she is definitely Snakes

some things i loved about INAMORATA, by megan chance

(which i was so hardcore delighted with that i sat down at a small italian café after an Extremely Trying Day and read until the sun went down, and the café was far more air conditioned than necessary and had the door open and i was wearing short sleeves despite the fact that it is nearly october and i had gotten an iced booze coffee and the point is, for the last hundred or so pages on my ereader, i was CONVULSIVELY SHIVERING, BUT I REFUSED TO LEAVE BECAUSE I WAS SO ENGROSSED. read this book like me: at a tiny adorable italian café drinking coffee and eating fancy cake. do not read this book like me: don’t HURT yourself about it.)

talk to me about this book.

"Okey, Marlowe," I said between my teeth. "You’re a tough guy. Six feet of iron man. One hundred and ninety pounds stripped and with your face washed. Hard muscles and no glass jaw. You can take it. You’ve been sapped down twice, had your throat choked and been beaten half silly on the jaw with a gun barrel. You’ve been shot full of hop and kept under it until you’re as crazy as two waltzing mice. And what does all that amount to? Routine. Now let’s see you do something really tough, like putting your pants on."

I lay down on the bed again.

i have never been so acutely aware as in this book of how much honest to god fun the text pokes at marlowe.

i have never been more delighted.

I like smooth shiny girls, hardboiled and loaded with sin.

Farewell, My Lovely, Raymond Chandler

Nothing holds love together like shared vice or collusive perversion.

Glen Duncan (via opus-nocturne)



(cover reveal happening this Tuesday, Sept. 16th at MTV!)

Men always say that as the defining compliment: the Cool Girl. She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means that I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl.
Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl. For a long time Cool Girl offended me. I used to see these men - friends, coworkers, strangers - giddy over these awful pretender women, and I’d want to sit these men down and calmly say: You are not dating a woman, you are dating a woman who has watched too many movies written by socially awkward men who’d like to believe that this kind of woman exists and might kiss them. I’d want to grab the poor guy by his lapels or messenger bag and say: The bitch doesn’t really love chili dogs that much - no one loves chili dogs that much! And the Cool Girls are even more pathetic: They’re not even pretending to be the woman they want to be, they’re pretending to be the woman a man wants them to be. Oh, and if you’re not a Cool Girl, I beg you not to believe that your man doesn’t want the Cool Girl. It may be a slightly different version - maybe he’s a vegetarian, so Cool Girl loves seitan and is great with dogs; or maybe he’s a hipster artist, so Cool Girl is a tattooed, bespectacled nerd who loves comics. There are variations to the window dressing, but believe me, he wants Cool Girl, who is basically the girl who likes every fucking thing he likes and doesn’t ever complain. (How do you know you’re not Cool Girl? Because he says things like: ‘I like strong women.’ If he says that to you, he will at some point fuck someone else. Because ‘I like strong women’ is code for ‘I hate strong women.’)
I waited patiently - years - for the pendulum to swing the other way, for men to start reading Jane Austen, learn how to knit, pretend to like cosmos, organize scrapbook parties, and make out with each other while we leer. And then we’d say, Yeah, he’s a Cool Guy.
But it never happened. Instead, women across the nation colluded in our degradation! Pretty soon Cool Girl became the standard girl. Men believed she existed - she wasn’t just a dreamgirl one in a million. Every girl was supposed to be this girl, and if you weren’t, then there was something wrong with you.

Wherever I wanted to be touched, he touched; I don’t know how he knew. Whenever I touched him, there was a delay. I would cup emptiness before it became a smooth muscled arm. I would wrap my legs around nothing and only then find hips settled there, taut with ready energy. In this way I shaped him, making him suit my fantasies; in this way he chose to be shaped.

N. K. Jemisin, The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms


Drawing-break: Sophie Hatter, from Diana Wynne Jones’ Howl’s Moving Castle. I love the film, but I love how she talks to the hats in the book!

halfway through and the hundred thousand kingdoms has such graceful economical nontraditional fantasy prose and such good god stuff such awe-some awe-ful god stuff such sexy sexy god stuff

i truly cannot overstate the barely-restrained fearsome outsize sexiness of this god stuff

(it is a good time for me and new super sexy collisions of divine power and makeouts, between this and eona, and with maddi reading kushiel all the while next to me. i will take recs for where i should go from here.)

  1. grainne: what did you do
  2. imriel: i jacked off in the wrong place and pissed off the magic bears
  3. grainne:
  4. grainne:
  5. grainne:
  6. imriel: is that bad