What better way to mark The Day of Horror than to stumble soul-ajar, into an art gallery thick with the psychic residue of Furby monstrosities? Their plastic gazes follow you, their synthetic chatter echoing like the chant of some forgotten cult, each one a cursed idol dredged from the neon swamp of childhoodβs collective fever dream.
I laughed. Or maybe I screamed. Itβs hard to tell anymore.
Metablogging myself: reading things to expand your ideas on a topic (especially one you disagree with) is definitely a case for reading a thing you don't like. But nuance is hard on the internet.
