#am i wrong here????

[nightwanderers12081]

i feel like everyone forgets that its canon that danny genuinely thought all ghosts were evil -- like i've seen fanon talk about it but i dont think we've ever seen anyone bring up the fact the dairy king was the one to tell him all ghosts aren't evil in bitter reunions--

like heres the direct quotation from their interactions

"Well Gosh and Golly looks like you could use a speck of help dont cha know?"

"Hey, You the dairy king! Oh great, What are you gonna do? Suffocate me with limburger? Strangle me with swiss?!"

"Aha!" Dairy king frees him

"...Let me go? Well- Thank you, but why?"

"Well not all ghosts are evil right? Some of us want to be left alone there dont cha know?"

LIKE ABDBWNND IG THIS CAN BE TAKEN DIFFERENTLY BUT TO ME THIS FEELS LIKE DANNY GENUINELY THOUGHT THAT ALL GHOSTS WERE EVIL AT FIRST ANNDNS

Edit:Holy shit thats alot of notes--

Wanted to clarify that I know fanon has been exploring Danny's original view on ghosts n stuff, I just never really see people talking about how its canon, or that the Dairy king was the one to tell Danny, Normally its always Cujo being Danny's eye opener, or Jazz(with the whole spectra incident)

~ Ender/Whisper

[transannabeth]

if you opened discord’s april fools day loot boxes how long did it take you to get all the items? it took my friend 18 boxes but me 65 and i want to see how bad my luck is

[canisbeanz]

Silly doodle bc it was the first thing I thought of when I saw Pomni.

[coddda]

I wish we could have met in some other way.

Lawlight Week Day 2: Soulmates

If you saw me repost and re-edit this several times uh No you didn't </3

Still frames/Individual gifs:

If you know what every frame is from you get a free cookie. by the way

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[tippenfunkaport]

You know, it would be amazing if Hollywood learned the right lesson from the success of Nimona. Something like "Hey, maybe don't throw out a nearly done movie as a tax write off" or "people want queer stories" or even "don't be afraid to take some storytelling risks and be original" but you just know they're going to come away with some absolutely batshit takeaway like, "next time delete all the evidence and burn it to the ground so the gays can't make us look bad!"

[drulalovescas]

Why do this??? Why show us that Dean wanted out?? That Dean thought about quitting hunting. Retiring. That Dean wanted to LIVE. When you intended from the get go to impale him on a rusty rebar. Because "it was always gonna end like this." Because "it was supposed to end like this, right?" Because Dean „HAD TO DIE?????” What do you mean Dean would never stop hunting when you’ve literally showed us he wanted to???? What do you mean Dean wanted to die hunting when he literally said he DIDN'T??

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

I've never been more normal in my life.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[nonasbirthday]

Clear as mud! But I expect nothing less from a Homestuck 🫡

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

i call this one "queer silence" or perhaps "slightly judgemental stare"

[egophiliac]

Wait, did you put a photo of Vil and Neige as kids in Eric’s office??

oh good, I was afraid that wasn't going to read properly and people would just be like "what is this supposed to be". :') but yeah! I like to think Eric was pretty fond of Neige as a kid! single dad sees orphan child approximately the same age as his own son and goes "hmm. okay, you guys are going to be friends now." (this did not go as well as he'd hoped.)

(also I do love how it's kind of a running joke that everyone loves Neige except for Vil, who's standing over in the corner and just seething with furious irrational hatred. someday maybe he'll find someone who doesn't think Neige is the best thing since cinnamon rolls.)

[welcometogrouchland]

♫ I do what I want/Crying in the bleachers and I said it was fun/I don't need anything from anyone ♫

(ID in Alt) you guys ever think about your own posts and get upset?? Anyway Damian Wayne I love you I'm so sorry your life is like that

[so-very-small]

i like to imagine that for every g/t fan wondering what the hell high-performance luxury vehicles are doing in their g/t searches, there’s some poor car guy who’s looking for GT vehicles and doesn’t understand why they keep getting art of giants tenderly holding tinies

its like this

[inkskinned]

something bad happened to you, and you died, and you came back wrong.

not wrong all the way. the little ways. you forget important dates, stopped going out with friends. it's harder to make you smile. you're apathetic towards things you used to love, afraid of places you used to go to cheer up. quieter. flinching. different.

you came back for love. you're still here for love. what pulled you back was a brightness so loud that even death couldn't outshout it. death heard the call and smiled at you and said okay. go home. somebody is waiting for you.

but you came back different. like lot's wife; you've turned into salt. you used to chirp through life in hops and skips; but now you lose skin just standing up. you have to move slower, skimming across this world without-touching-it. most things feel dull - until they're suddenly all-too-much. life, and being alive just rushes up and over you and you get hopelessly crushed.

you try to explain it to them: it is ugly, but this is what you are, now. the huge golden hoop of your halo now a little bronze ring. you are still watering your plants and wearing the same clothes. after all, you worked hard to come home. this life; so odd and off-color, now that you are wrong.

but they waited for you - it's just that they wanted the "you" that happened before this. the "you" that could sing in the show and hug people tight and look at a blade without breaking down to cry. the you with a smile in pictures. god, holyshit, it's like looking at a completely different person, isn't it. that other-you; the one they actually wanted.

you are the consolation prize. you are the body that forgot the ghost. you are the memory of the bad thing, and the death after; like you are wearing that memory as a banner. you are a fragment, an assembly. simulacrum. you don't make eye contact in mirrors, afraid the light will glance off and your true nature will flash back at you.

you hear them talk about it in their hushed, desperate whispers. sometimes they even admit it to your face; harsh and violent, acid thrown at christmas dinner. god, can you just fucking be normal again. you do not remember what normal is. you had to climb so far to get back here; you are far too exhausted. you want to open the glass door of your heart and show all the gears. can you help resolve whatever got messed up?

you try so, so hard. you came back for them. because you believed they would love you, even when you were so horribly broken. because you believed they would be patient. because you believed unconditional meant "without exception." you cannot do things the same way. you just get tired too quickly these days.

you want to put them on a couch and pour them the tea with hands that shake more than they remember. you want to line them up and draw them a map of where you have had to wander. you want to show every bruise in a backsplash; the little helpless ant of your soul carrying all that weight, over and over. you want to say: yes! it is different! but i did it for love!

you want to say: "i'm not the same, but i'm yours and i'm here. can that be enough?"

[hinamie]

wanted to practice some more intense angry expressions and what better excuse to further my agenda of giving megumi the emotional catharsis he deserves