#idk i may delete this post

[moonmaidensblessing]

BioShock x Mad Men AU pt. 1

The Characters:

Betty Draper is the wife of handsome, charismatic yet troubled Don Draper, the protagonist of the TV series, Mad Men. Set in the 1960s, Betty Draper is thought of as the perfect, beautiful housewife. 

Mary Winslow is my headcanon name for Jasmine Jolene. In this AU, she never took on an alias to join the world of performance. Instead, her husband, Avery Jones (OC), convinces her to settle down in surburbia and start a go at having a family. Turning her back on a wealthy suitor (Andrew Ryan), she agrees to marry Avery and give up her dreams of stardom in exchange for a life more like her own mother had. She seeks peace and happiness from this move. The opposite seems to occur.

This is only part one, if I even continue it, and it will most likely feature more characters. I had a nice emotional carthsis from writing this, as I focused on an area of life I’m struggling with and just ran with it. Share your thoughts, if you like. I just ask you to be kind about it. :)

Heads up: views expressed by characters are not always reflective of my personal views. I try to write in character, take what I interpret from their canon media as their POV. Just FYI. 

“Oh, Betty!” 

The tone was pitiful--- such sorrow, a dove crushed, desperate to seek flight to safety. She fell through the door, eyes twinkling with tears that were pure sadness, a drunkenness in her clumsy motions that were usually so graceful. 

Her friend noticed it; her lips set hard, blue eyes icy. But there was a hint of genuine concern beneath it all. She didn’t block the other woman from entry, a hand that came up to support her before she stumbled into the umbrella stand. 

“Mary, what on earth-? What’s happened?” Betty sputtered, bringing up her other hand to steady the woman. Tears rolled free, watery streaks of mascara that tarnished the usually pristine and perfect face, a face Betty had often envied with quiet resentment. A perverse enjoyment nestled within Betty at seeing her friend, Mary, like this. But it was cloaked underneath her concern, which she played up in her expression that studied the other openly. 

“Oh, Betty... Oh, god... I---”

Mary, a beautiful, bubbly blonde with the demeanor of a doe, looked like a wounded creature, seeming to only be held up by the woman she came to visit. Betty was much like Mary, a beautiful, young blonde, and yet there was something icy underneath those eyes, something unsatisfied and angry. A crack in porcelain, as Mary often pondered to herself. Nothing in her had the strength to question her friend. She was so desperate for help that she would throw herself to anyone’s mercy for comfort. Betty was the first person she thought to seek out. Betty, who was beautiful, in control, with a perfect life and beautiful family. Betty would know what to do. Betty would help her. 

“Mary, what’s the matter? Here, come into the living room. I’ll get you some coffee.”

Mary could’ve sobbed, knowing her friend realized she had been drinking. Mary was often so embarrassed when she wasn’t able to hide it and didn't try to make it apparent. She liked to think she had too much self respect, but she was such a mess that she had been drinking since the early morning. Had she even stopped from last night? She covered her face in shame. A pitiful, little noise left her throat, a whimper of agony. 

Betty held Mary's arms, loosened her grip as she could tell the other woman wasn’t going to fall out on the floor. That was the last thing she needed. She guided the crying woman into the living room, a colorful, sunny room freshly redecorated. She was glad the kids weren’t home. What a mess, she bitterly thought. She was sure Don wouldn’t be coming home soon, either. She didn’t like how Don smiled at Mary. It made her furious, yet she tried to calm her mind as she focused again on Mary in her current, sorrowful state. 

“Mary, what’s wrong?” She implored, a bite to her voice that she tried to play into a firm, motherly concern. 

Mary peered back at Betty with pools of vulnerable pain. The last several days shot through her drunken mind like a bolt of lightning. The cheating, the lying, the fighting. Fresh tears pooled up in her eyes, falling free as she covered her face again. 

“Oh, Betty... It’s.. Avery! God, he---!”

Already, Betty knew it had something to do with Mary’s husband. Mary was a flirt. Mary was too pretty and stupid for her own good. Of course she encouraged her husband into cheating on her. That had to be it! She felt a strange relief knowing it wasn’t just her....

“What, Mary? What did Avery do?” Betty felt like she was coaxing a child into admitting a problem. While there was a part of her that understood Mary, another didn’t like to be forced into taking on the woman’s issues like this. Betty had her own problems. Couldn’t Mary keep all this to herself like everyone else did? A sense of superiority came to her from this. Betty, the stronger woman. Betty, the one who could stay in control, or at least appear like she was. 

“He- He...! God... He’s gone, Betty! He’s left me!” A burst of sobs left Mary as she folded over herself. The whole world felt like it was ending for Mary. Maybe it was the vodka of Avery’s she had chugged like water before walking over in the early morning, but she felt like she was falling, twisting, in a cold, empty void. Dizzy, detached, like a bird falling out of the air. “Betty! Oh, what do I do? He’s left me!”

Betty remembered Avery Jones, Mary’s husband. A failed musician with a hard, intense face and broad shoulders, eyes that shined like a torch. He had sandy blonde hair that complimented his red-toned skin, always wore button-ups with his sleeves rolled up. Betty knew, from Mary’s own confession, how resentful he was that he never made it as a trumpet player, forced into an office job to support Mary in their cute, well-kept, little home down the street from Betty and her own family.

Avery wasn’t as good-looking as Mary was, despite her plain name. Mary was as beautiful as Marilyn Monroe or Grace Kelly, which filled Betty with her cruel, cold envy. If Betty was Grace, then Mary was certainly Marilyn. Betty, who used to be a model, was no longer the lone, beautiful blonde on the block. Betty, who wanted desperately to recall her worth in her beauty, felt threatened by Mary, who seemed oblivious to her own looks. At least, she acted like she didn’t own a mirror. Childless, she was a threat to every family in the neighborhood, her giggles and sugary words for everyone’s husbands that made many of the women dislike her. But Betty stuck by her. Why? Well, it made her look quite saintly at least. 

She summoned her voice up from her thoughts, “Oh, no. Mary, I’m so sorry.” 

Of course, this brought fresh pelts of sobbing from Mary who stayed curled over like a wounded animal, seeking shelter within herself. Mary shook her messy, blonde-haired head, knowing full well that she must seem a fool, smudging her perfect makeup, her unbrushed curls frizzy and wild. Maybe she was crazy for doing it, coming here to talk to someone, anyone, looking like she did, acting like she did. A ruined idol, something beautiful crashing to the floor and breaking into a million pieces. All she could feel was pain and sorrow. 

Through her sobbing, she choked, “What am I going to do? What do I do?!” The questions ricocheted all throughout her mind like shards of metal, wild debris tearing its way through. She felt Betty’s slender hand on her back, gentle as could be. This was what she wanted, something gentle after so long suffering the wild, angry behavior of her husband. She knew Betty was a sweet, put-together woman, someone she could rely on, someone she could lean on in this chaotic time of crisis. Mary responded to this touch, this comfort, by sitting up, revealing her tear-streaked, red face, splotchy and trailed black from her eyes, red smudged the shape of her trembling mouth. 

She looked like a terror, Betty thought to herself as she went to offer a tissue. She almost wished she could take a picture to show the other women in the neighborhood. Francine would eat this up with a spoon. It was perverse, for sure, but Betty couldn’t help it. Mary looked unlike anything she’d seen before, a woman in ruins, and, after being the hot talk of the town since moving in, seeing her in this state was sickeningly pleasing. The word would get around, certainly. It might make Mary’s situation worse, but everyone would know soon enough. Especially if Avery didn’t come back, which Betty figured he wouldn’t. Mary had to know the way she acted would eventually drive him away. A woman doesn’t flirt and coo and simper at every man in the neighborhood and expect her husband not to catch wind. She almost felt bad for Avery, remembering the way Mary paraded around in those tight shirts and pencil skirts and those body-hugging dresses that left nothing at all to the imagination. During the summer, Mary was spotted in her front yard in a bikini even Mamie Van Doren would’ve felt was too much, sunbathing and pawing through some book. Betty wanted to say, “Of course he did. What did you expect?” But, instead, she offered,

“Poor Mary. What happened? Why did he leave?” Now pleased, her tone was softer and reassuring, but it was certainly artificial. If anything, it was more tinged with her genuine curiosity as to what precisely happened. She wanted to know the fine details. Maybe she could learn a thing or two…

Mary sniffled and wiped her eyes, head rolling from the liquor. She felt like this all could’ve been a dream. Maybe it was. Maybe, with desperate hope, Mary was still in bed and all this was some wild fancy weaved together in her head. It would be nice if she could wake up and all of this not be true, not be real. But it was. She knew this as she thought back over what had happened last night. Through the haze of her drunkenness, she remembered what happened, but she tried to keep herself composed long enough to spit the story out to Betty.

“Oh, he was so angry! It was horrible! He had been drinking, I could smell it on him, and he was so very angry…” She fought the want to sob, the emotion that welled up from that statement, fresh pain like a torn wound. “He.. he was yelling at me, calling me names… I won’t tell you what he said exactly, but it was terrible… He was threatening me. I thought he was going to hit me. He was waving his fist around, emphasizing each word like he wanted to hit me each time.” This time she couldn’t resist getting a little choked up at the memory, how terrified she had been, frozen in place until he got too close, then taking flight across the room, behind the sofa, against the wall. “He got angrier every time I got away from him, then he’d throw something, vases, records, my mother’s lamp…” 

“That’s what I heard last night…” Betty uttered, looking away in recollection before affirming, “I thought it might’ve been some alley cats fighting.” 

Mary shook her head, taking Betty’s hand while she dabbed at her eyes, lip quivering. This silently surprised Betty, but she didn’t pull away as Mary went on, “No, it was him. He was crashing everything like he wanted to bring the place down. I told him I would call the cops if he didn’t stop it!” Still, fresh as a wound, the horror replayed itself in her eyes, a heavy drunk swinging and swearing and shouting, threatening to kill her, to ring her neck until the eyes popped out of her head. Betty could almost see it herself, the tension that feels like it’s going to crush you, can’t breathe, heart flying like it wants to escape, when the hands touch you like you’d never believe it, like it never could’ve happened. His anger, his hands pushing you hard away. Feeling like you could throw up because he’s never looked like that before, looked at you like that before. Suddenly, everything changes. Happiness gets harder and harder to bring back. He’s different. Or, maybe he had always been that way. 

A softening began to undo the icy defense, and Betty couldn’t help but squeeze the woman’s hand. She understood. She knew what it felt like. She knew. 

“Oh, Betty…” Mary whimpered, returning the gesture and, with a bit of effort, turned her eyes elsewhere. It brought a great comfort to Mary to see the earnestness in Betty’s stare. She suspected Betty would understand her situation, as she wondered just how perfect everything truly was at home. Betty’s husband was rumored to be taking long hours at work, staying out of town, very rarely was he seen at home unless there was some event going on. Some thought it was truly just his work, but others had different ideas. 

Both hands took Betty’s. Mary felt like her heart was breaking and would fall out of her chest. Part of her wished it could, so the agony of it all would be over. Betty’s hands were soft, small, with pretty, well-manicured nails like little pink pearls.There were a few moments where both women were one in their emotion; such wounds their men could leave and then, like nothing, run away. To be left alone, confused, hurt, afraid. Yes, it was like a weighted veil draped over them both, obscuring the world, inside and out, lost and isolated from everyone else. The secret they carried, the darkest parts to always lurk like devils inside. Keep them quiet and try to keep moving. 

Betty blinked hard, frowning, cleared her throat and took her hands away. She stood up, a floating white thing in frills and lace and shiny, candy shoes. She looked like she had walked off the set of a fashion shoot, like the girls in Harper’s Bazaar. Mary wished she could achieve that fresh, wholesome, girl-next-door appearance like Betty did. Mary wondered if men hounded Betty the same way they did her. Did they look at Betty and see the cold goddess, the untouchable beauty? Were they more like followers, devotees, worshippers? She hoped so. Mary was used to wolves. Mary more often felt like something to be unwrapped and devoured. 

Mary looked down, wiped her eyes of tears, wanting all of this to be over. Betty lingered only a fraction of a second before she headed for the bright, little kitchen with a murmur of, “Let me get you some coffee…” 

[sainz100]

2024 Abu Dhabi GP

[dieselocelot]

no art ideas. redraw film stuff time

[fussystreetlight]

If you're in the Twisted Wonderland fandom, please block twstcallouts. They're an anti run blog that encourages people to send in blogs that post "problematic" things ostensibly so people "know who (are pedos) to block". I'm not encouraging harassment but this blog is even if they're not aware of it.

[wanderer-clarisse]

if you saw me accidentally post something no you didnt :) instead here's a sneak peak on a short comic I'm working on about Finrod

[please-let-this-work-oh-my-god]

One thing I find very interesting, as a learner of German, is Isolde's usage of du when speaking to Kakania. In German, there are three main second person pronouns: du, ihr and Sie. The first two are mainly used in informal and casual settings or when talking to people you're close with (with du being singular and ihr being plural sorta similar to english's y'all) while Sie is used in more formal situations (or situations which require some form of formality) such as talking to strangers, customer service or when you're talking to a doctor/patient. Kakania abides by this and uses Sie when talking to Isolde (such as in her speech at the end of chapter 6) but interestingly, Isolde doesn't reciprocate this and instead uses du when conversing with Kakania in German.

This is super fascinating to me because it implies different levels of closeness within their relationship. Isolde's usage of du implies a level of closeness and intimacy to Kakania as Isolde herself saw Kakania as a close friend (most likely due to the fact that Kakania was once of the few people in Vienna who actually sympathized with her and saw her as a human being) but Kakania's siezen suggests a certain level of estrangement or distance between her and Isolde. Of course. this could just be her maintaining her professionalism as doctors normally use Sie when talking to patients but with how things turned out after chapters 6 and 7, I'd like to think this goes deeper than just formality standards.

[katnissmellarkkk]

Only a couple more posts like this and then I’ll leave y’all alone but… I don’t know how to explain or articulate it properly but there is something I’ve never picked up on before that I suddenly caught when re-reading Mockingjay.

These two moments… when you compare and contrast them…

Gale’s touch and taste and heat remind me that at least my body’s still alive, and for the moment it’s a welcome feeling. I empty my mind and let the sensations run through my flesh, happy to lose myself. When Gale pulls away slightly, I move forward to close the gap, but I feel his hand under my chin. “Katniss,” he says. The instant I open my eyes, the world seems disjointed. This is not our woods or our mountains or our way. My hand automatically goes to the scar on my left temple, which I associate with confusion. “Now kiss me.” Bewildered, unblinking, I stand there while he leans in and presses his lips to mine briefly. He examines my face closely. “What’s going on in your head?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper back.

she says here she’s (somewhat passively) giving gale all that she withheld from him (when peeta, in her mind, was still a possibility) and thinks at least kissing him makes her feel somewhat alive, but even during the kiss she’s not present or focused on gale, and he catches onto that. but the portion highlighted is the important part of this scene. she is startled back into reality when gale calls her name and her awakening is the realization that this isn’t their way. she doesn’t even say “this isn’t my way” (as in, kissing isn’t something she does unless on camera for a show). and she doesn’t say “this isn’t our woods or our mountains or our home” (as in, this place is unfamiliar and strange and scary and that’s what’s disjointing her). no, she says “this isn’t our way”. because this isn’t what she does with gale. kissing gale feels alien and wrong in her heart. even with peeta out of the picture.

and then the second passage from later down the line in mockingjay:

Like the mutts. Like a rabid beast bent on ripping my throat out. And here, finally here in this place, in these circumstances, I will really have to kill him. And Snow will win. Hot, bitter hatred courses through me. Snow has won too much already today.

It’s a long shot, it’s suicide maybe, but I do the only thing I can think of. I lean in and kiss Peeta full on the mouth. His whole body starts shuddering, but I keep my lips pressed to his until I have to come up for air. My hands slide up his wrists to clasp his. “Don’t let him take you from me.”

peeta, who she claims to have given up on, is begging to be left behind. how many times has she claimed throughout this book that she wishes he was dead (either to end his suffering or to end her own)? and right here, she has just blown up the halo to mercifully kill finnick. she is so desensitized to death by this point. and she thinks she’s so desensitized to peeta. she doesn’t even want to consider he still is peeta. but here, when she has every reason to put him (and herself) out of his misery, she instead turns to kissing him. why? why would you kiss the monster who is actively fighting to not murder you with his bare hands? why would you kiss the boy you called a mutt? the one who you have already done your best to let go of? why would that even cross your mind as a last ditch effort?

because kissing peeta isn’t disjointing and it’s not something she only did for the cameras and it’s certainly not something she’s only doing passively. she’s kissing peeta to remind him who he is. to remind herself who he is to her. she’s tried so hard to stop caring for him, to sever the cord between the two of them, but in this moment she just can’t. she kisses him and says “don’t let him take you from me”.

because the act of kissing actually is their way.

[azrail-has-a-vendetta]

do you ever think that Epic Odysseus spends a good deal of time trying to be extra “greet the world with open arms” after the war because he can’t look at the world the same way when there is a crying in his ears? He sees the blood streaming down the giants face and all he can see is the crushed and bloody and small body? That every time he thinks of his son, his tiny heart beating in his arms, he hears the heartbeat that rang in his ears as he held a swaddle of cloth over a wall, trying not to think about what lay inside? As he spare another life he thinks about the one he didn’t? As they sail through the underworld there is a form the swirls along side the others, one that he purposefully doesn’t acknowledge, a tiny thing wailing and oh gods it sounds like his son. And then he stops, he decides to “be the monster” and he stops holding the infant, he finally drops it and the blood on his hands is brighter and it won’t come off and he can’t touch his son cause he might drop him too. But Telemachus isn’t a baby, the crying sound is just in his head, besides Odysseus couldn’t hold his son like that anymore. Odysseus is a different man, and stopped trying to balance the universe by saving another when he already has so much blood on his hands. What is another drop going to do?

or are you normal?

[daeyumi]

gonna try to queue up the rest of my old art that i haven’t posted here yet, i realize i’ve been kind of generally absent from social media here & haven’t had any new art to post recently 😭

tbh i’ve been working rly hard on an animatic for my zelda au cycle of the stars, i may not finish til late next month cuz i’m gonna be rly busy for the next few weeks but look forward to it!

anyways new (old) art posts incoming, first one should be up in a few mins

[dreamerwriternstargazer]

Sometimes I see those posts from art accounts that have like really put together, only art posts and I feel tempted to delete all personal posts off my blog

And this thought today led me down a long thought path. Which was primarily, I don't....particularly like my personal vent posts on here. I mean they're not there to be liked, they're there to help me process things but... I also don't like to look back on them.

I mean writing on here is meant to be like a journal right? Journals are there to help through the act of writing, not the end result, though the end result can be helpful in a self reflective sense occasionally but for the most part it's about the process.

And then I realised... I've had one of the worst times of my life lately, and not once did venting or the thought of venting do anything to help it. For a lot of reasons, because I... couldn't voice it, because it would be another thing to obsess over, because I can't be as honest and true and personal as I would be in a literal journal because... I'm still posting things on the internet. And yeah it's Tumblr, it's a black hole, but it's still strangers on the internet reading my thoughts so.... I can't go too deep.

I've hit this point where I was trying to... go halfway, like keep it as this fun cutesy blog but then have some halfway personal venting posts. In the end, I just feel kind of dissatisfied because I'm not being fully honest, or if I am it feels so out of place with everything else.

And yeah it's a Tumblr blog it's not meant to be that serious, that helps, I like thinking of Tumblr like a commonplace notebook I keep just online. But.... the halfway personal/vent things, they feel disingenuous and out of place because they're... so unfinished, so calculated. Forced sometimes. There's this pressure I feel on myself, that I'm putting on myself. That pressure gets stronger to do the cute or fun posts if I've done a vent post, or to make the vent post.... I don't know, good, palatable, refined. I can't think of the right word but... something not spontaneous and genuine.

I think a lot about why I started this blog... it was ages ago around 2020 and because I had this idea in my head of, I don't know, being this spectacular writer and journalist writing really cool think pieces and changing the world, or at least the people who interact with my blog. Then it just, became like a commonplace notebook and that was fun, some curated posts to sort of fit the vibe I wanted, but personal.

Messy, messy is how it's gotten, and messy is fine in a journal, I might cringe looking back at old journals but there's a little fondness too, it's like meeting my past selves and being able to hold all the memories and emotions. But online is messy because... personal, and I need to be a little guarded, I can't be free, and I guess it sort of messes with when I want to have more light, cheery things on my blog. Or rather, it takes me away from spending time reading, or sewing or drawing and painting or any of the other hobbies I love that I can make cute and fun posts about. It takes me away from the time I want to spend on religion too, on reading Qur'aan and learning and memorising it, listening to and learning from lectures.

This leads into another thought which is... if the venting itself is not free, and it doesn't quite help my mental state, then it's just time wasted on something empty instead of another coping mechanism, one of the hobbies mentioned above, which could help me a lot. I'm realising that it's just an added pressure, and a really unnecessary one that often makes my head spin.

I think overstimulation probably adds to it too, social media scrolling is easy to do in bad moments because you're frozen, so you may as well scroll. It kind of feeds into the worst of it. I've been meaning to take a bit more of a step away from social media anyway, I wouldn't say I'm addicted but I definitely don't like the feeling I get when I'm in a freeze state or I'm tired and I scroll instead of spending time on a hobby.

Honestly I've been thinking a lot about the time I spend on things I enjoy, and it's not that Tumblr isn't a hobby but I preferred how I used it before; a record of all my interests. I liked it when I spent most of my time on my hobbies, and I just realised that it's been a while since I've done that, because poor mental health and extra work and studies... I feel like social media is the equivalent of eating a bag of crisps for dinner instead of a proper meal. Like sometimes you really don't have the energy and capability to do it, to cook something nice for yourself.

But I've learnt I gotta got that extra mile to cook a nice meal for myself ^_^ It gives me something to look forward to at the end of the day, or the beginning, it actually feels fun to do even if it feels like a big task to start, and it is good for me.

So, I wanna cook the meals again. I say I don't have time for things but I think if I added up the five minutes here and there on Tumblr and Instagram, I'd at least get an extra hour to have fun reading or painting or baking or sewing or something.

I guess it's a new mindset shift for me, I'm used to fitting work and studies in into every spare moment I can, that's how I operated for a lot of my life to make sure my academics were prioritised. Now I realise the importance of play and downtime, and I hadn't yet figured out that I need to prioritise it the same way. I'm going to try to now.

And going off of my earlier point, about how Tumblr isn't the same as journalling, well... something I really do miss about journalling is the physicality of it. The sitting with a cup of tea or coffee and writing in cursive in a pretty notebook ^_^ It feels so much more natural, and it's a keepsake, and most of all, private. Obviously I've... always had issues with privacy growing up, a warning my aunt used to give me was hah don't keep a journal in that house, it's probably not private.

That's a fear I still feel, but also... I have sketchbooks and journals and loads of things already and I mean, quite honestly you get to a certain age where no one cares. Not to say I am going to be careless in any way, Insha'Allah, I keep my phone very private anyway, same for my sketchbooks and personal collection boxes, but... I think I should.... give a little. I can give a little, I can give myself outlets. It's true that my current journal/sketchbook is mostly just out anyway and no one bats an eye.

So this brings me a little to the question; well, what is Tumblr for if you have a journal and sketchbook? I think I'll still use it, just not in the same capacity. Tumblr is for art posts, or odd or amusing one liners that pass through my mind everyday XD I actually save funny thoughts just for Tumblr or relatable thoughts. I also kinda want to return to my original thing, or what it was a couple of years ago; making fun cute posts about my interests, essays definitely, fanfic obviously, it doesn't need to be put together it can still be my eclectic digital commonplace notebook, but just... not a faux journal either.

Something I love to see are those moodboards on Tumblr and I've done a few myself but not as an actual.... board. I know there's some apps I can use on the iPad to make collages stuff and that makes me excited, so maybe I could start making posts like that (a la Polyvore, my first social media site, always missed :'))

I guess this might be my last journal-esque post in a while? Okay writing that made my anxiety do a thing (*shushes anxiety creature clinging to my brain*) IT IS NOT A LAST POST OF ANY KIND

But yeah I miss the artsy, literary vibes of curling up with my notebook on a cold day, so that'll be my new habit Insha'Allah. New, old habit. I feel like one thing Tumblr did do is train me to be okay with imperfect and messy, I feel like the reason my journal writing dropped off last time was because I was trying to force it so much. Over the past few years I've gotten so creative and loosened up a lot, so I'm hoping it'll show in my journal. Furthermore, the last time I was writing a journal, I really didn't have much to talk about because I was so 1. closed off and 2. limited in my hobbies and creative practices, I didn't have things to write about, I had just lost horse riding and I was consumed with studies only... I'm hoping there'll be a bigger difference now.

A part of me feels sort of nervous, I... only ever kept a journal during dark periods of my life too. I don't have the best associations to it, and even if I'm going through some rough times now, I don't really consider it a dark time... my anxiety brain is kind of overheating and going "but bad things!" and I know that's not rational. We should always think the best of what Allah has written for us, having good thoughts of Allah and having a more hopeful outlook on life is the best thing to do so I'll try to hold that in my heart more. If I find it's a bit too scary at first, that's fine I can just stick to prioritising my religion and health and hobbies, it'll follow naturally Insha'Allah i just need to not put pressure on myself.

I think I'll probably spend a lot less time online overall, just because I want to spend that time on all my other interests, not to mention I want to actually put time into making a proper online presence for myself as an artist.

Right now I wanna lie down and read for a chunk of time :D so I'll do that

[tetedurfarm]

so i been thinkin

this blog has been rabbits only with very little discussion of my day to day for many years, and my other occasional farm-related posts i usually just put on my main. but lately i've been kinda wanting a more farm-specific blog to share more of what goes on out here and other projects i'm doing and i'm curious if you guys would like to see those posts here, or if you'd prefer if i kept this blog to just rabbits?

[lesbiancarat]

want to give my two cents on the AI usage in the maestro trailer--

i think seventeen doing a whole concept that is anti-AI is very cool, especially as creatives themselves i think it's good that they're speaking up against it and i hope it gets more ppl talking about the issue. i also understand on a surface level the artistic choice (whether it was made by the members, the mv director, or whoever else), to directly use AI in contrast to real, human-made visuals and music in order to criticize it. i also appreciate that they clearly stated the intention of the use of AI at the beginning of the video

however, although i understand it to an extent, i do not agree with the choice to use AI to critique AI. one of the main ethical concerns with generative AI is that it is trained on other artists' work without their knowledge, consent, or compensation. and even when AI generated images are being used to critique AI, it still does not negate this particular ethical concern

the use of AI to critique also does not negate the fact that this is work that could have been done by an actual artist. i have seen some people argue that it's okay in this context because it's a critique specifically about AI, and it is content that never would have been done by a real artist anyway because it doesn't make sense for the story they're trying to tell. but i disagree. i think you can still tell the exact same story without using AI

and in fact, i would argue that it would make the anti-AI message stronger if they HAD paid an artist to draw/animate the scenes that are supposed to represent AI generated images. wouldn't it just be proof that humans can create images that are just as bad and nonsensical and soulless as AI, but that AI can't replicate the creativity and beauty and basic fucking anatomy that's in human-made art?

it feels very obvious this was not just a way to cut corners and costs like a lot of scummy people are using AI for. ultimately it was a very intentional creative decision, i just personally think it was a very poor one. and even if some ethical considerations were taken into account before this decision, i certainly don't think all of them were. at the very least i feel like the decision undermines the message they want to convey

i would also like to recognize that i myself am not an artist, and i have seen some artists that are totally on board with the use of AI in this specific context, so clearly this is not a topic that is cut and dry. but generative AI is still new, and i think it's important to keep having these conversations

[web-novel-polls]

I know it's been, like, over half a year, and I probably shouldn't be concerned with it anymore, but I think what bugs me so badly about people being so self-righteous about Jiang Cheng "being homophobic" in the Aroace Spec Character Tournament is that directly correlates to actual experiences and interactions I see within the LGBTQIA+ community. It's so close to the fear and shame that leads to the question of, "how much of comfortability and well-being do I have to give up to live within an amatonormative world? At what point do I speak up about my own repulsion? Do I ever?Why am I the always the one who has to change?"

I can't help but come back to that AITA about an aro and/or ace GSA member who was shamed and called homophobic by what should be their own community for the simple crime of looking away from PDA. Their club advisor who acted like they were the problem because it's "supposed to be a safe space for the other kids" but not really answering whether it's also supposed to be a safe space for the submitter. How aroace people are "included" until they're uncomfortable or don't want to talk about sex or romance. How sex and romance repulsed aroaces are never allowed to show repulsion, or they're prudes, homophobic, ruining the fun. Why is someone being uneasy something THEY have to apologize for? Why is it an attack, if not to protect the amatonormative idea that anyone who is personally unsatisfied, uncomfortable, rejecting of love and sex is somehow lesser or hostile to love and sex itself? How aroace are we allowed to be before we become "problematic"?

[I'm aware this is an emotional reaction for this specific instance. Don't be weird. Don't be a dick. Don't be aroace-phobic. Do be gay and aro and ace and trans and-]

[getyinyusedtoit]

how do you say "actually!!" in an excited to share way and not an "erm actually ☝️🤓" way??

[sillylilneurodivergent]

Me because Descendants really had to hit us with “It’s what Carlos would’ve wanted”

R.I.P Cameron Boyce💗🕊️

(might delete this later)

[laugtherhyena]

Maybe this is an unpopular opinion but i really don't think Mouthwashing is the kinda game people should be making Aus out of