Whirl at the beginning of mtmte: cyclonus is a creepy murderer and i have to either make up with him or kill him before he kills me
Whirl later: cyclonus is a dumbass bitch who doesn’t know how to express himself and if i don’t do anything he will never confess to his not-yet marshmellow boyfriend
Whirl even later: ah shit he’s hot, lemme in that stupid affection ya dumbasses
There are plenty of night, probably the majority, where Bruce is 100% committed to the role of Batman. Just living and breathing the pursuit of justice and crashing through the skylight of the latest hideout and just snarling the villain-of-the-night’s name all “RIDDLER!”
But then there are nights where he’s just so fucking done. He’s still out there giving 110% but radiating exhaustion and exasperation the entire time. The villain’s waiting for his inevitable arrival, all the henchmen’s eyes trained on the windows and the roof, but instead Bruce just slams the door open one-handed, casually knocking out a henchman, and glowers wearily. “What the fuck, Ed?”
That’s hilarious, because how fast would it deflate the Riddler’s preening, over-inflated ego to have his great master plan and clever word play greeted with an exasperated “What the fuck, Ed?”
women refusing to wear anything but shoes that are comfortable and practical is a form of revolution tbh
when my parents made me go to their cultish christian group, i wore high heels –medium height, or close-toed stilettos if everything else about my outfit was sufficiently modest– three times a week for two hours. by the end of the night my feet were two grossly swollen flipper shaped bruises.
when i left my parent’s house i regretted losing practice. i wobble on high heels, balanceless, like i have an ear infection. fifteen minutes in the pain is so present that going out anywhere loses all its charm. they hurt walking on sidewalks and asphalt and cobblestones, they hurt less on hardwood floors, carpets are best because they muffle the sting.
i google “how to wear high heels.”
six hundred ninety six million results advice against taking them off when you sit down because your feet will swell up and they will hurt more when you inevitably have to strap them to your feet again. bustle says take small steps. stylecaster (How to Wear High Heels Without Pain: 8 Expert Tips That Work!) tells me to take breaks from walking. fashionmagazine says pop two painkillers before putting on the shoes. i have a pair of four inch chunky heels (start up heels, the sooner the better). i haven’t worn them once but i don’t sell them because maybe one day there’ll be an occasion that is worth being in pain for.
i think about ballerina feet. i think about the tape and gels sold in stores next to bra straps and sewing kits to make the torture more bearable. i think about how women take pride in taking the pain without flinching, how there’s high heel races, how it’s not impressive that female celebrities do entire, hours long choreographies in high heels, it’s just required. i want to be beyonce’s back-up dancers, doing backflips on ten inch needles.
it’s impressive, the same way learning to write with your right hand because in Catholic school they tied your left hand behind your back is impressive. you stop a woman from running by taking away her mobility and on top you tell her it’s beautiful.
i have officially piqued, i’ll never be funnier than this moment in time
i was walking through the grocery store ignoring everyone and i walked around the corner and ran right into this old mans cart and i was like “oh god, my bad, i didn’t see you there” and when i looked up, he was wearing all camo. down to his hat. his wife lost it laughing. i’ll never be funny again
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