#08. musings

[reynellis]

Tag dump

[cavaris]

Well then

[pigeonneaux]

I hear you call my name (and it feels like home)

[nothatsmi]

Nicky "shut up bitch I'm hilarious" Hemmick

Hiii long time no see! I just finished a big school project so yay I'll have half a day before getting drowned in work again haha..

Anyway here's a Nicky Hemmick apreciation post :) I love this guy so much, I remember liking him from the veeery beginning but as we get to know more about him he becomes even more likeable holdable. The fact he gave up a good life in Germany with his boyfriend for years to raise the MINYARDS - honest respect.

[knights-of-the-prydonian]

[ziggykyeons]

for: @aurorabaystarter // closed as of 08/10/24.

where: sunrise winery

"Be honest," Ziggy all but demands, his carving knife in hand as he stands beside his freshly carved pumpkin to present it, "Does this look like complete garbage or is it kind of giving?"

[sunburnacoustic]

do you have any pictures of Matt with this hairstyle? I'm trying to get a haircut and want to use this as a reference but this pic kinda sucks for that lmao

it's from the Mesa Amphitheater gig in 2007 if that's any help

OP I am so glad you asked because it is for exactly situations like this that I extensively tag things on this blog >:)

This seems just a bit shaggier than Wembley 2007 I think, so I'm going to try and give you as many angles from around this period with similar haircuts. Matt would gel his hair up a lot around this time, so you're more likely to find his upright tail-fin quiff than Matt with his hair down, that's rare even today.

They're not all exactly the haircut you're looking for I think, but these are a few I could find. If you like, see if there's anything you're looking for in the #black holes era and #2007 tags on my blog. Hope you love your new haircut!

[bubblegumhearts]

TAG DUMP/NAVIGATION ౨ৎ

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

❀~ This post is a tag dump for me! You might use this as a navigation for my blog if you're on mobile, if it's any help.

You can ignore this!

(*page might get updated as time goes on.)

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊

[yvernal]

Body

I wouldn't call it self-love. Perhaps self-acknowledgement or self-recognition, maybe. Self-acceptance, even.

Recognition that this body is mine, this flesh is mine and that I inhabit it with each inhalation, with every exhalation. That if it's not really a home, it's not a prison nor a cage. Not anymore, at least.

It is a writing exercise. An exercise in description. An exercise in apprehension of the image I have of myself, of this body that I inhabit, of all its qualities and all of its defects.

My feet are flat, just like Mom's are. There's just the gentlest of curves in the center, which I often find myself dragging my fingers over. My toes are uneven, oddly curved and a bit bony, with nails that grow either too fast or too slow. The ones on my big toes will forever remain oddly square since my ingrown toenail surgeries. I have weird patches of hair on it, thanks to hormones, as well as calluses from walking too hard in shoes that weren't made for that. But it's also one of the places where my skin is palest, where the pattern of my veins are the most delicate and easy to follow, like an arachnean lace of blue-green-purple hues.

I love my ankles, despite having managed to fuck up both of them at least once. Sometimes when I look at them, bones and tendons playing under the thin skin with the slightest flex, I think I can understand the Victorian obsession with this otherwise forgettable joint.

I used to hate my calves. I found them too big, too imposing. Almost humorous in the worst way, with the way the muscle sagged when I crossed my legs. Then I started walking, more regularly. Long walks and short trips and climbing stairs... With the hormones, it changed. They are slimmer now, more toned. When I wear high heels, I have some killer legs. My leg hair is long, not that I care much for it. I tend to shave or wax in the summer though, between the sweat and the fact I simply prefer the look and feel of my smooth skin when I have to expose it.

I have knobby, bony knees. Skin marked with small scars from an age where I kept tripping in the playgrounds. They creak, like misaligned hinges, cracking and rattling as if I were in my eighties rather than my twenties. I tend to find it quite amusing.

Thanks to both sides of the family (for once), I have thick thighs. The kind of plush, meaty thighs that spread out when you sit down, taking up space and drawing the eye to them. Hairy, just like my calves. I hate it just a little because it makes my moles harder to spot. I have a handful of them, peppered all over my skin like secret kisses from nonexistent lovers.

I don't usually think about my crotch. It has changed under the influence of hormone treatment, in a somewhat pleasant way that I don't dwell on for too long. I don't wear a packer, although I think about it sometimes, but I have this lingering feeling that this extra bulge would just.... be in the way. My ass, on the other hand, is something I think about a little more. I've been told it looks good, and I guess with all the walking I do and a few pounds on my bones it may as well be. And without the chest to counterbalance, it's all the more remarkable. What matters more for me is that it allow me to sit comfortably for extended periods of time, to be honest.

My hips are wide, in a telling way that used to make me uncomfortable until I discovered flowy high-waisted culottes. Bony, easy to grab, and even easier to bruise. I can't even count the number of furniture corners I've run into. My waist is only slightly smaller, less than before my transition. I'm more rectangular now, less round yet somewhat still soft and squishable.

I'm not active or athletic enough to flaunt abs, and I've gained back the pounds I lost from my bad eating habits and medication side effects. Despite my rather short stature, I don't look my weight. Except maybe for the previously mentioned ass and my little soft belly. When I still had breasts, I hated this little curve with a passion. Now, I find it almost cute in its roundness, its squishiness. It makes me seem softer, more huggable, like something made to held and to be hold.

I used to have breasts, before my transition, and never really liked them, even before the worst surges of gender and body dysphoria. I had surgery last year, during summer, and I just.... I just love my top surgery scar. I only have one long scar, still slightly pink but in the process of disappearing, going from one armpit to the other. It's a beautiful work, my surgeon almost prouder of it than I was. I heal pretty poorly, so some areas are more extensive than others, the skin more wrinkled or weirdly smooth and veiny.

Testosterone injections left me with chest hair I could do without. I love the feel of smooth, soft skin, even if running my fingers through the messy happy trail below my belly button brings a euphoria that's hard to describe. But I like low-necked, openwork tops and just don't like the sight of chest hair protruding from it. And then, with the sweating and the operation I had, ingrown hairs and pimples are frequent during growth.

That's also the problem with my back, strange hair patches and persistent pimples. Otherwise, I think I have a somewhat pretty back, especially the hollow curve of my spine and the arch of my lower back. When I stretch and arch like a cat, I can sometimes feel the stares on the hollow of my back. I have several moles on my back, larger and more visible than on my thighs, with one in particular a little below my shoulder blades.

My shoulders are pretty, a soft slope from my neck to an enticing roundness. I have gained muscle definition with work and injections, not very noticeable but still present in the delicate curve and the discreet shadow when I flex my biceps. My skin is pale there, not as much as my feet but close to it, that same lace of veins easily noticeable in the soft hollow of my elbow. The moles are more numerous, more visible, like a strange game of connecting the dots, personal constellations never written on a map.

My forearms have the softest, most delicate skin, pale and blue-green veins to follow like the course of a stream to my wrists, strangely thin. A family trait once again, fragile joint that I can fully encircle with my hand, strangely resilient despite its apparent delicacy. My hands are less so, rougher and bony, shorter rather than long, more creaking than graceful. Bony joints like my knees, visible tendons like my ankles, I can somewhat see the bone's palor under the thin layer of skin. My nails are neither round nor square, a strange mix of both, if anything. They grow fast, when I allow them to do so. I never chewed on them, rather tearing them off until the white was all gone and the skin left raw. White means stress-free, something I am more regularly now than before. I paint them sometimes, colorful and shiny when life is otherwise too dull.

My collarbone is pretty, delicate bird bones under thin skin, veins like a cobweb and this faint hollow between them, like a natural jewelry case in which to nest my pendants. The beginning of my tattoo finds its source there, a snake with an open mouth and a darting tongue, whose scaly body winds up to my shoulder, its body semi-hidden in chrysanthemums and spider-lilies.

My hair is thick, always has been. Thick and numerous, slippery in a way that makes most hairstyle complicated to achieve. The texture changed since I was in high school and started testosterone, more prone to fluff up in indistinct waves and curls, whose ends caress my nape with every bounce of my steps. Half is my original color, a dark brown with chestnut tones and copper highlights, leftovers from my former fiery red hair dye. Half of it was bleached, a warm creamy-blond underlight peaking through the brown strands and which I should have the roots redone in a month or two, now that my hair has grown several centimeters.

It frames my face nicely, in a way that makes me look soft and gentle. I have a face that's almost more round than oval, with full, plump cheeks and a large forehead, now that I've been graced with a receding hairline. My lips are also plump, even if constantly dry and chapped, despite using chapstick (often a tinted one at that). The drooping corners inherited from Mom give me a permanent resting bitch face, or at least a quietly bored look. When I smile, however, the contrast is striking and my whole face glows.

I think my big, round, thin-rimmed glasses also help with this impression of gentle roundness, as well as making me look like a clichéd librarian. I think from time to time about having eye surgery so I don't have to wear them anymore, or trying to wear contact lenses more regularly.

My eyes are my favorite part of my body, something I have always loved about myself and have received many compliments on over the years. I would be unable to tell their exact color, leaning more towards a blue-green that sometimes looks gray, and ignoring the specks of golden-brown that seem to wander near my pupils. Maybe I will know more precisely in a few weeks, after the meeting in the photography gallery.

I have long and dark eyelashes framing them, as well as thick and quite unkept eyebrows. Fairly light blue-purplish circles, which a good night's sleep or a light massage with a skin care product can make disappear. Noticeable skin texture, large pores and blotchy red patches that won't go away, but I like it like that honestly, uneven and unsmooth.

I'm growing a beard now, even though I thought I wouldn't do it a few years ago. The texture is somewhat rough and some of the hair is oddly blond or red, despite the predominantly brown color of it. It grows a little too high on my cheeks and a little too low on my neck and sometimes I get so fed up with it that I shave it all off. But it gives my face a certain depth, a slightly older look that I quite like, as being mistaken for a high school student gets old fast.

This is my body.

A little creaky, soft and plush around all its bony and cutting edges, more solid and reliable than I could have believed, shifting and yet constant. Something I mold and inhabit, an almost-home and once-prison. I love it as much as I despise it.

This is my body.

This is me.

[le-papillion]

It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.

[d4rkwater]

𝐉𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐇 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐑, ele é filho de 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐍 e 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑𝐎do 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐄́ 𝟑e tem 𝟐𝟒 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐬. a tv hefesto informa no guia de programação que ele está no 𝐍𝐈́𝐕𝐄𝐋 𝐈𝐈𝐈 por estar no acampamento há 𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐙𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐒, sabia? e se lá estiver certo, 𝐉𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐇 é bastante 𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐈́𝐒𝐓𝐀 mas também dizem que ele é 𝐓𝐄𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐎. mas você sabe como hefesto é, sempre inventando fake news pra atrair audiência.

❛ 𝐛𝐢𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 › 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧 › 𝐩𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬 › 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐬 › 𝐜𝐧𝐧 › 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐜̧𝐚̃𝐨 ❜

nome completo:  joseph barker. altura: 2m gênero/pronomes: ele/dele, homem cis. orientação sexual:  heterossexual. nascimento:  18 de maio. ocupação: conselheiro do chalé três.

atividades: é  adestrador de pegasus,  membro  da  equipe  vermelha de canoagem, membro da equipe vermelha de queimada e líder da equipe vermelha de corrida com obstáculos.

Joseph Barker nasceu na California, mas passou grande parte de sua infância viajando pelo mundo ao lado da mãe. O motivo era trabalho, mas para a criança era puramente diversão. Sophia é uma bióloga marinha renomada e atualmente muito conhecia em meio profissional, seu envolvimento com Poseidon foi durante sua época de faculdade, onde sem família acabou recebendo o apoio e carinho de sua professora e amigos de pesquisa. Joseph sempre teve contato com a água, era difícil vê-lo longe do mar ou de uma piscina e, durante uma viagem para o Havaí, sua personalidade extrovertida o levou a conhecer e ainda firmar amizade com surfistas da região. Desde então se tornou um amante do esporte. Sua ida para o acampamento aconteceu aos 11 anos, quando a casa que moravam foi invadida e destruída por monstros. Foi a primeira vez que Joseph viu sua vida passar diante dos seus olhos, mas acreditar em toda aquela história parecia demais para o menino que por semanas achou que o acampamento era um surto coletivo, uma mentira. Poseidon o reclamou de imediato, mas nunca se quer apareceu para conhecer o filho, nem mesmo em sonhos ou respostas as suas oferendas. Joseph cresceu ressentido e odiando suas raízes divinas, mas tudo em silencio. O único que sabia disso, até então, era Percy. Durante seus anos no acampamento se dedicou em tudo o que se propunha a fazer, em partes porque adorava os treinamentos, mas em outra por nutrir uma ingênua esperança de que o pai sentiria orgulho de seus feitos e apareceria. Hoje é Conselheiro do chalé três, apesar da cara de menino bobo, inocente, ele é totalmente o oposto disso. Joseph é muito forte, não é do tipo que precisa ser defendido, na verdade, é os outros quem precisam se defender dele. Com duas guerras no currículo e uma terceira a caminho, tem amadurecido e muito, tornou-se mais responsável e até exigente – especialmente com ele mesmo. O garotinho que antes tinha fama de Golden, agora é mais recluso, observador e bem analítico. Não busca ser o herói e tem raiva de quem o enxerga com esses olhos. Se realmente o conhecessem, saberiam que Joseph está mais para um antagonista.

[kekeakana]

keke akana regarding passion week 08

her biggest passion has always been the ocean. everything about it: not only does it provide food and entertainment, but it's also a source of livelihoods for millions, if not billions of people. when she lived in hawaii she used to sleep with her windows open so she could hear the crashing of the waves and now, she can't go to sleep at night unless she has ocean sounds playing in the room. her goal is to one day live near the ocean again.

[cavaris]

Veraia insisting upon taking watch for the first like week of the game because she's paranoid about the tadpoles, and only needs four hours of trance anyway?

No.

Veraia insisting upon taking watch because she doesn't know how to put up a tent and is honestly too proud and stubborn to ask for help.

[b0kksu-gone]

just going to leave these here, thanks

[ryderlynnhq]

ryder lynn regarding passion week 08

he would say he’s passionate about a lot of things. first being, he loves to help people in need which is why he serves at a soup kitchen with his mom once a week. second being, his hobbies which are drumming and football. both of these are an outlet for his energy and creativity. and finally, his relationships. life’s all about relationships whether platonic or romantic, he is passionate about people who see the best in others and those who boost the people around them in return.

ft. @kittyhq @sugarmottahq @merrickhq

[sellingdream]

HOT/CRAZY SCALE TEST

You are 90% hot, 50.42% crazy, which places you in the date zone.

Date Zone: People in the Date Zone are attractive, but they also tend to be quirky or strange. Introducing them to one’s friends and family is often a question of hit or miss and tends to come down to the level of craziness that exists in one’s own social circle to begin with. There is nothing wrong with forming a relationship with someone in the Date Zone. In fact, many Date Zoners tend to mature with age, often to the point of becoming marriage material. That being said, it is also possible for Date Zoners to never mature, or to grow even crazier, and thus slip into the Danger Zone. Therefore, one should pay close attention to whether the Hot or the Crazy seems to have the upper hand when dating someone from the Date Zone.

tagged by : @vcnenum & @tenshadcws (thank you!)

tagging : @drugsxdealerx & everyone who hasn’t done ist yet!