#I can always do more

[laneaconite]

Your Letter

Yesterday, I received your letter. I knew it was coming because I never forgot how it felt to write it: The depthless dread sucking in, the chest tightening agony: Hope, hopelessness, hunger, desperation, and need. She pens her dreams onto paper, spilling cynical predictions, undercut with melancholy.

She writes: I hope, maybe, I hope, She cries: I hope, maybe, I hope.

I wrote: I hope, maybe, I hope I cried: I hope, maybe, I hope.

She could not have known, and I could not have known, The bleeding newness that is now. She could not have known, As I could not have known, The insidious pain that we are living each day, Now: I wish I could tell her, The world is out there for you. There are highs and hurts unimaginable to you now, To me then.

She wrote: So this is my one-way letter, and I send this with the hope that things for you are good.

I wrote: and if not then I hope it can serve as a reminder that you can be strong. I know that I can always do more than just

Survive. - Lane Aconite, January 26th, 2023

Hello my lovely readers, Ordinarily I'd leave my work up to you to analyze, but this one is complicated as hell and I can't resist spelling out my own meta-analysis right here. On January 25th 2018, I used this website to send myself a letter five years in the future. I addressed the version of myself in the future as "you" and the person I was in 2018 was "I." When I wrote it, I was still living in the same desolate house I'd spent my entire life downing in, and I struggled to have any hope for the future. I was occupied nonstop chasing after the dream of finishing high school with my GPA and in tact, shocked at the fact that I'd managed high grades in the first place after spending K-12 flunking. It's a complicated story. I woke up at 5 am Mon-Fri for classes and generally worked my cashiering job after school until anywhere between 5 and 11pm. I had my nose to the grindstone in the hopes of escaping how my home town haunted me, and yet I never believed I truly could. Reading back through that letter now, I can still see the emptiness in my wishes. I was forcing myself to make them at the time because I knew that having long term goals, even when they felt like a lie, was healthier than letting go entirely and slipping underwater with the leeches. So that's the context, now to the content: I constructed this poem from excerpts of the original letter and wrote a correspondence back to myself. I had to, because she begged me: "I wish somehow, I could get a reply back from this letter and you could tell me that everything is going well, but since there isn't any feasible way to send an email from the past I know there will be no sort of correspondence." The pronouns probably get confusing here, as well as the tense they're used in, but I, She, and You are the same person: Me. Me of 2018, sitting at her old wooden secretary desk bent over a bowl of box mac n' cheese in the 30 minutes she had between getting home from class and rushing into work—and me of 2023. In 2023 I would have been bent over a much neater, white desk on another side of the country, reading my past self's letter in tears and wishing I could reach across time to tell her that it's going to be okay. It's going to be okay even when it isn't. The changes of tense between "she wrote" and "I wrote" etc. are meant to show myself reliving the process of writing the letter as I read it. The repetition of "I hope, maybe, I hope" four times occurred in the letter unintentionally. It was the accidental poeticism of that repetition which ultimately spurred me to tear the letter apart and put it back together. I just love repetition. Now, my little wish list only has a 44% success rate thus far, but my life is so irrevocably different than it was then. I have multiple chronic pain conditions. I'm blindsided by something new and different every other week. At least I can proudly say that I have finally given "up that fear and cut [my] hair all short, pompador style" and I am writing more. It's been another year since the letter, and I could never have expected where the trajectory of my life would take me. I could never have guessed how I'd be betrayed, how I would fall apart and have to sew myself back together again, stitch by painful stitch. Ultimately, since my poem can't be sent back in time, I was writing it for the person I was on that day, January 26th, and for the person I would be every day following. The tone reads as bleak—and I was teary all the while writing it originally—but this is my stubborn hope. This is my keep fucking going, darling, it will hurt but the relief is worth the journey. I promise. You'll always find something worth living for if you look hard enough.

[captainjonnitkessler]

>Join a union

>Hear people constantly complaining that the current union leadership is super corrupt, it's all just the same ten guys making all the decisions in secret and nobody else in the union ever gets to know what's going on

>Go to the monthly union meetings that are completely open to all 1200 union members

>The only attendees are the same ten guys every month, giving detailed reports about everything that's going on

[brainrotcharacters]

the easy grip on the knife. the leg over the seat. the hand over the other seat. the sassy "come get it" move. you know the bitch is smiling behind that mask even as he said the line.

[ruporas]

trigunned the hades or hadesed the trigun (id in alt)

[bixels]

Learning that fans hated Applejack and called her "boring" is crazyyy to me because I genuinely, unironically believe AJ's the most complex character in the main six.

Backstory-wise, she was born into a family of famers/blue collar workers who helped found the town she lives in. She grew up a habitual liar until she had the bad habit traumatized outta her. She lost both her parents and was orphaned at a young age, having to step up as her baby sister's mother figure. She's the only person in the main gang who's experienced this level of loss and grief (A Royal Problem reveals that AJ dreams about memories of being held by her parents as a baby). She moved to Manhattan to live with her wealthy family members, only to realize she'll never fit in or be accepted, even amongst her own family. The earlier seasons imply she and her family had money problems too (In The Ticket Master, AJ wants to go to the gala to earn money to buy new farm equipment and afford hip surgery for her grandma).

Personality-wise, she's a total people-pleaser/steamroller (with an occasional savior complex) who places her self worth on her independence and usefulness for other people, causing her to become a complete workaholic. In Applebuck Season, AJ stops taking care of herself because of her obsessive responsibilities for others and becomes completely dysfunctional. In Apple Family Reunion, AJ has a tearful breakdown because in she thinks she dishonored her family and tarnished her reputation as a potential leader –– an expectation and anxiety that's directly tied to her deceased parents, as shown in the episode's ending scene. In The Last Roundup, AJ abandons her family and friends out of shame because believes she failed them by not earning 1st place in a rodeo competition. She completely spirals emotionally when she isn't able to fulfill her duties toward others. Her need to be the best manifests in intense pride and competitiveness when others challenge her. And when her pride's broken, she cowers and physically hides herself.

Moreover, it's strongly implied that AJ has a deep-seated anger. The comics explore her ranting outbursts more. EQG also obviously has AJ yelling at and insulting Rarity in a jealous fit just to hurt her feelings (with a line that I could write a whole dissection on). And I'm certain I read in a post somewhere that in a Gameloft event, AJ's negative traits are listed as anger.

Subtextually, a lot of these flaws and anxieties can be (retroactively) linked to her parents' death, forcing her to grow up too quickly to become the adult/caregiver of the family (especially after her big brother becomes semiverbal). Notice how throughout the series, she's constantly acting as the "mom friend" of the group (despite everything, she manages to be the most emotionally mature of the bunch). Notice how AJ'll switch to a quieter, calmer tone when her friends are panicking and use soothing prompts and questions to talk them through their emotions/problems; something she'd definitely pick up while raising a child. Same with her stoicism and reluctance at crying or releasing emotions (something Pinkie explicitly points out). She also had a childhood relationship with Rara (which, if you were to give a queer reading, could easy be interpreted as her first 'aha' crush), who eventually left her life. (Interestingly enough, AJ also has an angry outburst with Rara for the same exact reasons as with EQG Rarity; jealous, upset that someone else is using and changing her). It's not hard to imagine an AJ with separation anxiety stemming from her mother and childhood friend/crush leaving. I'm also not above reading into AJ's relationship with her little sister (Y'all ever think about how AB never got to know her parents, even though she shares her father's colors and her mother's curly hair?).

AJ's stubbornness is a symptom of growing up too quickly as well. Who else to play with your baby sister when your brother goes nonverbal (not to discount Big Mac's role in raising AB)? Who else to wake up in the middle of the night to care for your crying baby sister when your grandma needs her rest? When you need to be 100% all the time for your family, you tend to become hard-stuck with a sense of moral superiority. You know what's best because you have to be your best because if you're aren't your best, then everything'll inevitably fall apart and it'll be your fault. And if you don't know what's best –– if you've been wrong the whole time –– that means you haven't been your best, which means you've failed the people who rely on you, which means you can't fulfill your role in the family/society, which makes you worthless . We've seen time and time again how this compulsive need to be right for the sake of others becomes self-destructive (Apple Family Reunion, Sound of Silence, all competitions against RD). We've seen in The Last Roundup how, when no longer at her best, AJ would rather remove herself from her community than confront them because she no longer feels of use to them.

But I guess it is kinda weird that AJ has "masculine" traits and isn't interested in men at all. It's totally justified that an aggressively straight, misogynistic male fandom would characterize her as a "boring background character." /s

At the time of writing this, it's 4:46AM.

[ruushes]

assorted bat practice... on top of everything he has the audacity to be hard for me to draw

[chloesimaginationthings]

Five nights at Chiitan’s is the scariest game ever..

[paradox-n-bedrock]

me in big fandoms: oh cool, it's so active and there's so many people to vibe with, this is amaz-

*finds my niche angle that appeals to approximately six people*

me: okay, folks, it's you and me now

[somnimagus]

out of the frying pan and into the fire and into another frying pan that's also on fire

[id in alt text]

[stuckinapril]

friend wanted to see my tumblr, and when i told him i can’t show it to him bc it’s basically my personal diary he went “oh so I can’t see it but a bunch of strangers on tumblr can??” he literally does not get me. no one will get me like the people in my phone get me

[theabigailthorn]

"Good" Acting

i have a theory that a lot of people say acting is "good" when they're emotionally moved by it, and a lot of cishet white people have a lifelong habit of not listening or empathising when minoritised people speak, so minority actors get called "bad" even when they display some pretty fucking amazing technical skill

[floccinaucinihilipilificationa]

[curemi]

Some Mew Ichigo poses 🍓

[originalartblog]

Apparently much-needed reminder that reposting artists' art (by saving the images or screenshotting them and reuploading them yourself) on other platforms without the artists' expressed permission and without credit is theft and an insult to their passion and craft. You are profiting (in views, in attention, in feedback) from someone else's work and ideas, who do not get that feedback for sharing their creation.

If you are an art reposter, you are a thief and I have no respect for you.

[seiwas]

cw: pro-hero bakugo, reader has boobs, kind of explicit/nsfw? idk i describe boobs, reader is smaller and shorter than bakugo, unedited sawry

bakugo's muscle tee looks as ill-fitting as it'll ever be draped over you.

there are reasons for this, perfectly founded and logical reasons for why that is—the main one being that, it's, well, his; two, maybe even three sizes larger than what it should be to fit you properly.

but, he can't stop staring, and there are reasons for that too—the main one being that, it's his, and yet, the only way he can ever imagine it now is when it's being worn by you.

your hips sway to the song you've been humming for the past five minutes. it's the same one, the chorus on a perpetual loop. he's sure it's the only part you know; you do this often enough that it's the only part he knows now, too.

the hem of his tee hits right at the top of your thighs, concealing just enough to tease, but he’s confident that if you reach up even the slightest bit for the cupboard overhead, there'll be nothing to hide.

he feels a little bit like a creep like this, watching as he stands in the middle of your shared living room, but it's impossible too look away—you've got to be doing this on purpose, right?

heat flares inside of him when you turn your body ever so slightly, the armhole of his muscle tee large enough to give him the clearest view of skin—

he gulps.

it's smooth, sloping just right; the side view of your under boob curves into its perfect shape and he can imagine it, feel—

(is this considered perving if he's been with you for years?)

the pan in front of you sizzles as you plop in god knows what. you pour in something from the side and wait, one hand propped on the hip you pop out. then, you pick up the pan, attempting to flip what's inside (probably a pancake, now that he thinks about it).

it’s hard to focus on what you’re cooking though, especially when all he sees is plump flesh jiggling, bouncing as you further agitate the pan.

he just got the pants of this suit readjusted, and now they're fucking tight.

bakugo normally runs hot; it’s kind of part of his dna. but this warmth is different, flushing him from head to toe. it creeps up the side of his neck, painting the tips of his ears a blooming red.

you turn around then, plopping the pancake on the plate atop the counter behind you.

"oh! you're done," you greet him with a smile. so. fucking. casually.

as if your tits aren't fucking peaking against the gray fabric of his tee.

as if you think he buys the fake innocence poorly concealing that sly, conniving look in your pretty eyes.

as if you aren't standing in front of him in his muscle tee, wearing nothing underneath it like you didn’t do this on purpose. like you don’t know what it fucking does to him.

his eyes squint suspiciously, deep vermillion staring straight into yours.

you tilt your head, the tips of your lashes kissing the top of your cheekbones as you blink. you reach for a bottle of honey.

“everything okay?” you ask, voice syrupy, sickeningly sweet.

your movements play in front of him languidly, the corner of your lips curling up slightly as you smirk. honey catches on your finger as you pop open the bottle cap.

he’s supposed to be out the door in five minutes if he wants to make it in time for a meeting at the agency. technically, he should already be there if he wants to keep up his track record of consistently being fifteen minutes too early.

but you start to approach him, rounding the kitchen island. there’s a narrow space between him and the slab of marble, but you slide into it like it was made for you.

he’s certain it was, from the way the tip of your nose brushes against his as you tiptoe. your tits are right fucking there, brushing against the skintight material of his suit.

there’s too much fucking fabric if you ask him, between cotton and spandex.

your grin widens, and he feels hot, the heat from his cheeks radiating.

then you whisper, still saccharine, “breakfast is ready,” before kissing him on the lips lightly. a short peck, soft in the way that promises more before you slip away, giggling in your retreat.

he huffs, watching you leave. his feet shift as he thinks.

five minutes, huh?

like hell he’s going to eat these damn pancakes for breakfast today.

[hollytree33]

Hi so I might’ve made a painting of my Inquisitor while trying to mimic Solas’s style so I can pretend he made it