Aussies are essentially just rowdy Canadians + killer wildlife. We know what’s up in the (faaarrrrr) South 🍁

Tangerine Palpatine

malevolent slugs who turn you inside out alive: a childhood filled with sanitised soulless insubstantial kids books with weak forgettable plastic illustrations and no guts. (8/8)

printed horror show again. And again.

Our parents had no business giving us books like 𝘚𝘭𝘶𝘨𝘴. Boy I’m glad they did. Because there’s something even more terrifying for a hypersensitive six year old than blitzing slugs in blenders or being abdůcted from your bed in the night by giant (7/8)

It horrified and repulsed me and left me with feelings and thoughts I had no words for and nowhere to leave. So into my pneuma those slugs slept until, middle-aged and trauma-bonded, I immediately located a used copy online and had it shipped halfway around the world to relive the (6/8)

David Greenberg’s 𝘚𝘭𝘶𝘨𝘴 (1983) with Victoria Chess’ masterful illustrations traumatised me. It abůsed me. I was five or six when I first read it, and I read it over and over and over. It scared the shit out of me. (5/8)

With only that word and aura fast receding, I tapped 𝘴𝘭𝘶𝘨𝘴 𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘦 80𝘴 𝘬𝘪𝘥𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘬 into my do-not-disturbed phone and insta-summoned a glorious google images tsunami of child gøre memories only Gen X and older can completely appreciate. (4/8)

So it was last midnight—indistinguishable from any other—nearly asleep, a whiff of a memory eras old wafted by. I don’t know what synapses had to line up to let the whiff in, nor what called them to or why, but suddenly sleepless I thought and felt 𝘚𝘓𝘜𝘎𝘚. (3/8)