#just like I'm telling you to leave now
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alligatorjesie · 2 years ago
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I was a little confused when I ran across this tweet so I did a little digging around because this is has a ripe scent of shit on it.
And found this:
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Now I don't feel bad posting this with the username because this user got banned from twitter pretty close to the time period they posted this tweet.
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I had to use the wayback machine to check the account but it looks like it was banned back in 2019 if I'm reading it correctly.
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That in itself isn't hard. Shit, I got banned from twitter but it was because I kept telling nazis I love to fuck their mothers and enjoyed sending them furry porn. If they were going to act like giant cocks I just assumed they wanted to see them.
This one user made this horrible tweet, then pretty soon after gets banned from twitter and it doesn't look like they went back to the fandom after the fallout. I wont be posting a link to it to stop stupid fucks like ya'll from harassing the user further but I did find a secondary account from this user and I'm 98% sure it's them and after having gone through the account I can say with very little uncertainty that this user is no longer a reylo.
This isn't the first rodeo with this user though as simply typing in their unsername and 'drama' into google brings up a few interesting articles and them being an absolute fucking frothing cunt isn't new behavior. You see, the reylo fandom isn't very big and because of that we're pretty transparent on who is who in this space and is actually very good at self policing. People in the fandom who say shit like this get shoved out of it pretty fucking fast and I've been here for over 7 years so I've seen my fair share of shitty reylos getting told to fuck off.
Fuck me, I've told a few shitty reylos to fuck off.
I'm a furry first and foremost, I got no fucking bones against telling racist pieces of shit in my fandom to kindly dick off into the fifth level of hell as I ain't a fucking stranger to assholes in my fandom spaces and the importance of telling them to fucking leave.
So I'm fucking baffled how you take one tweet, from one user who has long since been removed from this fandom as this tweet was made back in 2019, 4 whole fucking years ago, and are using it as your one way ticket of proof that all reylos are racists?
You do understand the one person doing a bad thing in a fandom does not automatically mean the entire fandom is trash, right? Just because there is one child molester in the LGBQT communities Does Not Fucking Mean every one of it's members are now child molesters. That's not how the fucking works.
Just because there is one nazi in the furry fandom Does Not Fucking Mean the entire fandom are nazis. I fucking hate nazis and I love to tell them they're not fucking welcome in my fandom.
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Just because there are
well
known
and
documented
racist
in the Star Wars fandom, Does Not Mean every Star Wars fan is a fucking racist you daffy fuck.
Just because one reylo says racist shit DOES NOT FUCKING MEAN all of them are racist for fuck's sake.
And by the looks of it, this cunt ain't even in this fucking fandom anymore.
So again, are you or are you not able to understand one user does not dictate the worth of an entire fucking fandom? We're not a fucking hive mind mate, we can't control what every person in this fucking fandom says, but we can and have reacted promptly in telling the shit ones to fucking leave.
Or are you going to continue acting like a fucking child @reylossaidwhat ?
This is your fucking choice. And if you're going to act like a fucking twat in this tag, well I'm going to have to ask you the same fucking thing I ask every festering twat who shows up here to do nothing but stir shit and that is to fucking leave.
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poorly-drawn-mdzs · 1 year ago
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I'm sorry I let down my guard.
[First] Prev <–-> Next
#poorly drawn mdzs#mdzs#xue yang#xiao xingchen#God DAMN this scene was brutal. Season 2 episode 2 is almost nothing but misery and anguish#Helena by Nickle Creek does not quite fit the comic's vibe but it is absolutely a Xue Yang song so I linked it.#The change from “Helena don't walk away...(gentle)” to “HELENA. DON'T WALK AWAY (threat)” is fantastic.#And “Don't waste your pretty sympathy - I'll always be just fine”. Xue Yang core.#Okay now for the real meat. Disclaimer first: *I really like XY.* I think he's a great character. I think his actions consistently-#come from a place of deep trauma. While his reactions and actions put him in a villainous role he is still human about his hurt#and what I'm about to say is NOT intended to be a statement of causality or villianize a group of misunderstood people.#So with that said...Man oh man does Xue Yang have a lot of BPD traits. More that just 'character who is chronically manipulative'.#The impulsivity and emotional reactions and seeking stability makes him feel like he needs that control. What other choice is there?#The part that really gets me is how he *wants* to be safe and happy. But his past experiences tell him how thats impossible#He's the kind of person who goes 'if you don't like me then you better hate me for something substantial". All (pos) or All (neg)#''Love me entirely or Hate me. But don't you dare leave me or forget about me.''#Not at all comfortable saying 'BPD coded'. Im not a psychiatrist. Just that he has TRAITS. Feel free to disagree or add your thoughts.#ppl with bpd also are not a monolith and everyone has very different experiences. Xue yang is very complex. People more so.
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silusvesuius · 5 months ago
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nnnnnnnnnnnnno maa'am
#my want to draw traditionally literally split me open for the past week and leaves me literally depressed i'm so serious i can't even look -#- @ my art programs without wanting to throw up omfg should;ve never picked up those pencils#but it's ok i just needed a nap#something so relatable about them i think nelvas has something in it for everyone meanwhile eltl is secluded art museum.#it's very possible to walk around in neloth's and talvas' brains but eltl is off limits. they will NOT! get no drawings like this outta me#wtf r they thinking ........#< eltl not nelvas#something nobody on dis earth can understand ..........#talvas wants to live he likes living but neloth's presence is so strong that it overrides and deletes his will to live.#bruuuuuuuuh#i bet the feeling of neloff is in everything he does if they ever part ways he won't be able to fold clothes or anythign without wanting -#- 2 cry . for what reason . idk bc neloth once yelled at him for folding clothes like shit .what am i on rn#(talvas thoughts mode) I want this old man to hug meeee😢😢😢#NELOFF DO IT and smash him too before i do it first .#me and neloth are the same person tho so it doesn;t matter but w/e#i'm getting emotional over them right now this cannot be real#i love her .... (Skyr1m)#i opened the game for .5 minutes today to take pics of a character uight what a beautiful game.#Te/s having such extensive lore ruins the whole entire game and the franchise but whatever . skyr1m is an art piece that's just how i feel#also this might be a very hard pill to swallow for some people but t*lvas is literally a kin Vessel for young women that keep getting -#- hit on by men twice or thrice their age when they're just trying to live their life .#this feels so profound to me i need dis shit inmy discord bio right NOEW.#Talvas................................#(eyes watering) (holding palm out)#suicide //#just in case but this tag would've gone crazy with my drawings of ulfr*c from late 2022 where i drew him with slit wrists. very artsay#is it not. i didn't like neither of those drawings tho i need to revisit cus i can feel ulfr*c on a diffaraaant level#when will i run out of tags. the way you can tell i just LUH talvas look at me drawing his hair in that second pic 😑BRU#look at me also trying to replicate pencils digitally in the first.. hmmm i don't hate it#at least it soothes me and i don't have pencil withdrawal
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ghost-proofbaby · 3 months ago
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never love an anchor (e.m. x reader)
"On some level, I think I always understood that a ship could never really love an anchor."
warnings: severe hurt/brief comfort, suicidal ideations, severely depressed reader. again: detailed recount of suicidal ideations. dead dove: do not eat.
wc: 5.8k+
an: i cannot emphasize this enough - this fic deals with a severely depressed, and blatantly suicidal reader. it is extremely heavy. it is extremely triggering. it is extremely self-indulgent. the romance aspect is ambiguous and the comfort aspect at the end is brief. this is a genuine, and sincerely personal piece of writing. it is an outline of how suicidal ideations may present themselves to some people. of these 5k words, 4k is deeply littered with reader's ideations without sugar coating. please, please, please do not read this unless you're in the state of mind to read it. you've surely heard it before but i'll say it just to be sure: it is a permanent solution for temporary feelings. and, just in case no one has told you, i'm glad you're alive. if you're reading this, i'm glad that you're alive. you're enough.
if you find yourself feeling like reader, i urge that you find resources such as those linked. hotlines, therapists, friends, your doctor, your family - please. i do not wish these emotions upon anyone, and they should never be taken lightly.
that being said, here are my guts from a very vulnerable moment, spilled out across the page. please handle them with care if you choose to read.
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Technically speaking, the pressure that the human body is capable of handling almost seems infinite. When introduced slowly, and time is given to adjust, there is no pinpointed amount of pressure that dooms the human body. Like a crab in slow boiling water, your body should be theoretically able to handle a steady increase, bit by bit, and never truly notice. 
So why does it currently feel like you’re dying?
The pressure was never an overnight thing. It was a conglomeration you’d gathered, piece by piece, collecting little souvenirs of all the responsibilities you can’t currently remember if you’d ever agreed to along the way. It hadn’t been sudden, it hadn’t been with lack of adjusting, it hadn’t been a pressure suddenly unloaded upon you all at once – you’d done this, brick by brick, all with your own two hands. 
Keeping up with friends, keeping up with work, keeping up with expectations. Always trying to run ahead of the curve, always trying to be better. You should be fine. You shouldn’t even notice. You shouldn’t be sobbing on your bathroom floor, clutching the edge of your porcelain tub, every single breath a labor of survival. 
It feels like every bone in your body is splintering. It feels like the world has cracked open your ribs, one by one, just for show. You don’t feel poetic like the movies, you don’t feel like a valuable lesson learned in the books. You feel as though you’ve become nothing more than some crude display in a contemporary art gallery, and you were the one to hang yourself on the wall. 
Needles prickle across your skin with another heaving sob, as if you can feel the push pins you’ve used to spread yourself out for consumption. 
We still on for tonight? 
The text from Eddie glares at you from your phone discarded on the floor mere inches away. You’re lucky the screen hadn’t broken when you’d thrown it down on the ground on your way to the toilet, dry heaving through all your tears. 
He wasn’t a part of the issue. If anything, he was part of the solution. 
A shining clean slate, pristine whites and a scratch-free surface for you to press your cheek to when it all got a bit much. An abyss of freedom and openness for when the world was all a bit smothering. An anchor to cling to, a rope to tie around your wrists to keep from floating too far. The willow tree in a graveyard to rest your back against, the caress of a warm sun even if only momentarily as you stared out across headstones of all the pieces of you that you can never get back. Every version of you that has long since buried, a few even with newly churned dirt resting upon them. Something soft, something sacred, to rest your hands upon. 
Why does he still let you rest your bloodied and dirtied palms on his shoulders? Did he ever agree to that to begin with? 
You can’t remember. Or maybe your brain is simply refusing to recall. 
I hate to cancel, but I’m sick. I don’t think I can come out tonight :-( 
What? Is everything okay? Are you okay? Do I need to bring you anything? 
Please don’t.
The please is what gives you away. You should have forgone it, should have offered him a lighthearted response instead. 
But there is a pit in the bottom of your stomach, and seeing all the question marks across his text only made it more terminal. Only gave it more reason to swallow you whole. Only gave it more reason to grow and to tangle up and to restrict each stuttering breath of yours that you can’t seem to steady. 
Another buzz comes from your phone, but you don’t look to read it. You resort to resting your forehead against the lip of your toilet, all attempts at a deep breath futile as you finally taste the salt across your lips. 
Were you too much? Were you not enough? Was it possible to be an odd juxtaposition of both? 
A harrowing thought crosses your mind, and you know if Eddie could read minds across the intricate webbing that connects cell phones, he’d grab you by your shoulders. Maybe shake you until you see sense, or maybe cling to you until the thought has faded into nothingness. As if he could squeeze you hard enough to press together all the splinters that are left of your bones, forming a new body – a better body. One that can handle the pressure. One that isn’t imploding upon itself. A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy. 
Does it even matter anymore? Would it even matter if I simply vanished? 
Would it be so bad to let the pit finally consume you? To just give in, to let it erase you from existence. To finally wave your white flag and let the awfulness inside of you finally win the battle, erasing you from existence and leaving behind an empty space in the world that could be filled with someone better.
Someone who could be a better friend. Someone who could be a harder worker. Someone who wasn’t choked up on their bathroom floor, beginning to contemplate if the painful gasps were even worth it. 
Were you worth it? Were you worth the air in your lungs? Or could it better serve someone who could handle all the pressure? 
And it wasn’t even that much pressure to begin with, if you pick it apart thread by thread. It was the natural weight of the human experience, and you were still crumbling. 
There was a full bottle of ibuprofen in the cabinet. There was a busy street not far from your home. There was a bathtub that could easily be filled with water – you’d never been good at holding your breath, unless someone counted the last few months, in which that seemed to be all you were good at. 
There was even a bridge, 5.27 miles away from your house exactly. You could already envision the patch of grass you could park your car at, feel the drop in temperature as you stood and overlooked the tame waves of a man-made lake.
Maybe your feet didn’t even have to leave the pavement. Maybe it would be enough to just stand in the silence and see the jump with your own two eyes. 
You felt like nothing more than a ghost of yourself, yes, but maybe. Maybe, just maybe, there would still be a broken shard within you that could stir awake at it all. Maybe if you got up off the bathroom floor and set yourself into motion, it would open its eyes just in time to scream no. 
Ghosts don’t just appear. They were a vibrant soul once – they were somebody once. 
But it’s hard to imagine that you ever were. When it gets like this, it’s hard to push through all the tumultuous thoughts and loathly emotions to remember that. A version of you vibrant, a version of you that might have been worthy, if only for a moment. 
A version of you that wasn’t insulting to compare to others. That was capable of progress, of earning your blip of existence. 
You don’t want the bottle of ibuprofen. You don’t want the busy street. You don’t want the overflowing tub. You don’t even want the calm of the bridge. You just want it to stop. 
There’s a knock on your front door that echoes through the entire apartment. You dread that you already know who it is, but you can’t get up to answer. 
You can’t move from this very spot. You’re terrified of what will happen when you do. 
Will your bones collapse into ash upon the floor? Will you make one wrong move, and in a fit of pressure, make a terribly permanent decision for what feels like a terribly permanent feeling? 
Maybe you were born with the pit in your stomach. Maybe you were born with that black hole inside of you. Cursed to always be yearning, always be a juxtaposition, always be a ghost of what could have become. 
You think you hear the click of your front door opening. You think you hear heavy footsteps across the hardwood floors. You think, you think, you think. That’s the issue. 
The tears are still coming and going in erratic tides. The salt is drying out your lips, your cheeks, the corners of your eyes. You’d thought you’d been incapable of any more emotions like this, but your tear ducts have managed to prove you wrong. 
Does it even matter anymore?
You’d left the bathroom door wide open. 
Were you worth it?
You’d been home alone – past tense.
A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy.
A soft gasp of your name has you microscopically lifting your head from the toilet seat. You know what the scene looks like; it looks like nothing more than the excuse you’d used. You look as though you’re ill, like you’ve been spilling your guts across the bathroom floor all night. 
If you had been, would it all feel a little less heavy? 
“Hey, Eds.” 
You’re tired. You’re exhausted. Your voice is nothing more than a drag of a whisper as you look up at your anchor standing in the doorway, his face painted with concern. 
Maybe you were an anchor – maybe being an anchor wasn’t a good thing. After all, what use does an anchor have beyond weighing down the ship? 
“Jesus,” he mutters as he rushes to your side, falling to his knees carelessly as his hand flies out to brush back tendrils of your hair, “You look like shit.”
You felt like shit. 
Selfishly, you lean into his touch, desperate for comfort. Desperate for those caring palms to soothe the ache you’d carried since birth. Desperate to hear him tell you that you’re wrong – hands to promise you that you’re worthy, fingers to wrap around your bones rather than these burning ropes. You’re bloodied and raw, fully on display, and you just want to be okay. 
You don’t want the bridge. You want Eddie. You want him to magically make it okay, and that’s unfair. 
You’re not his weight to carry, not his burden to shoulder. 
After far too long of a silence, one in which he sits patiently in with you, all you can really reply is a broken, “Yeah.” 
Immediately, he knows something is wrong. Because of course he does. 
Because he’s a good friend. He’s a good person. He has the right words more often than not, and his hands were always formed to heal rather than injure. Create rather than destroy. Those warm palms are made to hold the space he’s earned in the grand scheme of the Universe, and it almost makes you nauseous as the jealousy spreads. 
He’s good. 
And you’re simply rotten.
You used to lie to yourself and say it was simply one rotted bit amongst plenty of good, but tonight, it all seemingly comes to clarity. You can’t dig out the bad, cleanse yourself of the rot, because it’s all decay. 
You don’t have to let the pit consume you – it already has. You were born with it, and it had swallowed you whole from the first cry that had ever left your lips. 
He makes himself a bit more comfortable, and you almost feel bad for reducing him to nothing more than the bathroom floor, “You wanna talk about what’s really wrong?” 
“I’m sick.” 
“This isn’t just some stomach bug.”
Your throat begins to tighten again, and suddenly, his gentle touch across the crown of your head burns. Your eyes water ferociously, and your chest caves into itself.
You can’t make a better body or a more sound mind out of the mess you’ve become. You can’t pull gold from tarnished rubble. 
Confessing to him will only be handing over something heavy, something terrible, that he shouldn’t have to struggle with as well. But not offering him a sliver of the truth almost feels more dishonoring. 
“Do you ever feel like a waste of space?” you croak, leaning back, finally accepting that the small space of the toilet that had been cooling your face has gone warm. Another thing you’ve ruined, in hindsight, “Like, this world is filled with great people, and I just… I just, I’m taking up the space- I’m wasting the space-” 
You can’t get out the proper words. You don’t know how.
How do you say you want to cease to exist when you’re not really sure if that’s the truth? You’re miserable, and you’re selfish, and you’re not entirely sure your feet would have ever left the pavement if you had driven yourself to the bridge. You’d be too scared to do it.  
Too scared to miss the day that science announces it’s found a cure to all your rot, a miracle drug to erase the pit, a way to reverse all the damage you’ve been comprised of your whole life. 
His brows furrow and his hand stops all the calming movements, “What? Are you- are you saying you feel like a waste of space?”
It feels silly to admit it to other people. To try and describe how it all feels. Like a child trying to convince their parents the Boogeyman is real, you have to make him see that you’re right. You have evidence, you have proof, and it’s not just a feeling. 
“I don’t feel like I’m a waste of space,” you finally correct, both yourself and him, “I know I’m a waste of space.” 
“Bullshit.”
“Eddie, don’t-”
“No,” he cuts you off. And somehow, in only a way that he’s capable of, it’s not offensive, “You’re not. I’m not going to sit here and listen to my favorite person claim they’re wasting space-”
“I am!” It’s your turn in the cycle of interruption. You pull away from him entirely, chest heaving with the weight presenting itself once more, tears starting to fall all over again. You can’t even distinguish where the old tears stop and the new ones begin, “I really am. All I seem to do lately is just exist. And that’s such a- such a- that’s such a waste. I can’t read any of the things I should enjoy these days, I can’t even write. All of the words feel like they just come out wrong. I’m letting everyone down left and right, I’m never living up to whatever pedestal you’ve put me on. I don’t even know what I’m doing with my life. I don’t even know where I’ll be in a year from now – I can’t even see that far in the future.”
Heaves become sobs, and the crumbling has begun once more. A cycle of breaking, a cycle of demolition. Even leaving behind the rubble feels like a crime. A waste of space. 
“I don’t think I’m a good person,” you manage to spit out between all your visceral reactions, “Every year, I tell myself the same thing – I’ll be better, I’ll be kinder, I’ll be worth it. And every year, I fail.” 
Can he see it? All the fractures and splinters and pits and metaphors? 
Can he smell it? All the rot and the destruction and hopelessness?
Can he feel it? All the pressure? 
Through your sniffles, you press your back to the tub, knees to your chin as you wrap your arms around your legs, desperately trying to shrivel up. To take up less space. To waste less space.
“I used to think I could make up for it,” you whisper, “I could offer people things that made them forget I’m… so useless. But I don’t think I’m even capable of that anymore.”
If he’s about to respond, it’s drowned out by your cries. You press your eyes hard into your kneecaps, until you see stars, and you try to swallow down all the embarrassment. Try to stop all the hurt from spilling out, to stop all your guts from painting the bathroom walls. 
He could simply sit there, let you wallow in your misery alone. Sit and stare as the artwork finally serves its purpose to the visitors of the gallery. Maybe jot down some commentary on how with your bones all spread out like this, the point the artist was attempting to make becomes oh so clear. 
And yet, he doesn’t. 
You know it’s his arms that are wrapping around you, pulling you from the chill of the tub and into the warmth of his chest.  And you let yourself smother within the fabric of his shirt the same exact way in which you’ve convinced yourself you smother everyone around you, let yourself breathe in drugstore cologne and his last cigarette rather than think about all the thoughts that had been spiraling you into dismay over the last twenty four hours – over the last twenty four years. 
He’d probably been smoking while waiting on your call tonight. Probably riddled with anxiety, if the shake of his hands pressing into your back are anything to go off of. An anxiety and waiting game that wouldn’t have to exist if you didn’t exist.
The thought makes you cry harder. 
If a ghost dies, can it even still return back as itself? Can it still find it within itself to haunt empty hallways, and watch the ones it once loved find peace?
“You’re not useless,” it sounds as though Eddie might be crying as well, if not just a little choked up, “You’re not- I swear- You’re not useless, okay? Never have been, never will be.”
His murmured words are nice, but they fuel an unimaginable guilt. It was supposed to be a nice night. A night of movie marathons and midnight coffee, of trying to remind yourself why you still stick around. A moment of incomparable joy and sweet reprieve as your stomach ached from laughter, your cheeks swelling with an infallible grin that Eddie always seems to pull out of you.
There’s no smiling, no giggling, right now. Just his favorite band shirt from the show you two had attended a few years before, soaking with a fast-growing stain from all your tears. 
When you don’t answer him, only manage to wrap your selfish arms around his waist, he continues, “How long have you felt this way, sweetheart?”
And if you hadn’t already been shattered previously, that would have finally broken you. 
You can’t pinpoint when it started. You can��t clear the smoke of memories and find an exact moment that you can point to and say, there. That’s where the hurt starts — that’s where the rot starts. 
“I don’t know.”
In your mind, it’s a wail. Loud and ferocious, efforts of all it has taken to withstand the pressure of your undoing screamed out loud. 
But on this quiet bathroom floor, it can’t even be considered a whisper. Nothing more than the spoken words lingering from a ghost who can’t give up the haunt. An echo of a memory, an echo of the piece in you that can’t let go, not yet.
Not of existing, and not of him. Your fists hold him so firmly against you, you’re scared that you’re going to bruise him. Hurt him just from the sheer effort of trying to show that you love him. 
The only way you know how to love – a violent dog who will always bite the kindest hands. Leaving behind bloodied knuckles even if you hadn’t so much as snipped this time. 
You take a sharp breath, aware of the levity of the words you’re about to say, “I don’t want to exist anymore, but I wouldn’t even make it off the bridge if I tried.”
It’s not about the bridge anymore. In all likelihood, it wouldn’t be the bridge you turn to. There’s a grand metaphor somewhere in the admittance, but your mind is just too tired to try and paint a prettier picture of it for him. 
Because exist is just a placeholder. And there’s a bigger, scarier word that should stand in its place. 
He starts to break the hold, and you nearly sob out again just at that. Losing the warmth of his chest and arms strike pain somewhere deep within you, just north of the pit that’s devoured all that’s left of you. 
“Bridge?” Phrased as a clarifying question, but when you see his face, it’s clear he knows. There are no good words left to say about it, “Sweetheart, no.”
There are worse reactions to be had. More scenarios that end in slamming doors or deafening silent treatments. Realizations that you’re right and it’s not worth it – defense mechanisms that involve them leaving first. 
“I couldn’t do it, even if I want-” 
Even if I wanted to. The words you can’t speak, dying on your tongue. 
Do you want to? Where does the pain begin? And where could it end?
“You really don’t see it, do you?” he laughs humorlessly, his hands still gripping your biceps in a death hold, “You… you just…” 
He doesn’t know what to say, and you don’t blame him. You knew this was heavy; you knew this isn’t the type of bomb to drop on someone you love. 
But if you didn’t, where would the bomb have gone? You’re not equipped to detonate it. You’re not equipped to survive the explosion. You wouldn’t want to survive that explosion. 
“I’m sorry,” your words pour out, beginning to shake beneath his palms, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 
Dry, cracked lips feel as though they nearly split from the apologies. More violence, more devastation, more of what you always knew you were. You can see it in his eyes – you’re dragging him down with you, right down to the bottom of the ocean. You’re being an anchor. 
He’s all stutters and harsh breaths, panic filling the space with your own as his eyes search yours, “Don’t apologize. You don’t have to apologize. Just-”
He cuts off and is pulling you close again. Slamming your bones into his, wrapping up around you as if he might be able to keep you safe from the world. From your own mind. 
“I don’t need apologies,” another squeeze of your closer to him, another attempt to pull you away from the dangers that lie within, “I don’t- I just… Can I help? How do I make it better? Just say the word. I’ll do it.” 
It’s not your job. That’s not your job. 
You don’t realize you’ve said the words out loud until he’s squeezing you so tightly that you now can’t breathe. Until all you are is him. All his old t-shirts he’s lent to you that hang in your closet, all the nights spent with tangled legs as you sit across from each other on your couch, all the phone calls in which he refused to be the first one to hang up. Cologne that is too cheap to be able to cling so ferociously as it does to all your surroundings, chain-smoked cigarettes you always chastise him for because they’re gonna kill you one day, the smoke of his latest blunt resting in an ashtray as his head finds home in your lap. 
All the inside jokes. All the hugs. All the simple texts, if for nothing more than to just check in on each other. The broken reminders of having someone out there that cares. That loves you. 
How can such rotten hands pull such love from others? How have you yet to infect him? 
“I know it’s not my job,” he finally says, and you know for a fact he’s crying along with you before the first of his tears have wet the crown of your head, “It’s never been a job. You’re not a job. Okay? Get that through your head. There’s- Fuck, there’s plenty of things I wanna drill in that pretty little head of yours right now, but I know I can’t, so just get that.”
He’s trying. A little trill of his tongue that falls a bit flat when he refers to your pretty little head, a brief squeeze of your shoulders as he tries to relax a little. He wants to make you feel better. He wants to make it better. 
But he’s still holding you like he’s terrified. You did that – you instilled that fear. 
“I’m a mess,” you whisper in bitter realization, ash on your tongue as you process what you’ve done. You’ve already apologized, but you’re seconds away from doing so again, “I’m- I’m a mess, and I’m dragging you into it, and I’m sor-”
“Stop being sorry.” Definitive words, no room for argument. The smallest of shifts as things click into place. He isn’t budging – he isn’t letting go, “Do you remember when I first met you?” 
You can’t tell if the question is meant to have a point, or if it’s meant to be a distraction. You let it grow into the latter.
“Yeah,” you breathe out against him, melting into his chest, trying to focus on his voice rather than the ones in your head, “But tell me about it anyway?” 
“Two years ago. Technically, two years and seven months,” he starts in the same voice he used to take on during Hellfire sessions, before the members had scattered from coast to coast and his D&D club only became a rarity when the stars aligned. There’s still a crack to his voice from his tears, but that doesn’t stop him, “We were in some cursed fucking diner we don’t even go to anymore, in the dead of the night, and all the servers knew your name and order,” he paints the picture with a humor that should feel out of place, but it settles some of your breathing. Omitting all the vivid details, opting for triggering the memory with words you’d just get. You can feel the stick of the plastic beneath your thighs, you can smell the grease of the kitchen. You can see the cloudy night out of the oversized windows. He’s a natural born storyteller in the most subtle of ways, always knowing his audience, “You were sitting all alone in that booth, and all of Hellfire had just left. Gareth had just told us how he was going to college in California – did you know that?” 
“I didn’t.” 
“Well, he did,” his chin presses against the top of your head, a huff of a laugh escaping him, “Dropped the bomb it was our last summer as a club probably. We were happy for him, though. Real fucking happy. Got milkshakes to celebrate and made plans to get drunk off our asses the next night to keep the party going. It was dumb, and I’m getting off track, but…” 
Baited breath, you’re waiting for him to continue. No thoughts of the bridge. No thoughts of your failures. Living in a small memory with him on the floor of your bathroom. 
“Anyways, you were sitting there all alone, with a plate of fries and ranch.” 
“Oh, God,” your nose scrunches and you try to pull away, suddenly remembering how embarrassing this memory ends for you. It suddenly didn’t seem like the best way for him to make you feel better by any means, “No, I remember how this story ends, and-”
“I’m not done,” he locks his arms around you, and you can feel the whisper of a smile as it brushes against your temple, “Obviously you know where I’m going with this, but I’m not done, sweetheart. Because all the other guys had just left, and I’m sitting there, realizing the only other customer was some random person over across the diner, scribbling away in some notebook. Thought you looked cute when you were all focused like that, y’know? But then you were so focused that it became distracted, and you spilled that ranch all over yours-” 
“Please, stop.”
You’re laughing through the words, weakly, the air of desperation in the word please being far different from earlier in the night. No bridges, no failures. 
“I was probably being a weirdo, trying to run over and help you or whatever the fuck I was trying to do. I probably made it worse, right?” 
You’re there, remembering a version of Eddie that was a stranger, taking napkins to the knees of your jeans and smearing the ranch rather than really helping you clean it up. “Yeah, just a little bit.” 
“Sorry for that, by the way,” he airily apologizes before continuing, “But I just remember thinking about how focused you were on that notebook. And how you laughed with the waiter. And how you were just… lost in your own little world. And how you were so cute. You were so nice. The type of person I wanted in my life. Took one look at you with that ranch all over your lap and thought, huh. I want to get to know that person.” 
“Nice? I was not nice, I was-” you cut off, heart all but stopping as you recognize the point of it all. It wasn’t meant to just be a distraction. He was making a point. “I was a… a mess that day.” 
“Exactly.”
He pulls away again, and this time, it’s a little easier. The world has put a pause on its ending and you can handle the weight of his arms lightening for a few seconds, just so he can get a good look at your face. 
“You were a mess the day that I met you, and I still wanted you in my life,” he says each word deliberately, not breaking eye contact. Fear has broken through to determination. “And even if you’re still a mess today, I still want you. Nothing changes. You get that?” 
No bridges.
No failures.
The weight of it all had been heavy. The type of sorrow you thought was never meant to be carried by more than your own two hands. But he had taken it in his palms, lifted it from you entirely, even if it would only be temporary. One day you’d have to endure the pain again, get to the root of the problem. Figure out if all your ailments had been something wired into you since birth, or things you’d picked up along your way. But for now, you could breathe again. You could hear the drumming of your heart in your ears, and you could hear every single one of both yours and Eddie’s breaths in the silence, and that was enough. 
“I don’t want to die,” you finally quietly admit. Saying one of the bigger, scarier words. The thing you’d been too afraid to let slip off your tongue originally. “I just- sometimes it all gets a bit loud, you know? And I know you said don’t apologize, but I am sorry that I scared you. And I’m sorry that you have to take the bad to also get that little bit of the good with me.” 
His hand leaves one of your arms for the first time since he’d first wrapped you up, and it finds its way to cradle the side of your head. Holding you as if you’re porcelain still. You know that won’t go away, not tonight. “I’d rather have your bad days than have nothing at all,” he chokes up once more, and you can see tears threatening to welt in his eyes, “You get that, too. Alright? You’re worth it. Bad, good, funny, sad – give it to me. I’m asking for it. Just don’t… don’t leave me with the nothing.”
You’re worth it. 
He’s found a worth in you attached to nothing at all. He’s sitting here with you, on the bathroom floor, and his perception of you has nothing to do with what you can only offer. 
It just has to do with you. He sees you, and he’s decided you’re worth it. Even now.
He smiles softly, as if he can see the realization dawning upon you, “You wanna get up off the floor now? We can go sit on your couch or bed or something.” 
You’re quick to shake your head. Your knees are partially digging into his thighs, your breaths are matching his. 
“Okay,” his face falls slightly, but not entirely. Not entirely, “That’s okay. Do you want me…. Do you want me to go?” 
Another shake of your head. But this time, you need to offer more than just the motion of your head, especially when you can feel tears returning as your throat tightens up, “No. No, just- Stay with me? Please?” 
Your hands reach out without you even processing it, gripping his wrists, desperate and clinging and still verging on the edge of violent. The thought of being alone is terrifying, but the thought of having to watch him walk out of this room is even more petrifying. 
He doesn’t even flinch as you sink your claws in. His smile only returns, and he shuffles to pull you both to hold your backs up against the wall across from the toilet, “Of course. I’ll stay, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere – wouldn’t even dream of it.” 
His words shake just a little less than they had when he’d first entered the room. 
He can’t fix it all magically. That isn’t his job, isn’t his role, isn’t his choice. But he can sit here with you, on the floor of the bathroom, endlessly patient and tragically caring as he urges you to lay down. He stretches his legs out and pats his lap once before hovering his hands over your shoulder, guiding you until your temple is flush with his thigh. 
He can choose to not hesitate as his fingers immediately push through the baby hairs by your temple, a soft hum in the back of his throat that sounds exactly as you feel.
Hesitantly content. Just for now. It’s enough. 
The storm is receding. As hours pass by, and noises of uncertainty become more confident hums of a song you faintly recognize, it all settles. He stays. You stay. The storm passes for the time being, and the hole tempers itself for just the night. 
It’s enough for now. You’ll worry more tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. You’ll talk more about why you feel this way, and he’ll offer better solutions. The weight won’t simply be passed into his waiting hands and forgotten – one day, you’ll find a way to lighten it through dissipation rather than through catastrophe. 
One day, the seas will calm, and you’ll find yourself the ship rather than the anchor. 
And the captain can be the boy who sits on the floor with you through the sadness, content to wait out the storms with you until you find the worth he sees in you.
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spork-supremacy · 2 months ago
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like imagine Cole and Jay just having a casual conversation at some point right before the upcoming day of the departed (after crystalised) and they're just randomly thinking about death.
"Isn't it kinda weird that some of us have died so many times."
"You've all died once, you just don't remember."
"What about you?"
"I haven't. Guess the universe has never gotten around to me. "
"Heh, maybe it has something really special planned for you."
No, it just won't let me die. Believe me I've tried.
youtube
(also this specific thing is playing over the scene)
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thedreadvampy · 5 months ago
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sometimes I forget that my experience has been. um. not 'your experiences are not universal' vibes but more like 'your experiences are EXTREMELY atypical'
#red said#recent events have reminded me that my life has involved like. a LOT of other people's psychosis#like not in a way where i have been Beset By Terrifying Crazies bc that's not like. a thing.#but a lot of people in my life have had a lot of really severe psychotic episodes#and i FORGET sometimes. that actually that is an Unusual Amount Of Experience With Psychosis for someone who's not#for somebody who has not really personally ever had psychotic episodes (unless severe PTSD flashbacks count)#actually i tell a lie i have maybe had One psychotic episode but because it was very situational and i knew what was happening#i was able to ride it out. because i am literally only psychotic Inside Hospitals and so that's all fine#as long as i LITERALLY NEVER HAVE TO HAVE INPATIENT CARE. Very important to me to never ever ever require surgery i think.#i can handle the amount of psychosis i get from a 1-4 hour stopoff in hospital#as long as i know I'm leaving soon then i can just Cope with the fact that the walls are moving and reality is thin#ANYWAY that's not the point the point is i forget! that most ppl i know have experience of at most a handful of severe psychotic episodes#some people i know have experienced more for sure. especially if the episodes were mostly theirs.#but people really seem to expect me to be more freaked out by their symptoms of psychosis than i am#bc i don't think i really register it as frightening unless they're in actual danger or Currently Aggressing Actually At Me#like i WORRY about them bc it can super suck but it's not SHOCKING or WEIRD#there have definitely been times ive been frightened. one time i woke up in the night and my friend was standing over me with a knife#but also like he was still HIM he was just having a moment. and as soon as i got the knife off him he just came back and broke down.#and we were fine and he was safe and i learnt the valuable lesson that even when people seem like they wanna kill you they probably don't#tbf now I'm thinking about it it's honestly a tossup whether he was there to threaten or because he felt a need to guard us#like to be clear probably don't try and take a knife off someone having a psychotic break. i was 17 and it was 3am and i knew him very well#i probably did not make the smartest call but nobody got hurt is the point#anyway you know there's that kind of psychotic episode and my granny got very violently angry a few times. buuuut you know there's also#been plenty of other times I've been with somebody having an episode and it's been chill as hell.#my ex saw and heard monsters so much that eventually she just got sick of being scared. we used to watch TV with them#i would sometimes have to sit on a bit of sofa that wasn't haunted and we might not be able to watch certain things bc they didn't like it#most of the time she was hallucinating there was absolutely nothing to worry about we just had a few extra variables#honestly of everyone i know who's had psychotic episodes or schizophrenia the amount of times it's been a material risk#is like. low single figures? maybe low double if you include self harm but idk what the cause and effect is there.#idk why you would need to be frightened like 99.99% of the time it truly is usually just Oh No That Seems Distressing For You I'm Sorry
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raticalshoez · 1 month ago
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i'm having hyperfixation drought so i did what i did best and created a crossover episode
#trafficblr#life series#hermitcraft#qsmp#the drought's been crazy i had to make qsmp x life series/hermitcraft you don't understand i literally had to#i literally cannot tag all of the cubitos without going over the limit so i'm gonna use them to rant about these doodles instead#when i tell you that i think dl!pearl would've loved tilín i'm telling you i think she would've LOVED them like.#something about just wanting to find love at every turn but feeling unwanted spdihgpisadhfpa. and also tilín's name is similar to tilly LOL#the jelly egg is just like if the double life jelly pandas were just an egg that scar loves with all his heart and grian reluctantly accept#i think out of all the duos in qsmp. the one i would want to see in the dl soumate premise the most is slimeriana. it's the dysfunctionalit#i made a post in the past about pac and tango being my fav cubitos bcs they were both crazy cartoonish and like scientists#but it kinda felt like a disservice to leave mike and zedaph out because to me they're argubly crazier and more cartoonish#missa and tim are paired bcs i just really wanted an excuse to draw the wet cats and it just so happened they both have relations to death#skizz and jaiden as the lawyers who were SHOCKINGLY good at their jobs like they cooked with that one#(was also gonna draw joe and roier as bad lawyers but i was running outta steam)#someone's already made a post about grian and (el) quackity and their eye entities so not much elaboration needed there#fit and etho just give the same vibe to be as a dude who has a reputation and is well-known and seems intimidating#i also made fit's arms way too skinny and i don't like it...but i'm not gonna go back and change it now i spent embarassingly long on this#but then his silliness is brought out by The Narrative#foolish and bdubs is one of my favorite drawings because i just knew i wanted to highlight the silly height difference#just realized they're also both god-like figures at least at some point#cellbit and rendog. cat and dog and lore. enough said about their connection.#i couldn't decide who fit etoiles combat hungry anime protagonist vibe best bcs martyn was originally paired with him#but i wanted martyn with phil so i went with my second options: joel and gem#i couldn't draw them mid rage but essentially the title is derived from “WHO KILLED EMPANADA” and “do me a favor. die for me.”#philza minecraft and martyn inthelittlewood. they feel like twins but one is evil (it's martyn)#SOMETHING I FORGOT THAT I WISH I ADDED: BBH AND BIGB AS THE ENTITIES WHO LIE. I HATE MYSELF HOW COULD I FORGET THAT#if i were to pair impulse with someone it would be tubbo? either him or scar would've been with tubbo#and then lizzie i just did not know who i wanted to pair her with. no one really does it like her in my opinion#scott's someone i also had no idea who to put him with he's just so...him...
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y-rhywbeth2 · 1 month ago
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You ever have an OC that absolutely fucking nobody should date, both for their own good and the ocs? Like; 'you need 1000 years therapy not the pressures of a committed romantic relationship.'
But you give them that relationship anyway, usually with a character who also probably shouldn't be in a relationship right now, because they're fictional and there for you to study like bugs under a glass. And unrealistically it works out despite being a train wreck because you're self-indulgent and want the characters to have nice things. Spicy nice things, with an occasional hint of bitter when you're in the mood. Plus a thousand AUs where it doesn't work out that don't ruin the enjoyment because 'that doesn't happen in the canon-headcanon'
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koko2unite · 3 months ago
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chocosvt · 4 months ago
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lucienne-thee-librarian · 4 months ago
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Okay but also because I'm a pedantic bitch...in relation to that post I just reblogged explaining part of gay-on-gay bigotry...what if some people are just assholes who happen to be gay, or bi or trans? And they're all for oppression or just plain cruelty as long as it's aimed at other people? Like that's also something to consider.
I don't actually think, any longer, that "internalized self-hate projected outward and also suppressed envy for someone who's doing and being all the things you were convinced into not allowing yourself" is...all there is to this phenonemon. And I wish we'd stop fixating on that quite so much just because we want to be frankly, nicer than some of these people have ever deserved. It's always more satisfying on some level, to imagine your enemies as Tortured deep inside (whether it's because you feel a bit malicious or you just want to believe that there's a way to reach out and heal them with kindness.) than to admit that Sometimes They're Just a Shithead.
Now, do I think that complex can be a big part of it? Oh yeah. And of COURSE, different people have different motivations in different amounts and yadda yadda yadda. No group of people, ethnic, gender, political or otherwise is a Monolith. (For one thing, when it comes to these Pick-Me Gay/Trans pundits and Influencers, money and clout should never be left out as an explanation. Just saying.) But that's the point, isn't it? Any ONE explanation can't explain them all completely.
Tbh, I think we need to consider some people are just bullies who happened to be born not cis or straight. And even if they were bullied at one point for their identity, they learned absolutely nothing from the experience except Don't Be On the Social Reject Side. So they moved their thinking just enough that "woman who likes women" "man who likes men" "I just happened o want to be a woman instead, or a man instead despite how I was born" could be put in the Safe category and they fight for that. Everyone else though, is still fair game and even a fair target. Some people don't just want power to escape oppression and live their lives in peace, they WANT to BE the ones oppressing. Like, do we ACTUALLY understand that LGBT people are humans too and that that includes the bad side?
It tracks a lot better too, when you consider that a lot of people like the masc4masc gays are openly racist and fatphobic. "No fems" Yes but also "No fats. No Asians." Christ, I could think of countless examples of white thin (and sometimes but not necessary cis) queer people doing that sort of thing. I'm sure y'all can too. This idea of some poor lost soul Tormented by Self Hate and Envy of the Freedom of Others doesn't do shit to explain that. Like, even if the two things coexist and they can, it doesn't explain that part.
I honestly just think the uglier but more accurate truth is that lot of queer people aren't all Hashtag Gay or Trans Rights or aren't Liberal out of any sense of justice AT ALL but only self-interest. Being an activist because you're a member of an oppressed group is like, entirely normal and fine of course BUT it becomes real clear when someone's framework of ethics and politics is PURELY "I think me (and people I personally like and approve of) being oppressed is bad" and literally not one inch deeper.
You can tell because if it was deeper, why would they find it so easy to turn around to a fellow queer/trans person to jeer at and humiliate and throw them under the bus if they think they're a Deadweight to the group by being a Weirdo I Don't Want to Stand Next to, Eww...or if they just don't personally like them? Why have you clearly spent absolutely no time unpacking any of the prejudice and biases around gender sexuality (or GOD FORBID race) that society throws at you.. at least no more time than it takes to rationalize yourself out of the category of Should Be Destroyed and Oppressed?
We are not immune from this sort of terminally self-interested activism. I just feel like we'd get a lot further as a society, as a community, if sometimes our analysis of bullies and assholes didn't fixate on finding some deep pain and trauma inside them, to explain their actions in a way that makes them look more tortured and less malicious (even if we say, even mean, that it's not supposed to be an excuse). Sometimes people are just racist, or fatphobic. Sometimes lesbians or gay men or bi or trans people just want to be judgmental bullies too.
Sometimes the reality isn't Tragic Villain Backstory. Sometimes, its just a selfish, deeply pathetic person refusing to become any less, because it's easier not to; even if you had a unique chance to see how the other side lives, a chance your straight cis bully peers didn't get by virtue of their identities.
#(same mentality as women who think every abortion is evil besides theirs. Freedom for me not for thee#ppl act like that's so shocking I used to. But now I'm just like...well have we considered Selfishness?#these women only rationalized and unpacked enough to make an exception for themselves.#and then actively refused to learn a thing from the experience. They carried on being as misogynistic as ever#judging all other women and claiming pregnancy is an appropriate punishment for not doing Everything Right#(except when its me). you can tell by that. They just happen to be misogynists with self-interest#human beings have an AMAZING ability to do all kinds#of mental gymnastics to believe things that contradict each other#we're not rational creatures. Accept this now and many more things will make sense this is an order. ANYWAY)#plus imo this Self Loathing theory fails to explain that not every feminine woman or masculine man#hates their gender presentation? Like yeah a lot of the makeup and diet culture is awful but#there are always gonna be ppl who want to dress a certain way regardless of societal pressure#making it exponentially harder to detangle where your Genuine Wants end and that begins.#the downsides of being social animals. And I guess I just don't know who's served#by pretending that's not a thing. The older i get the more i think we need to be careful before#our honest attempts to explain why peoole fight for systems/things that cause them trouble turn into infantilization#it's very possible to turn condescending and infantilizing going all Oh People Don't Know What's Best For Them#They're All Brainwashed. Give oppressed people the agency to be assholes too#plus it just leaves these ppl the opportunity to go I Don't Hate Myself#lmao loser.' Whereas 'you're just an asshole who doesn't care about anyone but yourself getting hurt'#is while not something they might be swayed by or care about a lot harder to refute.#we can't always know what goes on in people's heads. Going by their actions is helpful tho
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theinfinitedivides · 3 months ago
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on the fucking scooter my brother...........................
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ef-1 · 9 months ago
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girlhood
#i have to fly out to capetown to see mother and im literally debating if i could land in the morning and leave at night on the same day#like. anything longer than that is going to ruin my year.#when she called and did her “katherine. you have to be here on the 10th” i literally sobbed in my bed for the rest of the day 😍😍😍#not dyeing my hair black for a year and its getting lighter and lighter everyday and i look like her again#and my therapist telling me “you need to do things for yourself.” but like can i? sorry that woman traumatised me and i actually cant :)#like everything i do is informed by her#I'm going to go and just like everytime the only way to keep my sanity is to mirror her. talk and sit and speak and read and eat like her#and its such a terrifying experience bc i remember that im capable of emulating her viciousness and maybe i am my mother's daugher 🤢🤢🤢#and im going to come back and its going to take fucking months for me to feel like myself again#“oh you look so beautiful just like your mother” i hope you DIE lol !!! the fact that my conception of beauty was shaped by her#growing up with this cruel beautiful detached woman and realising that at the intersection of beauty and wickness is a lifetime of pain#and still being so desperate for her approval- for any metaphysical proximity to her that i felt elated when#people would tell me i look like her. that it meant i was also beautiful like her and maybe she'll love me a little for it#but now i know for a fact that i do look like her and it makes saliva swell under my tongue - that moment right before you throw up-#when people mention it 😍#last time i was in capetown my optic neuritis flared up (and i know for a fact it was that it was ms-stress related from having to see her)#and i thought i hid it so well even though i had near constant headaches & lethargy until she said “katherine give me the red notebook”#and i knew that she knew all along. it was so acutely humiliating standing there and knowing she knows i cant see which one is the red one#and she tilted her head and said “whats the matter? do you not know what red looks like?”#im never going to have kids. my mother and i read eachother so well it can only mean im never too far removed from becoming her#lol!!!!!!!!!
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martyrbat · 1 year ago
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batman #333
[ID: three panels of Bruce Wayne and Talia al Ghul over the course of a day. In the first one, Bruce has his cowl on but is sitting shirtless on their bed in the early dawn hours after getting severely injured on patrol the night before. Talia rushed to help him with his injuries as he started to talk about the burdens and trials of tomorrow—which caused Talia to caress his face and promise, “There will be time to worry of the future soon enough. But for now you must relax... You need comforting. I can give you all you need... And more.” Bruce admits, “Talia, you tempt me...”
In the second panel, it's the same day but they're dressed to go outside the ski resort they're taking refuge in. Talia is holding onto his arm as he was talking about the mission before he tells her, “But that's tomorrow. Tonight, well... First, dinner.” Talia smiles softly and prompts, “And then...?” Bruce responds, “Then we'll discuss that comforting you mentioned earlier.”
In the third panel, it's that night. They had dinner and dodged an assassination attempt, which caused Bruce to start to talk about the even bigger dangers that awaits them tomorrow. Talia gently tells him, “The moon is so beautiful, Bruce. Too beautiful to be wasted worrying.” They kiss in front of the moonlight and Talia reminds him, “We talked about comforting...” END ID]
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icewindandboringhorror · 7 months ago
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examining a seemingly normal image only to slowly realize the clear signs of AI generated art.... i know what you are... you cannot hide your true nature from me... go back where you came from... out of my sight with haste, wretched and vile husk
#BEGONE!!! *wizard beam blast leaving a black smoking crater in the middle of the tumblr dashboard*#I think another downside to everyone doing everything on phone apps on shitty tiny screens nowadays is the inability to really see details#of an image and thus its easier to share BLATANTLY fake things like.. even 'good' ai art has pretty obvious tells at this point#but especially MOST of it is not even 'good' and will have details that are clearly off or lines that dont make sense/uneven (like the imag#of a house interior and in the corner there's a cabinet and it has handles as if it has doors that open but there#are no actual doors visible. or both handles are slightly different shapes. So much stuff that looks 'normal' at first glance#but then you can clearly tell it's just added details with no intention or thought behind it. a pattern that starts and then just abruptly#doesn't go anywhere. etc. etc. )#the same thing with how YEARS ago when I followed more fashion type blogs on tumblr and 'colored hair' was a cool ''''New Thing''' instead#of being the norm now basically. and people would share photos of like ombre hair designs and stuff that were CLEARLY photoshop like#you could LITERally see the coloring outside of the lines. blurs of color that extend past the hair line to the rest of the image#or etc. But people would just share them regardless and comment like 'omg i wish I could do this to my hair!' or 'hair goallzzzz!! i#wonder what salon they went to !!' which would make me want to scream and correct them everytime ( i did not lol)#hhhhhhggh... literally view the image on anything close to a full sized screen and You Will SEe#I don't know why it's such a pet peeve of mine. I think just as always I'm obsessed with the reality and truth of things. most of the thing#that annoy me most about people are situations in which people are misinterpreting/misunderstanding how something works or having a misconc#eption about somehting thats easily provable as false or etc. etc. Even if it's harmless for some random woman on facebook to believe that#this AI generated image of a cat shaped coffee machine is actually a real product she could buy somewhere ... I still urgently#wish I could be like 'IT IS ALL AN ILLUSION. YOU SEE???? ITS NOT REALL!!!!! AAAAA' hjhjnj#Like those AI shoes that went around for a while with 1000000s of comments like 'omg LOVE these where can i get them!?' and it's like YOU#CANT!!! YOU CANT GET THEM!!! THEY DONT EXIST!!! THE EYELETS DONT EVEN LINE UP THE SHOES DONT EVEN#MATCH THE PATTERNS ARE GIBBERISH!! HOW CAN YOU NOT SEE THEY ARE NOT REAL!??!!' *sobbing in the rain like in some drama movie*#Sorry I'm a pedantic hater who loves truth and accuracy of interpretation and collecting information lol#I think moreso the lacking of context? Like for example I find the enneagram interesting but I nearly ALWAYS preface any talking about it#with ''and I know this is not scientifically accurate it's just an interesting system humans invented to classify ourselve and our traits#and I find it sociologically fascinating the same way I find religion fascinating'. If someone presented personality typing information wit#out that sort of context or was purporting that enneagram types are like 100% solid scientific truth and people should be classified by the#unquestionaingly in daily life or something then.. yeah fuck that. If these images had like disclaimers BIG in the image description somewh#re like 'this is not a real thing it's just an AI generated image I made up' then fine. I still largely disagree with the ethics behind AI#art but at least it's informed. It's the fact that people just post images w/o context or beleive a falsehood about it.. then its aAAAAAA
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cedarw00div · 7 months ago
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redeemed Gort au....He gets tadpoled instead of durge....hregrgrggrr...
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