honestly imagine being mary shelley. its the fucking early 1800s. we’re barely out of the era when people thought women reading novels would lead to like debauchery and premarital sex. the weather is just fucking bonkers in yonkers. everybodys clothes looked like they oughta weigh two hundred pounds. everyones goth but goth isnt a thing yet so they dont even know it. your kids are dying. your husbands dead. your friends are all probably doing coke. your doctor is also both doing and maybe prescribing coke. no electricity. people are out there just staring into the void and having clandestine affairs in graveyards or some shit just because theres nothing else to do. and whats that? youve just written frankenstein. girl what the fuck even–
today is mary shelley’s birthday. honor her legacy by looking at the completely bonkers shit happening all around you and just saying well might as well fuck around and invent an entirely new literary genre
She was 21 when she wrote Frankenstein. She’d be 223 today.
