obscure joke

vivianesection:

[Too tired to know if this is a good idea.]

—

Sudden cabin fever. It happens. It’s a nice room, sure, for all intents and purposes. Pastel walls and pressed wood furniture, a white ceiling canvas to project mental pictures on. It does the job. But it’s tight. How, you wonder, can a room be tight? Like a submarine, too much pressure all at once and noise and heat and inclosed spaces. The thought makes you shudder. Relieve pressure. The window only opens at the top, not enough to really let air in. Not enough to let anyone out.

From the way he’s staring up through his askew glasses, John must be seeing something really interesting on the ceiling. Projecting something. You wish you could watch, flop down next to him and stare at up at the grainy white like a dia show. He’s shown you before, his tone perfectly ordinary and cheerful, dropping pictures like bombs in your consciouness. He’s talked and talked in the same bullshit voice that he talks about movies in, about flying without falling. That always sounds so great to you, a little familiar, like taking that little moment between jumping and hitting the ground, and extending it. No broken bones.

Right now he’s pretty dull, though, enclosed in his own head, whatever he’s thinking about doesn’t include you. You tap your fingers on the bed and decide that you’re bored as hell. Something needs to happen before you reach boredom critical mass. The tapping turns into jittering turns into tapping your feet on the floor and at that point John wakes up out of his daydream and looks at you all “You okay?” and you decide that you need to get out of here before you start chewing your nails again. You need to find something to do or else you’re going to draw a blueprint on the wall in crayon or stand up on the bed and ask John for flying lessons. Something needs to happen. You’re not sure what.

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Firstly, really great fic.  But when I got to the end I was really bothered by something I couldn’t quite put my finger on for a little while, something in the tags. It’s a rarepair, so I at first thought the words just looked strange. 

Gamzee/Sollux… gamsol… okay…  hmm.

!

Oh yeah! I work in an art supply store.  And I sell this shit to college students just about every day:

Hey kiddos!  See you got all your oil paints today.  Do you need some troll jizz to thin them down? You might see a slight color shift when you mix them, but c’mon, it’s goddamn troll spunk.

Do you know how much fucking had to happen to make your crappy art a reality?  Not to mention the import costs. You take this shit and be grateful.