Imagine your icon dying in your arms. With their last breath… they whisper in your ear… your blog title.

This would be Anthea whispering, “The slash… it burns.”


Imagine your icon following you around trying to convince you to go out with them

Gosh. She’d have to follow me for at least .00000001 seconds before I broke down and gave in.



Imagine your icon being the father of your lovechild/baring your lovechild.

I’m ok with this.

My icon is Anthea, and of course I’d be delighted to have egg fusion fpreg babies with her.

But I can’t help but reflect that for an awful lot of people I follow or who follow me, both those options are equally possible.