DEAR READER
PR's Tumblrdome
Misplaced Lens Cap
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
izzy's playlists!
Stranger Things
trying on a metaphor
dirt enthusiast
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
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One Nice Bug Per Day
sheepfilms
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tumblr dot com
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he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
styofa doing anything
we're not kids anymore.
$LAYYYTER
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@panthalassa3d
Well hell.
I found my password. What have I missed? (What you've missed: a few more additions to https://sralgee.wordpress.com/places-ive-been-published/ --also giving up the crashy clunkiness of the Wordpress app --and a lot of illness and family drama.) For the foreseeable future, I'll be posting everything--fandom, writing, jewelry--over at @a-study-in-scarlett and am gradually going to migrate all things related to writing and horror to @scarlettralgee.
I'm alive.
I'm stupidly busy thanks to getting half a foot of snow and ice dumped on my yard by Nature (the bitch), and also very very tired thanks to all the shoveling, but I'm alive. Psych meds are working great, I'm writing some new things, and I'm now a "faculty member" (submissions reader) for Sanitarium Magazine, which isn't a paying job but is damned fun.
remember swine flu reblog if ur a tru 2009 kid
you wouldnt be so fat if you didnt eat meat you fucking murderer
One thing I totally loathe is the holier than thou attitude of some vegans and vegetarians.
I have never met a veg-head who was not, to be frank, a smug, pompous, utter cunt. (But those are just the ones I know locally.)
Reblog if Internet Friends are Real Friends
I was talking to my mum about Christmas and how i would would experience it first whereas for my friends in America it would still be Christmas eve and that sucks. And then she says ‘your not really friends with people on Tumblr’, and now i want to prove to her that people can be friends on the internet despite where they live.
Good hell, with my health issues I'd be alone without my internet friends.
How to Tell if You Are in a Gothic Horror Novel
[via The Toast]
All animals are underfed, black, and vaguely eldritch. They all hate you.
You are a man. If you’re a woman, you are the love interest of the man, and you are dead.
All the women you know have died in childbirth. All the children you know are orphans. You are an orphan.
It’s foggy. If it’s not foggy, it’s smoggy. Or misty. Some form of particulate matter is in the air.
You are arranged to be married to someone sickly.
You tend to dismiss odd noises, prophetic ramblings of mad men, and the death of small animals en masse with a shrug and an offhand “It’s probably nothing.”
Everyone’s last name starts with “Van” or “Von Roth.”
One of your children is crushed to death by a humongous helmet on the day of their wedding.
Everything is gloomy, like that song “Blue” by Eiffel 65 but replace the word “blue” with “gloomy.” You are gloomy. Your life is gloomy and the castle you live in is gloomy. Your underfed black dog is gloomy.
Skulls feature prominently in all interior decorating.
You are in a small town. There is a deep dark secret that only the members of the town know. The outside world can never find out.
It is also a sleepy little town. “Nothing ever happens around here,” says one of the locals. It’s true. Only three people live there and they all died in childbirth.
You go wandering somewhere very cold, and almost freeze to death, but are saved by the fortuitous arrival of a crew of explorers.
You are in a monastery.
You are on a moor.
There is something in the walls (or the wallpaper, or the pipes, or the floors).
Your house has a garret, which is firmly locked for reasons you will not disclose.
You hate everyone, except for one woman you are incredibly attracted to. She hates you.
At least half of the people you know are mad. If you are not yet mad yourself, you are probably well on your way.
The other half are ghosts.
You have recently discovered an old document of some kind. Most likely a journal, but possibly a map or letters written by a dead family member.
All the portraits in your house have peepholes cut in the eyes.
Important events in your life are always preceded by a storm, or at least a stiff wind.
Your house is very dusty and there are cobwebs everywhere. Basically everything is either dust or a cobweb. There isn’t even anything under the dust anymore, just more dust.
You call your bedroom your “chambers.” There is something at your chamber door.
You are near, or on, the ocean.
Someone is keeping a captain’s log.
A book with a malicious spirit trapped inside was very well hidden somewhere no one should have ever found it, and definitely not ineffectually thrown in a chest or a tomb somewhere, but you found it anyway because you’re so curious and full of hubris.
The Evil Creature’s name is comprised entirely of consonants and punctuation.
There was a traumatic event in your childhood involving beach caves.
You are in love with your cousin.
Some form of Catholic imagery has just been appropriated and misused.
You have a love/hate relationship with a grotesquely malformed creature that you are repulsed by, but also pity.
Something is wrong. Something is terribly, terribly, terribly, terribly, terribly, terribly, terribly, terribly, terribly, terribly, terribly, terribly, terribly, terribly, terribly, terribly, terribly, terribly, terribly, terribly, terribly, terribly, terribly, terribly, terribly, terribly, terribly wrong.
You’re looking at something man was not meant to see. You can’t even comprehend it. It has parallel lines intersecting each other, and it goes on for infinity but you can see all of it, and other stuff that’s just really impossible. Like, think about M.C. Escher but then also scary and also your eyeballs are bleeding probably.
You have experienced unspeakable things. Everything has been resolved in the bleakest way possible. Your only hope is that you will take this secret to the grave.
I have to save this! There's a plot in it!
Lord Byron in Albanian Dress Oil on canvas (76,5 x 63,9 cm) By Thomas Phillips, 1835. National Portrait Gallery, London.
Damn.
Reblog if you're shorter than 5'8.
If you don’t reblog this, you are on duty to get the cookies off the top shelf. You have been notified.
5'10" and I fetch things off shelves all the time :D
Finally got this formatted and uploaded while waiting for my mom to finish her med appointment. Says something about wait times...
First of all, let’s get this out of the way: Yes he was. By today’s standards, based on descriptions from people who met him, if you were shown a photograph of the real Beethoven and then asked to guess his race, I guarantee you 99% would say “black.” It’s a…
Someone kill me
FFS not this pile of poop again
...WTF...?
Oh yes I wrote a thing.
It's on Smashwords and it's free.
Well I haven't been around in a while.
I'm finishing the novella I've talked about for four months. I've been going to psych appointments. Oh hey, I have panic disorder. Oh hey, I'm on new meds. My head is an interesting place. Zoloft makes my head quiet and my intestines hate me. I'd like to be on tumblr much more but it eats fuck out of my phone data plan, so I can be reached through Facebook (facebook.com/sralgee) or AIM (blackpoppyseason) or Etsy (copperwalkdesigns.etsy.com) or you can just email me at [email protected] . Love you all.
AND I wrote an e-story.
And these folks are publishing my story "Bleedthrough" next week.
I'm going to be doing an interview for these folks ^___^
tumblr: stop liking—
no because I am a responsible functioning adult with a healthy disassociation between fiction and reality
Need shelf space, lovelies, help me out here.
