“The SF bits are not really SF, they’re fantasy papered-over with a bit of technospeak. Despite this there are endless, meaningless, tedious infodumps. What could possibly be the point of an infodump about a nonsensical and arbitrary system of magic? And what’s the deal with all the chicks being desperately thirsty for the protagonist’s cock? It’s like something out of an extremely bad harem anime, yet it doesn’t appear to be ironic.”— Fantastic Anachronism reviews Murakami
I hadn’t noticed the tag 乳テント (“boob tent”) until recently. I’d noticed the effect of fabric being stretched taut in a well-filled blouse, just not the name for it. It’s not a huge category, although there’s definitely a tendency for huge things to get filed under it. Such as Ryotas, although fan-artists also go for the vacuum-sealed look with her as well.
Wait, how could she stay thin eating like this every day? Was “Aunt” Sally a plant, part of the setup for whatever game the Old Man was running on me? Was she one of us, a different model of Muse for a different kind of job? Was her just-in-time arrival to save the day part of their plan? Was I being given enough rope to hang myself out to dry or however that goes?
Or was she just a cheerfully hyperactive over-achiever who couldn’t stay still for more than two minutes at a time, who’d woken up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and raring to go on this Most Important Day? It was possible I was over-thinking this. I had a long history of not trusting other women, after all, even if I was usually the one engaged in pre-emptive back-stabbing.
I tentatively gave my new Cooking Mama the benefit of the doubt and focused on the good news: setting myself on fire had completely ruined my PJs, and I was determined that our after-school shopping trip would include finding a replacement without feet and a back-flap. Baby steps.
What will I watch, out of all this?
Zombieland Saga: Revenge. I have no idea what’s going to happen. This is fine.
The Slime Diaries. I finally caught up with the main series, and while it suffers from that familiar “light-novel-highlight-reel” feeling, it’s been at least moderately entertaining. I’m hoping that this side series showcases the effect of Rimuru’s true power: evolving monster girls into smoking hotties. The main series apparently resumes in the summer season.
Um, that’s about it, really. There’s no step 3.
I watched a few trailers, but nothing else grabbed me. It sounds like any controversy over “I shaved and picked up a high school girl” (in that order) will be artificially generated for marketing purposes; should generate some decent fan-art of the girls, though.
I did end up idly watching Hidden Dungeon, which felt like a relatively straight adaptation of the source material, right up to the point where they realized they’d never get a second cour and skipped to the end of book five. Meh, I didn’t expect much and I got what I expected. Shame none of the decent artists on Pixiv seem to be interested in drawing the harem girls, though.
At least Yui Horie got some scenery to chew on at the end.
The step 3 video I was really looking for…
“Black magic is a matter of symbolism and intent. So is black lingerie.”
– Not Lord Darcy
Often when I’m skimming through my archives, I have to decide if a particular outfit counts as a swimsuit or as lingerie. This is complicated both by the overlap in settings and by the existence of definitely-NSFW swimwear. In particular, there’s a popular brand of white racing swimsuit that goes transparent quite easily, especially when its occupant has been oiled. As one does.
Aunt Sally’s idea of breakfast put more calories on my plate than I had in my left arm. I mean, whipped cream and butter and jam and waffles and bacon and eggs and toast and she looked like she was waiting for me to order seconds. She probably wouldn’t even recognize tofu as a fucking word, and if she’d ever made a green salad in her life, I was willing to bet she’d used bacon grease for the dressing.
I tried not to look disgusted as I took my first bite.
Ohmygod why didn’t anyone ever tell me about this stuff? Did little kids have completely different taste buds? Was this some kind of bizarro mirror universe where saturated fats were awesome or had my old body just been broken? I cleaned my plate and ordered seconds; I had no idea where I was going to put it, and I didn’t care.
I mean, I’d always loved eating, and I could navigate the menu of a five-star restaurant in 12 languages and 37 entirely different civilizations, but while I’d picked up plenty of men in diners, I’d never actually tried the food.
How could she eat like this and be so thin?!?
Turn on all the cheesecakes! Or the other way around!
I did not set the kitchen on fire.
Okay, maybe a little, but running around in circles screaming at the top of my little lungs was better than a smoke alarm, and a freshly-awoken Aunt Sally was sufficiently coherent to put me out first, before rescuing the stovetop from permanent damage and the fruit basket from, no, that was a total loss.
I got my first look at my new Adult Supervision through tear-and-smoke-stained glasses, and she was pretty much what I’d expected: young, blonde, perky, responsible. Respectably hot, too, despite the unflattering nightgown, housecoat, and hair curlers. If my little kitchen mishap had gotten out of control, the firemen would have fought over the right to carry her to safety and check her out for injuries. I’d pulled that stunt a few times myself, without the curlers. Or the housecoat. Or the nightgown.
I didn’t even have to try to babble out an explanation. She automatically assumed that I was a complete darling who’d just been trying her very best to be helpful and loving and show how much she appreciated her new life with her new family and dear god I wanted to smack her. It was like she’d stepped right out of a glossy magazine article titled How To Be The Perfect Young Mother In Our Modern Age.
Fortunately I’d put everything back in her purse before my ill-advised attempt at cooking with gas. No point tipping her off too soon.
…zero-impact IT maintenance.
First up, money-money-money, where did Aunt Sally get her money? We’re living in the burbs, so she’s not rich or powerful enough to just break the rules, and if she had a sugar daddy, I’d have found some trace of him. Just because they don’t actually spray doesn’t mean human males don’t mark their territory. More to the point, unless he was a perv or had a death-wish, he wouldn’t want me around screwing up the screwing, so no, there was nobody paying for the privilege of being called “Daddy” by either of us.
Come on, Powers, throw me a bone here, and not the usual kind. “Sally Sanders Is A what?” Nurse, teacher, secretary, what? It couldn’t be something with weird hours or lots of travel, or something fun-but-disreputable like an actress, dancer, or model, because she’d managed to convince the local powers that she could be trusted to raise a kid on her own. She might have the only six-year-old in town who knew how to drive a truck, shoot a pistol, ride an elephant, and pull a train (eventually), but the law and the neighbors were going to expect her to wash me, feed me, dress me, kiss my boo-boos, and walk me to school. School?!
Aw, shit; today was my first day of school, and I was gonna be the Fucking New Kid. Thanks, new memories, that was just what I needed to learn right now. Well, I wasn’t showing up with a goddamn slice of toast in my mouth, so I set out to see what we had that I could turn into The Most Important Meal Of The Day.
I’d like to thank Bosmarlin for making their cappucino cup sturdy enough to survive a 3-foot drop-and-roll onto my vinyl kitchen floor.
And I’d like to suggest to Nespresso that adding a little vibration dampening to their coffee makers would be a really good idea. Or at least a lip at the edge of the cup holder.
At some point, I’ll probably do a scratch redesign of this drip tray and my replacement cover for it. For now, I might just make a tall adapter for the one I already printed, with a lip, because this weekend is going to be kind of busy…