, too. He’s also heard the sound. “Was that the Soviet Anthem?” He looks around. “That was the Soviet Anthem, wasn’t it?”

“That wasn’t a sax either. That was a—holy shit, I think that was a viola. Look!”

I point. Pear, Soge, and Forbloodysummer look. There’s a guy walking around, one that’s definitely different from Sax Guy, and he’s carrying what I believe is a viola. Violas and violins look exactly alike, it’s hard to tell them apart at a distance, but one of my highschool friends was a viola player and I’m pretty sure it sounded just like that.

The dude in particular, as if trying to prove me right, takes his bow and plays some more notes as he walks along. 

“I can’t believe there’s a Viola Guy at Broncyon on top of the Sax Guy,” Pear says. 

“Do you think they’re friends?” I ask, smiling. “Do you think they’re best friends?”

“They should be fucking.”

“They should!” I grin at Soge and Forbloodysummer, and then chirp. “So! Robert Jordan! Did you know his wife was his editor? Apparently the only woman he knew how to write was his wife. Which says a lot about his marriage, and I don’t know if it’s positive? And—”

I catch the look they’re giving me.

So I squint. “…Do you know who Robert Jordan is?”

“Rings a bell.”

“I know the Wheel of Time, yeah.”

“You’ve already told me all of this,” Pear says. 

“Oh wow I’m improving. I didn’t know that was physically possible.” I lean back on the chair, satisfied smile on my face, and go on. “So Robert Jordan, right?  American author, goes to his publisher one day and says hey I’ve got this cool idea for a fantasy series, it’ll be a trilogy. And the publisher was like ‘like fuck this will be a trilogy, I know you. This will be seven books at least’. Twelve books later Robert Jordan died without finishing the saga, and fucking Brandon Sanderson had to step in to finish it.” I perk up even harder, my back cracks. “Oh my god. Have I told you about Brandon Sanderson.”

It’s at this point that Forbloodysummer looks at Pear, squinting at me a little. “…Is he always like this?”

“Hm?”

“Like, talking all the time, shifting topics mid-sentence…?”

“Oh.” Pear smiles. “Yeah.”

“I’m unbearable!” I chirp, bobbing up and down on my seat. “Let me tell you about Brandon Sanderson! Oh my fucking God, where to start, the dude is…”

And I go on, and on, and on.

I’m allowed back in Quills and Sofas.

RBDash47 looks tired, probably because we’ve been talking for a while now.

“So then,” I say, and I’m resting my hip on a table, arms expertly crossed in front of me. “Priest and I talked a bit about books, right? Oh, and Horizon, too! Did you know he wrote an entire new fic for his book?”

Forty-seven nods. “Yeah.”

“And they were all like, gosh, it was so hard to get the book out in time, there was so much work.” I look at my hand, start counting with my fingers. “Like, first they had to select which stories would go on print, right, and then they had to like, come up with the order in which they’d be put on the book. Then you gotta re-read everything and polish it up for print, then there’s the grammar pass and the copyedits, coming up with a title, getting the cover art…”

“Aragón!” I hear Majin Syeekoh calling me from a distance, and he’s waving at me. “Hey! Some folks here want you to sign their books!”

I wave back at Majin. “Sure!” And I go back to Forty-seven. “So yeah. Jaxie and Gardez talked about that too, right? How it was a lot of work. Like.” I frown. “A lot of work.”

Forty-seven has the face of a Buddha statue right now. When he talks, I see he understands the language of angels. “It is,” he says. “It’s a lot of work, yeah. Books aren’t simple.”

“Right. And every time they talk about that, I keep thinking, wow.” I arch an eyebrow. “I sure did none of those things, huh.”

“Yes.”

“Aragón!” Majin, again. This time he’s closer. “Seriously! Come here, we’re waiting for you!”

“Sure! A minute, I wanna finish this conversation!” I look at Forty-seven again. “So like, apparently there’s more to making a book than just writing the blurb and the intros?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Forty-seven nods. His bones contain the spirit of the woods. Civilizations crumble and die between his fingers. There’s an hourglass floating in space, and it has the shape of his face. “Mmmm-hmm.”

“And we got it done in like. A week. You did the copyedits for my entire book in what, two days? Over one hundred thousand words, two days. And everything else too. You put together the front and back covers with my drawings and the photo I sent you too, right.”

Forty-seven opens his eyes, and in his pupils I can read the date of the day I’ll die. “I did that, yes.”

“In a week. Bit less than that.”

“Yes.”

“Aragón! For fuck’s sake!” Majin yells in the distance. “Come here already! What are you even doing!”

I straight up ignore Majin. I just keep staring at Forty-seven. Leaning closer, I go: “Okay, so next question, I guess. Forty-seven?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you like. Actually legitimately fucking kill yourself to get my book out in time or…?”

Forty-seven looks at me. 

Hell looks like God, bleeding out, asking for help you cannot give. I lose myself in Forty-seven’s eyes now, and I understand:

He’s there, too, by God’s side. And he’s the one holding the knife.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, I did.”

“Fucking Christ on a bike.” I reel back a little. I feel like I just stared at a lion while exiting its cage, and realized I’m only getting out alive because the beast chose so. “Man. Take care of yourself or something. At least the bookstore was a wild success! Think of that. And my book sold out! Three times.”

Forty-seven nods. “It sure did. You sold out more times than anyone else.”

“I don’t like to talk about it though.”

“It almost makes it worth it. Almost.”

And then a third voice comes from behind me, startling me into a jump. “Okay, that’s it,” it says. “I’m not waiting anymore.”

And I feel Majin Syeekoh hugging me from behind, his arms tightly wrapped around my waist. I feel his breath against my neck. I feel the world coming to a close.

I scream. “Oh FU—”

Majin lifts me off the ground.

Majin Syeekoh is the quirky character in a Japanese fighting game. He’s the jester of Disney’s Hunchback of Notre-Dame if he were allowed to be horny. He’s the feeling you get when you’re low on iron and stand up too fast, and your vision blurs and goes black for a second. He’s your father when he looked you in the eye and and you realized—with relief and horror both—that you were an adult, that your teenage years were over.

Majin Syeekoh is less a man and more an experience, and this only becomes clearer the more often you talk to him.

His eyes are half-closed, his smiles are lopsided, but he has a sharp eye, and speaks with a piercing tone, straight to your ears. He slouches when he moves, and you only realize his true height when he stands straight. He never walks—he wanders—and he shrugs with his hands, not with his shoulders. 

And he’s currently hugging me from behind, arms around my stomach, and lifting me.

“OH FUCK JESUS F—”

“ARAGÓN I TOLD YOU—HNNG—TO COME ALREADY. THIS IS YOUR FAULT.”

“MOTHERFUCKER YOU’RE CRUSHING MY STOMACH.” If Majin were to drop backwards he’d suplex me. I kick my legs up and down, desperate, flailing, voice rising to a shrieking pitch. “AAAAH. SHIT. GOD. AAAAAAAAAAA—”

“WHAT?”

“I CAN’T BREATHE.”

“Oh.” And just like that, Majin leans forward and lets me go, causing me to stumble for a step or two, hands on my stomach. “Sorry. Hold on.”

“Oh my God.” I half-turn around, glaring at Majin, hugging my stomach. “Majin, what the hell did you—OH MY GOD.”

“UP YOU GO.”

“FUCKING LORD JESUS CHR—”

Majin places an arm on the back of my neck, another behind my knees, and lifts me up in a princess carry. “THERE!” he yells, triumph in his voice. “THAT’S BETTER.”

“MAJIN WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR DAMAGE. YOU SMOOTH BRAINED PIECE OF SHIT.  THIS IS NOT—” I instinctively hug Majin’s neck so I don’t fall off, and then I blink, and kick my legs a little bit. Up and down, left and right. I stop screaming. “Huh.”

“Yeah!” Majin smiles at me, and then he starts walking towards the other side of Quills and Sofas. “I told them, if you weren’t gonna come, I’d bring you myself. And here we are!”

“You know, this is surprisingly comfortable!” I look at Majin, and then around me, as he carries me towards the folk who want my book signed. “I’d never been princess-carried like this before.”

“Hmmm-hmm!” Majin’s voice is a tiny wee bit strained by the effort, but he seems content. “Okay,” he says when we make it to the folks waiting for me to sign their books—RB, NaiadSagaIotaOar, I see Forbloodysummer around too; I can’t possibly keep count. “Here he is,” Majin says to them. “Let me just—”

“No, no, no, don’t put me down!” I hug Majin and struggle to stay up, and he stops his motion. “This is quite cozy! I think I’m going to stay like this.” I look at RB. “Here! Hand me the book.”

Majin’s smile is a bit forced right now. I see droplets of sweat around his forehead. “Um.”

“Yes sure just like that.” I stop hugging Majin by the neck and grab the book and the pen I’m handed. I use the pen to tap Majin’s forehead. “Just keep still now, dear. Okay? Okay.”

“Ggg. Alright.” Majin’s voice shows it hurts to speak. I mean, I might be tiny, but I’m still a whole-ass grown man Majin’s deadlifting, and we’ve been at this for a while by now. “Alright. I’m alright.”

“Sure!” You can see Lucifer in my smile, as I slowly and lovingly open the book in my hands and uncap the pen. “Now, let’s see… What could I write…”

“Hgggggg.” Majin swallows, and shifts to get a better footing. “Aragón this is a bit—”

“Majin, this is a delicate process, don’t rush me.” I kick my legs up and down a little, just to be cheeky, just to make it a tiny lil’ bit harder to hold me up, because I am a rightful cunt. “Hmm. Two more books to sign after this, huh? I better take my sweet little time. I think I know what do write.” 

“HGGGGG—”

“Right so.” I lovingly set the pen on the page. “To RB,” I write. “For being—”

“Alright. That’s it.” Majin’s voice suddenly sounds free of strain. “Fuck it.”

“What.” I look at him. “What do you mean fuck it—OH MY GOD NO JESUS FUCK MAJIN DON’T DROP ME DON’T—”

Majin drops me.

“MOTHERFU—”

There’s a space between Vendor Hall and the door leading to the rest of the Convention Center, one that still has concrete floors and concrete walls, and they’ve set up a stage in there. There are tables in front, round and covered in thick blue fabric, four metallic chairs at each.

There’s a huge line in front of us, and I’m waiting for my turn. 

It’s time for the fandom Meet’n Greet.

Mele’s with me. He’s standing outside of the line, arms crossed in front of his chest, and he’s giving me a look that reminds me of my father. “And there are pictures?” he asks.

“Yeah! I mean it’s not like it was hard to get one, he held me in his arms for like, what. Three minutes or some shit?” I wink at him. “Majin’s buff.”

“Wow. Can’t wait to see them.” Mele looks up, rubs his chin. “You know,” he says eventually, giving me a side-eye look. “It’s kind of disappointing that the anecdote doesn’t end with you two making out.”

“Mele.” I make a sweeping gesture, a wave, top-to-bottom, pointing at my whole body. “Not even Majin can handle all this.”

“I don’t think anyone can.”

Fingerguns. Wink. “Eyyy.”

“Not a compliment.” There’s some commotion at the other side of the line, and Mele tilts to the side to look at it. “Huh.” He points at it with his thumb. “I should probably go check that out. Do you mind?”

I don’t reply as much as I just wave him away, like the Pope telling a Cardinal his services won’t be needed anymore. 

A minute or so passes. I look around my surroundings, taking it in, looking at the stage—SuperTrampoline was on that stage earlier, singing Anthropology, that Lyra song based on that Lyra fanfic. I didn’t know he could play the piano, and he was not a bad musician at all, so that was a pleasant surprise. 

It’s always such a weird feeling, when you discover a Fimfic author you’re familiar with has a hidden talent you didn’t know about. It usually happens with authors you know, but that you don’t know—you can’t surprise me about MrNumbers at this point. I know his life better than him. I know how he got the scar on the back of his neck; I know exactly in which way he shaves his genitals. 

(You think I’m joking! I’m not! We’ve talked about this! Multiple times!)

But then there are the people you have a weird, borderline parasocial relationship with, and those are the ones I’m talking about here. The ones you’ve spoken to a couple times, that you could confidently walk to and strike a chat with, but you haven’t sat down with them to discuss your lifelong dreams yet. 

And it’s always such a sense of discovery, isn’t it? Oh, Cold in Gardez speaks Japanese? Jesus Christ I’ve been here since 2012 and I never knew. Wanderer D works in the anime industry? Wild. Did you know Skywriter writes a webcomic? Blueshift has encyclopaedic knowledge of Dr Who! The list goes on and on. And—

“Aragón!”

Voice behind my back. It makes me flinch, because I never noticed anyone approaching me while I was lost in thought, and I turn around, expecting to see Pearple Prose, about to ask when exactly did he return from the Fuckhouse—

And then I go “Oh. Hey!”

Speaking of authors you’re familiar with. If it isn’t FanOfMostEverything in the flesh and blood.

I call FanOfMostEverything “Fome”, both in written form and when talking out loud, and I pronounce it like “foam”. I never explain my rationale, and Fome never questions it; I wonder if he ever noticed, or if he simply rolls with it.

Because both fit his character, is the thing. FanOfMostEverything is the voice of the narrator in your head when you read Dr. Seuss, the teacher who encouraged you to keep drawing in middle school. 

FanOfMostEverything’s online and real persona match completely: he’s soft-spoken, lovely cheery, fiercely genuine. He’s also wearing a labcoat and dressed as Twilight Sparkle. He manages the impossible combination of being an actual legitimate nerd while staying unabashedly pleasant. You take one look, and you understand two things about this man: he can build a mean Magic the Gathering deck, but if you introduced him to your mom, she’d approve.

We haven’t talked nearly as much as I wish we would, but we’re both busy men, and he buzzes around as much as I do. I raise my hand, and he high-five-shakes it. 

“I haven’t seen you at all today!” he says, squeezing my shoulder. “How’s it going?”

“Oh, it’s going great! You know, I don’t like to talk about it?” I press a hand against my chest. “But my book sold out. Three times!”

He blinks, then grins even harder. “Wow. That’s impressive! I only sold out twice.”

“Well, we can’t all be perfect. Still good, though, don’t beat yourself up over it.”

Fome chuckles, but our talk is cut short when someone else approaches. A man in purple, Meet ’n Greet security, you may call him—he asks FanOfMostEverything to move to the end of the line; there’s a lot of people here, and we’re getting rowdy.

Fome explains that he’s simply keeping me company, which genuinely surprises the security guy because he’s heard me speaking and can’t understand such a concept. “Then get out of the line,” he tells us both, at which point I raise a hand.

“I am waiting in line, though,” I explain. Then I point at Fome. “He’ll stand to the side so he’s not in the line if you want?”

That pleases the Security Guy, who leaves to do more Security things. 

Fome turns to me, smiling. Fome is always smiling, you feel me, but this one has a purpose—call it a smirk, if so you will, but Fome’s too nice to do one of those. Grins at most. Smirks have a degree of smugness to them. “You looking forward to the Meet ’n Greet?”

And I smirk back. “You kidding me?” I wave at the tables in front of me. “I mean, think about it!”

This is, must I remind you, the fandom Meet ’n Greet. It’s not about voice actresses, or show writers, or comic artists, or whatnot. We’re talking about meeting important members of the community, those who have shaped the way fanfiction is written, those who deserve the status of official guests at the convention.

We’re talking—

“It’s fucking Skywriter! And Horizon! And Monochromatic!” I point at the three tables in front of us—each one occupied by one stellar author—and the huge line waiting to talk to one of them. “It’s just fucking them? And there’s all this ceremony to it! Isn’t it hilarious?”

Fome nods, and looks at them. “it is quite odd, isn’t it?”

“It’s great! I genuinely can’t think of any other writers who deserves this more than this.” I rest my hands on my hips. “They’re great! But look at this! It’s so official.”

“It does feel weird to see them treated like this when we can just hang out with them at Quills and Sofas, I suppose.” 

“Like, I can just grab my phone and send Horizon a shitty selfie right now. I spend half my time online bullying Mono, and now look at her! Official guest of the convention. VIP treatment. God, I love this.” I look at the three tables, and I can’t help but feel proud, which is stupid, but I still do. “I love this community.”

Fome looks at it, then at me. “But you’re attending the Meet ‘n Greet?”

“Oh fuck I’m absolutely attending the Meet ‘n Greet. Are you kidding me? This is super fun.” I look at Fome, eyebrow arched. “Did you know you can’t even meet the three of them at the same time? You only get to pick one.”

“Really?”

“Yeah! And then back to the end of the line. It’s amazing. They deserve it so much.” 

I look at the three tables again.

Writers matter, remember that? I do. Then and now, as I write this.

The show ended, didn’t it? Bronycon ended, too. But we made it, as a whole. There was a script reading, written by Skywriter, by Horizon, by all of them—read by the actual voice actresses of the show. They’re aware we exist; everyone is. Look at all these people dying to talk to Monochromatic right now! Look at how far we’ve come.

It’s easy to feel melancholic about these things; I know better than most. It’s why I don’t shut up about me selling out three times. It’s why I go out of my way to be funny, but to be funny in a smug way.

Because we made it. Writers matter. Pride fits us better. The world is as you shape it. So on, so forth. Y’all know what I’m about.

“I’m going to make fun of them,” I say as I gaze at the three Meet ‘n Greeters, “so much.”

“Huh.” FanOfMostEverything looks at me. “By the way. I heard you got carried like a princess? What kind of Scooby Doo nonsense is that.”

“Oh my God, where to start. See, Majin was—”

“Okay!” Our friend, Security Guy, claps his hands and addresses the whole line. “Skywriter is free! Who wants to go see Skywr—”

“ME!” I yell before anyone else can walk in, and then—after turning quickly to nod at Fome, who nods back—pretty much throw myself at Skywriter’s table. “HOLY SHIT!”

Skywriter leans back, blinking. He maintains his phlegmatic air, though. “Uh.”

“Skywriter! I can’t believe I finally get to meet you.” I lean over the table and grab Skywriter’s hand, shaking it with enthusiasm, eyes wide open like I just snorted half a pound of ketamine. “I’m such a fan!”

“Uh. Um.”

“I can’t believe I get to meet the real Skywriter!” I shriek. 

In the background, someone recognizes FanOfMostEverything, approaches to say hi, how’s it going, big fan, love your stuff. More people will end up doing that; over time, Fome might as well be the fourth unofficial guest in this Meet ‘n Greet. 

And how else could it be? In a fandom of a show named Friendship is Magic, he’s well-known for being a nice guy. His writing is good, his comedies are popular, but he’s most widely known for the fact that he reads a lot, and comments on everything, and always has something positive to say.

He has less followers than me, but he’s so much more well-known. He’s appreciated by the community. And I love that, cause this fandom has its ups and downs—it has its fuckpillows, its ahegao hoodies, its people saying horrible shit online. I’ve seen neonazi groups in the website, I’ve seen people advocate for some of the most despising things you can imagine under a Fluttershy avatar.

But then there’s the RBDash47s. The R5hs. The FanOfMostEverythings. The Orbitting Kettles. The Carabas. The Crystal Wishes. The people who might be talented, or intelligent, or clever, or popular—but who, above it all, are just excruciatingly good human beings.

And I think, man. Nine years it lasted, this show about cartoon horses.

It was absolutely worth it.

It’s my last time at Quills and Sofas, and I’m saying my goodbyes.

It’s always bittersweet. Pear is waiting at the Fuckhouse—I’ll meet him when I come back—so I bid adieu to most folks around.

“Pencil!” I’m the one startling the other person for once; had to happen at some point. I grin and stand with my hand on my waist, hip swung to the left, accentuating my curves. “Well, look at you!”

Anonpencil turns around and smiles. “Aragón!” she says. “Hi! What’s up?”

“I’m saying my goodbyes! This is my farewell.” 

“Aaaw.”

“I know, I know, it’s a shame.” I drop the elegant act and bunnyhop in place, clapping quickly under my chin. “Also! You looked great yesterday! I loved that dress!”

“Yeah!” Pencil perks up, and gives me a smug lug that could rival mine. “I told you, didn’t I?” And you can see the fangs in her smile. “I clean up nicely.”

Anonpencil is a lit black candle in the middle of a dark church, she’s the one violin in a rock opera. She’s elegance with an edge: the friend who would stab a truck driver with a broken bottle, the aunt who tells your kids which store sells vodka without asking for an ID.

She runs the Barcast alongside Flutterpriest, and her voice has equal amounts of radio stored inside. She knows how to project it, how to send it to the other side of the room, but it’s softer than Priest’s, gentler.

The first time I saw her at Bronycon, she was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. The second time, it was time for the Gala, and so she was wearing a night dress, full makeup, hair styled and ironed, and man—quite the fucking glow-up.

“You looked really good!” I stuff my hands in my pockets, and look down. Because I will board a plane later today, I’m wearing jeans, sneakers, a t-shirt—but they’re tight jeans, bright blue, and I’m wearing a good t-shirt, and my checkered suit jacket overtop. My usual isn’t this casual, but I still fucking rock it. “There’s something about elegant clothing, isn’t it?”

“Oh God, tell me about it.” Pencil rolls her eyes. “The first day I was helping at the Bookstore, and I had to wear a t-shirt and old jeans to move around.”

I make a face. “Wegh.”

“Yeah. It was like, ‘don’t look at me’!” 

“Trust me, I get you.” I rummage through my purse and check my phone, smirking all the while. “You know, the day I arrived? I literally texted Pear to apologize for my clothes.”

Pencil stares at me, wide-eyed. “Really?” 

“Yeah! Cause, I mean, I had just spent thirteen hours on a plane or some shit like that. So I was wearing old jeans and no jacket and I was all sweaty.” I check the time on my phone, click my tongue, put the phone back. “So I literally went ‘Pear, please don’t judge me. I swear I dress better than this.’”

Pencil snorts. “What did he say?”

“I got here at like four in the morning, he did not give a shit.”

Pencil nods. She gets it. She wouldn’t have given a shit either, I feel, but like in a good way. “Well, you do dress better than that usually.”

“Ditto you!”

You know, when I was in highschool I didn’t really care for clothes, but as I moved to college I started to realize that—ultimately, how you look to yourself is such a big factor to how you feel about yourself? That it’s worth to take, like, two extra minutes in front of the mirror before you go out. Feel good in how you look, feel confident. Clothes are your armor, sometimes.

You wouldn’t know this looking at me now, seeing how I’m the single most handsome person in the entirety of America, but I was kind of ugly in highschool. I got better as I grew up, though. 

Part of it was the growing up itself—I got thinner! I didn’t get taller. But I got better posture! My face got less round! I cut my fucking hair! But mostly it was about attitude. The trick to be handsome is to go ‘you know what, fuck it, I’m adorable’ and then rolling with that. 

And I don’t give a shit what others think about how I look. I mean, I know they want to fuck me, obviously, but it’s about how I want to fuck myself too. Every time I look in the mirror, I pucker those lips, and unf. Jesus take the wheel, am I right? Boom-chicka-wow-wow.

That’s what Anonpencil and I are really talking about. She gets it. It’s not about the clothes, it’s about being able to look at yourself and go “I’m gorgeous, goddamn”. Because we’re taught that’s not a thing we can do, and that’s the kind of lesson that fucks you up.

You know why Rarity is a great character? Other writers, great all of them, will talk about ambition, about class, about bravery—and they’ll be absolutely right. But to me, her value lies in the fact that she’s a character that goes, hi. I’m beautiful. You’re welcome.

And she’s one of the main characters. Like, c’mon.

“Aragón!”

Speaking of Rarity.

“Mono!” I turn around, open my arms. Anonpencil had to leave, we said our goodbyes and went our separate ways, and I’ll never see her again until one of us inevitably swingles the other out of their fortune in the future. “Monochromatic! Just the woman I wanted to see!”

Monochromatic, physical representation of being red wine drunk, waves. “Hiii. How are you doing!”

“Biding adieu! I’m leaving for my flight later today.”

Mono makes a sad face. “Aw.”

Let me set the scene: I’m standing, Mono is sitting at one of the round tables of Quills and Sofas, but she’s not the only one. Fans, friends, people dressed in purple—oh hey Mel is there too, I wave at him—you name it; they’re all sitting with her.

I’ve said it before, haven’t I? I have my posse, but Mono has her army. She’s a charming one, Monochromatic; knows how to tell a story out loud and keep the audience hypnotized. I have pretty much never seen her alone up to this point, and to be honest, I never will.

And it’s important you know this, because otherwise you won’t understand what I do next: I sit on the edge of the table, on the only space available, and I say: “By the way, I’m not kidding—I was looking for you.” 

Mono archs an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I heard you’re giving away tarot cards? I’d love to have one!”

Monochromatic gives me a viper smile. “Those are for the people buying tickets for the raffle of my old book. And the raffle’s already over.”

I lightly slap her arm. “But I heard you’re giving away the spares now?”

Mono rolls her eyes, and goes for the bag.

And every single word we’ve said up to this point has been in Spanish.

Both Monochromatic and I speak three languages—and we’ve both talked multiple times about how fucking rude it is to go to a public space, join a group conversation, and then speak in a tongue that isolates ninety percent of the room. It’s a bit of international etiquette multilingual people have to think often about; it’s annoying to be left out, especially when you know that you’re being left out because someone wanted to show off how they speak Mandarin.

But still, when I speak in Spanish, Mono doesn’t call me out on it. She replies in Spanish too, without missing a beat, without blinking an eye.

Because she understands that I’m not talking to the room, I’m talking to her, and I’m doing it for a reason.

“Here it is!” She gives me the tarot card—a custom one. Number Six, “The Lovers”, but it shows Twilight and Rarity, while on top Luna and Celestia weep, and around them Discord laughs. “You’re welcome.”

“Oh, this looks great. Thanks!” I pocket the card, and then look at Mono. “So. You doing okay?”

Mono smiles. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah.”

We both know what the other means.

Look, here’s a sad truth: Bronycon 2019 being so full of cool people means you get to spend significantly less time with every single one of them. If I’d had my way, I would’ve spent an entire day with most folks in here, but I can’t, because there are too fucking many, and there comes a point where you simply can’t afford to play favorites.

So you buzz around, you greet everyone, you try to tell jokes and keep the high energy and make everyone have a good time with you at all times. And you wanna keep meeting new people, and you wanna make sure you have the best time of your life, because clock is ticking, mate, and soon you’ll leave the country, and maybe never return.

But you’re only human.

I’ve got a posse and I’ve met a lot of people; four days in, I’m exhausted. Talkative as I am, truth is, there comes a point when even my body asks me to chill out: you need to rest, to have some quiet time, to take it easy. The Fuckhouse is a Godsend here, at least I’ve got that temple, and Pear stays by my side and keeps me sane, but it still requires an effort, right? Even if I’m tired, I don’t want whoever sees me past Day Three to meet Tired Aragón. Tired Aragón is just a boring sleepyhead motherfucker.

And I’ve no idea who Tired Mono is either, because she’s as dumb as me and won’t show her around either. Even though she has way more people to meet than me, because she’s got way more fans than me.

That’s what this is all about, and that’s why we’re talking in Spanish.

“Gotta say,” I say here, and I lean closer, eyes wide. “I saw you at the Meet ‘n Greet. It was great.”

Mono immediately guesses where I’m going and covers her face with her hands. “Oh my God, don’t.”

“I was like hey! That’s my friend Mono! And they were like ‘get in the fucking line!’” I look at her. “Did you know I’m not important enough to talk to you?”

Mono laughs. “Shut up.”

“Fucking security guard mandhandling me to get me away from you. GET IN THE LINE!” I push the air in front of me, trying to sound like a tough guy. “And I’m like ‘but we’re friends!’ and they’re like ‘she would NEVER even LOOK at a MAGGOT like you.’ And I’m like ‘I KNOW, BUT STILL’.” 

“Oh, man, shut up. Shut up. It was bizarre. It was great? But—” Mono laughs again and shakes her head. “It was bonkers. Like, they sat us down on the tables and then people started lining up. They were lining up.”

I open my eyes wide and put on my serious voice. “Mono,” I say. “You are a celebrity. You’re so famous. So important.”

“Jesus, Aragón, shut up.”
 
“Like.” I raise a hand in the air, like I’m patting someone taller than me. “Up there with the show writers? That’s where you are. Big pillar of the fandom, Monochromatic, fanfic writ—”

“Shut up!” She slaps my arm down and laughs and it kind of comes off as a cackle. “Pffft.” Then she lets the air out of her lungs. “It was great, but oh my God it was so weird. Like, what am I even doing here.”

“It was great, I loved it. They told me I was like, beneath you? Astounding.” I cock my head to the side. “So you’re okay? Cause I’m exhausted.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m exhausted, too.” Mono snorts. “You know, some day we might be able to hang out for more than three seconds at a time?”

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up about it.”

“I’m really not.”

“We were both just really busy.” I shrug, and then wink at her. “Plus, you are the best writer in the fandom. Officially! Makes sense you’d have better things to do than hanging out with me.”

Mono thinks about it, and I know for a fact she would usually reply with a dismissal, because she tends to be a good person, the little shit, and she understands the concept of humility. 

But this is me she’s talking about. I’m not a good person. And we’re talking in Spanish.

So she smiles, and goes, “You know what? You’re right. I can probably do better than you.”

And I grin back at her, and I really, really mean it.

Wanderer D, rogue knight of Fimfiction, walks by Quills and Sofas and manages to get both Mono and me trapped in a bear hug over the shoulders. We exchange our parting words, the Three Amigos that never really got to host the best panel Bronycon ever saw, and then soon I’m out of Quills and Sofas, thinking it’s almost time to leave.

But before I go too far away, Mele catches up with me. We chitchat a bit, talk about how great the convention was, how I promise to message him once I make it to the airport. And then he adds one more thing.

“You know,” he says. “It’s so indicative how, like, you and Mono’s final bye happened while completely surrounded by people.”

I look at him, blinking. “What?”

“Dude there were like twenty people watching you two talk. Nobody understood a word, though.”

“Huh.” I should really start paying attention to my surroundings. “I guess that’s why I spoke in Spanish in the first place, but I kinda forgot about it? Sometimes I have trouble realizing other people exist.”

“Yeah.” Mele nods. “That’s also very indicative.”

It’s almost time to leave. Almost, but not quite.

“Let’s go outside,” Freglz says, gripping his camera, pushing me towards the Convention Center terrace. “The light’s better in there.”

“Oh.” I look at the terrace. “Sure,” I say, as I comply.

Let me tell you a little fun fact.

This is something that’s happened to me a couple times: someone needs writing help, and they come to me for specific advice. Sometimes, they go to the Fimfiction Discord server and hit up the writing-help channel, where I offer some tips and they start coming for more. Sometimes, they just PM me directly, asking specifically for my input.

I’m not entirely sure why this happens, but it’s happened enough times for me to lose count, and I always try to help as much as I can, and I never get to do as much as I could. Because I’m terrible about answering PMs, and I check the messages I’ve received, make a mental note of replying later, and never do. Sometimes, entire months pass before I go “OH FUCK” and rush to say something—and by then, it tends to be a moot point.

I swear I try, though. I’m full of very handsome words, and most of them are writing advice, and I’m always willing to share. I suck at being a dedicated mentor, or even a bit of reliable help—but when I’m there, I genuinely give them the best that I’ve got.

Freglz is one of those writers who’ve come for me for advice.

“Okay. Hold on.” Freglz moves me to the terrace, and then has me stand under the sunlight, frowning at the picture. “Move a bit more to the left?”

I know nothing of photography, so I obey. “Sure. Did you take a picture of everyone or…?”

“Yeah, most people I’ve met here. I want to remember their faces.” 

Freglz is Indiana Jones in those three seconds before he swapped the golden idol with a bag of sand. He’s a bomb defuser in his day off, the kind of man you feel would be good at crossword puzzles.

Freglz walks with a stride and stares like he’s trying to melt steel. He speaks fast, and frowns when concentrating, and is good at getting to the point. He can smile, but his default mode is serious concentration. He walks with his chin up. There’s hunger in his eyes.

I’m absolutely fucking around while in his presence. “Well then!” I say as he lifts the camera, looking to the side, trying to look a bit more handsome than usual. “Have you seen that cosplayer over there? Princess Deadpool! Shows up at every con. He’s pretty much a mainstay.”

“Hmm-hmm.”

I move slightly, point to the side, trying to get a natural pose going. “You know, last year there was a wedding in here? It was wild. I mixed it up with a furry parade.”

“Uh-huh.” Freglz puts the camera down. “Can you look here so I can take the picture or…?”

I blink, and look at him. “You haven’t taken it yet?”

“You keep moving around!”

“I look better when I don’t know I’m going to be photographed! I was giving you a chance to capture the magic!”

Freglz rolls his eyes, and then places me in the particular spot he chose again, since I’ve been moving. “Look, just, stay still and quiet for two seconds, please?” He raises his camera again.

“Ugh, you’re asking for a lot, man.” I frown, fiddle with my hair. “Fucking haircut.”

He puts his camera down again. “Aragón. For fuck’s sake.”

“What!” I look at him. “Look, it just bothers me, okay? I swear I’m usually so much better-looking. It’s this shitty haircut! I’m usually incredibly photogenic, but now I’m going to look like a—”

Freglz reaches over, places a hand on my shoulder. “Aragón,” he says. “Listen. You look handsome as hell still, okay? You look fucking great.”

I squint. “Right,” I say. “But, see, that’s the thing. With the right haircut?” I lower my voice and octave, talk through gritted teeth. “I’d look fucking breathtaking.”

Pause.

“So can I take your fucking picture now or—” 

“Yes! Fuck it! Sure! If you don’t mind me looking hideous!”

Freglz takes the picture.

Freglz is not a big name in the fandom—yet. Call him an up-and-go-getter, I suppose. Writing is a skill, not a gift from the Heavens; you get better by trying, and Freglz is relatively new to this horse nonsense.

But he learns fast, and tries, and as I said—there’s hunger in his eyes. He’s trying to create good art. So even though the show ended, even though Bronycon ended, I’m not particularly worried for the future of this fandom—cause if people who want to make something worthwhile keep coming to us, if they care about the product and are willing to put in the work?

We’re not going anywhere. And we’re in really good hands.

So it’s time to leave, and I say my goodbyes, and I’m walking to the escalator that will lead me out of the convention—and suddenly Freglz turns around, and waves at me.

“By the way!” he yells, since he’s rather far away by now. “Thank you so much for your advice! That thing you said about paragraphs being under six lines?” He gives me a thumbs up. “It was really useful! Thanks!”

I blink, and I grin. “I’m glad to hear that!” I say, waving back.

Mele is there with me, he came to say goodbye, and he smirks. “Hey, did you hear that?” he says, elbowing me. “Something you said was useful! This has to be a first in your entire life!”

And I smile at him. “I know,” I say. “It’s the most wonderful thing anyone has ever said to me.”

It’s time to go.

Bronycon 2019 was a trip. It lasted four days, and every single one of them was worth it.

And the show lasted nine years.

Is it finally gone? By now, it should be gone. You know what I’m talking about—that sense of loss you felt when you watched the last episode, when you saw that last picture of the characters we’ve known and loved for so long. When the book closed. When the fact that the show was over truly settled in.

Wanna know what fucked me up the most? Pinkie Pie. Seeing an older Pinkie Pie, and then realizing, this is what she is. This is her last canon appearance, this is how she’ll be remembered. Looking at the Pinkie Pie keychain I’ve got hanging from my wall, and thinking, that’s not how you look like anymore.

It’s dumb, of course, but sometimes emotions are dumb, and that’s okay. Realizing the characters aren’t going to live more adventures in the format that made us love them. It fucked me up.

But I knew it would pass. I knew that those things hurt until they don’t hurt anymore, and then you look back, and smile. Maybe get a bit emotional. Pinkie Pie is old, after all. But you still smile.

This show changed my life. It’s dumb to deny it—I taught myself English to watch it and write about it, it helped me meet some of the best friends I’ve ever had, it’s made me travel around the world multiple times. When I watched the first episode, I was in highschool. Now I’m undergoing training to become a judge.

Oh, yeah! I’m doing that, by the way. If you wanna know why this took so long to write, it’s because I’m undergoing training to become a judge—it should take two to four years of studying six days a week, and then a terrible exam that’ll make me weak in the knees? But I’m sure it’ll be worth it. It’s a tall order, but I’ve drank worse things.

Life goes on, is what I’m trying to talk about here. Pinkie Pie is old, and so am I, and everything is so different from that moment when I started watching the show, and nine years later, my life is so much better because I clicked on that video.

But we can look back on it, and we don’t feel sad about it anymore. There are still comics going on, there’s that spinoff that looks questionable, there’s people writing and reading fanfiction still. 

So smile, kid. The world is looking at you.

You know, I didn’t just walk out of the door of the Convention Center, to be entirely honest. I grabbed my phone and messaged the Fuckhouse chat, saying that I was leaving, adding a sad emoji. Pear was waiting for me at the Fuckhouse itself, ready to walk me to the train station—but someone else replied.

R5h, of all people. He asked me to wait, and came rushing down the escalator, and met me outside the Convention Center for a last hug and a last goodbye. He told me that I was actually walking the wrong way—the Fuckhouse is over there, Aragón—and then said, “Man, it was great to see you.”

And I smiled, because I was feeling pretty terrible about how everything was ending at that particular moment, but I also knew I would feel good about it with due time. And I said, “It was amazing to see you, too. Till next time?”

“Till next time!”

And that was my last memory of the Convention Center, of Bronycon. A good man waving me goodbye as I walked out, telling me that, hey. 

See you soon. 

Because even though this is over, that doesn’t mean this is over.

Report Aragon · 1,443 views · #oh my god #finally done #now I can go back to drawing comics
Comments ( 43 )
Aragon
Aragon #1 · Nov 16th, 2019 · · ·
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cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/401980784975806474/645362060149915648/dbb0fac732e42c93b80df9e8c66ff5f8.png
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Oh yeah and turns out you can buy The Essential Aragón online and I didn't know until like. Two weeks ago.

CHEERS. SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG I'M REALLY BUSY.

ALSO the timeline of this blog is like, beyond fucked. Ninety percent of the stuff in here happened in days One to Three (day four was very short, mostly one single visit to QnS and that's it); I just used it to sorta like, show everything I couldn't show in previous blogs. Still works pretty well tbh.

MrNumbers
MrNumbers #2 · Nov 16th, 2019 · · ·
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Please, please don't ask

FanOfMostEverything
FanOfMostEverything #3 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
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Welcome to Vendor Hall.

After an opening like that, I half expected "Welcome to Night Vale."

But at the end of the day, the prints sell. The pillows not so much.
Some of us, we take solace in that.

I'm telling you, this is gonzo journalism at its finest.

“It’s like I have farts,” I heave, grasping the cup of water. “Inside my mouth.”

Sounds about right. I thought it tasted like car exhaust.

“What the shit does that have to do with horses?”
“Literally nothing.”

Stabletop Games was an excuse to have non-horse nerd activities at the nerdy horse convention. Mono's Rarity panel would've actually required a room and a timeslot.

I genuinely can’t tell if he wore a cape, gloves, and a cane at all times, or if I simply added those to my memories.

I can corroborate the cape and gloves, but it's entirely possible I added those as well.

Some kind of like, Naruto-inspired vampire, and you still made it work just for the challenge?

Ah yes, Naruto, the vampire who was convinced he was a werewolf.
...
Wait, how long were you sitting behind me?

Ah, that was the context for Syeekoh holding you like you'd both been frightened by a Scooby Doo monster of the week.

Did you know Skywriter writes a webcomic?

It's really good! It's about the department of the shadow government that helps the creations of mad scientists make a life for themselves.

I call FanOfMostEverything “Fome”, both in written form and when talking out loud, and I pronounce it like “foam”. I never explain my rationale, and Fome never questions it; I wonder if he ever noticed, or if he simply rolls with it.

It's exactly how I want it pronounced. Well done.

“By the way. I heard you got carried like a princess? What kind of Scooby Doo nonsense is that.”

Don't worry, past self, you'll get the answer in a few months.

Fantastic final Bronycon blog. Inspirational and hilarious by turns. And I am deeply flattered by that description. Best of luck in the runup to becoming a judge!

RBDash47
Site Blogger
RBDash47 #4 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
Reply

“Did you like. Actually legitimately fucking kill yourself to get my book out in time or…?”

I honestly still haven't fully recovered from BronyCon, or really to be more accurate from the preparation for BronyCon. I expected to have two more books published by now, for example.

Reading this passage really took me back there, to that. Like a WWII vet watching the opening scene of Saving Private Ryan. God, it was something.

(And you sold yourself a little short -- in record time, you both did your own editing pass and then went through mine with me; that wasn't nothing. And you did your own cover art. And wrote intros to each story and figured out which stories to include.)

Anyway, everyone go buy his book now that he's finally gotten around to posting the link oh my god

EDIT: Was I the only one who liked the durian...?

Herald of Opera
Herald of Opera #5 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
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“It’s like I have farts,” I heave, grasping the cup of water. “Inside my mouth.”

I mean, facesitting is apparently a thing. Don't ask me why, I look at weird porn because it would be even weirder if a guy my age didn't look at porn of some kind, and regular porn either costs money I don't have or requires a better computer/router than I can afford. Yes, that is sort of paranoid considering I'm a complete nobody even in the context of Canada, which is itself mostly just a place for the three non-idiot American tourists to pretend to be from so that they don't face the stigma of being American tourists. I do it anyways because I don't have anything better to do with my time.

That last bit, I say in Spanish. Kuairu doesn’t understand it... but it’s the thought that counts, and we both know it.

Indeed, the specific pleasantry you use doesn't really matter, just that you're being pleasant.

Boxing gloves—colored red, white, and blue—boxing shorts—the USA flag plastered over the left leg—and a wifebeater shirt—with the USA flag on the chest.

Let's be honest, this sort of ultra-patriotism is kind of weird even when actual Americans do it.

“Your life’s a fucking cartoon,”

And it's a cartoon I'd totally watch if it was on TV... and if I actually owned a TV, which I don't. (Sound card on my computer is busted-ish as well)

Priest though, he speaks like he could fill Notre-Dame; if he’d been born some centuries ago, his work would’ve been to tell you the Black Plague is in your town.

So, in other words he picked an accurate username. (Fluttershy is definitely god material. Draconequus of Nature is my vote for the "Twilight will not outlive her friends" thing. Which is definitely not the way most people interpreted, because of those friends only Applejack and Fluttershy had any real chance of dying of natural causes)

He’s standing outside of the line, arms crossed in front of his chest, and he’s giving me a look that reminds me of my father.

I'm not sure if remembering how your father was portrayed in earlier blogs makes this more hilarious or less.

(You think I’m joking! I’m not! We’ve talked about this! Multiple times!)

Nobody would say a lie that crazy, so it has to be try. (Also I cheated and saw his comment while scrolling down to comment while I go, so I know that if is a joke, he's in on it)

I call FanOfMostEverything “Fome”, both in written form and when talking out loud, and I pronounce it like “foam”. I never explain my rationale, and Fome never questions it; I wonder if he ever noticed, or if he simply rolls with it.

The rationale is "because Derpy is Best Pony" according to his official statement that that's the intended reading. I don't remember specifically where it was I read that.

I’ve seen people advocate for some of the most despising things you can imagine under a Fluttershy avatar.

Funny story about that: when I mentioned reporting her to the mods in that comment section, it was something I'd already done. And I happened to notice her temp-banned presumably for that reason. Remember what I said back there: blocking will spare you, but reporting will spare everyone.

The trick to be handsome is to go ‘you know what, fuck it, I’m adorable’ and then rolling with that.

Indeed, how you act is a huge part of how you look. It's how Superman gets away with his Clark Kent shenanigans whenever he the writers and artists have their **** together.

I’ve said it before, haven’t I? I have my posse, but Mono has her army.

I remember when it was Pen Stroke being referred to that way. To the point that he's referred to as "the General" in-story because the author wanted something resembling plausible deniability regarding likenesses and such. (Yes, I'm referring to a specific story, and bonus points if you know which one)

Because even though this is over, that doesn’t mean this is over.

Indeed, if the Cthulhu Mythos can keep getting new fanfiction despite its point being so thoroughly irrelevant that the only reason most of the original stories have survived was because of one of HP's contemporaries who completely missed said point...

Wanderer D
Moderator
Wanderer D #6 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
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This was an amazing read :raritystarry: brought back all the good stuff of those days, thanks Aragon, may your descriptions live forever!

AppleTank
AppleTank #7 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
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Technically Mono's panel was canceled due to scheduling conflicts.

Undome Tinwe
Undome Tinwe #8 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
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I will forever remember that final goodbye between you and Mono, surrounded by All Of Fimfiction. A perfect microcosm of this wonderful but oh-so-stressful convention.

Meeting you was an absolute highlight of my convention, and I truly hope we can talk face to face again one day. It was an experience unlike any other, and I still haven't stopped drinking since that time with the margarita.

Also, I love fresh durians, but freeze-dried ones are, like, everything gross about them in one dehydrated package. You should try a real one if you ever get the chance. At the very least, your reaction will be hilarious.

R5h
R5h #9 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
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Till next time.

forbloodysummer
forbloodysummer #10 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
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“You’re straight-up going to deck a Sailor Moon between the eyes?”

Kuairu nods. “Yes.”

“Probably not what Cosplay Fights means,” Pear chimes in.

“He’s still going to deck a Sailor Moon between the eyes,” I say.

Kuairu nods. “Yes.”

:rainbowlaugh:

I really wish this had happened and I'd seen it.

Nice job getting this all finished, especially with judge stuff six days a week, too. Will you have to wear a robe and silly wig when done? Interesting to hear you can go straight into judge training, I thought that usually came after decades as a lawyer. I guess training for that is probably more important than writing more blogs on how not to write romance as seen from bad anime fan fiction, but, well, I personally won't benefit as much from it :fluttershysad:

Oh, and, uh...

So I squint. “…Do you know who Robert Jordan is?”

“Rings a bell.”

“I know the Wheel of Time, yeah.”

I forget the verbatim phrasing of my answer there :twilightsheepish: But I presume you're familiar, from Pearple Prose, with British understatement? This was mine for 'That is my favourite book series, and I have had a Wheel of Time quote as my fimfiction short bio for the last three years.'

CoffeeMinion
CoffeeMinion #11 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
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I’m glad you finished the series even if I didn’t appear. :derpytongue2:

I was recently reflecting on how BC was three months ago now, and I needed to finish pulling my own thoughts together before they were washed away with the passage of time. I met so many people in so little time and got far fewer pictures of them than I should have. But it was a once in a lifetime experience, and I’m glad to have shared it with you—however briefly.

Herald of Opera
Herald of Opera #12 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
Reply

5156676

British understatement

Which almost got people killed in WW2; desperately needed reinforcements didn't realize that they were desperately needed because of insufficient familiarity with the British.

forbloodysummer
forbloodysummer #13 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
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5156689 Yes, I read the same article earlier.

Worth it.

Tumbleweed
Tumbleweed #14 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
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Man. And here I'd nearly gone and forgot about BronyCon.

Also still a bit bummed that we never crossed paths. Though I'm fairly certain we were at least in the same room at some point! I can only presume you were hiding from me for entirely justifiable reasons.

PresentPerfect
Author Interviewer
PresentPerfect #15 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
Reply

“It’s like I have farts,” I heave, grasping the cup of water. “Inside my mouth.”

And I mean... you're not wrong. Yet I went back for seconds.

“Fluttershy says: wash your dick.”

I'm not saying it's you, but someone has to write this.

I think I tried to read Gravity's Rainbow once and stopped shortly thereafter for the reasons you list. Thanks for saving me from having to read it again.

I'm actually pleased that it took you a while to finish the con report. It's been like coming back to the con again and again, getting to relive that weekend in detail so precise, it includes things I didn't even experience! But I'm still jealous Majin got to princess carry you and I didn't. I totally had the idea first. :P

Luna Aeterna Solutae
Luna Aeterna Solutae #16 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
Reply

Can confirm, am an awful person.

Georg
Georg #17 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
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You have amazing style. Sometimes, I wish I could write like that. Ok, a lot of times.

And then there's Georg. What can you say about him? He's about as ordinary a human as drops off the assembly line. If he were a color, he'd be beige. A flavor, vanilla. He wears the same thing to every convention: red shirt, black pants, and a look of harried lateness. This time he stuck a piece of tape on the back of his nametag and wrote his name on it too, so no matter how it flipped, he knew who he was. Because he's forgetful too. A practical, forgetful guy who has a string on his glasses so he won't lose them, a chubby wife of thirty years now, and four kids. Really, you could never guess he's from Kansas. Unless you guessed. Once.

ROBCakeran53
Moderator
ROBCakeran53 #18 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
Reply

durian

That shit was pretty good. Ate some of it.

Raugos
Raugos #19 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
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Aragon is a phenomenal narcissist conversationalist. He always seems to have a topic up his sleeve to segue into no matter what the situation.

Some people are good at detecting the impending awkward silence when there's a lull in conversation, and then smoothly inject some momentum back into the conversation before it can fully manifest and make things weird for everyone. But Aragon... Aragon kills awkward silences before they are even born.

He's like an awkward silence abortionist.

“He ran some tests on himself once and turns out he had like, a shitton of mercury in his blood, so he’s paranoid about that.”

Silence.

Except when he gives birth to them himself, I guess. :applejackunsure:

Aragon, meeting you was one of the highlights of the con for me. And thanks for helping us relive it through your story-length blog posts. :twilightsmile:

I'll forever regret not working up the guts to message you and ask if we could meet up when I visited Barcelona in 2018. If I get the chance to go to Spain again, I'll be sure to stalk you give you a call. :twilightsheepish:

Now I’m undergoing training to become a judge.

May God have mercy on your souls, criminals of Spain, because Aragon would not.

Do Spanish courts allow judges to snark at belligerent plaintiffs/defendants? Because I can totally see Aragon roasting jerks trying to make proceedings difficult for everyone involved. :rainbowlaugh:

On the other hand, do Spanish judges have to worry much about their personal lives being outed to the public? What would you do if someone attempted to blackmail you with your history as a cartoon horse enthusiast?

Wanderer D
Moderator
Wanderer D #20 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
Reply

5156648 you might be confusing it with the other panel which she was doing with Aragon and I.

Freglz
Freglz #21 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
Reply

I would like to clarify that this is completely inaccurate to how our photography session went down.

Aragón was a darling. Absolutely precious.

His portrait looks like the spitting image of Edward Norton and Chris Hemsworth's lovechild. It's like kissing the face of an angel who's spruced himself up with a fancy brand of Mediterrainian cologne that's obviously very well-known, but whose name you can't recall because there are so many that sound like it. You could tape it to your bedroom ceiling and swear all your dreams would come true with such an inviting, enticing smile. Our modern world could come tumbling down around us, but a single glimpse of those handsome locks would set your mind at ease.

Also:

“It’s the most wonderful thing anyone has ever said to me.”

No. No, don't you dare. You do not get to pin that on me. I'm too degenerate to deserve this.

But thanks for your time. It was a pleasure getting to see you in person. I'm sorry there wasn't more than four days we could've spent together, where you totally didn't like talking about how your book sold out.

I also promise I'll eventually write some more stories that are more up your alley in terms of readability, but that's neither here nor there.

Nyronus
Nyronus #22 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
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“Here you go!” Nyronus hands me his copy of my book, and a pen. He’s smiling, and talks with theatrical flair. Everything Nyronus does has theatrical flair. Nyronus is the Phantom of the Opera as written by Lin-Manuel Miranda. “All yours.”

“Thanks! You know, I don’t like to talk about it? But it sold out three times.” I open the book by the first page. There’s a quote on the second page, though, so I pause for a moment. “Uh.” I look up at him. “Where do you want me to sign?”

Nyronus smiles. “Wherever!”

Nyronus is not overly tall, but he moves like he were a giant. At all times he talks like he’s giving a speech, he makes a flourish with every move, he walks like an actor dancing on the stage. When he speaks you feel his mother tongue is Shakespearean sonnets; his first full sentence was an alliteration.

I genuinely can’t tell if he wore a cape, gloves, and a cane at all times, or if I simply added those to my memories. They fit him. Nyronus would be a Transylvanian figure if he weren’t smiling all the goddamn time. If he were a vampire, he’d drink liquid candy.

The thing about Nyronus, though, right, is that he’s so goddamn nice. Whenever he reads one of your stories, he chases you so he can talk in-depth about it, which is pretty much the best thing you can do for a writer. Fucker will apologize, say sorry for the bother, utterly unaware that few things brighten your day more than someone with a cane and a top hat going “Good morning, ol’ chap. Would you fancy a philosophical diatribe on the ins-and-outs of your latest piece of fiction?”

No joke, this may be one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me. Thank you. This made my night.

Pwnego
Pwnego #23 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
Reply

5156616

I genuinely can’t tell if he wore a cape, gloves, and a cane at all times, or if I simply added those to my memories.

I can corroborate the cape and gloves, but it's entirely possible I added those as well.

I'll take a look; stand by. Gloves, yes. Cape, yes - ish; it's actually a coat that can be used as a cape with easy adjustment. Cane, no, but he's sitting. He hasn't brought the cane to Bronycon, but he has carried (and occasionally still does carry) a cane about town. His gestures, it seems, had acclimated to the cane and have yet to catch on to its general absence.

Skywriter
Skywriter #24 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
Reply

I don't think I've ever left a convention without feeling some form of damnit there wasn't enough time to talk to going on in my head. Not a one.

Skywriter
Skywriter #25 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
Reply

5156616
Thanks for your kind words about the comic, FOME. Your readership means a lot to me.

Skywriter
Skywriter #26 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
Reply

5156736

His portrait looks like the spitting image of Edward Norton and Chris Hemsworth's lovechild.

Basically the man is a Manic Pixie Dream Spaniard.

ShadowLDrago
ShadowLDrago #27 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
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and there’s the big butt cheesecake Star Wars anthro Fluttershy.

What does it say about me that I know exactly which picture you mean?

Now I’m undergoing training to become a judge.

Now I'm just picturing Pyrrha in Ace Attorney.

Shakespearicles
Shakespearicles #28 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
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5156594

And I don’t give a shit what others think about how I look. I mean, I know they want to fuck me, obviously, but it’s about how I want to fuck myself too. Every time I look in the mirror, I pucker those lips, and unf. Jesus take the wheel, am I right? Boom-chicka-wow-wow.

I know that feel.

Herald of Opera
Herald of Opera #29 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
Reply

5156782
She would totally be allowed to have and fire her spear-rifle, because everyone and everything in Ace Attorney is insane. (Animal witnesses are key to two different cases in two different games)

Aotrs Commander
Aotrs Commander #30 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
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It's always interesting to read about this stuff, even aside from the obvious bonus of Aragon's narration. Cons are just a utterly different world from the wargames conventions I go to, with as wide a gulf between them as the actual physical distance.


That said, I did see a hard-copy of one of the pony RPGs on sale at the last wargames convention I went to, which is a first ever[1]. I'd have taken a pony, but my camera chose that instance to fail out for literally the first time ever. Mostly as close as pony gets is me taking Humorous Pictures with my blindbag ponies on my wargames tables for the dubious benefit of my local ponythread.


[1]Didn't consider picking it up, since a) none of my lot would be interested[2] and b) if I was going to do Pony, I'd use Rolemaster, because without the slightest bit of effort on my part, they have spell lists for the entire Mane Six. Fashion Law is literally a thing that exists in that game. (The level 30 spell is Strand Bolt.)


[2]But hey, they're quite happy for me to spend literally 2-3 months of flat-out solid work essentially writing my own hybrid edition between D&D 3.5 and Pathfinder which runs to probably upwards of 700 pages, all told, so I can't complain!

Kuairu
Kuairu #31 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
Reply

You described me as an anime character. When I disavow a lot of modern anime.

... Yeah, that sounds right.

Aragon
Aragon #32 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
Reply

5156617

(And you sold yourself a little short

It's funnier when I'm incompetent!


5156623

Funny story about that: when I mentioned reporting her to the mods in that comment section, it was something I'd already done. And I happened to notice her temp-banned presumably for that reason. Remember what I said back there: blocking will spare you, but reporting will spare everyone.

Ngl, I was more thinking about like, the general idea of nazis and shit in this website, as well as those monumentally shitty nuclear takes you see now and then -- someone going absolute fucking hamblaster when it comes to racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, etc, I've seen them all -- but definitely not thinking of any particular example. I've no right idea which specific case this is talking about, and I am pretty sure I don't want to know, do I.


5156730

On the other hand, do Spanish judges have to worry much about their personal lives being outed to the public? What would you do if someone attempted to blackmail you with your history as a cartoon horse enthusiast?

Would make my fucking day, ngl. I can't foresee anyone who finds themselves waiting for my sentencing reacting to the news that I wrote that Hemmingbird comic with anything but abject horror.

Singularity Dream
Singularity Dream #33 · Nov 17th, 2019 · · ·
Reply

Hopefully you'll be able to make it to our part of the world again sometime in the future. Maybe even without involving ponies!

Sunny
Sunny #34 · Nov 19th, 2019 · · ·
Reply

Reading stuff like this is nice, because god, the social media reaction from a lot of people this year was 'BronyCon sucked there were too many lines' and ...things like that.

And when I'm honest with myself, I didn't really have a lot of fun this year for..reasons to do with my role, in large part.

But stuff like this...that's what makes it worth it, seeing how it still became completely magical for people. It helps the bitter taste sweeter. So - thank you

GaPJaxie
GaPJaxie #35 · Nov 19th, 2019 · · ·
Reply

PUBLISH A BOOK OF THESE

Octavia Harmony
Octavia Harmony #36 · Nov 20th, 2019 · · ·
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“Mmm.” Octavia Hamony is chewing durian by my side, swishing his cup of water side to side. “It’s better when it’s fresh.”

I've actually never had durian before, but I know my roommate likes it, and I think he's bought some before - but I suspect if I've ever eaten any, I've forcefully forgotten the memory. Closest I've actually been to eating it was having a durian popsicle. That wasn't bad at all.

Soge
Soge #37 · Nov 20th, 2019 · · ·
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Hey, there I am, thanks for the kind words — it is interesting to get to see yourself through the eyes of someone else. It was a blast meeting you there, and I just wish I had actually stopped to speak in Spanish with you.

Herald of Opera
Herald of Opera #38 · Nov 25th, 2019 · · ·
Reply

5157717
Seriously Aragon, you blogged about reading a book that was just someone you admire the writing of faffing about about random stuff. It would sell, trust me.

5156690
I actually got that from a TvTropes page, but whatever.

anonpencil
anonpencil #39 · Nov 27th, 2019 · · ·
Reply

This may be the most flatteringly anyone has ever written about me...
Thanks. I was... very touched actually. It's not often someone writes a description of you in story form. It's, to me, one of the highest compliments a writer can give.

DannyJ
DannyJ #40 · Dec 18th, 2019 · · ·
Reply

>tfw you will never get to be princess-carried by Majin Syeekoh
>tfw you will never get to princess-carry Aragon.

Why even live?

journcy
journcy #41 · Feb 17th, 2020 · · ·
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These are like a yearbook of the fandom and of this website, in story form. The biggest similarity is I sort of feel like I'll read these blogs again in 5 or 10 years and cry big fat tears--thanks for documenting for us. There's value here that I think is hard to see when the memories are all still fresh.

Bad Horse
Bad Horse #42 · Jun 8th, 2022 · · ·
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“It is! HI, BAD—” I cough, choke, sip water, swallow. Start again. “HI, BAD HORSE!”

Bad Horse turns around and leaves.

I sip some more water, and then I look at Tay. “I swear we’re friends,” I say, nodding towards the door. My throat is so closed up by the durian I can feel my eyes tearing up. “He probably just didn’t hear me.”

I didn't hear you. :ajsleepy:
I don't think I even knew you were at Bronycon 2019 until today.
I haven't been checking fimfiction much since 2019 except for my notifications.

Hey, where's the post you made about how you described people at your first Bronycon? I'm here looking for that, to put it on my blog post index.

Bad Horse
Bad Horse #43 · Jun 8th, 2022 · · ·
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Let me tell you a secret:

I do it on purpose.

I try to make it look natural, and most of the time it flows out of the conversation without issue, but it’s very much premeditated. Deliberate. If you’re one of my friends, you might’ve seen me doing it—for no particular reason, other than me goofing off, I’ll describe a person in the room.

I like to do it with abstract ideas. I’ll say Majin Syeekoh has Weird Uncle Vibes, and Dubs Rewatcher is more of a Younger Cousin sorta deal. You attach a positive label, one that’s personalized and describes the general feeling a person gives you. You try to distill their character, their personality, in as few words as possible.

It’s always fun. I enjoy doing it, and people like it. Soon enough we’re all participating, doing a list, trying to assess who’s what, who’s who, etcetera. “What about me? What’s your read of me” is a sentence I’ve heard many times.

People remember those labels, right? They’re proud of them. The more specific the better. I’ll look at MrNumbers and teasingly describe exactly which kind of media he enjoys, and how it all fits two very basic categories. I’ll message Posh and say, hey, there’s this pattern to your stories, I’ve noticed, and I appreciate it a lot. This is how I describe your writing style in one word only. I’ll chat up Caligari87 and say, hey, if you were a subreddit? You’d be this subreddit.

Corny, yeah, but suck my dick. It might not make someone’s day, but it always makes them smile, it makes them re-read what I just wrote over and over, taking it in, rolling it in their head a little.

We all crave validation. We all want to feel we matter, that we don’t go unnoticed, and that’s perfectly fine. I know that feeling more than most, believe me. So I play with that. Now and then, for the hell of it, I’ll try to describe a person, I’ll try to make them realize that I know them, that I pay attention to them.

Most of the time, when I say something like this, people remember what I said about them, and quote it back at me. They smile about it a lot.

DAMMIT I DID NOT KNOW THIS EXISTED UNTIL NOW.
I am going to quote the fuck out of this, starting today. I'll post it on my blog. Who knows, someday I might actually get around to trying it myself. Though in all honesty, it's the sort of thing I'm too much of a coward to try.

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