#BattleforAzeroth

You know what would be really really twisted? If, since we're running out of candidates for warchief and nobody wants to see Baine Bloodhoof in charge, after the crazy banshee's been dealt with, possibly by Saurfang and Zappy Boi or any of the people whose families she's murdered, something terrible happened to Anduin "Justin Bieber" Wrynn and he woke up Undead ... and HE inherited the Horde as suddenly one of ours. He's an excellent king, if born so, unlike most of our warlords, who are homicidal maniacs terrible at diplomacy. If that crazy bitch Jaina got full control of the Alliance... Now THAT would mean another two years of massive clashing. 

It's gotten cold the couple past days; in fact I've been unusually chilly going out, battling sniffles and outdoorsy melancholy - weather feels transient, not yet winter white, no longer autumn orange, and heavy and dull. I'm perfectly fine indoors, doodling with my stamps, carving erasers to make more, looking to construct my own paper-making sieve from stuff I have laying around the house. Gran's in the hospital with pneumonia, I hope she's well soon; am on my way to visit her in a bit, visiting hours are at 15:00. I was looking for something to binge watch, settled on Boston Legal. I tried with Ray Donovan first, but that show's a downer. All the sex is angry and everyone feels quite doomed. Ironically I really liked Schreiber's portrayal of Marty Baron in Spotlight, film also touching on the subject of priests abusing kids. Boston Legal, on the other hand, touches upon some serious matters in a pleasantly clownish way. All the sex in that show is comical.

Am saving all my spare change for a promised trip to Ikea one of these weekends, otherwise I'd be on my way to the arts&crafts shop right now, to check if they really got a whole palette of new pigments from Schmincke. I am still riding the high of accumulating the miniature watercolors, priced around 6 bucks per pop, which is about as much as I manage to accumulate in three or four days. There's just something in my life about hiding spare change from G, then running across town to purchase a thimble of beauty. I have 78 of them so far. I think about 100 more to go. Though I only really have room for maybe fifteen in the box. I don't want all of them. You don't really need more than three or four yellows, greys or oranges. If the pigment retains its luminosity, you can only have one orange and then mix it with yellows, reds, browns or golds to make any color you want. Course Schmincke made an effort to argue that by adding greens, blues, reds or browns to grey to make all kinds of pretty. I have three greys so far. I think I'm fine.

Webby. And wet.

Forest rim

Dandelions: nutty by nature :P

Gloomy much?

Nicotine makes addicts

I heard sth fairly interesting the other day, in some debate regarding vapes. Someone was talking about how addictive nicotine is, though it's the smoke which harms the body, so vaping is a less nasty way to be down for ciggies, if you've gotsta be. That said ... a lady stated that if you're too young when you start - if you're exposed to the addiction to nicotine too early, several parts of your brain will start to act like addict's and you'll be prone to other urges for substance later on.

Let's consider this for a moment. a) I've been exposed to cigarettes since ... ah, about 10 years before I was even conceived and then consistently until I was 30, by consistently meaning I was day in and day out surrounded to three or four or even more people who smoked a pack a day each. b) I am constantly obsessively in need of various escapisms. Buttons, books, chocolate, watercolors lately - I think about those all the time. I also yearn alcohol all the time and psychotropic medication that would deal with my overly active imagination and overly emotional responses to events. I resist them, but I yearn them all the time.

Hmmm .. could at all those two be connected, I wonder?

"You may live a thousand lifetimes, each different at the start, you will still always fail those who love you the most, always suffer long after they're all gone and in the end, none of them will matter the slightest bit. "

First tiny panic attack of 2018. Can’t really remember the last time I had one, in 2016 maybe, when I couldn’t find G on a simple trail in the mountains, because he kept walking too fast and was always one turn away? … I saw this one coming a mile away. Good thing, too, because I almost peed myself, in public. The General was on stand-by the entire time, he could tell when my palms began to sweat, when I began to shake and couldn’t finish my sentences. He didn’t try to calm me down dismissively, didn’t try to stop me when I said I need to leave the room, I’m choking. Didn’t try to rush me up the stairs when I said I needed to sit, because contents of my bladder threatened to evacuate. Those fucking stairs, man, they felt like they’re leading up to a Chinese mountain monastery, they wouldn’t end! And I live on the first floor! … Took a tiny nap on the kitchen floor while he made us some food. World felt so large, I felt so small. It was bound to happen. With a little luck all that mess is over now. I mean, I know it’s not. But I’ve exhausted myself on that project, my brain is locking down to keep me creatively sane. G believes I should take on another menial job, something behind a machine, a complete no-brainer. I agree. Just leave me alone, give me something to do and forget about me for the next couple of months … 

LoL, I TL;DRed my own stoream today, and dreamed I just wiki-ed the rest of the story to see what happens in the end.

       Fucking dreams.

      (In the dream,) I used a shuttle taxi service to get from the station to the port. A kid driving it was using the time between clients to drone-film neighborhoods to try and catch the discrepancies between poor station area and kinda posh seaside area, though you could really only tell a little by the space between houses and the cars. He had a couple of regulars, some of which he also had to drive up to collect, so more or less eight or so people, mostly old ladies, drove with him every morning. While we were still alone we talked about mockumentaries like Making a Murderer and American Vandal, later he tried to observe the other passengers. This was supposed to happen every morning for eight days. by day five I was so bored, I went to Wiki to write the review the kid's project and simultaneously read the summary, to check what happens in the penultimate episode and what is the big finale. (Very little.)

       Fucking dreams. 

Do you wanna hear sth really shitty? My talent for painting refuses to wake up. I can't open it. I can feel it RIGHT THERE, I am subconsciously surrounding myself with literally hundreds of drawing pencils and watercolors, paper and boards and canvases - they are stacked in a crescent pile wall all around me. Every day I take something and decide to make some X-mas presents or random gifts or just greeting cards or something. I succumb to flipping through endless pages of Pinterest in search of inspiration. Having given up on any original concepts, I try to plagiarize something cute and innocuous, something everybody likes to make greeting cards for family. And I can't. I can't even copy what I see right in front of me. I used to be able to forge Van Gogh in my sleep, do realistic portraits from memory. I can't forge a fingerpainting kitten. It won't unlock. Most of my creative energy was going into a delightful project and that's been shot down, so ... the rest refuses to come out and play. 

Took me over a year to start taking portraits again after that bad client experience with photographs. Like part of my brain died during a stroke. It's the damndest thing, a very specific creative depression.

... Of course, it could just be my novel hogging all the attention to itself. It's been known to happen. But I doubt I'm that lucky. 

It occurred to me today why I don't really want the General in my dreams. I dream about him all the time, even if he looks like other things/people, it's the same man. And my dreams are fairly indulgent, they often make an effort to arouse, inspire or entertain me. However, when he's there, same as he does when I'm awake, he holds me back, massively. Today was a perfect example. I watched the Bohemian Rhapsody, so I dreamt of Rami Malek. We were driving somewhere uphill, not sure where we were going, but I had a ginger kitten with me, playing with its pink paws. He drove fairly badly, cutting the road in blind turns, speeding, and I found myself thinking in General's voice: because you find this guy attractive, you forgive him for shit you'd never forgive other people. Later, when we arrived at my parent's house there was another kitten there, sickly and grey. I thought, since I already have two at home and am adding ginger to my collection, I am almost certain we can cram the sick little one as well. If I bore of them later when they've grown up, I can always bring them back to the vineyard. Rami Malek, in General's voice, reasoned that if they grow up in the apartment, they will have no sense of living outdoors and something will eat them or run them over. 

They are fucking dreams, man. I just want to have a lot of kittens and fuck Rami Malek, is that so much to ask?!

Glitter, because glitter

Saurfang and Anduin fuck fiction - based on the Lost Honor cinematic that just dropped ..

... what if Saurfang paused after hitting that wall only a moment longer?

The old orc smashed into the dungeon wall behind the kingling, screaming: I WANT MY HORDE BACK!...

    Though he was monstrous to behold, what he was saying, whom he was saying it to, that was not violent, it was not a threat. Anduin never blinked, never cowered – something perhaps a more reasonable man would. He shook all over, but that was stress, not fear. From the moment they clashed in the field before Lordaeron, ravaging tracks of war machines leading to it, toxic horror spilling from it, Anduin understood the old warrior exact. There were centuries of trials between them, but it all came down to one blow. The orc had a model opportunity to take the boy’s head clean off. He refused it.

    Not out of pity; he’s killed children before. Not out of honour or respect, that has no place in the battlefield. There was another reason. Tell me. Do you see future in me? Anduin wanted to ask. Do you see what I cannot see of hopefulness?

   “I want the war to stop,” said the youth stubbornly. He seemed but lost in the fanciful armour, only the eyes blazed bright.

     “Then stop it.” If you think wars are stopped so easily – stop it, then. Boy king.

     The smell of the caged animal enveloping him, he thought how absurd this was. This old murderer of some, this old hero of some, this old orc whose name had years to grow from fearsome to honorbound, demon-blood drinker, enemy king sparer. He was known to everybody on both sides – here and now he was probably the only person Anduin had leave to be completely open to. Their situation - two sides of the came filthy coin, their frustrations was the same. It was the strangest feeling, equally despairing and optimistic, equally hating the situation he was in and not wanting to leave the room.

     The young king looked down. Most of what he saw was the orc, blocking everything out of view, but the heft of his armour wouldn’t let him bow lower. “I want to be like you,” he muttered. “You won your wars.”

       “I gave up in the end, remember?”

        “Not likely.”

        Anduin put a hand on the mass of leather armour’s base on the orc’s stomach. The orc frowned and it took a little while to understand that this bizarre connection they had drove the kid to start going a little crazy. When the orc moved the kid’s hand away, Anduin placed the other. He stared and breathed heavily into the beastly prisoner.

      “First war I won, your majesty, was a puppet theatre that had me slaughter unarmed women and their young where they stood. Last king I trained made ruin of us all.”

     “You trained Garrosh for war. War was everything he knew. What chance do I have? Doesn’t anyone have anything else to teach in this end of all things good?”

      “You think honour is what we cling onto after all good we wasted?”

     When Anduin looked defiantly up at the orc’s face, their angry stares lasted a moment too long. The kings hands were still on the prisoner’s stomach. The old orc pushed away.

      “I am not fucking you, prince.”

       “King.”

       "Prince, king, god, I don’t care. I will fight against her, but I serve the Horde. Never forget that. Though I want the same as you at this stage. If you want my help, you have it.”

        “There are no more soldiers I have left to put in coffins. On your side, well … the dead refuse to stay in coffins. It’s why I come down to the lowest levels of my house today.”

         “Right. Great. Goodbye.”

      The orc withdrew to sit back next to the wall where he slumped before the boy interrupted his miserable privacy.

     Anduin hesitated, listening to the sewer water drip, to the distant guard’s movement, to scape of metal clasps on the prisoner’s costume against the barren stone of walls and floor; he ultimately crossed the cell and parked between the old orc’s feet. He was only a little higher than the sitting behemoth at this point.

      “Do you know how long it’s been since I hadn’t worn this armour?” the boy asked. “Do you have any idea how heavy it is?”

        “I wore mine since I could walk. Orcs are expected to make their first kill as soon as they abandon the mother’s tit. This is still not going to happen, p … king.”

       Anduin took the shoulders off first, then the chest plate and the belt. He allowed them to drop to the floor loudly. He pulled off his tabard and then the shirt to expose a pale, sweating body, rubbed red at several parts where seams edged into it. Saurfang looked, but all he could see was a miniature human, absolutely nothing attractive about that body at all. Like someone gave him a large smooth fish to play with, or a training doll.

Except for the eyes. That part he secretly yielded to, at least beneath his waistline. The eyes were magical. They never left him and it was all he could follow in the dark.

       The old orc reached for the leg armour, unclasping it, and Anduin pushed down his breeches. A teenager’s cock stood up from him, slightly darker in the nest of fair shock of curls, purple tip, though Saurfang suspected that’s a nervous erection rather than an actually erotic one.

      “Such a pathetic, useless little body,” the old orc said. If he put his massive green hand on it, on any part of it, all of it felt like a pale driftwood snapping twig.

       Anduin didn’t take the bait to insult. He stood and then reached for the clasp on the orc’s chest, his hand now ungloved and even smaller. The warrior moved it away again. "You should be reasonable."
      "I don't want to be reasonable. I want to be consumed and then I want to be released. I'm not asking for something that nobody's ever asked for before."
       “When someone walks in and sees their king ridden by an old orc, what little confidence your people have in your sanity will be lost, prince.”

       “King …” hissed Anduin, tensed back his head and pulled the orc’s hand onto his groin.

        The orc felt hot moist tool in his palm, a toy it seemed, a small bird. But no matter how little his hand moved, the whitish body tensed further, breathed harder, ribs and muscles showing, patches of the body getting moister and pink. A drop of condensation left the cell ceiling, glimmered, landed on the boy’s shoulder, dripped down over his clavicle, chest and hip, hardening one of the nipples with chill along its way. The orc removed his garb and pulled the young boy into his lap, rubbing his own enormous cock with the boy’s whole body. By comparison the two were a jest. The orc’s was like an old tree root, polished and rock hard, wrapped in hard green leather, dark brownish plum protruding the sheathe. A very finger on his hand was bigger than Anduin’s dick and even pushing that into the boy would be unthinkable.

        “You’ve not done this before, have you?” muttered the orc when the boy tried to kiss him and it just didn’t work. The closest Anduin came was biting one of the fangs.

      “Myself alone,” said the kid. “But I know soldiers do it all the time to relieve one another.”

       “How many fingers did you manage inside?”

         “I …. one, Varok.”

          “One.”

         The old orc wanted the boy to understand what he was asking for. He licked his middle digit and inserted it into the kid’s rosepetal entrance. He held the boy firmly in his other arm, forceful and absolute. Shock, nay horrified the boy pushed away, mouth gasping, eyes wide as if in panic. His cock hardened visibly – now a proper bedroom phase – and a shout escaped him. At the end of the hall the only two guards Anduin ordered to remain in the dungeon during his politically unwise visit, checked on their master in alarm, but saw that it was a noise of two people fucking, not fighting. They exchanged hesitant looks and returned to the position, facing outwards, only slightly less nervous now than they were a minute ago.

     “No, stop, Stop. Please,” cried the boy. The old orc pulled out and looked at him sideways, the I-told-you-so angle.

          “Hurts?”

          “It … hurts a lot.”

       “Not a human female who’s passed five young could easily accommodate an orc, little king. Not something your tutors will take time to explain, and not all soldier’s taverns offer such education. But trust me. What you think you want I am not giving you. You would never ride a horse again.”

        Anduin wiped his mouth, dripping with shocked saliva. He pushed four of his own fingers into the orc’s mouth, as if to try and cut himself on the saw of the sharp teeth. “Give me that finger again, then. Only slower.”

         “This one?”

          “I want this, from you.”  

           “Spit.”

It didn’t last even a minute, the way the old orc did it. He made the ‘mistake’ of lifting the boy, who clung onto the massive orc’s body for dear life, only just enough to take the lot of his erection and suck on it, only momentarily, sacs included, fangs scratching the inside of the hot thigh. This caused Anduin to lose the grip on the unfamiliar, impossibly overwhelming sensation and lose the rest of himself with it, wail out, his cock twitching, squirting the content tension and the whole body as if letting air out of the balloon slowly subsided, laying soon entirely wasted in the orc’s lap.

       The orc reached for the boy’s hair in what he intended as a fatherly gesture, but soon found himself burying the fingers and his face into the soaked tresses. Momentarily he became violent, only a little, desire to finish what the kid started surging through him. He could fuck him proper, nobody would stop him. He breathed the primitive conqueror’s urge away.         

        “Feel better?”

       Anduin detached from the embrace, rolling a sore shoulder. All of the bones in his body will always ache for what was done to him by Saurfang’s best student, however today was a good day.

       “It’s impossible to describe how I feel,” he stated quietly. “Like I’m drowning. Like I’m going to explode. Like I want to surrender, like I will do everything it takes to win. Like I’m brutal. Like I’m merciful. Like I’m weak. Like I’m as strong as a human can get. Like I’m alone, like I have an army. Like I’m a failure before I even begin, like I’m a giant who’s going to change the world. I think I want to die to stop having to decide such impossibly complicated matters. But if I knew who better to replace me, I’d have crowned them already.”

         He stood up and began to dress.

     “You inherited a storm, young king,” said Saurfang. He pulled a clothing over his ithyphallic condition, which also gradually subsided under the weight of their reality.

        “Doesn’t everybody?”

     “Most. And a lot of leaders I knew thought they were doing the right thing until it tumbled, their kingdoms built on pillars of salt. Distracted by petty old hatreds, exhausted by unforeseeable new doom that always seems to find us. They went crazy. Or they died far too soon.”

        Anduin, half clad, holding the rest in his hand, came back to the orc and buried his face in the old beasts’ neck. “Doesn’t everybody?” he echoed, barely audibly. He carried most of his armour in his hands on the way back. He left the cell door open. 

Stench and drugs

I literally stink. Physically. Literally. This is surprising, since I don’t eat a lot of meat and it takes quite a bit for my skin to have any kind of odour, I don’t use any chemical products on it but clean water, but I’ve noticed this a few years back, when I went to the dentist (which I dread), that I came back reeking. Last year, when I had surgery, I had to shower four times before, and still I stank. I had a business meeting today and right now, three hours later, I can smell myself through otherwise fresh clothes.

Business meetings are the one part of my line of work I am least equipped to live through and the least enjoyable part of any work. On the plus side I meet a lot of new people and listen to their stories and visions, which is nice. But on the minus, when clients get it in their head that they would have done things differently and refuse to listen to what I have to say about the product I’ve since completed, in other words when it’s time to part with money, that’s when meetings get … ripe a bit.

The General came to this one with me. This was suggested by a friend, because we correctly estimated more people will sit on the other side of the table and at some point, also assumed correctly, all of them will talk rather loudly at me at the same time. And it’s a heavy dynamic of the opposite team, too – there’s an aggressive, ambitious person, a calm, agreeable, person, a lovely, perky person and someone who really doesn’t want to be there. My job is to defend the creative decisions I’ve made. Which nobody cares about, because usually some famous person is asked to spearhead a project and, coming in last, they have brand new ideas about how something should be done and who’d have done it better. At which point I give up, pull the plug and walk out, unpaid, bridge burning.

That is not to say the General is not superb when it comes to negotiations – that man would turn Middle East Conflict into a Starbuck’s at holiday season if he was given fifteen minutes. I tend to get up and walk out as soon as insults or threats start to come, he simply deescalates the tension, talks down everyone to a calm and civil debate and always finds a middle ground. People want his phone number after we’re done. At that time I’m usually sitting in the car like a small barky pet, migraine pending.

As my famous button addiction goes, I have now channeled it towards a slightly costlier, but far more sensible obsession: Schmincke watercolors. My old set of Winsor&Newton is fairly worn down, I’ve since also added some thicker tempera paints to fill the empty pods, but of course I’ve never met a more quality product than Schmincke and lately, unlike buttons, which are a 2,30.- bucks a pack, I spend twice as much on a single miniscule pod of their pigment. It’s precious to me. When I do something right, I thus earn the right to waste money on something as tiny and wonderful. It makes me feel accomplished. Stupid, I know, but small stuff, you know? Gems. I’ve collected all of my previous travel boxes bits as well and put everything I have in an improvised case, with a little help of two-side tape. As you can see, I still have some room to cram in a few extra pieces. They really are quite beautiful. As addictions go, I should think it’s one of my better ones. I didn’t even know there’s such a thing as Prussian green. 

Ah, hair

Aye, my hair has gone from stages
Army dyke with leukemia
to
dandelion struck by lightning
to
Simple Jack in straw wig :D

Grom

One of the characters in Goose is based on the amalgam of Warcraft characters, namely a kid of the disgraced warchief Garrosh Hellscream and at the time my main playable hero, Kestrel, an elf huntress advance scout. In Goose these two meet offscreen and make a whelp, who's born at the end of the book, more or less around the time his father is defeated by the good guys. Now, being written during Draenor campaign, it made sense to have a baby Grom and his mother go into hiding, but that was two expansions ago and since his father, Garrosh, has changed the tide of time, succeeding in saving his own father's life - Grommash' - and in BfA, which we are playing now, Grommash dies an old man, unspoiled by demon blood. (Luckily he dies before you have to tell him his son was killed. Long story.)

In Battle For Azeroth expansion one of the options when creating a new character is so-called 'Allied races' - some fancy dark elves, some fancy wild cows and the Mag'har orcs - the Hellscream boys' original clan, before they went crazy and killed everybody, starting with the dreanei. Don't remember how, but I completed the requirements for the fancy ghostly elves in the previous expansion already and the one for the cows was super easy, basically just a long chain. Now, the one for the Mag'har ... that one was a bitch. For the past three months I've been gaining reputation with one of the new factions and completing campaigns, so that finally I was able to approach the emissary and start gaining on the brown - original brown - orcs. You have to travel back in time to find a fragment Garrosh used to jump realities, and the first foe you face is a shadow, an echo of the crazed warlock who originally tried to poison his father with fel and all of his clan, making them green. This was the ultimate antagonist in one of the previous expansions, since Garrosh prevented his plan. It was the first of three trials and no way was I able to win it. Most videos regarding it feature prot paladins, who have the ability to heal themselves - I'm playing a havoc demon hunter. Great DPS, zero haling options but borrowed healthstones and pots. I had to threaten the teenager in the house he'll be doing dishes for a month if he doesn't get me through these trials. With a little bit of shuffling hot keys, he managed to defeat first the evil warlock, then the echo of a female who was an unofficial in-game female of Garrosh' and ultimately the echo of Garrosh himself. Depressing as it was to see and hear him again, kill him again, I then got the invite to travel to the alternative Dreanor to find and engage Mag'har orcs into our war plans. That's where you meet an old Grommash, but poor Draenei are now wicked and they kill what they can. You escape with what remains of the army, bringing them to Orgri.

And then you can make your new character in the form of a Mag'har orc. Indulging in alternative realities a little, I've imagined the whelp 'Grom' now a teenager, half orc half elf, trained in both fury combat and literature, infiltrating the Horde to serve as a recon scout (as Kestrel used to, before Horde got completely messed up, the shit which got Garrosh accused of war crimes now regular and worse.) Supposedly there's a civil war coming up in which you have to choose a side and I already know I'm not siding with the psycho bitch that's in charge momentarily. 

Here's someone else's drawing of Grommash. Still brown, thanks to his boi. The kind of an orc one would want their kid to grow up into, minus the homicidal tendencies and genocidal timetables. 

And my grom :D

"Balance, not bargains."

What to watch, what to watch..

Managed to get myself so upset yesterday it nigh rolled my head off. I wish it was a deep and dramatic metaphor, but I got struck with a migraine so severe - and I think this is like the second or third time ever I got a migraine - painkiller after painkiller had zero effect, I threw up and could barely stand. Then finally I took the hardest-core painkiller and after less than ten seconds somehow I began to feel drowsy and fluffy and I just curled up into a ball and fell asleep. The General did his best to fetch me pills, water, buckets, blankets and a piece of bread ... you'd be amazed how long it takes one to chew a piece of bread when their brain feels like a stone brick and the world is spinning ... Once the painkiller #4 finally took and I woke up, one of my leg, calf muscles was wound and would not unwind. It's still strung, I still can't use that leg much. I'm telling you. I am able to go into such a fit I nigh maim myself. Now ask me what upset me. ...I cannot for the life of me remember. Looking back now it was probably something completely and utterly stupid. 

All Saint's is coming up, a slightly troubled time for me, (understatement of the season) because the only other phobia I nurture besides orange food is my ungodly fear of running out of time. I' not saying I necessarily fear death or that I absolutely 1000% don't believe that some souls find peace within it, even though I've been in surgery and know for a fact there's nothing there. You're just no more. If anything, others remember you, for better or worse.

Well, the horror of being no more is a little too much for my overly active, selfish brain, and I start to go nuts a little in this season - nature dying, candles being lit on vast patches of graveyards, the day starting to get really short, starting to get cold, a year starting to seem wasted... It's like a nice, seasonal depression, for no other reason than I'm a spoiled, sensitive soul with few actual problems.

The very thought of the General going out across the street to get a bagel freaks me out completely. We've talked about me getting a professional help and I proposed how that would go: money we don't have, to talk about a) my mother didn't hug me enough, b) people who owe me money for projects that have since gone obsolete, c) my overly active imagination, and d) my tendency to go psychotic over the smallest issues. Herein lies the tricky bit. I go psychotic over smallest issues - I really very rarely go hysterical over scary, real, big stuff. I mean, I do react, my hands start to bleed from being scratched over about a month's period of time, but that's a calm, projected reaction. I was fairly brave and calm almost all the way up to the surgery last year, ten for about a month I was a little traumatized, but that just meant giving my body a chance to get over it on its own pace. Absolutely normal stuff. The General not returning my call for twenty minutes because he's taking a shower and I start to think he's fallen and cracked his skull, which drives me into near murder-suicide with my dog in the river, that happens once a week. Once in three or five months during spring and summer, but once a week around All Saints.

Now. Here's my problem. What to watch these days, when it's raining and the evenings are long and I'm not coherent enough to play Warcraft? I really, really like dark movies and shows and sure as fuck that shit doesn't help. Lars Von Trier put out a new movie - about a serial killer? Perfect! A haunting of Hill House TV series is not too bad? Sign me up. Castlevania season 2? Loved the first. Channel Zero? Sounds great! Apostle? Where people get ground alive and their mush force-fed to a geriatric old godess. 

So I'm not allowed to watch good scary shit. Hardly allowed to re-watch stuff I know and love that's scary. What I am supposed to watch is romantic comedies and happy stuff, like people successfully climbing mountains or raising puppies. Not comedy-drama or dark comedy, satire, etc ...  - comedy. Now please, if you will, show me what good stuff has recently come out in the genre of intelligent comedy?