#i'm so totally fucked

[eastsidelovers]

brought the chair in.

sat it down, maybe a little further in than i was welcome to. he awkwardly moved a gift bag on a table, probably saw the confused look on my face. moved the bag again, saw a gun underneath. whatever. who doesn’t have one.

earlier in the day he mentioned his boyfriend liked ducks. that they have duck trinkets all over the house. i saw one, laughed and said i loved it.

“do you want me to show you around?”

“sure,”

so he takes me to his living room. its rural trans masc bliss. fishing prints. duck decoys. theres a christmas tree up. he excuses the mess, him and his boyfriend are getting the decorations up.

he doesn’t say much about his boyfriend. he brings him up occasionally, but not a lot. only found out his name today.

i notice a sculpture for a class we took together further back in the house. i point it out. i’ve accidentally invited myself further in. i know he has to leave soon.

“this is my ‘studio’ i guess,”

“you play guitar?”

i see a fender in the corner

he does. i just sold my bass, but i bought a new casio today. i wonder if i’ll ever pick music back up.

“my room is in the basement, i’d show it to you but its a mess right now,”

i wasn’t even thinking about that because i know that if i did i’d--

“i know you have to go soon, so i can start heading out.”

i’m known for overstaying my welcome.

i turn around and walk towards the door quickly. i’m starting to put on my shoes and he stares at me. quick jokes and half half subtle half flirting about how i feel very watched, how he’s waiting for me to fall so he can save me, right?

i stand back up.

he looks at me like he doesn’t want me to leave. its in his eyes. i have to look away, because i almost habitually reach in to hug him. kiss him? and i go blind momentarily. i realize i am at the back of my head. i say goodbye. walk out.

i don’t know. i think i’m fucked.

[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.

[rocketbirdie]

just move on already.

[illusioncanthurtme--art]

Thrift store ahegao t shirt lookin-ass

I only just realized how this looks now that they're all compiled here on a tumblr post....what. who drew these🧍🏻‍♀️

This is from something on my patreon. But dang it, these Ford expressions are too good to not share as a preview.

[keferon]

“Mistakes on mistakes until” ch 69 spoilers below!

Ahahahahahahah here I go again

Mistakes on mistakes until until I can draw Jazz with my eyes closed

I woke up, checked my phone, woke up for real and decided that whatever plans I had for this day yeah no they can wait a little bit kfkgnfk

Also. Consider listening this while reading. Or don't who am I to tell you what to do~

[peace-hunter]

"can megatron see the ghosts?" sometimes :)

haunted au

[saragrosie]

I have been sketching. So much tma. Here's some expansions on my Jon and Martin designs I've been doing.

Another note I forgor to mention is I love how after hearing Simon go "it's enough to make your hair turn white" about Martin's office in s4 many of us collectively agreed his hair turned white because of his association with the Lonely. The shared consciousness is real and we use it to play hot potato with the communal brain cell dedicated to the sillies.

Closeup of apocalypse boyfriends (also to the person who said they love my s5 Jon's fancy white girl updo: I think about that every day)

[imaginaryprotagonist]

We as a society do not pop off enough about young Jackles playing a dude in a throuple with the original Dr Sexy, Mr Patrick Dempsey himself. Whose name in the movie is Cass! I mean, come on!

[offdensen]

'The Empath' Novelization by James Blish (1974)

[woolysstuff]

I AM SO NORMAL ABOUT HIM

Evil!Sun my beloved (Edit// This Evil!Sun is from TSAMS and is not an AU of mine guys)

Bonus doodle

[ayrennaranaaldmeri]

HELAENA WAS A BELOVED QUEEN IN F&B SO OF COURSE RYAN CONDOM HAS TO MAKE THE SMALLFOLK PRAISE THE PERSON WHO WAS BLOCKADING THEIR FOOD TO BEGIN WITH BC PROPAGANDA ONLY WORKS WHEN RHA EN YRA DOES IT AND THROW THE FOOD THEY WERE RIOTING OVER AT HELAENA. I CURSE HIM AND HIS UGLY WRITING.

[eastsidelovers]

111 and that room brightening smile of yours

[rainybookshop]

my absolute favourite genre of Hangster fic might be "are they really enemies with benefits or is Bradley just stupid"

[videoviolence]

TAKE A SEAT!

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Game night ruined.

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[keferon]

Isn’t Vortex a fucking torture freak tho? 👀👀👀

Yep. He is. He is a lot of things actually. The more you learn about him the more fucked up it gets