There's this part of me that continually has to watch Gideon and Pacifica Pines as they bravely vanquish us, triumphant grins on their faces, and wonders what they think they're doing.
Eliminating a threat? Evil? Or just other kids?
Do they get a thrill out of it, like I get when my sister and I hold an entire audience captive with wonder, or I use magic with the stone around my neck, or I look at Mabel's pretty lips on her pretty face and I get to kiss her? Or is it just the satisfaction of knowing that they've done what they think is right?
What in the world is right? It seems to change with every person.
Pacifica doesn't think it's right to be cruel. But Mabel thinks that we need to show everyone just who they're messing with.
They're so different, and that just makes it more laughable when you realize how similar they are. They even look the same, somewhat. Both have long hair, diamonds in their ears, and carry some random thing in their mouths like it's normal. Who Mabel found willing to sell cigars to a child is beyond me, as is why Pacifica trots everywhere with a flower in her mouth, but I suppose that the old adage holds true: Women, no matter what age, are fucking nuts.
Grenda especially. She creeps me out. And I deal with unholy beings, who think it's acceptable to bite and leave body parts around, on an almost daily basis.
*Insert reference to Monster!Falls here.*
It's another of those days, evidently. The ones where everything goes right up to a point, and then suddenly everything goes wrong.
Mabel and I had half the town enchanted before the Pines' burst onto the scene, honestly. She was all done up, top hat and glittery tailcoat and all. I was too.
I actually have nothing against the Pines. They annoy me, yes, and get in the way a lot. But it's not as if I really care that much about the hare brained schemes my sister comes up with, and ruling Gravity Falls, let alone the world seems rather pointless to me. It's not like I really mind it the way that it is. And I suppose I see a bit too much of myself in Gideon to mind him, somehow.
If Mabel and Pacifica are similar, then Gideon and I are mirror images of one another's thoughts and personalities, only he's a bit more vivid, and I'm duller than unpolished silver.
We're both more reasonable then our sisters and yet we follow them like puppies, and we both would prefer to read books than do something stupid. We both resort to tricks when we have to, and we both smile nervously when something goes wrong. We both like magic, and sweet foods, and being in the woods, and that cute older red haired girl that works at the Mystery Shack.
Her name is Wendy. I think she might be part werewolf.
I like to think that my birthmark is special. It probably isn't.
But it's how I got my nickname, Dipper. Hardly anyone calls me by my real name anymore. Instead I'm always Dipper, named after the mark on my forehead and a giant celestial bear thousands of miles away.
I don't know whether that means something or not.
But demons seem to like it, oddly enough. I think that's why Bill likes me so much. He hangs out around our house sometimes, and jokes about killing the Pines, and always leaves the teeth of some poor forest creature in his wake.
I don't know whether or not that means something, either, but I've read a few books in case, and found nothing about leaving gifts behind, so I'm leaning towards hopefully not.
Sometimes I sneak over to the Mystery Shack and leave them on Pacifica's pillow, just to hear her wail.
I sometimes think that maybe I'm sick. Not physically. But maybe emotionally, and maybe mentally.
I think this because I'm dull, and I know it.
Not uninsteresting. I'm fairly sure I'm pretty interesting, assuming someone bothers to get to know me. Dull like dampened. Subdued. Muted. My emotions don't seem as bright as other people's, and I think it's my fault. I've twisted myself out of shape and out of whack, and now when people are upset, I don't know how to help.
When Mabel breaks down, I can't help her by telling her to do what I do: imagine herself huddled in a corner, screaming and hitting herself, reminding herself that she's made it this far and that to fail now would be pathetic.
What idiot would tell a lady that?
Then again, I don't mind the alternative.
Pulling her cigar from her lips and replacing it with my own mouth.
Mabel is pretty with her eyes closed and her hat crooked.
The Mystery shack is an interesting place. Only a fool would say otherwise. Intermixed with all of the tourism junk and meaningless tokens and charms, there is sometimes hidden something meaningful or sometimes even miraculous.
I've found actual magic books mixed in with the fake, manufactured-to-be-curious ones.
I've found pewter crosses, meant for religious folk, but most useful for certain... things. Demony things. Summony, keep-you-from-eating-me things.
And I found Mabel's best fascinater there, actually, not that she knows. If she did she'd burn it just for association with the place. But it's sparkly and black, just like the rest of her is, inside and out. It attaches to her head with a hairpin, and has a big blue ribbon that she added herself.
Wendy, the possible werewolf, smiled at me when I bought it. It was fake and manufactured, forced into existence to hide her disdain for her summer job, and for me, the "creepy" kid in town.
Still, it's another reason for me to go.
I figured I was going to have to write something eventually, lest I lose my touch otherwise, and this seemed appropriately meaningless and futile enough.
Thanks for reading, please leave a comment, and byeeeee!
Believe it or not, I am in fact still writing. Just not, like, posting. Or at least not much or often.
Thank you for reading, feel free to drop a comment if you've not had a long exhausting day that would prevent you from such gruelling work, and have a lovely next fifteen minutes! Byeeeeeeee!
I like reading. The fun of it, the getting-mixed-up-in-it. Sitting down and exploring new world, or learning new things. Observing and judging the craftsmanship of the sentences, and whether or not they fit together into the perfect puzzle they're meant to form in order to make sense. I won't read a book that doesn't meet my standards. I want them well thought out and well written, immersive, grammatically flawless, and stained with a little bit of grotesque but gracefully layed out description, just to keep it fresh in my mind, like a picture I can paint using the provided words as the canvas to lay the colours against.
Of course, not everyone sees it this way. Mabel just says I'm a book worm, but I prefer the term book dragon. I am far more impressive than any mere worm.
Mabel likes crafts. Things like making her own clothes, and mine, and collecting semiprecious stones and old string to make into nightmarecatchers. Painting magical symbols on the walls and making them into artwork. These are the sort of things that she likes to do that don't include plotting, getting into trouble, or dragging me along with her.
So of course she doesn't do them often.