It's Finals Season, Which Means I've Blocked Shorts On Youtube And Also The Entire Instagram Explore

Me liking 38426274950 posts about the locked tomb at midnight because I can't stop thinking about those fucking weirdo loser characters

you will ALWAYS catch me being pathetic on tumblr.com

I think Nona would very much like the speech at the end of Minecraft. Especially the last few lines, I think.

I have more thoughts on this but I just spent far too long in the end and my brain is fried. Feel free to add on if any of you also have thoughts on this.

It wasn't until high school that I began seeing the world as a story to be written. It was a survival tactic, I think, for covid. That and a general habit created by my near-constant writing.

To that extent, it wasn't until post-lockdown that I realized how fucking cool fog is. And since it's foggy today, I'm going to talk about it.

I think that fog is only cool as a visual medium. Book descriptions don't do it justice. "A bank of fog rolls in" "tendrils of fog reach through the trees" yeah but what does that LOOK like?

It looks like a digital artist was drawing clouds behind a mountain and misplaced a layer. It looks like a cloud bisecting the landscape. The tops of the trees look like an island rising out of a flat calm, gray sea while the bottom half of it, the bushes and the houses and the roads, looks like an unfinished painting. If two people were to stand down the road and hold a flashlight, it would be a damn good impression of a car.

And I think a lot of authors forget to describe how fucking damp everything is. There's always this impending sense of rain. Nothing is dry except maybe your clothes, and odds are they're not gonna stay dry for long. Your socks and shoes are toast the moment you stray from a paved road. Hope you like wet socks.

Fog doesn't work like the poison mist in the hunger games. You don't walk into a wall of fog unless some outside force has confined the fog to a specific area. It's a gradual claustrophobia, a slow loss of sight.

It's also usually still when the fog is thick. Otherwise, the wind would blow it away, right? But unless a monsoon is following the fog, there's not quite that eerie "calm before the storm" stillness. It has a different vibe to it.

But you can't say all that without interrupting the flow of the story, so people tend to stick to the simpler descriptions.

"Every writer"

Writers don't use ai.

Those who use ai are not writers.

They are prompt generators for the prompt generators, producing soulless fucking slop that takes the "writing" out of writing.

a writing competition i was going to participate in again this year has announced that they now allow AI generated content to be submitted

their reasoning being that "we couldn't ban it even if we wanted to, every writer already uses it anyway"

"Every writer"?

come on

Knives! Get your Knives here for no particular reason!

🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪

Get em while they're cold, get em while they're sharp!

Special discount if your name is Brutus for no reason in particular!

the venn diagram of “people who write” and “people who are perpetually confused by their own plot” is a circle.

sometimes you need dialogue tags and don't want to use the same four

The TLT brainrot is real because I saw this image:

And immediately thought of making it into a HTN shitpost. You know exactly what I'm talking about.

Sadly, I am in the trenches with homework and therefore unable to be funny enough to follow through on this idea.

Ohhhh god something something story uhhhhh.....

The first thing I wished I had been told about the snow was how fucking cold it was. People had mentioned it being cold before, but not one person said how immediately and completely the frost would settle into my being. How it would seep through my skin and muscles and pierce my bones with ice. No one mentioned how my hands would hurt from the cold, how hard it would be to curl my frozen fingers around my sword.

There were no bugs, no birds, and no wind. Nothing to hide the crunch of my feet in the snow. It was an odd sound. I was sure that snow wasn't meant to sound like that, but then again, I'd never encountered it before, so what did I know? My breath, steady and slow, fogged out in front of me like a dragon's breath. I eyeballed the structure before me, watching for any sign of movement. Arches and spires, the color of which vaguely resembled the rust on my borrowed weapon, towered before me. The bridge, and the platform at the end which the building rested on, dropped down into a deadly fall, the bottom and anything beyond that repeating structure obscured by fog.

The trail of foot prints in front of me had been filled by snow, but there was only one place they could have led to. The wind picked up, whipping little shards of ice and snow into my squinting eyes. I tilted my head against it and pushed onwards, nearing the entrance. I knew that my enemy waited somewhere inside. I knew that my mission was almost complete.