I’ve never had a reheading go this horribly before. I’d say I’m pretty good at beheading- I may have broken a neck once or twice, but never any parts I actually liked or intended on keeping, and usually a reheading is the easiest thing, right? Just a little squish and a pop and done, a complete person. But this time it just- it just won’t go back on the body?? Which is incredibly frustrating but also, like, why??
And the funniest thing is, I’m not even swapping a head!! This is a curvy dancer head going onto a curvy dancer body!! They match!! This should have been so simple!! But no, this head’s just flopping around like a limp flaccid idiot and my hands are all red and sore now but the head just isn’t attaching all the way!!
Today I did six beheadings and two other reheadings, and I wanted to get this one attached so I could take a picture, but somehow it just isn’t working!! The head is just getting squished around but isn’t stretching over the neck right!! And I’m way too lazy to go and boil the head just to make the slip easier!! And I don’t wanna keep forcing it cuz I might break something but this is!! So frustrating!!
Like, what could I possibly be doing wrong!! Fuck!!
I boiled the head and it popped right onto the neck in like two seconds.
I’m an idiot. Always do things the proper way from the get-go. Saves a lot of wasted time and struggle and ouchy hands.
BARBIES. I’M TALKING ABOUT BARBIES. I AM CUSTOMIZING TOYS RIGHT NOW I AM NOT A SERIAL KILLER AND I HAVE NEVER BEHEADED AN ACTUAL REAL LIFE HUMAN BEING OR TRIED TO REATTACH A PERSON’S HEAD BY BOILING IT
I stacked the cups before me on the desk. Echoing notes came off the layered terraces, struck out of curves of stone
that arched themselves for miles. And through one door, water had filled itself into the room, which now could not be opened up.
And out the other it had changed: when I walked through, a stair turned back on itself, catching at my feet. Instead, a round
field grew, circled with seats and lights and, in the center, two opposing sets of standing poles. That is: a cricket ground.
But we were stacking cups; at least, I did. You stared at me and frowned. And crossed your arms. And tried to speak, the way one does
in dreams: more as intent than sound. “Do you think if I tried to live more in myself, and less in waiting misery—”
So it went on; I gave advice less lofty than my work. Til all at once you stood, and said, in hot, reproachful tones:
“Before I read Homestuck, I thought Vriska must be so nice and kind, and also helpful, and a joy to everyone
who met her— all because you said we’re exactly the same!” The wickets creaked. Inside, the room set places for the game.
The figs we ate wrapped in bacon.
The gelato we consumed lustily:
coconut milk, clove, fresh pear.
How we’d dump hot espresso on it,
just watch it melt, licking our spoons
clean. The potatoes fried in duck fat,
the salt we’d suck off our fingers,
the eggs we’d watch get beaten
’til they were a dizzying bright yellow,
how their edges crisped in the pan.
The pink salt blossom of prosciutto
we pulled apart with our hands, melting
on our eager tongues. The green herbs
with goat cheese, the aged brie paired
with a small pot of strawberry jam,
the final sour cherry we kept politely
pushing onto each other’s plate, saying,
No, you. But it’s so good. No, it’s yours.
How I finally put an end to it, plucked it
from the plate, and stuck it in my mouth.
How good it tasted: so sweet and so tart.
How good it felt: to want something and
pretend you don’t, and to get it anyway.
must a sport be entertaining to watch? 