Oh, how I’ve fallen in the world. There was a time when I wrote these posts from an actual desk, a queen-sized bed, or occasionally even a hammock. I’m typing this one from a floor mattress, sprawled on my stomach in that awkward position that strains your shoulders and kinks your neck no matter how you rearrange yourself. There’s laundry drying just above my butt, approximately three inches of Korean dust on my laptop screen, and bread pizza with hot dogs in the toaster oven I scored for free with my phone contract.
Huh, it doesn’t sound so bad when I phrase it that way. I actually love my Seoul apartment, and I do have a real-ish bed balanced on two mold-combative plastic pallets. I just wasn’t feeling the inspiration over there.
Also, compared to the Langurds’ house it’s a downright port-a-potty so I think I have full license to complain.
Seriously. Just look at that golden glow on the wallpaper. Look at it and weep.
Delilah: Welcome to your new room, Duke! And good news, as the oldest you get it aaaalll to yourse— wait, who is that?
Riza: Just the disappointing child of a doomed relationship. Don’t mind me.
I’m doing my darnedest to keep this momentum going, so let’s get straight into the next act of the shitshow!
Here we see a typical morning at the Langurd Lodge for Futuristic Wayfarers. After arriving with a crash of thunder that ruins my screenshots and wakes the baby, a guest makes himself at home in the nursery.
Colby: Ah, what a quaint little transport vessel! I believe this is what they called a bort.
It’s precisely at this point that I rage-delete the time portal and leave Colby forever stranded. I hope he learns how to sail that bort the fuck outta here.
Hello, and welcome back to the Langurds! For real this time – no more filler bullshit. If you don’t believe me, take a moment to breathe in the scent of decaying tofu dogs and evaporating brain cells.
Oh yeah, we’re back alright.
Turns out I remember zero things from last generation, but I do know that there was a terrible, awful, very no good heir poll and y’all panic-voted this box-headed fool into leadership. I think we will regret this soon, but for now it’s full steam ahead!
Commence the celebratory tea! (I hope she showed up on time)
Siesta: Hey Prototype, I’ve been thinking.
Prototype: God help us all.
Siesta: Since I’m in charge and stuff, I’m going to rename you Siri.
Prototype: Pray tell why?
Siesta: Don’t be silly, Siri. You answer my questions, not the other way around!
Prototype: You poor dense soul.
What the fuck. Where did 2018 go? How is it July? Wasn’t it February like yesterday?
You may have noticed that time is getting away from me these days. No, that’s an understatement. Time is sprinting Bolt-speed toward the airport and hopping a plane to the next galaxy, then laughing at me while I scream “Planes can’t go to outer space!” and my aged bones crumble to dust.
Dramatic, I know. But let me tell you – shit has been going down lately that has me shaking my fist at the world. Dewey, the terrible wonderful cat who owns my soul, recently tested positive to Feline Leukemia. FeLV, while not actually a cancer in cats, is an incurable virus that gradually causes severe (and ultimately fatal) anemia. He’s three and life is unfair. Last week my vet was talking euthanasia, but then his meds seemed to kick in, and he started gaining weight between visits (my little chubber has always excelled in that), so we’re taking things one day at a time. It’s been a fucking rollercoaster and we would both appreciate any positive vibes you can send our way. ❤
On top of working 40-60 hour weeks at the café, I also just finished a certification course and am applying to ESL teaching jobs overseas! It’s exciting but stressful and real decisions scare me. Please don’t ask how this news plays into the news above because that’s a whole other shitshow.
But let’s get down to what you came here for, which is not sad stories, nor career plans, but the mind-numbing idiocy of a family that is now six years old.
Well, here we are at last on July 12th! Happy Birthday Langurds and R.I.P. Sam’s sanity!
I can smell the light at the end of the tunnel (not a typo; caffeine does strange things to your senses) so I’m going to give it my all for these last 13.5 hours. Hopefully without having to cut things in half and without wasting the potential of these screenshots. You are all lovely and supportive and I’m sure it’s only me cracking the whip at this point, but there is no whip more terrifying than the one in my own hands. (Cripes, a few cups of coffee and I’ve turned into Omen?)
Things have been moving pretty fast. Our eldest heir candidate is a teen, our youngest a child, our heiress a middle-aged underachiever, and her ex-husband a corpse.
Only Rhapsody has yet to get a kick in the pants from Father Time. Of course she’s busking in the park when it hits.
Rhapsody: Thanks for coming to celebrate my birthday with me!
Corren: I didn’t. Where’d your guitar go?
Or rather, the new anthem of my life: “No Sleep Till 6.13.” But don’t ask me to rap; I don’t do that in public.
I didn’t want to jinx myself by mentioning this early on, but if I DO get through seven chapters by Wednesday, that may actually bring us to the end of Calamity’s generation. In other words, we could have an heir poll as early as THREE DAYS FROM NOW WTFBBQ.
That seems like a very short time for our heir hopefuls to develop personalities, hopes, dreams, quirks, flaws, and the kitchen sink, so let’s get cooking, guys!
Kip: I am twelve steps ahead of you.
Kip: Do you want me to elaborate or do you want me to finish these muffins?
She may be the first child in Langurd history to figure her life out so early, and the first Langurd in Langurd history to get gud at cooking. Our little indoorsy slob is going to be a chef. It is known.
Ah yes, finally—a chapter number to match the Langurds’ maturity level. Just in time for…
Wink wink, nudge nudge. But of course, that’s a very sore topic around here with our Gen. 6 OTP fresh off a divorce and trying to cobble their lives back together. R.I.P. Quilamity, you had a good run were never going to make it anyway.
Both parties take some time to focus on themselves, which tbh is basically what they did while married anyway. Calamity spends hers witnessing important milestones.
Cal: Try not to get arrested, okay?
Trance: Sorry Mom, but my coolness is a serious crime.
Round of applause for Gryffindork tanking her self-imposed mission in less than 48 hours. It’s not my fault, guys. Failure radiates from my very being. My friend asked me to look after her betta fish this week, and he literally died on my watch.
But in the words of a misguided Death Eater (and a really dated reference), IT’S NOT OVER YET! This seven-posts-in-a-week thing can still be a thing. I’ll just have to double up one day, which is totally doable. /delusion
Last time, a trilogy of Ghost Crises caused all sorts of rule breaking and left me wishing for several plates of ambrosia, which I then remembered is also against the rules. Basically, things are going great and everyone is really happy.
A fine time to check in with the one who started it all.
Quinn: Inspector Flanagan reporting for duty, sir.
Tewl: Well well well. So dis is da new man of da house.
If that title doesn’t tell you we’re getting to the good stuff, then let me tell you right now—we’re getting to the good stuff!
Last time, Gumby finally died but Frieda’s Gold Digger LTW still registered as incomplete. Shit was lost; tables were very nearly flipped. Now we take deep breaths and try to figure out the meaning of this.
Frieda: Yes hello, I’d like to request a refund on my life.
Fact: Canada as a nation turns 150 this July.
Fact: Eleven days later, this blog will turn 5.
Fact: I have been writing this blog for more than 3% of Canada’s existence.
Fact?: One day, I will compose an intro that isn’t a rehashed version of “legacy take long time, Gryffindork slow.”
Let’s get down to business
to defeat the Huns. After far too much trolling, Quinn Flanagan has finally succumbed to Calamity’s good looks and agreed to date her… all while she’s been under an ugly spell. Figures.
Calamity: Face it, I’d be the most low maintenance girlfriend ever.
Quinn: You’re not wrong.
Meanwhile, Omen’s chess opponents keep getting glued to the upholstery after beating him.
Maeve: Gee, I’m getting sleepy.