superfetation is an extremely rare phenomena where a woman who is already carrying a baby can get pregnant a second time whilst the first pregnancy is still occurring and the thing about it being “rare” is that for your’s and satoru’s case it is not bc everything he does tests the bounds of what is possible and impossible and due to his high sex drive and his very fertile very strong sperm the likelihood of you experiencing it is on the cusp of being common
Mahmood goes to Eurovision, likes the French entry, has Italy making peace with San Marino and leaves after giving the worst performances of his career
That thing guys do where they approach a girl on the street based on looks is such an ineffective strategy in my experience like its cool to know my outfit is “elegant” but sir I already promise your expectations are wrong the only service I offer is being an awkward meme-loving-fuck you’re literally only signing up for 1am discussions about fanfiction and anime characters and trash jokes
A dude stopped and walked with me last night telling me my outfit reminded him of some fashionista he knew if France and i dont know jack or shit about France or fashion and whatever vibe I was giving off was 100% bullshit because the only thing on my mind was getting on my pjs and watching boku no hero reruns
like whats the right way to communicate “you seem nice but im grappling with the stress of realizing ive somehow set expectation too high and i am in fact 400% more of an awkward loser than you realize and i spent all of middle and high school being super ugly so i really dont know how this ‘lets get coffee’ game works i just wanna watch my japanese cartoons in peace”
I met Chuck Wendig at SWCO this weekend and said the following sentance to him: "I usually consider myself rebel scum, but I'd press the button on the death star for a date with Rae Sloane." Not even my most awkwardly cringworthy interaction with somebody at con. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
There were floods, explosions, ‘quakes, the whole package. It was loud as hell. And then it was quiet. Billions died, trillions if you count the animals and plants wiped out. But, life finds a way, and humans are as tenacious as anything.
When the dust settled, we crawled out of our cracks and bunkers, our hiding holes. But one among us was more tenacious than the rest. They had been around since the dawn of time, some say, their head so stuffed with human history that they could write a library of books and not be even halfway through. Before the bombs, they worked odd jobs, a teacher here, a farmer there, you get the picture. But this new world required a new way, and their way became to travel.
They only had the one resource, and so they traded it freely. In exchange for food and a place to sleep, he taught people how to farm again, how to draw clean water from the earth, how to keep illness at bay. As knowledge spread, and such teaching became common knowledge, or something like it, they turned to stories of the Old World.
They told of the rise of humanity’s greatest empires, and their fall. They told of fables, of myths, of famous battles won and lost. They told of heroes, villains, those with nothing to lose, and those who lost all they held dear. They collected New World stories too, saving those for later. And so they became the Storyteller, in all languages.
Occasionally they told their own story, but it was never the same twice. It was said this was because the Storyteller valued their isolation from the rest of humanity, and so obscured their identity to preserve this. But even storytellers get lonely, and so occasionally you would hear their story if you asked, but only if you were particularly lucky, or they were particularly drunk.
They were in the Americas when the world ended, and in the Americas they stayed, travelling from north to south, east to west, spreading their stories and messages. They taught peace and cooperation amongst all else, and the message stuck. They brought communities together with their tales, and was glad to see humanity work together again.
Their legend grew, as legends grow around all people like them. Soon they found themselves surrounded by others like them, storytellers all. They became a network around the Americas, travelling from town to town to transport news and tales, trading in words and occasionally song. The Storyteller themselves was pleased, but continued travelling, for it was their lot in life to do so these days.
Such was their mark on villages they passed, that once, upon returning to a village they had visited decades prior, they chanced upon a boat left for them by a woman they had visited before. She had left the Storyteller this vessel after hearing their stories of the continents across the seas, in hopes that they would be able to travel there together. The townsfolk were sad to say that the woman had died before the Storyteller had returned, but were happy to see them off anyway.
And so, the Storyteller gathered a small cadre of fellow storytellers, as well as adventurous people of all kinds. They boarded the boat, christened the Mark Twain in honor of an Old World writer, and set sail for the east. The voyage landed them in the eastern lands, where they began their work anew. This time, however, the Storyteller had help in the form of their fellows, and the fact that they could begin with stories of the Old World right off. The travelling took longer this time, as the land mass was larger, and centuries more passed before their work was complete. The Storyteller was pleased in their work, and returned to the Americas once more to retire for a time, for they had been walking for centuries without rest, and wished to rest their feet.
Humanity still reveres their storytellers, from the humble mothers tucking in their children, to the grand bards performing on stages for all to hear. You know the rest from your books, young one.
But, I have one final story to tell, young one. You have heard the theories that the Storyteller was not a single person, as if they were, we would see others as tenacious as they. And it is true, we have not seen them or their kin in a long while. And I’d like to tell you why. You see, young one, we are the Storyteller.
Now, that isn’t to say that there wasn’t a Storyteller, far from it. There have been many to take that mantle upon themselves. If the deepest records are to be believed, the first was an Old World history professor, a single soul named Professor Whitely. They believed in the preservation of knowledge, and did exactly as I said: traveled the Americas to bring knowledge to what remained.
But they were old when the bombs fell, and only grew older since. So, they passed on their job to another, who passed it to another, and so on. The successive Storytellers continued the tradition, taking an apprentice to continue telling stories and leading their budding network of travelers. In fact, some records suggest that the Storyteller who inspired the builder of the Mark Twain was a different Storyteller from the one who eventually piloted it to the coast of Africa!
I tell you this, because I want you to know. I, too, grow old. My time to tell stories is drawing to a close. Every Storyteller names a successor, and I name you mine. Under one condition. You must never forget, that while you hold the title of Storyteller, you are not the only one. You may not even be the best! You must let humanity tell its own story. That’s why we secluded ourselves when the job was finished, why the legend of the Storyteller has passed into, well, legend. We tell humanity’s story, not our own, and you must never forget this.
Ah, I grow tired, young one. Go, return to your friends. Return tomorrow, eh? I may just have another story to tell you.
Ik I haven't shut up about woobins stomach for like 3 weeks or sm but for context we'd seen his stomach TWICE in all of cravity history before this era where it's now every other outfit ..........
