anxiety is terrible, you could be having an attack and no one would even know because it’s an inward thing. it feels like you’re malfunctioning and you can’t process your own thoughts. you get a knot in your stomach and you can’t take a full breath but outwardly you can literally just sit there and look completely normal as long as no one tries to speak to you.
I realise now, as I go in search for breakfast, that the last couple of times I went to the shops I was so focused on MUST CLEAN that I neglected to buy actual food that humans could enjoy, and now the loaf of bread I have been subsisting on for the last four days has run out.
“That was the thing about witches. They were, according to Granny Weatherwax, “people what looks up.” She didn’t explain. She seldom explained. She didn’t mean people who looked at the sky; everyone did that. She probably meant that they looked up above the everyday chores and wondered, “What’s all this about? How does it work? What should I do? What am I for?” And possibly even: “Is there anything worn under the kilt?””—Wintersmith
my cats are basically a roommate sitcom with the cowardly snob and the adventurous slob. like, victor won’t eat anything unless it’s the finest cuts of tuna delicately seasoned and dressed with the perfect sauce and garnished with shredded crab handed down on a sparkling white platter from the hand of god, while the other day I caught teeny trying to eat chicken poop.
Hawke never saying a thing when, on the nights there’s no fire burning in the hearth, Anders insists on having a candle lit when they go to bed at night. A tiny point of light in the darkness of her room.
Hawke choosing not to comment when a conversation dies out and Anders always, without fail, begins to tap his fingers on a tabletop at the estate, or moves to rearrange the glass bottles on a shelf in the clinic, or stokes the fire to listen to its crackling when they’re away from the city and camping under the stars. Anything to keep their surroundings from being absolutely quiet.
Hawke knowing that, on all but the hottest afternoons of Kirkwall’s muggy summers, Anders would be wearing his coat throughout the day. Sometimes one of their companions would comment, but he only ever gave a shrug and a simple reminder of the chill in Darktown. The topic was usually dropped after that. After all, Hawke was the only one who knew he would have the duvet pulled up to his chin that night even if the day’s heat remained, the aforementioned cold of Darktown far below them and hardly an inconvenience.
Hawke accepting without issue that Anders would always be a rather physical lover and companion, but never inappropriately so. Touchy-feely, she might call it, if that didn’t sound so uncomplimentary a term. More so, it was as if he needed constant physical reminders that she’s there - brushing shoulders as they sit beside each other, or his arm briefly sneaking around her waist as they walk home. And always, always, his hand resting over hers as she drifts off to sleep at night.
Hawke having a moment of sudden, terrible understanding when she overhears Anders offhandedly mentioning a year of solitary confinement to Varric, during one of their many conversations of his life in Ferelden. “At least I had Mr. Wiggums for awhile.” His comment is obviously meant to distract from the severity of what he had said, and Varric carries on the conversation without missing a beat - masterful people-person that he is - but Hawke is glad she’s not a part of it. The realisation is nearly overwhelming and their words fall on deaf ears as it sinks in. An entire year in the Circle’s dark, quiet, cold dungeon…and ultimately, alone.
Hawke deciding not to bring it up - she knows Anders will do it himself if he wants to - but making sure that a candle is burning in the dark, pulling the bed’s covers over them both and holding Anders a little more closely during the night, softly humming lullabies her mother used to sing to keep any silence at bay until he falls asleep.
I spent last few weeks traveling the land in search of the most exciting new businesses whose names are simply two random nouns linked together by ‘+’ or ‘&’.
Here are some of my favorites.
Whale + Tortoise: Sells many types of custom-crafted wax products. The owner has not been seen since 1847, despite the fact that the store opened late last year. Nobody understands how this works.
Couch & Gentry: This place only sells antique Bunsen burners. The decor is reclaimed wood. All employees wear two pieces of a three-piece suit.
Grease + Gable: The leading purveyor of pasta-based art.
Crane + Cable: This is one of those places that only sells olive oil. Nobody shops here, not even people who are really into olive oil.
Butter & Frenzy: Specializes in apocryphal Biblical texts decorated with puffy paint. All employees dress like Cub Scouts.
Rhapsody + Rust: Easily the hottest place to get brunch or something.
Tradecraft + Toast: If you are able to to track down the secret location and the password, this is the last known Crazy Eddie location in the world. His prices are no longer insane.
Driftwood + Blame: This place sells ships in bottles. Except they are not ships in bottles. They are scenes from Busby Berkeley films staged with old GI Joe figures. Do not make direct eye contact with the owner.
Heartache & Brine: Only sells kombucha laced with with antidepressants. All employees are dressed like 19th century pharmacists except they are inexplicably also nude.
Oxen + Shoes: This place was a Laser Tag arena for some reason.
Nickels + Mercy: This is a great place to buy recycled artist’s statements from MFA dropouts at a premium.
Farm & Fable: A gluten-free daycare facility for the children of celebrities.
Spindle & Lies: This was simply the most charming greeting card store I’ve ever seen in my life. The staff were easily the friendliest people to sit behind a cash register. They only sold condolence cards for deceased cousins. I did not ask.
Philosophy + Thumbs: An artisanal bakery for assholes. I refused to enter.
Hedgehog & Rye: A pet store/bourbon bar. All employees are required to have “ironic” allergies to domestic creatures.
Vikings + Spelt: A thrift store where all stock is leftover giveaway items from Los Angeles Bar Mitzvahs in the early 1990’s.
Dwindle + Corn: I am not certain, but I believe they specialized in handcrafted lava lamps powered by regret. Employees only spoke in Bosnian palindromes which caused me to have a panic attack. I left immediately.
Murder & Brass: A strange name for an aerobics gym, to be sure. Until I discovered the fact that all classes are based on the movie Clue. I highly recommend Colonel Mustshakeyourbooty as a teacher.
Mist + Mercury: Sells custom Segways that are modified to look like old hot rods. I assume that someone will firebomb this place someday.
Ratchet + Crow: I am uncertain as to the nature of this business as it appeared to be members only. I spent several hours with my ear pressed up against the door. At hour four, I heard what sounded like a large bear sobbing, which is a sound that I did not believe to exist.