Finally watched The Drama (2026) on @itsfortheplants discord server snd honestly after having had the chance to see it I do NOT understand people saying it "romanticizes mass shootings" at all
I think it does a beautiful job of emphasizing how just awful they are by character interactions alone. They dont need to say "school shootings are bad" to deliver a stance, by seeing how characters react to the revelation and mere concept it SHOWS how serious it is- character reactions to something are like one of the five major ways of indirect characterization and story telling? 😭
I do some what see where people are coming from bcs they do like kinda make Emma out to be a victim but we literally see the rehabilitation she experiences through making friends and no longer feeling isolated? It's not saying school shootings aren't a big deal the message is to not judge people alone on a surface level basis and to understand the complexities of everyone - how come her 15 year old intentions are stronger than her actual actions?? Her becoming an activist AGAINST gun violence and ultimately becoming a better person and growing away from those awful impulses? What makes Rachel better than Emma Rachel ACTUALLY did it. It's just such a nuanced and interesting movie and to dumb all of its deeper intentions and storytelling vices into the romanticization of a tragedy is so ignorant imo.
You don’t understand how much I crave soft intimacy. Laying my head on your shoulder or playing with your hair absentmindedly. The gentle kind of love.
Because the fortune teller lady said Ford would destroy the world if he didn’t, of course. Definitely not because he really wanted to see his brother and it seemed like just maybe Ford wanted to see him too.
A day after that phone call he got over himself enough to call Ford back and, before he could change his mind, tell him that he’d be there in a few days. Then he headed for Gravity Falls, Oregon, only stopping for gas and whatever food he could shoplift or dig out of the dumpsters (don’t look at him like that-people threw away perfectly good stuff all the time, and it wasn’t like he had any personal dignity left to worry about, he lived in his car and had the beginnings of a mullet, for cripes’ sake).
Eventually the red car, still in as good of working condition as he was capable of keeping it, meandered into the sleepy little town at around sunset, and after a bit of searching he was pulling up in front of a large, wooden cabin.
Stan’s heart leaped into his mouth and his palms began to sweat even more than usual when he saw that Ford was sitting on the front porch waiting for him (even from this far away, and after five years, he could still recognize him anywhere).
Quickly he turned off the ignition, not wanting to waste gas...but he didn’t get out yet. He just sat there for a second and stared at his brother.
Ford stared back.
Stan stared at Ford.
Ford stared back.
Stan squeezed the steering wheel, trying to work up the nerve to get out and go see his brother.
Ford, probably wondering what the holdup was, stood up and started down the steps.
Stan forced himself to let go of the steering wheel and unbuckle his seat belt, then slowly open the car door and get out.
“You look good,” he said, at last.
It was true; Ford was still skinny, but it also looked like he’d actually started getting more sunshine and fresh air out here.
Ford was staring at him intently, eyes troubled behind their glasses and mouth open in a small gasp.
“...What? You want a kiss on the cheek or something?” Stan demanded uncomfortably.
“What happened?” Ford asked, voice sounding troubled too.
It was then Stan remembered that oh, yes, he had a huge bruise all over the left side of his face that had also included a bit of a black eye and a split lip. He gave an uncertain laugh.
“Oh, that? Just a little incident from a few days ago. This gal tried ta steal my car, I stopped her, she objected ta some of the names I called her.”
And, he remembered, Marilyn had retaliated during the ensuing fight by running some off on him that he’d actually written down for future reference.
He shrugged, smiling a little crookedly. And painfully, since when he thought about it the bruise did hurt.
“I’m just lucky she missed with the hand that had a broken bottle in it.”
For some weird reason Ford did not seem appeased. “I have some ice in the house, come on.”
“It’s just a bruise,” he protested.
“I said come on.” And Ford turned back towards the house.
Stan gave a small, resigned sigh, and followed him after grabbing his duffel bag.
********
The house was...not bad. Had a bit of science clutter strewn here and there, but it was cozy enough to look at.
“You live here alone?” Stan asked as he followed Ford to the kitchen.
“Yes.” Ford reached into the freezer and produced an ice pack, turning and holding it out to Stan. His eyebrows scrunched together at the sight of the duffel. “Is that all you’re bringing in?”
“It’s all I got- need.” Stan smashed the ice pack onto his face, refusing to wince at the pain that such a counterproductive action created.
Of course, Ford wasn’t fooled. He looked him up and down, and his expression became even more troubled.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer!” Stan snapped.
He was beginning to think this had been a mistake. Ford was living here all by himself; from what he’d seen of the place, it didn’t look like he had people coming by on a regular basis, if at all. He was just fine, he didn’t-
“Are you hungry?”
Stan blinked. And as if planned by some sinister being, his treacherous stomach grumbled.
“I made soup,” Ford said, indicating the stockpot on the stove. “It’s got bacon bits in it, I...remembered you like those.”
After a second, Stan shrugged, sitting down in one of the chairs around the table. “Sure, I can eat. Thanks.”
Dinner was awkwardly silent for the most part at first. Stan tried not to show how incredibly hungry he was, or how amazing it was to be having a full hot meal for the first time in a while, instead asking at last about how things were going for Ford, trying to probe some more.
Ford (hesitant at first, but soon with blatant eagerness) produced a big maroon journal that he’d apparently made himself, cataloging all his research and showing that Gravity Falls was pretty much his dream weird place.
If they hadn’t run into the Jersey Devil when they were kids, and if he didn’t know that in addition to self-care, Ford also sucked at lying, Stan probably wouldn’t have believed him when he talked about things like gnomes living in the forest and occasionally raiding his kitchen, or a giant tree man who ate his car (privately he hoped that thing didn’t come after the Stanley-Mobile; it was one of the only possessions he had that was unquestionably his, and he would fight to the death to keep it if he had to).
The only person in this whole town (or the world, really) he seemed to have any kind of relationship with was Dan Corduroy, who’d helped him build this house and was one of the only neighbors he knew by name. Other than that, he stayed in his own little bubble of experiments and weirdness and the only danger he seemed to be in was from his own social crippledness.
When both their bowls were empty, Stan snatched them up and took them to the sink to wash them.
“You don’t have to do that,” Ford objected.
“You cooked. It’s only fair.” Besides, it also gave Stan a chance to wash his hands so at least part of him was clean.
When they were washed out, Stan very carefully set the bowls and spoons in the drying rack. Then he turned around to face Ford, feeling the tension building up between them again.
“...Do you need anything else?” Ford asked.
“A washing machine?” The stiff politeness between them was making it all Stan could do not to scream.
“Oh-of course. This way.” Ford got up and led the way to the laundry room.
After he’d put his clothes in the wash Ford showed him the spare guest room and bathroom, and then told him to just come find him if he needed anything, before disappearing into the recesses of the house.
Stan decided to take a shower, and forcibly resisted the urge to use up all the hot water. Then he went to bed (in clean underwear and an undershirt!)...and stared vacantly at the ceiling for about twenty minutes before going out to sit on the front porch and wonder what he thought he was doing here.
Sooner or later something between them had to give, and they would have to talk about all the things they were conspicuously trying to avoid talking about, or (more likely) straight-out fight about them. Otherwise, it was doubtful there was gonna be any ‘mending of bonds’ between them. Stan almost thought he’d prefer going back to jail and telling some of the guys he’d met there that their mothers sucked eggs.
I said I was sorry, didn’t I? That’s probably good enough.
No it’s not, knucklehead, and you know it. Besides, you gotta make sure that he doesn’t ‘choose the wrong allies,’ whatever that means.
How? Corduroy sounds like he’s just fine, I doubt he’s who that lady was talking about.
Well, maybe you just need to wait and see if someone shows up who seems like trouble.
Someone already did: me.
His inner self rolled his eyes at him. You know what I mean. Just stay for as long as you can without being a leech. Give it time-you haven’t even been here a full day yet.
Stan sighed, and stared gloomily out at the trees, trying to turn off his thoughts for a little bit and enjoy the sounds of the wind and crickets so maybe he’d get tired enough to sleep.
Sometimes I really worry that my favorite characters are always the "seems like an ass hole (and truthfully is), but ends up being a good person with a heart of gold" types.
The naive and hopeful part of me tries to assure me that its just because I tend to see the best in others, and beilve that they are capable of change.
The realistic side of me whispers reminders that this weakness is just going to set me up for failure someday, and drag me down dark roads that I'm too stupid to mistrust.
