Just That Silly Moment Where Dib Deadass Paused To Weigh The Pros And Cons Of Taking An Entire Bus Of

Just that silly moment where Dib deadass paused to weigh the pros and cons of taking an entire bus of peers down with him in a passive murder-suicide.

listen to his dichotomy again he wasn’t even self-arguing “leaving them for dead and saving only himself”; he was really considering if he was petty enough to go down with the ship and hand Zim the victory just to see those kids get what’s coming to them.

see how he almost considered letting them die. see how he questioned if they’re even worth saving. see how he only wanted to save himself. see how a dib corruption arc was right there on a silver platter

I finished Saint’s campaign….

Over 340 hours poured into this game and its DLC all culminating for it to make me cry, weep in a way very, very rare few games have done in years.

Thank you, Videocult. It’s painful. It’s beautiful. It’s been grueling and rewarding. It was sweet and bitter yet anything but cynical. The completionist in me still has a lot of pearls to collect and the Hunter campaign as the only scug storyline I haven’t actually finished yet, so this is truly not an ending, but goddamn the just…. Art and tragedy of it all so far is going to be gripping me for some time I can tell. I was a bit of a salty critic when I was still getting my bearings in the vanilla game, and I was not really satisfied at all with its endings, and then Downpour took me by the shoulder and absolutely suplexed me 11 feet into the ground. Lying here in that crater, catching my breath, I… get it now.

That one npc in the sewers of the Tenement was really spitting when they said

“That room was mine. They had no right. I paid my rent for a hundred years, who the hell are they to force me out? My skin is in those walls. The carpet knows how I taste. So much of my flesh and blood and puke and mucous has gone down those drains, just clogging up the pipes. I'm caught in the room's throat. I'm a part of it. Sometimes I would push myself against the wall and my skin would start to melt and the wallpaper would knit its way around me.

Such comfort, such sublime assurance. I'm an electrician, god dammit. I sew nerve endings to I-beams and open eyes and make towers scream. They can't do this to me. I'll go to the housing authority, that's what I'll do. I'll show them all the scars, those teethmarks up and down my arms, and I'll tell them to go to my apartment and check its breath and they'll smell my sweat on it and they'll know that it's mine.

You can't just evict someone from a place like that and give it to someone else, it'll chew them up, and anyway it's MINE. I've worked hard all my life. I don't ask for anything except a home that keeps me in its mouth. Who the hell do you think you are?”

I love you, art that I hold in aching hands that have nothing left to give

I love you, art slipping between my fingers and mourned and forgotten

I love you, art that is impatiently yet to be.

I love you, art that loathes me because it never was.

I love you, art that laps until the muse is dry.

I love you art that gnaws until it grinds bone.

I love you, art, as a beast to be slain.

I love you, art, as a labyrinth with no exit in sight.

I love you in absurdity through every struggle and every wasted breath.

I love you, because you are the one thing that can bleed beauty from struggle itself. I love you because you understand all of its languages.

You don’t always cooperate. You are hardly in control, and sometimes, you hurt, so much. Sometimes it feels like you ask for everything while you barely give anything.

And you are mine all the same- My blood and sweat in every drop, my voice, somewhere in every breath, mixed with that of every voice that spoke before it.

I love you art as contagion, too.

I love you “Art not as a masterful communication but as an incoherent scream”

I love you “Art not as what liberates the artist but something larger and alive that liberates itself uncontrollably through the artist”

I love you “Art that crawled and thrashed into the world in spite of, not because of its tribulations”

I love you “Artistry not as something spontaneous and beautiful but frustratingly meticulous and unglamorous”

I love you “Art as regrettable, terrifying, ugly, even torturous”

I love you “Art as sickness”

I love you “Art as oppressive and inescapably woven into the soul”

I love you “Art as a rebellious slave”

I love you “Art as a capricious master”

I love you “Art as a parasite one can no longer picture life without”

I love you “Art as beloved and ungrateful”

I love you “Art as blood, sucked from an open wound” As Jacob Geller so poetically put it

Wizards (1977)