i pull up at the gas station. the bass is thumping in my car. people stare. they think i’m listening to something hardcore. i open my door.
it’s the phantom of the opera soundtrack
you, about italian summer: aesthetic, beautiful people walking at dusk holding hands on the beach, reading a book by the shades of a tree, falling in love with the first italian person you meet, orange palette colours
me, an intellectual: sweating from every pore, too much heat, tree shades won’t save your weak soul, sunscreen cream PROTECTION 100, bugs, mosquitoes, MOSQUITOES EVERYWHERE, you look like you’re ill of chickenpox for all the mosquito bites, Divieto di Balneazione™, “COCCO BELLO COCCO”, people completely drunk and wasted on August 15th, when even the tiniest bit of wind rises people cheer and sing hallelujah all together
you: aw, I’m so jealous, I wish I could spend the summer in italy
me, emerging from my darkened living room at 2pm on a july afternoon like some kind of swamp demon, my hair a mess and my skin nearly bioluminescent from the mosquito repellent I just bathed in: you have no idea what you’re talking about
italian summer aesthetic: tv newscasters warning you about The Exodus. beware, they say. but you cry. you know you can’t escape it.
More aesthetic: StudioAperto saying is the hottest summer of the last 800 years( *war flashbacks from 2003). Towns looking like ghost cities in the Old Wild West from 12 to 5. Radio is still playing Sotto I Raggi del Sole by Brusco. Kids playing football on the beach IO VE LO BUCO QUESTO PALLONE MI INSABBIATE L’ ASCIUGAMANO
sun dried corn fields and scalding asphalt from the summer of 2003 are my default post-apocalyptic aesthetic
That guy on the beach who sells bracelets and summer equipment that you never buy but you’ve befriended him anyway
*sees new character on a show that I watch and the actor/actress playing said character looks vaguely familiar*
*has to immediately press ‘pause’ to google who it is and where I know them from before I can watch the rest of the show in peace because otherwise my mind will keep nagging me about it for the whole 45 minutes instead of paying attention to the plot*
Jane Austen: The slowburn writer to end all slowburn writers. Has a mild case of purple prose syndrome. Sets you up to think she’s using a really lame trope or cliche, but then pulls the old BITCH U THOUGHT. Gets in fights with commenters who completely miss the point of her work.
William Shakespeare: Where dick jokes meet feels. Recycles old plots that have been in the fandom for years, but always manages to put a new spin on it. That said, he’s better known for good character writing than good plots. Kind of problematic, but people love him anyway. Laughs at and encourages commenters who completely miss the point of his work.
The Brontë Sisters: Their fics get lots of comments but they never reply. They never leave author notes, either. They share an account, and there are talks of a collab fic coming soon. Write fics for OTPs of questionable healthiness and consent. Only ever write darkfic. Like, REALLY dark. …People are getting kind of worried about them.
Edgar Allan Poe: Also only ever writes darkfic, but at this point, people have moved past being worried about him and have just accepted that he’s weird, he’s morbid, and we love him. Channels his feelings about his ex into his writing. It results in really good stories but everyone’s sort of like, “…Dude.”
Charles Dickens: Trying to set the record for highest wordcount on ao3, and it shows.
Victor Hugo: Currently holds the record for highest wordcount on ao3.
Oscar Wilde: Only ever writes M/M. Has a BAD case of purple prose, but it’s worth it if you manage to get through. His stories are either hilarious or soul-crushing. Or somehow both. People love him but know better than to disagree with him publicly, lest he destroy you with one of his infamous subtweets.
L. Frank Baum: Wrote one really well-loved story that’s among the most famous in the fandom, and it’s literally all he’s known for, and it pisses him off. His popular story became a multichap against his will because it’s the only one of his stories anyone actually reads. He keeps trying to end it so he can work on other things, but always ends up coming back.
Arthur Conan Doyle: Feels L. Frank Baum’s pain. SO much.
James Joyce: Has fascinating ideas, but takes forEVER to get to the point in his stories. Also a stoner, and it shows.
Lousia May Alcott: Writes stories for her unpopular OTP (that’s a NOTP for most of the fandom) and breaks up everyone’s favorite ships, mainly out of spite. Also kills everyone’s favorite characters, less so out of spite.
Mary Shelley: Writes incredible stories, but publishes under her boyfriend’s account because she’s banned from ao3. …Again.
persephone's corner 