jon: finds one (1) haunted letter in french

the eye: 🧠✨ baguette download initiated

jon: “bonjour la malédiction”

martin: what the fu—

just hit season 3 of The Magnus Archives and it’s like

✨prepared but also not✨

✨emotionally fortified but actually raw chicken✨

✨brain says “we’ve trained for this” but heart says “we die like men”✨

i’m sitting here like “i know NOTHING will prepare me for what’s coming” and yet i’m still like “let me just emotionally preheat the oven real quick”

FOR WHAT. THE OVEN IS ON FIRE. JON IS IN THE OVEN. I’M IN THE OVEN.

every new episode is like:

“anyway here’s a new fear you didn’t know existed, you’re welcome”

this isn’t a podcast it’s a psychological escape room and i just cut the red wire out of spite…

On the one hand I do actually believe that TMA is the best podcast of all time, on the other hand I do also choose to deliberately ignore the ending (I have never actually listened to the ending)

I just gave a shot to my severely old diabetic cat and whilst trying to put the cap on the needle I LITERALLY JAMMED THE NEEDLE INTO MY THUMB

What do I do

michael: bends space, tears open reality, speaks in riddles
jon: i work in customer service. do your worst.

I just KNOW that Jon’s rib has its own nametag. “Assistant Archivist: Ribsworth.”

The Eye is just Reddit with divine powers. Jon became a mod. That’s literally what happened.

he ascended into godhood and immediately started reading people’s old trauma like it was r/AITA

the magnus archives is so funny in season 1 because john is literally the most reliable narrator in tone and structure while simultaneously being the least reliable narrator in spirit like: he’s reading through Gertrude’s bizarre and deeply suspicious personal files, connecting dots about disappearances, secret basements, clear coverups— and he's just like

🤔 “Hmm. Odd. Anyway, Elias told me she died in the line of duty, which I assume means like… at her desk? Doing paperwork? Heart attack, perhaps? Nothing to worry about.”

SIR?!

you are literally investigating people being EATEN BY BUILDINGS and VANISHING INTO DRAWINGS and your *predecessor* has a gun in her desk, burnt files in the archive, multiple aliases, and an entire graveyard of cursed objects

and you're still like “nooo she probably just… forgot to file this properly. lol classic gertrude 😅 guess I’ll just put it back in the murder drawer!“

he’s like the human embodiment of “surely this has a rational explanation” even as reality crumbles in real time around him. the tapes are hissing. the lights are flickering. his coworkers are screaming in the walls.

but john’s just sipping his tea like:

“Hmm. Very mysterious. Anyway, I’m sure Elias is telling the truth.”

everyone in the Magnus Institute acts like the HR department is just a rumor

sasha was literally jump-scared to death by the plot and no one talks about it

You haven’t known fear until a German grandma silently judges your exact angle of knife use while slicing a Brötchen.

I just wanted to eat. I didn’t know it was a test.

I would literally commit unspeakable crimes to be an archivist at the magnus archives RIGHT NOW.

like. right this moment. drag me down into that creaking, haunted basement and hand me a mildewed statement about someone who got swallowed by their own reflection. i’ll read it aloud in a trembling voice while the pipes whisper my name. bliss.

do you understand how tired i am. how thoroughly customer service has ground my soul into a fine paste. at least in the archives when something tries to kill you it doesn’t ask if you have a rewards card first. i don’t want peace. i want to sort through cursed wax cylinders while a bloodstained man in a trench coat tells me my aura smells wrong. i want to hear skittering in the ceiling and know it’s the worms, and i want to THANK them.

i want jonathan “eyebags for days” sims to burst in like “have you seen the Leitner??” and i can look up from my desk, dead-eyed, sipping cold instant coffee and say “yes. it screamed at me. i gave it a post-it note and moved on.” let the spiral consume me. let the web wrap me in her loving eight-legged arms. i am ready to stop being perceived by humans and start being haunted professionally.

Nobody talks about *this*.

Not the 12-hour shift. Not the aching feet. Not the customer who made eye contact as they sneezed *into* their hand before handing you their cash.

No.

I’m talking about the real horror:

💩 Holding in a dump for *seven* hours.

I am clenching.

I am sweating.

I am praying to gods I don’t believe in.

What if I go and someone walks in?

There’s no one else here. I am the front of house. I am the barista. I am the dishwasher. I am the prisoner.

They’ll come in and be like “hello?”

And I’ll be in the staff toilet—mid-relief—drenched in shame and espresso sweat, whispering: “please don’t leave... I’ll be out in a minute...” as my soul escapes my body. (I with that was the case)

I have an hour left.

Sixty minutes of cheek clench cardio.

I am barely holding on bro. But I’m holding it.

Please clap. Or pray. Or just... bring me a stool softener and a cover shift.

Listen - it is preposterous that forgetting your headphones means you can’t listen to a podcast about foreign entities and archivists without getting side-eyed. I shouldn’t have to feel this embarrassed about it.. The eldritch horrors will understand 😵‍💫