Horf Horf @squash-a - Tumblr Blog

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eebie

i named them cruelty of the heart and sickness of the mind

catcrumb

badymaru

(presented without comment) - 8/27/08

evenlyevi

Tormentil (Potentilla erecta)

Bsky ⋄ Tip jar

freesiadotcom

having 40 minutes to leave the house is terrible because 40 minutes is basically 30 minutes and 30 minutes is basically 20 minutes and 20 minutes is basically fifteen seconds. but 50 minutes? 50 minutes is an hour, and an hour? ooobh thats plany off time

yuriartillery

What I say when I am happy: I love my friends lots and lots!

What I say when I'm upset: This paltry world is beyond salvation.

hyssteria

yeowch the orb got them

well,,there's other american rock bands

toskarin

ah... your secret technique... in normal circumstances, such a bullet would have no effect on me, but you certainly knew that, my rival... and so, cleverly, you accelerated it with a gun

artemisrae

Pittsburgh Gothic

No one actually works in PPG Place.

City roads wind and twist through the hills. Some are tree lined, with no shoulder. Others lead you around blind turns or cramped alleyways. They turn randomly into one-way streets, or a bus lane, or a turning lane. You wonder where they’re leading you. It is not to your destination.

The rivers keep secrets. Sometimes when you cross a bridge you feel something stir inside you, but once you get to the other side you’ve already forgotten. You’re one of the lucky ones. Most people can’t remember what the river whispers. Some can’t forget. (“RIVER RESCUE RECOVERS BODY”)

The city is gray most of the time. In the summer, when the years of winter slush and spring rain are a distant memory, sunlight feels glaring and unnatural. The buildings crowd together, shielding one another from light it was never meant to see. Everything is exposed. Everyone is too pale.

There are entire roads you’ve never driven on. They’ve always been under construction. “LOCAL TRAFFIC ONLY” they declare. “DRIVE AT YOUR OWN RISK.”

The houses spread like cancer, rising improbably through the hills, interconnected and rickety, strewn along one way streets with no entrance or exit. There are no numbers on the houses, but there are Christmas lights.

Go to the Southside on a Saturday night in the middle of February and marvel at the drinking college students. The girls are wearing miniskirts. The boys are wearing t-shirts. Nobody is wearing a coat. Nobody has noticed the cold.

There are old churches littering the city, steeples rising like beacons. You see people trickle out after Sunday service, but you’ve never seen anyone go in. On Lenten Fridays they advertise “FISH FRY” on large handmade signs lettered with childish handwriting. On Easter, banners proclaim “HE IS RISEN”

You’ve seen entire cars swallowed by potholes.

People get stuck in time here. You can tell where they’re stuck by which sports stars they’re picking apart and discussing. You overhear snatches of conversation: Bill Maz, Lemiuex-as-a-player, Chuck Noll, Roberto Clemente, Lemiuex-as-an-owner, Tommy Maddox, Cutch.

You have memories of being small, of sleeping in the car and driving through the tunnels. Once you cross the threshold all the noise mutes to a dull roar; nobody speaks. Lights flash behind your closed eyes. The lights stretch longer than the tunnel. If you close your eyes right now, you can still see them flashing.

Abandoned steel mills dot the shores of the river - empty, dirty, broken and vandalized. At night the flickering light of fire dances behind grimy windows. Whistles still shriek. Loaded barges move sluggishly through the rivers. Big rigs that don’t seem to fit in the streets wind their way into the industrial park. “OFFICE SPACE FOR RENT” a sign advertises.

imperialgrunt

Pittsburgh Gothic

You’re waiting for the 61D. A 61A goes past. A 61A goes past. A 61A goes past. A 61A goes past.

The closer you get to the Squirrel Hill tunnel, the slower everything moves. Cars. People. Particles. It’s cold. Oh god, you’re so cold.

It was raining this morning, now it’s sunny outside. You check the thermometer, and it reads sixty. Better salt your sidewalk, gonna snow tonight.

You dropped a rock in that pothole on Brookline, and waited to hear it hit the bottom. You’re still waiting.

The sidewalk is getting steeper and steeper. Now there’s stairs. You climb and climb and climb. Look, a mountain goat.

Your GPS tells you to take a sharp right to stay on Forbes. Your GPS tells you to take a slight left to stay on Forbes. Your GPS tells you to hit the man in the suit to stay on Forbes. Hit the man. Hit him.

No one goes to Carlow University.

Bleeding? Buildings don’t bleed, don’t be silly. That’s just the steel rusting.

An orange sign just ahead of you reads “End Road Work.” You laugh, and see another sign. “Please. Please, I have children. End it.”

They built a bridge under the bridge to keep the bridge from falling on the other bridge under that bridge. The trolls are confused. Where can they live?

Someone said that if you fall in the Mon, when you climb out, your skin will peel off. Ridiculous. No one escapes the Mon.

You’re trying to get home, but every single street is a one way that takes your further and further away. Where is home? What is home?

They say the steel mills poisoned the air and killed the sky. Is that why it weeps? Whenever thunder roars, you swear you can hear a sob.

A man is stabbed with a bottle outside the bar, and ichor the color of tar drips from between his fingers, flecked with gleaming yellow. He bleeds black and gold. The gutters overflow with black and gold. Steelers going to the superbowl.

You woke up and found U P M C etched into your wrist. You went to UPMC physician, and he sent you to UPMC Shadyside. They checked you out and said it’s nothing serious. Good thing you have UPMC healthcare, could have been pricey otherwise.

The guy at Phipps laughs when you ask him what they use for fertilizer and shows you big bins of mulch in the back. Pitt students keep disappearing. The bins are never empty for long.

The treasure map reads “Turn left at the big church, then go straight till you see a PNC.” Thirty souls set out to find it, each took a different path. None returned.

Pittsburgh gothic

Every time you take the bus—no matter the route, the day, the time—the driver is always the same. You spend the rides with your head down to avoid catching his gaze in the rearview mirror. He’s always looking right at you.

There’s a Giant Eagle three blocks from your house, but you recently started going to the one across the river. You liked the convenience, but every time you left the store a jitney driver would be idling there. They would offer you a ride home—“I’m heading towards your place anyways.” You never told them where you live.

Every time you think a hill might be too steep to climb, you notice a set of city steps right next to you…how didn’t you see those before? You never take them, though. They’re always gone on the walk back down.

You’ve been driving on this bridge for way too long. You keep passing pylons, but you’re no closer to the other side.

Someone must keep stealing your neighbor’s parking chair, because every day there’s a different one in her spot. You’re not really sure if you could call it a “chair” anymore. When you walk up to your house at night, you could swear it twitches under the street light. Is your neighbor ever even home?

You live alone in a recently flipped townhome. The owners ripped out the Pittsburgh potty when they finished the basement. A shame, but you don’t go down there much anyways—in fact, you usually keep the basement door deadbolted. You know you forgot to lock it when you’re cleaning sooty bootprints from the kitchen tile again.

Your nunny always told you that you can swim in the rivers when the current is slow, but don’t put your head under. You won’t be quite right when you come back to the surface.

Driving in Oakland when classes let out is usually a pain, so you reroute during peak times. It’s 2 am and the crosswalks are full of students. You’ve been waiting for over an hour, but they keep pouring out of the cathedral.

#gothic writing #Pittsburgh #pittsburgh gothic #writing #prompt #writing prompt #yinz like gothic lit?#regional #regional gothic

rocky-mountain-gothics

A Guide To Exploring Abandoned Churches

If you go alone, don’t bring a flashlight. You’ll see things you don’t want to.

Don’t bring groups bigger than 12.

Bring water and some snacks, but no wine.

If you have to sleep there, sleep in the sanctuary, but not on a pew.

If you try to read the hymnal, the words won’t be english anymore.

The Bibles will be blank until you confess.

Don’t go into the confession booth. The man talking to you is not the priest, and you don’t want to know what he really is.

The cross on the wall changes locations, don’t look at it for too long.

If you see someone praying at the altar, don’t approach them. If they approach you, don’t talk to them. Leave immediately.

If you hear the organ playing while you’re in the basement, know that your time is running out.

If it plays while you’re in the sanctuary, your time is up.

Take whatever you want, but if you find that one of your possesions is missing, don’t look for it. Let them have it. It’s not worth your life.

If you find a rosary, don’t put it on. It won’t help.

The water isn’t holy anymore. Throwing it on the demons in the shadows won’t work.

Drink the wine if you wish to never leave.

Don’t get seperated from your friends.

If you spend the night, leave at sunrise otherwise you’ll enter another plane of reality with no way back.

If you don’t spend the night, leave through the doors you came in.

You might look behind you after leaving and see that the church isn’t there anymore. It means that they took what they wanted.

Never enter the same abandoned church twice. Even (especially) if you forgot something inside. That’s a lure. On your second tour through, they will know enough about you to keep you there.

andoutofharm

As this ask suggested: a calendar showing which shows occurred during the first/second half of the month and who would have additional therapy at each show.

Further speculation on what the split between even and odd numbers + their differing behaviors here!

clowns-ofthesame-circus

YOU ARE A REGULAR BAND. YOU CAN ENTER A STUDIO. YOU ARE A REGULAR BAND. YOU CAN MAKE AN ALBUM ANNOUNCEMENT. YOU ARE A REGULAR BAND. YOU CAN MAKE A REGULAR INSTAGRAM POST. YOU ARE A REGULAR BAND.

amatumundi

Tara Knight thoroughly outed herself as a liar on her instagram, and was losing hundreds of followers every time she came out with a new lie. She seemingly ai generated a letter when the rag newsite The Needle asked her for comment, she claimed she sent them the letter on Bluesky, and then changed course on instagram saying she never sent it to them. I want to be clear that article by the needle was racist and am only really interested in the pdf of a letter and Tara’s own reaction to it.

She then made a public apology stating the fbi letter was a hoax, telling people to stop defending her for it. Then she posted a new letter on her announcements on her instagram, claiming that was the real letter, saying it was probably from a stalker. This letter was dated January 11th, while the original claim was made on January 6th. Additionally it had clearly never been folded like a piece of mail would be and contained none of the original threats, namely to cease publication of her book, and delete her writings on Substack. The response from her audience was disbelief, and was subsequently called out by her friend Rose161 for lying again. They had a public argument via their respective instagram stories, subsequently they both deleted all of these stories, and Tara deleted her latest claim of a new letter. She then finally took a break from instagram, and migrated to tumblr where she has been denying any accusation of lying, and painting herself as a victim of a hate mob. Most of the comments and replies I saw expressed frustration, confusion, and disappointment. Many people giving her the benefit of the doubt that she was sent a threatening letter, no matter how suspect her claims or behavior.

I followed her following the original claim of a threatening letter earlier this month. I had never heard of her before, but quickly muted her account finding something to be fishy but unable to put my finger on it. I’ve attached the letters below for reference, the first is the gen ai letter referenced by the needle, the second is her most recent claim, the third is one she sent privately to her own friends. I’ve also included her apology admitting to the threat being a hoax, and the closest thing to an explanation she has given.

Ultimately I think this destroys her credibility as a writer and voice within the community. She doesn’t deserve hate, certainly doesn’t deserve racism. Sending mean anons will only reinforce her victim mentality, and provides fuel for her blind followers to believe her more. However I think a public lie like this that she used to grift money from her own largely trans following is bad, and requires public awareness.