#a eulogy

[beatsforbrothels]

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Boldy James & Sterling Toles - Mommy Dearest (a eulogy)

[see-arcane]

Avengers #6 OR Really? Like, really? R e a l l y ?

Pertinent Scenes:

SCENE 1: Whomst the fuck is Donny Cates??? 

SCENE 2: Loki tries to communicate with the reader

SCENE 3: Plot twist--Loki was the Joker All Along

This. This after that solid B- work in the Thor arc. Where does that even place these stories in terms of timeline? Thor first? Avengers first? Is the Filibuster of Realms still going on? It doesn’t matter in Jason Aaron Land! I mean...

Look, I’ve tried to be as objective as I could be with this. Not super well, considering Loki in all their incarnations are very close to my heart. Gillen and Ewing crafted beautiful individual tricksters and story arcs to go with them, fun and tragic and triumphant by turns. I love those Lokis. While few to none have lived up to the God of Stories seen at the end of Agent of Asgard, I’ve warmed up to a few post-AoA Lokis too. Vote Loki was alright. The Loki who pops up in The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl is fantastic. Donny Cates--in spite of the great big Sigh of a ‘twist ending’--did a very heartfelt job with Loki: Sorcerer Supreme. 

And, in the very, very beginning, back when Jane ‘Thor’ Foster was fresh on the page and the War of Realms could have been a decent two-arc event, Jason Aaron put out a Loki I tried to warm up to too. I felt for that Loki when he saw the knife-in-the-back as the only way to save Freya. I felt for him when he seemed to play villain just enough to nudge Dario Agger into a trap of hubris and throw the Elf Queen into range of Mjolnir for a rescue. 

I thought we would get to see this Loki reveal to Jane that he was working to dismantle the villains from the inside. I thought we would get to see Freya and Odin face consequences for the still-loose threads that was their collusion with King Loki and the murdered Midgard of the future they’d have permitted for a predestined perfect Asgard. I thought we would get to see Loki gleefully caper out from under the dark elf’s thumb and back into the role of God of Stories, Free and Unfettered, seeding Mischief rather than Mayhem.

What have we gotten instead? Shit. Rambling, meandering, backtracking shit with specks of fool’s gold sprinkled in for pizzazz. 

I hate saying that. I hate feeling that. I hate not being able to find a way to hope, to hold out, to keep telling myself Aaron is doing his best, that maybe he’s being strong-armed into repeatedly shoving Loki back into the God of Lies box because Marvel’s bigwigs have some Grander Arc Event in need of a nefarious Classic Villain (c). I can’t do it anymore. I can’t buy my own bullshit. Which means I can’t buy his.

Other writers, like Ryan North, like Donny Cates, like the folks behind Infinity Wars and Vote Loki and a smattering of others kind enough to squeeze a cameo in, don’t do this to Loki. None of them. They make Loki fun. They make Loki happy. They make Loki puckish and chaotic and winsome and strong and stealthy and ultimately out to have a laugh and get up to tricks. And when he makes a mess it was made to avoid a catastrophe. Or for a giggle. Or both.

Only Aaron is deciding to spit on Loki’s growth. Aaron wrote that Loki designed the Black Bifrost that has been enabling Malekith to prolong the War of Realms and slaughter hundreds. Aaron wrote that Loki sparked the pointless scuffle with the Shi’ar gods and Jane. And now? 

Now Aaron has written that Loki conspired with the Dark Celestials to do the one thing he committed burning, bodily, spiritual suicide to prevent in the future. Aaron wrote a Loki who calls humanity pestilence. Aaron wrote a Loki that would see the human race murdered. Aaron wrote a Loki who spewed the same vitriol that King Loki offered so blithely to King Thor from a throne of corpses. 

And to what end? There is no proof, no hint, no foreshadowing that this was all to cover up some covert scheme. Nothing that connects to the Loki we saw in Legacy #1 where he first started hunting Infinity stones and then met the buried Celestial, supposedly looking for power to do [INSERT NEVER-MENTIONED GOAL HERE]. All we get is the last scene, with Loki cackling in pride (???) that the Avengers are back together, looking as MCU synergized as can be. 

‘Oh!’ I’m supposed to say. ‘That was the secret extra special chaotic neutral goal all along! To get the band back together! Loki’s Greatest Hit (Remix)! Because the only way to get all these heroes back together for whatever secret extra special reason was to nearly murder the entire fucking Earth! How inspired! How tricky! Got us again, Aaron!’

But you know what, Aaron? Friend? Buddy? My guy? I’m done rewriting your fucking tripe to make it palatable. I’m done pretending the caricature you keep slapping a pair of horns on is in any way the God of Stories. 

The closest you’ve come to attempting to pretend to do right by them was the opening arc for Thor and company in Helheim. Which was both clearly a fluke and bound to never result in the long, long, long, long, long overdue payoff of betraying Malekith that everyone had their fingers crossed for a thousand years ago. (But hey, maybe we’ll be forced to see Freya “”””forgive”””” Loki and give him a hug in the future. Cannot wait to see how you manage to squeeze in how her farts are perfume and birds sing every time she scratches her hallowed ass. If anyone can do it, it’s you)

I’m done with this. Truly, sincerely done. I have to be, because I’m tired of hoping. Tired of throwing money at a writer who paces an arc like a crippled tortoise sprints. Tired of forcing myself to choke down a cruel, sneering, parody of a character that’s meant so much to me and is shown worlds more respect by other writers.

Goodbye, Aaron. 

It was mediocre while it lasted.

[sleepylimegametime]

rest in peace to the four heroes who defeated the necromancer on the brink of death and then fell to his minions--

claville, who died first, killed by corbet in her fit of madness. shortly thereafter, corbet fell to the clawing dead. dismas felled the necromancer with a shot from his pistol and he and guyot fought against the last of the rabble till the very end.

my plague doctor, my vestal, dear dismas, and hellion: you will be sorely fucking missed.

[tamagotchi]

I miss my baby boy his baby boy name is Kirby his been gone about 4 month now Kirby my disabled chipmunk I'll Always say your name

[ferrymansbequest]

A eulogy for Nellis Truant.

Born on October 22nd [SWEEP REDACTED], Died on December 17th 2025/934.

Nellis was always a troubled soul, even during wigglerhood. It's not my place to divulge in the details, though. But, they persevered until December 22nd 2023/933, the night they started playing SBURB/SGRUB, the night they Entered. At some point, they god-tiered, fusing with their sprite, containing their dead dreamself and an eel plushie. On August 4th 2024/934, they were Shunted from their home reality into a new one.

They would go on to do their best to help many a person, to varying results. Helpful to a fault, to fill the lonely hole in their heart. They suffered much, though I hesitate to talk more upon that fact, out of respect.

On December 17th 2025/934, I felt the pull of the Reality Shunt, and I knew our time to speak was limited. I summoned them, and gave them their memories back. We had a chat, and I explained why I summoned them. An ultimatum of some sorts. Either they would live, get Shunted, and experience who knows how much more trauma and suffering, or I could truly kill them and give them their much deserved peace. I think you can tell which option they chose.

Nellis Truant was a good friend of mine, and I miss them dearly.

[thechatteringshrike]

Fuck man shit man someone ask me about my hyperfixations. Let me ramble about literary historical context. Let me talk about mythology. Let me examine a film from every angle. Let me talk to you about how Blue Sky Studio's Rio (2013) is a beautiful metaphor for disability with a shitty ablist ending. Let me talk about the significance of the cold war in Aliens (1986). Let me ramble about Milton's Paradise Lost, or Dante's Divine Comedy... i promise you'll learn something. I am a rocket, a veritable library, my brain holds so much...

[quartetofstories]

I snapped the wand, and now im trying to find something to replace it. The important part is whole and im honestly surprised I haven't snapped before, cause I've put alot of pressure and use on it. It lasted 7 years. To sturdy wands, may she rest in piece.

[lettherebedragons]

Hey y’all.

I’m sure some of you may have noticed my inactivity lately, and I figured I should probably explain. Obviously, this is a personal blog, so it’s not like you were expecting content 

(aside from the fact that I apparently promised the entire multiverse pictures of Rome while I’m here how the fuck)

but I’m sure that there have been many personal posts from my mutuals and stuff y’all reblogged just for me that I just never responded to, and while I managed to read through a week’s worth of dash backlog before a combination of Hellsite and Shoddy Roman Internet knocked me back to the present, there is no way I’m ever going to read every post I’ve missed since April 15th. 

Also, as circumstances will make clear, I really wasn’t feeling up to posting again until I got this particular explanation off of my chest. So yeah, this’ll be that, and honestly, I would really appreciate you giving this a read, but of course, you don’t have to. Especially if you don’t need or want anything sad in your dash right now. Thanks.

So, a bit over two weeks ago, I woke up to the news my cat had died. 

It wasn’t entirely unexpected. Cisco was 17, he had had a good, long life. One of my biggest concerns in going off on the Rome Program, in fact, was that I would be gone for ten weeks, followed immediately by another ten in California. Five months felt risky, although it didn’t occur to me until after I heard the news how deep down, I had still been certain he would be there when I got home.

I was certain enough that I didn’t do any special goodbyes when I flew away in March. 

I still cannot remember what the last things I said to him were. So much of this devastating grief since then has been in realising that I never said goodbye. That I wasn’t there. That I don’t have emblazoned across my eyes, indelible that I may never lose him, how he looked the last time I saw him alive.

I am dreading coming home. Never in my memory have I come home without Cisco there.

Mikey, Redhat, and Cisco joined my family when I was just two years old. They came the usual way-- dropped off at our house by my mom’s ex-husband, who figured that if there were any group of suckers who would immediately adopt three weeks-old kittens, we were them. It transpired that he had found them in his car engine. 

For full context of how much a group of cat-loving idiots we are, keep in mind that this was when plans were already underway for a trans-continental relocation of our entire lives to America when Mom’s ex shows up at the door.

My mom says it was Cisco who convinced her, the second he, a tiny wriggling ball of tabby fluff rolled over, and his stomach was revealed to be this fuzzy expanse of golden fur with black polka-dots. I suspect she would have been convinced even if all three had looked like naked mole rats, but I assure you, Cisco was beautiful.

My parents, also being ridiculous y2k computer geeks, named the cats after failing stocks they had at the time. Mikey is short for Microsoft. 

(He was named first, because my parents are also also ridiculous punsters.)

I was raised to consider these three like my siblings. When my mom spoke to the cats about me, I was called their sister. The low-grade antagonism and ride or die affections between myself and all three certainly were par for the course.

(My current roommate insists I’m a fictional character, and this particular tidbit didn’t help my case at all.)

I remembering thinking as I sat on the couch after reading my mom’s short email, crying harder than I can explain, how hard it is to put into words the loss of a loved one who isn’t human. A ‘pet’ feels like a job title more than anything else. Something replaceable. It cannot convey the loss of an individual, the loss of an entire person, someone who has simply run out and whom there will never be more of again. 

And regardless of his species and role in my life, that is what happened when he died.

Cisco was always the sweetest of the three. Never once in his life did he ever attempt to bite or scratch anyone. Given his origins as a certainly at least semi-feral street kitten, this is incredible. Knowing his bloodthirsty siblings, to whom I can attribute grand networks of scar material, this is nothing short of a miracle.

A few years ago, he lost the ability to retract his claws, and even then would only scratch us on accident, usually when trying to extricate himself from hugs and other indignities. Most of the time, it just inconvenienced him, and it was a sad and hilarious sight each day to see him walking over blankets or upholstery and suddenly find himself stuck by the claw to the fabric. 

He often had difficulty unsticking himself, for while Cisco was gentle, he never was smart. Family theory had it that the three cats all had to tussle to get control over one brain. Redhat and Mikey would keep it going back and forth between the two, and only when they each fumbled, Cisco got to be the smart cat. After Mikey’s death eight years ago, we generally agreed Redhat had seized permanent control of the brain.

(When Mikey died, we began to say we had ‘three cats, but one of them is dead.’ It had always been the three, and to not have all seemed inconceivable until some impossible terrible day when we had none.

My mother called me a week ago and asked if she still counted as an old cat lady with only one left.)

Cisco might have not been a very smart cat, but he was one of the most human. His face was startlingly expressive, and he interacted more with people than to cats. Every meow he made carried emotion as clearly as telling us how he felt, with a range of nuance that quite easily surpasses that of some people I know. 

(When I think off how I will lose him yet further, I think of forgetting his voice.)

He had a bizarre taste in food. Seaweed and brewer’s yeast were all-time favorites, though he never shared Redhat’s obsession with drinking my mother’s tea right out of the mug every morning. What he did do every single morning was walk onto Mom’s desk, seat all 13 pounds of him across her chest, and declare it to be a time for hugging. 

He was always very shy and terribly affectionate. He liked to sleep on convenient persons nearby, and every night I heard the screams as he accidentally trod on his sister, already curled up beneath a blanket, and began an old fight anew. Guests would be privileged to see him for a moment as he stared down from the top of the stairs, or they would see him standing for ten minutes in the middle of the dinner table as we tried ineffectually to usher him out of the parmesan. 

He was always so tolerant of me, growing up and learning how to act around cats and humans alike. I don’t remember a time without him, but I know three-year-olds don’t speak Cat as fluently as fifteen-year-olds do. Cisco, I owe you an apology for the millions of cuddles I scooped you into, the various ink, chalk, and lipstick stains, and the billions of naps I interrupted just to hear you make that confused chirping sound. My bad. 

He was gorgeous, with incredible green eyes and stupid little tufts of coarse hair growing out of his chin. He had whiskers that were long and crooked and he liked to sit in the bathtub and stare at us until we ran the tap for him to drink from. He could be loud and quiet and I could curl up to sleep next to him and feel safer than anywhere else. He was perfect, so, so perfect.

I miss him everywhere that he is not. I am hit with waves of grief time and again.

The morning he died, it was Easter Sunday, and the bells across Rome rang as I heard the news. They rang as I cried.