After Lucifer was kicked out of Heaven, he decided to make his own paradise. Both compete to have the best afterlife, sadly you lived a sin-free life and got sent to Heaven. God is throwing a very boring, sin-free party. You spend your time trying to get kicked out so you can go to Hell.
all i’m saying is that lucretia definitely had to feed a bunch of her homeworld’s media into the baby voidfish so that the THB wouldn’t remember movies or books and reference them in conversations (she obviously missed a few, since the THB reference our-world media constantly)
unfortunate side effect: on the day of story and song, the universe collectively had to watch Paul Blart Mall Cop 3
In 1972, she ran away from home. She was gone for several months, and when she got home my grandmother started shaking her and screaming about how someone had told her my mother had no shoes and my grandmother was sure it meant my mom was dead.
She finally calms down, and they piece it together: my grandmother had gotten a phone call from someone who breathed two or three times, said “Cathy’s in bare feet,” and hung up. Except that’s not what they said–my grandmother had written the date in on her calendar, and on that date my mother was in Bare Feet, Arizona. She knew definitively that she was in Bare Feet because on that date she called home to talk to my grandfather, who told her Uncle Jim had died–“got himself shot”–and that she had missed the funeral. Ready for the glitch in the matrix part? Here we go:
–My grandfather had no recollection of the conversation–which would have been a strange conversation indeed, since Uncle Jim was still alive and, in fact, didn’t die until 2009, eight years after my grandfather. However, my mom did miss the funeral, thanks to a delayed flight. Cause of death? Supposedly, it was suicide, but there were enough indications for the family to believe that was a pile of horseshit, not least that shooting himself in the head with the rifle indicated would’ve been near-impossible.
–My mom was going by the name Patricia Danko when she was on the run–she had a fake ID and everything. She hadn’t called herself “Cathy” since leaving home and nobody knew she was traveling under an alias.
–According to my mom, she never gave a name for herself–either Patricia or Cathy–when she was in Bare Feet, and she would’ve had no reason to. Bare Feet had maybe a hundred people in it, and they were just stopping for food and gas.
–This isn’t just an account from my mother–my dad was with her at the time, and he remembers both the phone call and the truckstop.
But that’s not the weirdest nor the creepiest part, which is this:
–I’ve been trying for three years to find Bare Feet, Arizona–on the Internet, on old maps, by talking to old Arizona cowboys, and there was never a Bare Feet, Arizona. My mom convinced my dad to drive “through Bare Feet” on the way back from Texas in 2013 and there was no town anywhere along the highway, not even the abandoned bones of one. I’ve looked for Bare Feet, Barefeet, Bear Feet, Bare Feat, Bare Foot, Barefoot, and Bear Foot. None of these exist.
My mother stopped in a town that doesn’t exist, ate in a restaurant that never was, made a phone call that could not have happened and was apparently answered by a ghost from 40 years in the future, and later that night someone called my grandmother from a number that turned up on her phone bill only as a pay phone in Arizona to say that single sentence, “Cathy’s in Bare Feet.”
I didn’t initially want to reblog things here, but this is just too far up my alley. I think I’ll start collecting stories of incidents like this, weirdling magic at its most potent.
the most #UselessLesbian thing i have ever done was when i was trying to figure out if this girl liked me or not, just constantly arguing with myself about it, and after a couple, uh, months, of this, i was like, “god i wish i could just like… go to court and lay out all this evidence and have a couple lawyers argue over the TRUE MEANING of her text messages, and then a judge tells me if she likes me or not.” and then the proverbial lightbulb went off over my proverbial head, and i dug into my mock trial folder from high school and found the trial guidelines and i wrote out an entire trial transcript featuring a plaintiff (me), my attorney (my wildest hopes and dreams), a defense attorney (my worst fears and insecurities), and a judge (my desperate attempt at rationality). the final product was several thousand words long. it clarified nothing. at any point in this process did it occur to me to ask her how she felt about me? absolutely not. did i ever stop and think, “hey, maybe i should tell her that i like her?” absolutely not. that’s for people who take risks and i don’t take risks i take myself to court in my own head.
grade A romcom material here just picture the movie:
a harried law student meets a pretty girl (maybe she’s an artist or something else cheesy and romantic) the pretty girl flirts with her but she can’t decide if it’s just being friends or actually flirting
she gets together with her friends and over the course of a few days holds an epic mock trial that draws more and more of a crowd until the pretty girl finds out
at the last minute the pretty girl rushes into the courtroom shouting “i have new evidence to present to the court,” the mock judge asks her to step forward and she just kisses the law student
the courtroom cheers
case closed ruled in favor of the defendant
later after they graduate they get married at the courthouse
