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.
Happy New Year! And a joyous farewell to 2018, the most desolate year on the Blog of Langurd: home to nine posts, only two-thirds of which were actual updates. Oh my.
This is the year 3019, and revolution is upon us. Fingers will fly across keyboards, updates will churn, comments will be replied to, and babies will be born.
I may just end up half-assing my way to the good stuff because these screenshots are stale enough to break a tooth on.
And Trelilah’s relationship is growing seven kinds of toxic mold, but that doesn’t stop me trying to salvage it.
Delilah: Let me just get this straight. You, Trance Langurd, are admitting your idiotic mistakes and begging for forgiveness.
Trance: Indeed… I think I am.
Delilah: Could you say it one more time so I know I’m not losing it?
Trance: I, Trance Langurd, have behaved like human trash. Can you find it in your heart to take back an unworthy imbecile?
Delilah: Depends. Can I get that in writing?
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.
And we’re off! Welcome to the first leg of a seven-day spirit journey. I hope you’re ready to feel closer to the Langurds than ever before (hey you in the back, I saw you swallow your vomit just now). Regrets? Absolutely not. Maybe a couple. Or twelve. Who am I kidding, guys? I’m in way over my head.
Our last instalment featured a disastrous bachelor party, a lacklustre wedding, and the birth of a Gen. 7 burrito, but not at all in that order. Don’t get me wrong—Cal and Quinn are totally traditional people who follow all the proper steps toward a conventional marriage.
Case in point—a timeless wedding ritual.
Cal: Is the cake good?
Quinn: WE MUST KNOW IF THE CAKE IS GOOD.
Skydancer: If I say no, does that doom you guys to infertility or something?
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.
Ah, my philosophy of life! I’m afraid I’ve made the title scheme painfully obvious for this generation, but I can’t ALWAYS be cryptic. Or should I say… explicitly ambiguous? 😉
Last time, stuff happened! Oh, you want specifics? Erm… I wrote that post yesterday and already, all I remember is that a baby was born.
Little Omen the alien genius! Behold the first green-on-green-on-green shot of him, and let it burn into your retinas because it will likely be the last.
Fun fact: I haven’t caught him with his eyes open yet. It’s because he’s secretly Brock from Pokémon.
(NOTE: Chapter 4.12 went up less than 24 hours ago, so make sure you don’t skip over it by mistake! I only say this because back-to-back posts are unheard of for me, so I wouldn’t blame you for clicking the first post you see in the Reader Feed. :P)
Goodness gracious, I just looked through the screenshots for this chapter and we have a lot to get through. Don’t scroll ahead because some of it is big and game-changing. If you do scroll ahead, you’re probably the kind of person who skipped to the end of Harry Potter Six, so kindly let me know to un-friend you. What do you mean there’s no friend system on WordPress? The sentiment is there, okay? I will un-friend you in my heart.
But not actually because it’s your life, and this is a legacy for crying out loud, not Harry Potter.
Newsman: And finally, birdwatchers everywhere have reported that the nation’s owls have been behaving very unusually today. Do not be alarmed if a strange man in a cloak drops a scarred infant on your doorstep in the middle of the night.
Balboa: Malissa, dear — what’s the name of your nephew again?
Malissa: Gumby. Nasty, common name if you ask me.
(Now exiting the parallel universe where “Gumby” is a common name.)
Now that we’re acquainted with the new house, let the breaking-in commence! Or more likely just the breaking.
Weston: Gilded wainscoting, crystal chandeliers, solid gold bathtubs… This place must have cost us approximately—
A shit ton, yes, thank you Mr. Frugal. Maybe don’t check out Lira’s room because it contains $6600 worth of curtains. XD
Welcome back! I had planned to get this post out earlier, but you know. Plans. Who needs ‘em? Instead of writing, I spent a fantabulous weekend in Ottawa playing quidditch, sweating sunscreen into my eyes, and sitting on top of a refrigerator. Sorry not sorry.
We left off just as Razor, Lord of the Second Generation, was passing into the great beyond. Razor, who spent his life sparring against China’s fiercest, died on a perilous quest to pick flowers. I should have kept it to one screenshot, but the whole thing was such a clusterfuck that I had to draw it out, all slow and painful.
“Progress will continue” <— Hahaha. I love shooting myself in the foot, don’t I?
Has it been long enough for a recap? Oh, probably, but I’m too lazy to open a browser, so here’s my best estimate: after an underwhelming trip out of the country, Katana was sarcastic, Dax was a doormat, Azula was aggravatingly picturesque, Razabella were invisible (until one of them died), and the chapter culminated in the birth of a child. Come to think of it, that’s pretty much the formula for Chapters 7-9. Are you excited??
Oh, come on. I send you to France to get married and this is how you react?
Katana: The open air. It hurts my lungs.
And Dax over there?
Katana: I think he’s choking on a piece of cobblestone.
Brilliant. Also, I’m loving how Katana’s shadow is just a walking pair of pants.