#if you wanna talk about something else.

[shittyutmv]

hey guys . i just took the longest piss of my life.

[licorishh]

double ?? upload ???? yeaaaahh i've gotten FASTERRrr for whatever that's worth so complementary blyla because guess what i miss them too (nobody was surprised by that)

[solarpunkani]

"Oh no, someone's attracted to the aesthetics of my -punk movement but doesn't know the praxis and history behind it like I do--"

OK. Tell them. Make it a teaching moment. Everyone who's in your movement learned the background from somewhere at some point, maybe this is that point for that person. Give them a jumping off point that they can dive into later.

"Oh but I shouldn't be responsible for teaching baby -punks about the history and the how-tos and--"

OK. Then don't tell them. You don't have to be responsible for teaching people with a budding interest in your group the ins and outs and how-tos. That's fair and valid! It can be a lot of work. Someone else will handle it

"But I'm annoyed that they would try to claim to be part of/be interested in my community without knowing all the details that I know after being in it for months/years/decades, they're dumb, they're posers, they're--"

OK. Then don't engage with them, if it's that bad. Maybe someone else will come around and tell them the history, maybe they'll pick it up on their own, maybe they'll just enjoy the fashion elements for awhile.

"But they shouldn't claim to be part of the -punk community if they don't know the--"

I feel like we have a few options here. People can either talk to them, share the history, share the values, share the praxis. Or they can just chase off anyone who even thinks about dipping a toe in their community, and then wonder why it's dying off later down the line.

I dunno, maybe I'm too naive and patient or whatever. But if people are entering your -punk spaces without knowing The Rundown of what you feel they need to know, maybe being nice about it and informing people instead of immediately assuming stupidity and malicious intent could help you make a new friend. Even the loudest voices in a space had to learn from somewhere, and not everyone has the luxury of being in the space as the History was Happening--whether it's an age thing or a not being aware of the space thing. Or maybe I just don't see what the big deal is behind people hating people who like the aesthetic of something and don't know the behind the scenes history about it yet.

Because I believe in the word 'yet.' No one comes into this world knowing everything about everything, and we're all constantly learning new things. I'm not gonna degrade someone and call them a poser for not knowing what I know. Because if it were me, interested in a scene but getting chased out and called a poser? I wouldn't hit the books and study up, I'd go 'that fuckin sucks, those people sucked' and then avoid anyone and anything having to do with it.

So chase people off and call them posers if you want. But if your community starts dwindling, don't be fucking shocked.

[shima-draws]

Me: BRO. Can you imagine if Luffy activated Gear 5 2 years earlier at Marineford

AO3: Hey boo I gotchu

Me: AY-YO????

[the-jam-to-the-unicorn]

An attempt to express my thoughts about today.

(under the cut because it's long)

Well, I'm still speechless. I keep thinking about what word best describes how I feel after this fiasco (and that may be the understatement of the century), but I'm not sure that there is a suitable word for it. Which even begins to describe what I feel. Anger, even rage, disgust, humiliation, ... none of them feel like they even begin to describe what this feels like.

Today is one of the darkest, most shameful, most pathetic and most disgraceful days in American history. And somehow in the world, too. The sad thing is that, considering current developments and today, it cannot be ruled out that even darker days may follow. NEVER before have the walls of the White House been defiled with such audacity and impudence as they were today - and these walls have seen and experienced a lot. And I'm not talking about, like Trump says, Ze's actions. But about what Trump, Vance and their minions did today. A democratically elected leader of a country is sitting there, a country that has been courageously trying to defend itself and survive in a genocidal war of aggression for years. And he has to put up with insults and being shouted at, with humiliation and degradation, is showered with propaganda and then thrown out on the street like a dog. A man who has been going through hell in both his work and private life for three years and every day, who is traumatised beyond belief and has basically given up his whole life and everything and makes sacrifices every day. A man who sacrifices himself for his country to the very last bit of himself. And does all this not out of greed or a craving for recognition or because he wants to go down in history as the greatest, but because he is a man of honesty and integrity, of morality and humanity, of characer and deceny and because he deeply believes in what he stands for and fights for. He believes in his country and its people. He believes in democracy, freedom, sovereignty, peace.

And then there is Trump, who could hardly be a more despicable and odious person. And he has the audacity to treat Ze like that. They deliberately let him walk into a trap and then, in front of the entire world, they tried to take him down like the worst kind of schoolyard bully. And they did it in a language that he, mind you, doesn't even speak perfectly.

If I were Ze, I wouldn't have had even 10% of the patience and composure that he showed in that situation. I would be dead right now because the Secret Service would have shot me for punching those two assholes.

Ze responded to the absolutely insane, completely unjustified, shameful and deliberately destructive attack with admirable restraint. He tried to explain, he remained human, he tried to focus on the matter at hand, to stick to the topic. He is the strongest person in the world for having endured this whole shit show with absolutely unique self-control, without punching them.

Ze travelled to Washington, into the lion's den, with honest intentions and a firm interest and desire for cooperation, partnership, future and peace. Not Ze betrayed Ukraine today. Not even in the slightest. Today, Ukraine was betrayed by America, definitively and somehow unsurprisingly.

And it was right that Ze did not just sit there silently, nodding and smiling obediently. Ze is not a small child who has misbehaved and is now being scolded in front of the adults and has to accept it.

He remained steadfast and firm. As he should be. He did not back down. He did not allow them to intimidate him. He did not allow them to bully him. And by doing all of this, he did not allow them to bully Ukraine either. He stood his ground like he always stood his ground - on the day, when they told him to flee and form an exile government. During every hard moment in the past three years. And now. And he showed very clearly that he will NEVER allow Russia or the US or anyone that he gets pressured into surrendering Ukraine or giving up on his country or betraying it.

As much as I understand the fear that is now in the air and the big question of ‘what will happen next?’ - both of which I also feel. Of course I am now just as concerned and anxious as everyone else about whether we have seen the end of Ukraine today. But I REFUSE to give up hope. I refuse to give Putin and Trump and Vance and Elon the satisfaction of simply giving up and having no hope. Ukraine has surprised the world so often and turned seemingly hopeless situations in its favour. What they need more than ever is the whole world standing behind them and supporting them and not giving up hope.

Ze's reaction was absolutely right and if there is one person here who cannot be accused of ANY wrongdoing - neither today nor in the last few weeks and since Trump took office - it is Ze. He deserves all the respect in the world for fighting back and not surrendering. Trump and his assholes were NEVER interested in doing anything for or in the interests of Ukraine. That was a tender shoot of hope and a beautiful pipe dream, but far too many people have forgotten what kind of person Trump is. And what he has already done in the past. He withheld important support. He constantly spoke badly about Ukraine. He considers Putin a genius and has the best relations with him. We KNOW that Russia has bought him and that Trump is a Russian agent and that he has so many dead bodies in his cellar that you could fill entire cemeteries with them.

In summary, let me say: the day will go down in history. Just very differently than it should have been.

Today could have been a historic day, with the US taking a new powerful position in world history, standing up to Russia and creating a unique peace that would benefit Europe and the whole world for decades to come.

Instead, it has become one of the darkest days and chapters in American history.

A US president, a US vice president and their team have unjustifiably and in an unprecedented, shameful and disgraceful manner attacked the democratic leader of a country at war in front of the assembled world press and sided with a terrorist state and a dictator.

The world must support Ukraine. Ukraine MUST win. Ukraine must achieve a JUST peace, including ALL its territories. Otherwise, what we have seen today will merely be a harbinger of what is to come for us all in the future.

[necrotic-nephilim]

in lieu of having posted any writing/headcanons/asks in the past few days because i have been *so* busy and unable to do anything fandom-related which is terrible and evil, i have a poll out of morbid curiosity and self-indulgence. i've been meaning to ramble here about how i feel about DC's lack fo Deaf representation and which Batfam members i would personally make Deaf, but i am mildly curious about the larger opinion and now i will subject you all to the question, i would love to hear thoughts/opinions/headcanons on any specific choices. (would love d/Deaf/HoH opinions esp but i'm mostly expecting this to reach the hearing crowd, so opinions from hearing ppl are ones i'm very curious about. if you've never given it thought before you are going to now or else /lh)

[transsexula]

No. Google. I'm actually looking specifically for trans MEN. I know a lot of articles talk about trans women. But I'm specifically looking for stuff about my subset of the trans community. Why the fuck are trans men so hyper-invisible.

[princehendir]

To be clear the meat & dairy industries are ecocidal human and animal torture labyrinths, and the executives and bosses benefitting from them should be guillotined in the streets like dogs. I also think that killing and eating animals as a platonic concept is not an evil in and of itself, and will never be done away with completely, and maybe shouldn't be. Also I love soy and I don't think lab grown meat will ever work at scale. My final message.

[tunastime]

Recovery One

Washington undergoes experimental surgery: installing Project Freelancer's AI program into his head. Epsilon tries to break his way out of Washington's skull. Washington deals with the symptoms of a thing that wants nothing but to escape.

aeuhmmm so I got a little silly with the freelancers again and decided to write something about what wash and epsilon might've gone through before it was extracted for obvious reasons. this is chapter one! tagged this pretty heavily on ao3 but tw for blood, injury, medical procedures, emotional hurt/comfort, and trauma. (3238 words) (read it on ao3!)

The walls of the Mother of Invention seem colder tonight. It's like Washington's body is a heat source, and the hard beds of Recovery One are the sink, drawing every last shred of warmth from where his flimsy surgical clothes meet cloth. He can feel the handful of sensors stuck to his skin, along the inside of his left wrist, keeping careful track of his heart rate, his oxygen, and his blood pressure. The base of his skull is still aching, a thrum that settles equally in the channel of his spine. 

Cold, shivering, curled pathetically on that hard mattress, Washington is trying to sleep. He's twitchy, stomach twisted into rough knots, and every time he shuts his eyes the spinning of the world only gets worse. The gravity on Invention is generated by a massive column of constantly pulsing electricity, but if Wash were to step foot onto the ground below him, he's certain he'd float upward far too quickly. Or fall face down. One of those would definitely happen. 

He tries to breathe through the wave of nausea that passes. It's all a byproduct of the chip in his skull. The voice is quiet for now. They're fighting to use the same body—his body, with all its human joints and mostly untorn muscles and surficial bruises and just a handful of really broken bones. It hurts like something electric shudders just under the first few layers of skin, or like someone took his nerves and ran them through the shredder. He kind of feels like the paper in the shredder, or the shredder itself. Or maybe the paper when it’s half in the shredder and half out. When's the last time he held a piece of paper? Did people still shred paper? He breathes again.

He's under a 24 hour watch. Twenty four hours of this. He screws his eyes shut and the ship around him swings back and forth on a pendulum. He digs his fingers into the muscles of his shoulders and tries to breathe through it. The stars start to fade after a moment of breaths through his teeth. North used to joke about how anxious Theta made him—that swing of artificial fear through his nervous system, how he had to breathe through the waves of adrenaline to keep himself level. Little spikes happened now and then, making a purely perfunctory condition ten times worse, but North seemed to nurture himself until the feeling gave way to something productive. 

Wash isn’t having that much luck. 

It wasn’t something easy to pin down. He wasn’t just anxious, or sad, or angry. He wasn’t happy, or disgusted, or a middle combination of the emotions he knew how to regulate. It felt like a swirl of everything, of nothing, completely out of his grasp. The AI—Epsilon—was having a field day as he tore open the synapses of Wash’s standing memory and tried to make room. And Wash was fighting back. The lines had already begun to blur and Wash could only assume the after-effects were due to that unalignment, that unmeshed surface. Epsilon needed a blank slate. It was the only thing Wash wasn’t able to offer.

When he breathes again, his stomach turns violently. He lurches, hands grasping at the cool bedside, swallowing hard. His hands shake as they hold onto the smooth surface below him. Okay, fine—eyes open. Another breath out of his teeth. He can taste sour in the back of his mouth. 

The world is foggy when he opens his eyes again. He drags himself up slowly as his head continues to spin like a wobbly top. The top sheet comes with him, wrapped over his shoulders as he drags himself into the bathroom. There’s a moment where he wobbles, stepping forward for the first time, socked foot firmly set on the floor. He can’t even think—the quiet that was there seems to settle into a background of whispers he can’t make out. He speaks out loud to himself, trying to get a word into his crowded brain, or to force himself to step forward.

“I need a drink, that’s it,” he says, in a voice he’s not sure is entirely his own anymore. He swallows again. Anything to get the taste out of his mouth. He can hear that echo of a voice bounce around inside his skull as he drags himself forward uneasily.

“Please,” Wash manages to garble out. “I can’t… I can’t help you.”

He manages to stumble to the doorway of the bathroom, sheet left crumpled at his feet as he braces hard on the edge of the sink. His breaths come fast and hard as he stands upright, fingers white-knuckled where they grip the countertop. The world tilts, and he feels his body slump into the wall  beside him. The white light of the room does little to obscure the sheen of sweat on his face, or the way his hands shake as he tries to turn on the faucet. He cups his hands. The water is cold on his flushed and feverish skin. He presses his cool, damp palms to his eyes and drinks from his hands. Washington breathes. The world seems to settle as the cool air hits his skin. He’s not seeing double for now.

The moment of reprieve is short-lived. His stomach folds over itself, rolling a cold, then hot wave across his skin as he doubles over the sink. The voice inside his head is slamming against the walls of his skull like it could break through. He can’t understand the words, how they crush and morph together against the new spike of pain behind his eyes, but it sounds like screaming. Something scared, and horrified, and desperate, pleading. But maybe that’s him. 

He gags. The rest of his dinner comes up in the sink. He coughs, trying to swallow it back down, nose stinging. He heaves in a breath. His eyes water and he doesn’t stop them from dripping off his cheeks. 

Breathing heavily, Wash drags his hand over his face. It comes back damp, still shaking. He can taste iron in the back of his throat. When he looks in the mirror, eyes dark and sunken, it’s like he can barely recognize the face looking back at him. Wash shuts his eyes tightly. He holds to the edges of the sink, breath shuddering and whistling as he inhales. More tears fall; fear, grief, nothing actually his. 

“I can’t—” he says, he sobs, as the voice—Epsilon—pleads. Pleads for him to make space, to be something other than he is, to let him out, to let him go. “They won’t—” 

Across the room, there’s a quiet knock on the door. He jolts, eyes darting to the closed door. Another knock. Wash brings up a shaky hand, wiping the tears from his chin. He rinses off what he can from his hands, pulling tissues to dry his face. He can still taste the film of bile in the back of his mouth. Washington steadies, blinking his eyes fully open.

“Wash, it’s North. Came to check up on you.”

North. Oh. Wash shudders as he laughs, just a little. Sure. He leans back from the sink, lowering himself gingerly to the floor to grab the sheet. As he steps carefully to the bedside, he replaces the sheet and begs that he finds his sense of composure before he opens the door.

“Coming,” he manages, voice wavering.

He makes his way around the bed, hand braced slightly on the wall as he steps over. The door slides open as he stand in the doorway.

North is standing in his pajamas, a concerned sort of pull to his face. He smiles a little when Wash opens the door, but Wash is too busy staring at his own socked feet and North’s boots to really notice. North’s voice is soft when he speaks. It reminds Wash of the one time South blacked out during dive training and North wouldn’t leave her side.

“How’s it goin’, buddy?” North says gently.

“Best day of my life,” Wash jokes, laughing weakly. North huffs out a laugh, folding his arms.

“I know they’ve got you under watch, so you’re in good hands,” he says, inclining his head. “How’s the headache? The tingling? Anything blurry?”

Wash takes a second, sighing and shutting his eyes. It’s funny that North would say that, isn’t it. He gets the shuddering feeling of something not his own as he stands propped against the wall, trying to hold himself up.

“Still painful,” he manages, pressing his hands to his eyes. “Everything’s blurry.”

“Yeesh—” North says, sucking in a breath through his teeth. “You’re taking it slow though, right?”

Wash nods.

“I’m trying to,” he says. “Best I can given the circumstances. It’s hard to sleep with all the…” He waves his hand around listlessly around his head, as if trying to get his point across. The voice. The emotions. Whatever chugged through his memory and forced itself in. It was an almost-physical, painful sensation. North nods knowingly. Wash doubts that he knows much at all.

“I’m sorry, Wash,” North says, his concern sincere. “It’ll get better with time, though. You’ll have a few days to settle in before the Director sends you out on missions, I’m sure.”

Wash nods again. It’s the most he can really do. His head feels like it’s full of soup gone sour.

“Right,” he says slowly, the words thickening in his mouth to a paste. “Right, I hope so.”

North smiles. He can tell, all of a sudden, as he does every time North summons Theta to the front, how right he was for his AI, how much the nurturing nature he so eagerly kept hidden blossomed when it was needed, when it would be properly appreciated. That smile alone settles a warm swirl through Wash’s chest, trickling into his lungs and his heart. The same happens when North reaches out, cupping his shoulder with his broad palm and squeezing, just enough to feel the heat of his hand. He jostles Washington slightly as he does. Wash manages a smile, huffing out through his nose, his eyes falling shut again as he lets the comfort of touch sink in for just a moment. As North draws his hand away and Wash straightens, North says:

“Alright, I’ll let you get back to resting, okay Wash?”

Wash hums in response.

“You let me know if you need anything. We’re all just down a floor—I’m sure York and I wouldn’t mind stopping in.”

Wash sighs, finally pushing himself to a stand, away from the wall. He doesn’t say anything, but a creeping realization settles in the pit of his stomach, right next to the warmth that used to pervade his joints. He swallows. Instead of feeling nothing, he feels burning in the back of his throat, up his nose. He nods regardless.

“Good deal, buddy,” North smiles. He nods, just a curt bob of his head. “Alright, I’ll be seein’ you.”

“I—” And all of a sudden, the feelings pervading, the ones not his own, rear their head. He swallows roughly, trying to make out a sentence. He mumbles out his next words, vision blurring. “Please don’t—”

“Wash?” North asks, startling, the twinge of concern now laid thick in his words. Wash startles too, blinking hard. What was happening to him? He shakes his head, turning it from North for a moment as he wills himself back to the present. He isn’t leaving, North lives here. He won’t just abandon him. But he can still feel the weight of the word goodbye. The weight of see you soon.

“Sorry, I’m just…” Wash shudders out a sigh, trying to find a viable excuse. “I’m on edge I guess. Don’t worry about it.”

North’s eyes widen.

“Wash, your nose—” he says, moving forward to help him. Wash takes an instinctive step back, cupping his hand around his chin. He can feel the warm dribble of blood now, the taste of iron in the back of his mouth. He shakes his head as he keeps North at arm’s length, turning to fetch tissue from the bathroom. 

“It’s fine,” he croaks out, fumbling for the sink. He runs his hands under the warming water, tipping his head forward. Blood drips into the sink but his eyes are screwed shut too tight to see it. Wash can barely hear North’s voice above the running water, but he hears the door to his room slide shut. Reaching for the tissue, Wash swabs gingerly at his nose, still tasting the metallic tang on his teeth. As he turns back to the room, North is hovering at his bedside, concern written across his whole face. Wash watches his jaw work, his upturned eyes wide and searching Wash’s expression. Washington shakes his head.

“It’s fine,” he says again, barely a sound at all. He jams part of the tissue up his nose, swallowing back whatever was left in his mouth. North gestures to the glass of water still half empty at Wash’s bedside. Wash sits, his legs giving out beneath him, and he drinks.

North takes his time getting to the space in front of him, circling the end of the Recovery Bay bed like Wash were an injured animal about to bite him. Luckily for him, Washington feels far too heavy to move any of his limbs, as if all the energy had been siphoned out of him and into the air, leaving it charged and staticky. He couldn’t find the strength to bite even if he tried. He smooths his hand over the pant leg of his hospital clothes in calculated movements. The scratchy fabric is so thin he can almost feel his body heat through it. Or lack thereof. 

“I don’t know how fine it is, Wash,” North says, folding his arms. He leans against the arm of the chair across from Wash, not exactly sitting, but not really standing. “I certainly wasn’t getting nosebleeds like that with Theta.”

“Well,” Wash manages hoarsely, shutting his eyes tight again. “With all due respect, Theta was a little more… stable.”

“Epsilon’s unstable?” North asks. Wash flinches. He can feel that paper shredder sensation again as he shrinks back. “Wash?”

“It’s okay,” Wash mumbles. “It’s just—side effects.”

North’s face grows taut and stern. When Wash flicks his eyes up to read his face he’s met with a strong set to North’s jaw. North shakes his head, sounding unconvinced.

“It’s not supposed to be this bad,” he says. He drums his fingers against his arm.

Wash sighs. The sound is curt when it leaves his chest. It’s all the energy he has left to expel before it dissolves into an empty hollow in his chest.

“It’s nothing,” he says.

“Washington,” North starts, leaning off the chair and moving toward the bedside. Wash curls further over his lap, as if trying to move away from whatever suggestion North could have for him. It’s not something so easy to fix. It’s just. It’s just—

“It—” Wash takes a long, laborious breath in. He feels something very small break inside his chest as he breathes out, his exhale shuddering. His vision goes blurry in the few feet in front of him, from knees to floor, that he can see. “I don’t—”

“Hey…” North soothes. He lowers himself to Washington’s side, hand coming to cup his shoulder. Wash leans, half intentional and half not, into the touch as North squeezes his arm.

“The memories aren’t mine,” Washington babbles, unintelligible to anyone but himself. “I don’t want them in my head.”

“I know,” North placates regardless. And for a moment, it feels like he means it. It doesn’t really matter if he does or doesn’t. The arms that come around him are strong and warm and solid and friendly as Wash makes contact with the hollow of North’s shoulder. He doesn’t mean to collide and fall so easily, but the arms around him hold on, and hold firm, and he begins to think through the haze of memories not his own that he really didn’t have much say in the matter. North draws him in regardless and Wash sinks himself into his side. He cries and no sound escapes him. He squeezes his eyes shut. Faintly, he can hear North whistle out a breath, through the shff of fabric as he slowly and gently drags his palm over the line of Washington’s shoulders.

“I just need it to stop,” Washington chokes out. It doesn’t matter who’s speaking. The relentless tug of war continues on in his head, even if he can’t hear it, even if it won’t really surface. It doesn’t matter who wants their memories back. It just matters that his body feels like he’s been electrically shocked: drained, shaken out, and hurting.

“Breathe, Wash,” North soothes. Washington does as he’s told, the air scratchy in his throat. He shudders out the breath, trying to keep each stable and even. North doesn’t say anything for a while. He lets Wash breathe and lean into his shoulder, and the silence gives Wash a moment of reprieve as his mind goes quiet. He just focuses on breathing, in through his nose and out through his mouth. North leans just slightly back into him, cheek resting on the top of his head. 

Wash blinks his eyes open. He stares into the middle distance with his vision still blurry, and North’s weight against him keeps him, rather than whatever threatens to invade his memory further, grounded. Wash makes an unintelligible sound as North sighs.

“Great, Wash,” North says lightly. “Doing great.”

“Well, I feel like shit,” Wash manages, almost amused.

North hums softly in agreement, but doesn’t really respond. His hold around Wash grows a little tighter, though, firmer around his shoulder and forearm as Wash sags. His eyes shut again as his breaths remain even, face pressed to North’s shoulder. He’s a bit too large for them to properly fit together, even as they sit side by side on the bed. He lets go of a long breath as the rush of previous anxiety, the new bubbling fear, and exhaustion slip out all at once. In their wake is a pit of nothing, absent of emotion, in his stomach. Tired lingers instead in the same space, around that nothing. He can feel his body grow heavy against North and he has half the mind to mention how tired he actually is. But North hasn’t moved, regardless if he’s noticed or not, and the hand on his shoulderblade, and the head resting against his, remains. The world goes blissfully soft for a moment, his body heavy and his mind quiet. It’s only when he blinks his eyes open again that he realizes he’s lying down. North is gone.

He squints at the room around him, lifting his head slightly. He’s on his back with the sheet draped over him, comfortable against the pillows. For once, his body and head don’t ache, and whatever voice that might be screaming is silent. When he lifts himself further, the room spins, tipping violently this way and that. Wash lets himself back down. For now, he decides that the comfort he has is better taken than lost, and he shuts his eyes.

The world goes muted and grey around him. His body sinks to the mattress.

He has a feeling he won’t wake again for some time.

[icepip]

sighhhhh being satoru's girlfriend and him convincing you (read: forcing you) to let suguru fuck you.. his eyes lighting up when he watches his best friend's cock stretch you out .. palming himself when he sees the tears running down your face...

[dreemurr-skelememer]

"#it's one of the fairly well known conflicts with joku #she was forcing drink to be canon so hard even tho mye said its fine outside of canon #and she got so mad about it that they 'broke up' #now the star sanses 'arent canon' like #lmfao" legitimately not trying to be rude or anything, but is there like a source or smth for this? wasn't here for the earlier fandom days

some direct accounts from @/nekophy (goth's creator) of an old lost post (bc of a blog issue) directly calling out joku's past mistakes from years ago

i want to iterate that this post is OLD.

despite it still needing to be taken into an account, this is an ages old drama and the ppl involved could have different opinions and/or have changed now, including joku.

i wouldn't know 'cuz i don't exactly care to pay attention if joku has changed or not, so take it with a grain of salt.

i'm only bringing the post back up again from the archives because anon asked.

[koterkot]

i'm probably a system but i have a job so idrc about that rn

[nabaath-areng]

im having the worst body day in a good while in terms of pain but i refuse to lay down. for there lies the road to the devil (mental health spiraling with nothing to distract from it). i SHOULD cook. but im not sure ill be able to with the pain. especially since the pain is because it feels like literally nothing is sticking together, like im much more bendy and hypermobile and useless than normal, which severely affects both motor skills and body strength. not to mention that this is causing a bad jaw day where so chewing is pain cause i already cant keep it in place and keep my mouth properly closed. i keep complaining but like, holy fuck i want off this illness ride

[masterfuldoodler]

girlbossed too hard.... unless...

[sullina]

just watched the first httyd movie once again and legit sat through all like 1:30hrs of it without looking at my phone even once or getting up (not counting when someone rang the doorbell for a package i accepted in their place)

and i know httyd1 is a legit masterpiece, but they really don't make movies like they used to, and that's not just bias talking here

[moeblob]

I'm sorry for the OC brain rot on main....

(the lines are from a post about "tag yourself: awkward/unflirty Sims edition" and honestly? all my OCs are awkward/unflirty so ... yeah...)