Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
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Kiana Khansmith
Keni
i don't do bad sauce passes
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
wallacepolsom
art blog(derogatory)
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blake kathryn
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
#extradirty
ellievsbear
Origami Around
Product Placement
Show & Tell
Discoholic 🪩
styofa doing anything
noise dept.
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@specialinterestsgalore
I am slowly making all of my poetry/collage art pieces available on Redbubble. They're available on a few pieces, but I think they'd be best as the art prints that Redbubble makes. These are most of the ones uploaded now, but I'm working on uploading all of them.
Check out MothraMade on Redbubble if you're interested! <3
let’s all be cool and normal
the pitt / S01Ep13 // mash / goodbye, farewell and amen
Idgaf about ER, The Pitt is so MASH coded to me
Happy New Year, MASHblr!
We hope everyone had a wonderful holiday season, and that you all have good things on the horizon for 2026! We are now a little over 3 months away from writer sign-ups and are looking forward to everything you all will create this year.
Schedule Rules/FAQ
As always, we are here to answer any questions you may have!
Can’t wait to reblog this in 25 years when it becomes true (I’ll make sure it happens)
ohoho my favourite showww do de do my favourite medical show with my favourite medical students and medical interns
Not sure if anyone who follows me has enough knowledge of these shows to agree with me, but I feel like The Pitt is a fantastic spiritual successor to MASH. There both really amazing looks at the kind of monotonous horror that medical professionals experience everyday. In MASH we see these doctors who have been drafted and these nurses who gave up their lives at home to work in a medical unit in the Korean War and how things like 18 year old boys filled with shrapnel and bombs falling just miles away feel almost normal to them. In The Pitt we see how these medial professionals who have dedicated their lives and careers to working in the most chaotic area imaginable and how the death of 18 year olds who make one stupid decision and mass casualty protocol is nearly routine. Both of these shows show us how deeply it affects the people working in these environments and how our main characters refuse to acknowledge these affects in favor of continuing to push through, of saving as many people as possible at the expense of their own lives.
I love them so much and I think I will forever be incapable of being normal about them
Hey guys! So I am a social worker at preschools and I have made a wishlist with items that would be helpful for my office and needs for the students/families I work with. Anything from this list would be really appreciated because, as I'm sure you can guess, I don't have much of budget to use.
The link is here as well as in my linktree!
Twilight collage art
I'll try to get a scan of this at some point, but I made a Superbat/World's Finest spread!
Had ideas for a couple of The Pitt x MASH edits but just the process of trying to get clips for them frustrated me so I guess that's never happening
Today, we lost another member of 4077
Rest in peace, Miss Loretta Swift. (November 4, 1937 - May 30, 2025)
Thank you for all the laughs and great memories.
Say hello to Charles and Colonel Potter up there for us!
Inspiration has struck that thing where I tried to make a crochet granny square for every episode of MASH was stupid, I will instead be making one mini cross stitch pattern for every episode and then putting them all together in one giant cross stitch
Okay here are the first 3 mini cross stitch patterns! I will be combining all of them into one obnoxiously large cross stitch with 255 mini patterns for all of the normal length episodes and one larger pattern for Goodbye, Farewell, Amen.
S1E1- Pilot: Army surgeons Hawkeye Pierce and Trapper MacIntyre hold a raffle to raise tuition for the Swamp's Korean houseboy while their commanding officer Henry Blake is away. The prize is a weekend with nurse Lt. Dish. To keep Major Frank Burns out of the way, he is sedated.
Pattern: The raffle jar that Hawk draws from and the lei that he is wearing at the party. I may try to add a small syringe to this later since they sedate Frank in this ep
S1E2- To Market, to Market: Hawkeye and Trapper get into black marketing for medical supplies and offer Henry's antique oak desk as payment, after the supplies are hijacked.
Pattern: Flying desk my beloved
S1E3- Requiem for a Lightweight: Trapper goes into the boxing ring against another unit's thug in a deal with Henry to keep a nurse, Lt. Cutler at the 4077th. Hawkeye comes up with a plan to equal the odds. Frank tries to upset Hawkeye's plan but it backfires.
Pattern: Boxing gloves and the bottle of ether
I'm pretty pleased with these. I always find it more difficult to be satisfied with my smaller cross stitch patterns because I visualize more detail than is possible but I'm happy with how these are looking so far.
Inspiration has struck that thing where I tried to make a crochet granny square for every episode of MASH was stupid, I will instead be making one mini cross stitch pattern for every episode and then putting them all together in one giant cross stitch
The First
An excerpt from the book I'm working on! Feedback welcome! (don't ask if I'm actually gonna be able to finish this thing, your guess is as good as mine)
The warmth is always the best part. It is splattered around our bodies and the room. Flowing out and over my hands, flooding my brain, seeping into my bones. She’s so beautiful like this, spread open for me; I can see all of her. The way the intestines twist together, weaving around the abdomen like snakes in a burrow. Their weight is heavenly in my hands, wet and warm. She is stunning like this, and I have the perfect place to display her.
There is something wrong with me. It looks so beautiful; spread out near the river bank, intestines hung around the shrubs like tinsel, throat slit cleanly, though there’s not enough blood for it all to have been done here. Something is wrong with me. I should leave; I should call someone. Instead, I step closer. I want to touch it; I want to pull the skin back further, expose more meat and bones, see the path of veins and nerves through the body. I need to. I step closer, kneeling beside it and narrowly avoiding staining my one pair of jeans. The slice up the abdomen is impossibly neat. I could slide my hand into the opening and feel how the organs fit together in the space, though I’m sure they have shifted a bit to fill the space left by the intestines. The body is pale, with a dusting of freckles and a few light stretch marks, unblemished other than the wounds on its stomach and neck. And the face - her face - that reminder, that this was a girl, 16 or 17, I’ve seen her at the local high school, now here nude, eviscerated, and exposed in a small wooded area beside the highway, brings me back for a sickening moment. The gore seems to have a magnetic pull on me as I dig my claws into my skin and force myself to stand. I must keep moving. The birds have gone silent. I can not remember where I am. There is no wind. I must keep moving.
There is a storage shed behind the library that they have forgotten about. It’s small and cluttered, but it has a cot and power from the main building. I think Bea knows I stay out here, but neither of us mention it. She has been my best friend since I was six. I walked into the Locust Public Library in awe of all the different worlds contained in one building. Beatrice Favor had been the library manager for five years at that point. It was always practically deserted, so she had plenty of time to entertain a child who had just finished her first chapter book and was eager to find another place to escape into. We have spent almost every afternoon together since then. I have no idea what she thinks of me.
“Sorry. I was… distracted.” She just nods. In the ten years I’ve been officially working with Bea, I’ve only been late a handful of times. She never bothered to say much to me about it.
After dropping my bag in the back room, I can start my favorite part of the day, sorting and reshelving. I start around the local history section. Very few of these books can actually be checked out, but they get pulled off the shelves quite often. Mostly genealogy buffs looking for more information about great-grandpa. The monotonous rhythm of sliding books into their proper place soothes me. I almost forget about my morning. The body in the bushes. I’ve never seen anything like it in person before. But god, I’ve dreamt about it. Such a wonderful shade of red. It felt like artistry. It felt vile. She was just a girl. She will always be a girl. The clarity that I find in the library allows me to consider what I hadn’t before. Who is responsible? Finding the body had felt like a wonderful gift and vomit-inducing curse just for me, but it wasn’t. Someone killed that girl. He sliced her open and dropped her in the brush. I will never see her walking to lunch again. Why? It was one of the most beautiful, brutal scenes I have ever seen, but it didn’t appear that her actual death was particularly violent. It was methodical. Detached. It was what I would like to do.
A woman is in the library with a little girl, about five years old. She comes in to use the computers often. The girl usually grabs a storybook from the children’s section and sits with who I presume to be her mother. Twice, I have used our puppets to act out her chosen fairytale with her. Today, she is screaming. The woman looks exhausted and embarrassed. The sound is piercing into my brain. I can not think about anything else. I can not see anything but the girl. Her face is red with anguish.
The red is spreading, pouring forth from her like a fountain. She is still screaming. Is anyone else? They must be. The third time my hand brings the girl’s head down, I hear it. She is cracking, splitting open. I can feel her skull shifting. I don't know where her mother is. I don't know where anyone is. I can only see my hands gripping the girl's hair. I can only hear my own heavy breathing and the girl's gurgles through the blood. The girl’s brain is on the table, the computers, her sweater, my hands.
I turn to look at her four times as I leave the library. The girl is still there. Still screaming, red-faced in her mother's arms. My hands are clean.
I've kinda been thinking about it as Dexter Morgan vs. Patrick Bateman. The woman narrating has been struggling against her urges for most of her life. She hasn't at this point, but eventually she starts killing abusive men in town while kind of dancing around this other killer. The italicized part is the internal monologue of the killer in the book. I'm planning to have that start each chapter. The indented part is the woman's hallucination/intrusive thoughts.
fuuuuck that is my circus. are those…? yep… those are my monkeys….. goddammit.
