#the self hating artist hates itself and all its work

[mutedeclipse]

I wanna open up in a way that nobody asked for and say that...

My god why i am i so insecure about changing media i like to the point of making something new, and beautiful but absolutely hating myself when i see other people's interpretations who are closer to the source. Im specifically thinking about R-ewritten!Bomberman (i think thats how you format the .... Alternate verse thingy???? Im new to this sorry) and seeing other people react to the small changes i do show and then i recoil and lurk back into my cave even if it isnt.. negative

Its difficult to explain changes i made and why and the fact i injected angst n shit in a typically lighthearted series and then up and moved my entire platform to a smaller area and its. Noticable very very noticeable

I REALLY want to get back into making content for it as bomberman has me in a death grip and thats my pride and joy and my biggest most fleshed out story to date but it really does seem theres no demand anymore to continue, no interest in my passions which, yes im being melodramatic and irrational but thats just me. I am melodramatic and irrational.... 👍

Maybe i should stop comparing my art and creations to other peoples, i stopped doing that with my art why cant i do that with my stories too?

Thanks for listening to me losing my fucking mind

[burningcheese-merchant]

@cuppajj

You're 👀👀👀👀👀 you're what 👀👀👀👀👀

Instructions unclear, I have now created terribly drawn angst (I used that one drawing in this post as a reference for Spice in his container, I'm sorry it looks so botched, lvl 0 artist here lol)

And some written angst too, because I only really sort of know how to draw with words, not a pencil (under a cut so nobody has to bother with it if they don't want to)

"Father?"

Nothing.

"Are you awake? Can you hear me?"

Pepper Jack already knew what answer Burning Spice would give: none at all. Had eavesdropping on Celestial Cheese and the cheesebird in charge of "Energy Management" (this is what they meant by that?) not told him so ahead of time, then the sight that awaited him while he tiptoed through the halls and fluttered down the stairways would have instead. A man he'd always known to be larger than life, now a shell of his former self. Reduced to nothing but someone else's battery. Trapped behind glass, never meant to exist in the world again.

He knew all of that already. He knew in his heart that there was no point in talking to him. But he would try anyway. He had to.

"You look..." He paused. "You look thin. Thinner than... than the other you. You look weak."

The room itself felt warm and stuffy from the heat and electricity constantly pulsing through all of the machinery, and yet the glass felt startlingly cold when he placed his hand on it.

"I hate seeing you like this, Father," he said. "It isn't who you are. It's not who you're supposed to be. It... hurts. A lot."

The glass vibrated faintly; just enough for him to notice the pushback against his fingertips.

"Do they... really never let you out? Are you stuck inside of this container all the time? They never let you out to eat? Or move? Or even breathe?"

He leaned in a bit more, trying to get a closer look at Burning Spice's face. His eyes were closed, eyebrows slightly furrowed. His mouth was set in a small frown. Pepper Jack's gaze flickered downward - there was no rhythmic rise and fall of the man's chest like there should have been. The Light of Destruction - still embedded in his chest, to Pepper Jack's surprise; why wouldn't Celestial Cheese just take it while he can't fight back? - still gleamed, even submerged in that strange water and with the glass trying to hide its shine.

"I don't want you in there. I want to let you out..." His fingers curled into a fist. "I'm strong... Stronger than I look. One good knock and it'll rain glass all over the floor. It's nothing to me. But..."

He knocked on the glass once. Just the edges of his knuckles pressing against it, not even hard enough to make it rattle. Just for the sake of hearing the sound.

"But what would it do? What would happen to you? I know they're... draining you, but I don't understand how. I don't know how this container works. What if breaking it while you're still inside only hurts you more? What if it kills you?"

The thought of the glass shattering, granting Burning Spice his freedom back, only for him to slump and crumple to the floor completely lifeless made Pepper Jack's chest ache.

"I... I can't. I can't do it, Father. I'm scared of hurting you. Everyone else has hurt you enough already, haven't they? I won't make it worse if I don't have to."

He paused again. "Father... I..."

It was silent for a little while before Pepper Jack broke it with a soft sigh.

"... I know you're not really my father," he murmured, eyes downcast. "My father is... at home. Somewhere far away from here. You..." He stopped again, unsure of what to say next. "You... You're the version of him that's still a Beast. You're the one who hasn't changed."

He placed his other hand flat against the glass, feeling the faint vibrations latch onto his skin and crawl up his fingers and wrist. "Gold- Celestial Cheese told me you're a monster. That you've hurt and killed thousands. That she defeated you soundly and saved the world from your reign of terror..." He tilted his head. "Well... I guess that technically happened. But... Celestial Cheese... She scares me. She looks like my mother, but she isn't her. My mother would never act the way she does. She..." A lump rose in his throat that he quickly swallowed. "She wouldn't do any of this. She's not a conqueror, she's not a Beast. She wouldn't trap people in jars and lock the jars in a basement, taking away all of their strength until they're nothing but husks. She wouldn't even do that to her worst enemies. I don't even think she'd do it to you."

The Golden Cheese of this world wasn't always like this, was she? She was a hero like his mother - like his Golden Cheese - once. Even if only once...

"I hate to admit this, but... another reason I don't let you out is because of who you are. You're still a Beast, just like her... If I let you out, won't you just go back to hurting people again? What proof do I have that you wouldn't? If you did, would I even be able to stop you?"

Memories of his many spars with his own Burning Spice flooded his mind. Even holding back, the man was so powerful. Pepper Jack always improved, he walked away from every challenge his father gave him a better fighter than before - but he's never walked away the victor. Not yet. And he doubted that a battle against this Burning Spice would be any different.

"Whatever happens after that would be all my fault... I can't allow it. I can't let you be a monster again. I'm sorry."

Somewhere in the back of his mind and the bottom of his heart, Pepper Jack hoped Burning Spice would turn to him and say that it was alright. That he understood his decision. That he respected him. That he was proud of him.

Like his real father would.

His eyes started to blur.

"I..." Both of his hands balled into tight fists now, trembling with raw emotion. "But I still want to. I want to let you out. I know I shouldn't, but I- I don't want to see you like this. She's hurting you. You might deserve it, but- but I don't want it to happen. I want you to be free."

His lip began to quiver. "She scares me. She really does. When she smiles, her eyes don't. She's... I know she's lying. She's lying to somebody, somewhere, all the time. She treats me well, she dotes on me, she tries to act like my mother. But she's not. All she does is wear my mother's face like a mask. I don't understand who she really is, I just- I know it isn't good. She's greedy, but the wrong kind. The kind that leaves everything and everyone hollow, then scratches and howls at the empty space because even that isn't enough. It's scary.

"I just... F-Father, I-" He didn't mean to say that. He knows that's not his father, he really does. He really does... "I don't know what to do. I don't know where I am. This isn't the Golden Cheese Kingdom, not really. I don't want to be here. I don't want to be around Celestial Cheese. I don't even want to be around the cheesebirds, they- they sound like robots sometimes. Like all they know how to do is bend to Celestial Cheese's will. My mother doesn't expect that from our cheesebirds, she's kind and generous and- and she doesn't make them help her hurt other people! My- m-my mother-"

The memory of his mother - of his Golden Cheese, the only Golden Cheese that should ever have existed - made the warm tears that been threatening to spill over for ages finally do so. "I don't know what to do. I don't know where to go. Everything is all wrong here. There's something wrong with everyone, every single person I meet. I try to pretend, I try to act like I'm happy and grateful, I-I let Celestial Cheese hug me and take me places and pinch my cheeks even though I hate when she touches me! But I- I don't know if I can keep it up! I don't even know if she actually believes me!"

Never before had he ached for his mentor's guidance more than he did now. Smoked Cheese always told him he was clever and sought to make him more so. No blade could ever be sharper than one's wit, he said. He taught Pepper Jack to lie. He taught him to be crafty. To do what he had to, when he had to. He had to now, more than ever before - and he was cracking. The mask he wore in this place was ill-fitting. Every day, he felt it slip off further. His only solace was that Smoked Cheese wasn't there to tell him how disappointed he was in his failure.

"You're all I have," Pepper Jack cried. "There's nobody here for me. I'm all alone. I don't even know how I got here! I came here because- 'cause there's nowhere else for me to go! I don't have anyone to talk to! You- Y-You're in here, you're in this container, you can't lie to me or hurt me or- or do anything else! You'll sit there and listen and you won't interrupt me or talk down to me like she does!"

For a moment - just one moment - he thought he saw Burning Spice stir, just a little. It only made him cry harder.

"Please, Father!" he cried, raking his fingers over the glass - right above his chest. Right above the Light of Destruction. "Please, you have to wake up! I need help! I-I need your help! I don't know what to do, I hate it here, you're all I have, please!"

Nothing. Just like when he first called to him. Just like when he'd bothered saying anything else.

He crossed his arms and laid his head against them. "I just want to go home... I don't belong here. Please... You have to wake up. You're all I have in this horrible place. Please, Father, I need you. I-I want to hear your voice again. I want to hear you laugh at something. You're all I have anymore."

Through his tears and down through the glass, into the strange water, right at that godforsaken Soul Jam, Pepper Jack's lips curled into a small, bitter smile.

"You're all I have now... And you can't even hear me, can you?"

His only answer was the steady thrum of all the machinery.

---------------------

I mean... Can he? Can Burning Spice hear him in there? 🤔

Lol imagine he can and he's just like "wtf is this kid on about I don't even know you Jesus fucking Christ"

[abnomi]

random assorted headcanons for Turbo because I like thinking and having fun !!!! 🎉

Read More to Find Out...or are you too scared?... i bet ur too scared ahaha youre too scared Lol! Hahaahaaa!!!

The steering wheel of his kart is covered in bite marks, similar to how one would bite their favorite pencil. he bites things to mark his territory because Nobody is gonna touch that unless they want all of his diseases (150+).

i just know he was fighting to restrain himself not to chew on any of the candy civilians

when it comes to music, he doesn't see the point of listening to it. he doesn't have enough patience to really take it in; to him, it's just a thing that exists and not much more than that ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ ∵⁠ )⁠_⁠/⁠¯

adding onto that point, this guy listens to metal clanking sounds and loud engine roaring for entertainment because he likes things that would overstimulate any normal person. turbo is incredibly sensory-seeking and will do anything for The Sensations

someone should take him to a heavy rock concert i think it would change him a little. keep that thang on a leash

related to being sensory-seeking, i think he would absolutely love running his hands over random textures. if anyone has run their hands along a wall while walking alongside it...He does that...If u know u know... he is SO stimmy its unbelievable. Unreal.

very pain-tolerant. he'll whine and complain about it for attention, but physical hurt really doesnt bother him much until it gets in the way of what he wants to do.

funnily enough, he is very picky when it comes to temperature. he can handle getting ran over but if its 1° too hot or cold he'll start nagging and nagging for it to go back to normal. turbo really needs his own enclosure i think it'd do him a lot of good

this is a more popular headcanon and its canon-leaning, but he's an artist :-] he usually sticks to graffiti art because its generally considered more "rebellious and cool" but he also sketches cars, design decals, and other stuff when hes alone!

i would love to see his process of character designing king candy because i dont think he really knew what he was doing

he was just like "ok what does a generic king look like. uhhhhh.... 1, old and jolly like santa claus.... 2.... uhh crown..... 3......... purple.... FUCK YEAH im so good at this!!!!🔥🔥🔥"

i just noticed how his design has like 0 actual candy motifs aside from his bow being a candy wrapper and his shoes having those little gumdrop end pieces. what was he THINKING

while King Candy has a lisp, i think it's a coverup for his actual voice because of how goofy and recognizable it is. Overall its the same as his regular voice, he just gets silly with it. i noticed that he still does retain some of his lisp when hes screaming his lungs out at Vanellope, however, so maybe he genuinely does have a lisp that makes itself known when furious :3

another thing i noticed is how he hisses his S's. very cool very cool the reptilian

@/tasticturbo made a post abt how he has tinnitus from the constant noise in his game and i couldnt agree more

AND THE PRESCRIPTION GLASSES. where did he get those...he needs to See

side note, the aforementioned account has made so many interesting analyses on turbo and theyre all so insightful. i recommend u check them out

i think he gets migraines from stress. constant buzzing or pain flood his head but hes like "IDGAF i need to DO something at ALL TIMES no matter what"

hes like a shark in that way. if hes not moving he'll die instantly. idk a lot about sharks or if thats how it works srry but im going off of what the Worms are saying to me and i dont have much to work with

i think a really big contributer as to why he lacks in the self care department is because he fails to notice that something in his body is wrong. hes far too distracted on something he thinks is more important than remembering to Eat Food or Drink Water or Wash Himself or

he's like "WHY DO I FEEL LIKE SHIT ALL OF THE TIME!!! I HATE MY LIFE" and he hasn't slept in 4 days

hes so me. Sorry.

i dont think turbo is necessarily suicidal, but the way he behaves shows a clear disregard for his own safety and wellbeing. he thinks that he knows what he needs but he really doesnt :-[ i think he has some kind of immortality complex, feeling untouchable and like nothing could get to him. as scared as he was when ralph was about to turn him into sloppy mush, he didnt take the threat very seriously. like it was some kind of joke

his kart regenerates every time his game starts up, so what if he smashed it into buildings for fun. He's the number one fan of car accidents. he is all about that shit

i think his living space would literally be a garage btw. its a place to sleep and a space for his car all in one!! he thinks its very convenient and awesome but i think he is coping. he has some old dingy stained sheetless mattress that he has never washed in his life and its covered in dirt and smoke particles. no wonder he has such heavy eye bags Dude Please

the turbo twins have a garage used in a similar way, and while its still pretty shitty, they still at least TRY to maintain it. they just fight a lot over who has to care of it. nobody taught them how to take turns ever

but this aint about them. maybe another day

i think that turbo would find comfort in garbage and keeping it around because its familiar to him. a big clean empty space would make him so mad and if anyone moves even an inch of scrap off to the side he will throw a fit. he generally doesnt pay attention to his surroundings but when its his personal space he is 1093 times more neurotic

i think the big empty castle he stole wouldve been a big transition for him. maybe it helped him clear his mind a little more to practice his tricky schemes...it helped him get more subtle

thats all i have for nowww ty for reading ^_^ if anyone else has any wacky ideas pleeeease tell me i would love to hear them!!

[komsomolka]

In your esteemed opinion, is Mikhail Bulgakov actually a good writer or is he more in the Orwell end of the spectrum: popular for anti-soviet sentiment (despite clear disdain for women and working class) his works are heavy on?

Bulgakov was definitely a talented writer so much so that he was tolerated by Soviet power despite reactionary character of his works and even sometimes was (sort of) defended by such people as Gorky and Stalin (their pet liberal of sorts😅).

Gorky: Bulgakov is not my brother [...] I have not the slightest desire to defend him. But – he is a talented writer, and we don’t have many of those. There is no point in making “martyrs for an idea” out of them. The enemy must either be destroyed or re-educated. In this case, I am for re-education. (Further in the letter Gorky says Bulgakov wants to contact Stalin personally to ask for help with stable employment. Bulgakov later got a place in Moscow Art Theatre).

Stalin: Of course, it is very easy to "criticize" and demand a ban on non-proletarian literature. But the easiest thing cannot be considered the best. The point is not a ban, but step by step to force old and new non-proletarian trash off the stage in a competition, by creating real, interesting, artistic plays of a Soviet character that can replace it. And competition is a big and serious matter, because only in a competitive environment can we achieve the formation and crystallization of our proletarian fiction. As for the play itself, "The Days of the Turbins" (Bulgakov's play), it is not so bad, because it does more good than harm. Do not forget that the main impression left on the viewer by this play is an impression favorable to the Bolsheviks: "if even people like the Turbins are forced to lay down their arms and submit to the will of the people, admitting their cause is finally lost, it means that the Bolsheviks are invincible, nothing can be done with them, the Bolsheviks". "The Days of the Turbins" is a demonstration of the all-crushing power of Bolshevism. Of course, the author is in no way “guilty” of this demonstration. But what does that matter to us?

Bulgakov was heavily censored, called for questioning by authorities multiple times and struggled a lot financially due to his bourgeoise and White sympathies while living in proletarian state. But isn't it the same for communist intellectuals in capitalist countries? So i personally don't cry crocodile tears over his suffering artist lifestory. Bulgakov works were accused of valorizing the Whites by Soviet literary critics (he was universally hated by them) which is true but as Stalin mentioned idealogically it was still net positive for Bolsheviks bc Bulgakovs works were pretty defeatist when it came to Bourgeoise class.

Interesting analysis of Bulgakov in Soviet Literary Encyclopedia released in 1930s: Bulgakov entered literature with the awareness of the death of his class and the need to adapt to a new life. Bulgakov comes to the conclusion: "Everything that happens, always happens as it should and only for the better." This fatalism is an excuse for those who changed milestones. Their rejection of the past is not cowardice and betrayal. It is dictated by the inexorable lessons of history. Reconciliation with the revolution was a betrayal of the perishing class' past. Intelligensia's reconciliation with Bolshevism, which in the past was not only by origin, but also ideologically connected with the defeated classes, the statements of this intelligentsia not only about its loyalty, but also about its readiness to build together with the Bolsheviks - could be interpreted as sycophancy. With the novel "The White Guard" Bulgakov rejected this accusation of the White émigrés and declared: the change of milestones is not a capitulation to the physical winner, but a recognition of the moral superiority of the victors. The novel "The White Guard" for Bulgakov is not only a reconciliation with reality, but also self-justification. A forced reconciliation. Bulgakov came to it through the cruel defeat of his class. Therefore, there is no joy from the knowledge that the bastards have been defeated, no faith in the creativity of the victorious people. This determined his artistic perception of the winner (i.e. Proletariat/USSR/Bolsheviks).

[aixeko]

──────⏯ A WORK OF ART [ ▸ ]

MAIN MASTERLIST ➤ HSR MASTERLIST

🎨 “ I'LL FIGHT FOR CONTROL BUT THE "RIGHT WAY" TAKES A TOLL AND STILL AT THE END OF IT ALL I CAN'T ESCAPE MY FATE THE WRITING'S ON THE WALL. “ .𖥔 ݁ ˖

| Starring | Famous Violinist!Kafka x [ Child prodigy, failed adult ] Artist!Reader 

| Setting | Modern AU

| Scenario | [ SHORT FIC ] ANGST! Hurt/comfort. Mental Breakdown. Unhealthy mindset. Artist’s struggles. Low self esteem. Identity crisis. Established relationship. Kafka & reader is engaged. Rushed ending… NOT PROOFREAD.

► RADIO CHANNEL [Author note]

× My first Kafka fic on here, wow. Happy holly jolly christmas <3 ×Something about this triggered the 5 stages of grief in me so hard. I hate this fic with my entire soul, it’s so badly written I’m sorry. Especially at the end, It’s so disappointing. Sorry... × Anyway, I highly recommend listening to the duet version between Kaveh and Haitham of Writing on the Wall ! It captures the feels of this fic greatly.

[ Word count: 2721 ] Sources: Love and Deep space, Kafka cosplay, and real life images found on pinterest.

🎻 "I'll come save your soul as your "Right way" takes a toll and then at the end of it all I will rewrite your fate as writing on the wall." ✮⋆˙

With every stroke that strikes the hauntingly pale canvas, the aching prominent in your shoulder seems to grow as if roaring waves taking the form of liquid paint have crashed upon you without a moment's notice. The weight of each stroke takes its toll on you, accumulating like the darkening of the heavens and gathering of clouds before their fierce rage captures its victims in ominousness and instability.

In such a suffocating atmosphere, time felt like nothing more than a worthless nuisance, with its worth only to disturb the bothered and the unbothered. Has the star that this miserable home orbits already fallen prey to slumber, or has its opposite already shrouded the sky in its woefulness? How many times has the Earth already taken its rest while you fought your fatigue under the guise of devotion to one's art? How often have you endeavored to bring forth a masterpiece from a hand marred by mistakes and a mind colored with imperfections? How much longer can your heart allow you to continue this disgraceful creation you would dare call "art"?

Without any hindrance to your movement, another imperfect splash of color daubs the canvas.

Sweat that has amassed begins to feel like the submersion of the ocean itself, followed by the rise and fall of rapid breathing, a frantic attempt to hold a semblance of living in this polluted air brought about by your own destruction.

Your eyes bore into the incoherent carnage of colors. Trembling.

A genius is what you were; a fallen genius is what you are. A desperate soul scouring every inch of one's own being in search of that familiar sensation of flowing fluency, of inspiration, and of motivation. Only to find nothing more than broken pieces.

Without your consciousness's consent, the fuming flame that begs to be unleashed took over, and the hairs of your brush crashed onto the canvas. It takes a while before your lidded eyes glisten, before snapping open at the realization of your misstep. You shake your head nonstop, lips quivering at the distasteful spectacle before your eyes, a sight that nearly has you falling from your high stool.

Calm down, calm down, calm down, calm down, calm down! CALM DOWN!

You repeatedly try to tell yourself, your vision blurring again at the wetness of anguish that weighs on unfulfilled dreams stemming from swollen, red eyes. The strength of your grip tightens around the same tool meant to aid you, a tool that was never meant to destroy you, a tool you now feel immense shame to even have the rightfulness of holding. 

NO.

Your mind is fooling you with lies of deception; yes, that's what it is; that's what it is called: lies, lies, lies. You're still the same prodigy you always were and have been.

This brush is still yours to bear; this brush is still your territory, your invincible sovereignty where no others can take it away from you. For the first time in months, your eyes wander to something beyond the impending doom of your ambition.

You mustn't give up now, no, not yet, not now, not ever, not until your heart ceases to beat and your body turns to ashes of the past. Fame or attention, it doesn't matter; you must, you HAVE to see this through to the end, the day of its completion, the day when it will bask in its infinite glory. No matter the cost, you will... or else—what was the point of all those praises?

They can't be mere meaningless praises of pity toward an innocent, simple-minded child, right? You're still the little prodigy your mother and father had proudly proclaimed all those years ago, right?

Right...?

The shuddering grip on the brush and the unbalanced posture reveal a narrative diverging from reality, a tale where truth has been distorted into a mere blemish on a meticulously crafted illusion. A revelation that you may be able to lie to yourself and others, but one that you cannot lie to your body and soul.

You knew; you always have. You may have had the passion and talent, but you long ago lost one, holding tightly to another, and believing you still have both under your control.

You weren't the same talented child that so many adored anymore, but you were still the same child who continued to be a pathological people-pleaser who only wanted the acknowledgment of others.

In the end, fame and attention do matter because they define the very reasons for your identity and the continuation of your undesirable life.

You are fully aware of this fact, yet you cannot seem to stop yourself. A true artist would weave their personal tragedy and fabricate it into a timeless masterpiece. Yet, you have never pondered one important detail.

What becomes of an artist when their brush is meek, their mind lost in the abyss, with no visions to seek? When their passion has already lost its spark to ignite, and sorrow lingers on, untouched and cold?

It was already nighttime; the moon was at its fullest, yet you don’t have the will to care anymore, lost in the darkness of your thoughts. You don’t indulge in the tiredness, the empty pit in your stomach, or the concentrated primal desire to finally let loose of your entire being. A tempting, melodious voice murmurs in the back of your mind, consuming the entirety of your senses, an offer to travel to the lowest part of the earth, where even the greatest of scientists have yet to discover the fullest extent of it. The watery depth that is known as the abyss, the ocean in which silence can devour you whole. Devoid of a singular worry, devoid of the guilt of being pathetically idiotic in the field where you should have been unsurpassable, devoid of having to live with the fact that you will never be enough no matter the effort you have invested in. Because in the end, puppeteered by fate's hands, those who are blessed by beings of greater power will always succeed over the untalented.

You tilt your head upward, and immediately that nauseating feeling runs its course all over your body. The moonlight emitting through the clear paneglass window mocks you for your misery, taunting you with the art piece that you have embarrassingly spent months on, only to end up with nothing more than a disfigured, incoherent shot of colors. You bite your lip for what seems to be the hundredth time, your swollen eyes streaming enough tears to cover an entire river.

What would everyone think of me? My audience? My mother? My father? You stare up blankly at the ceiling, unable to bear looking at your own creation, a reflection of your inner chaos. What would they all think of me? You wish to never see it again. A heaviness settles in your chest, and you wish to rid yourself of it all, to vanish into nothingness. Your body slumps, silence wrapping around you, thick and suffocating, leaving only shadows of questions echoing in the stillness where time has lost its meaning. What would you think of me—Kafka?

Your grip around your brush loosens, and eventually, your hands relax. You hear the brush drop to the floor alongside the mess of equipment, but its sound registers as nothing more than muffled background noise.

Your eyes surrender to the painful longing to rest, whether involuntarily or voluntarily; you do not know. Slowly, your body begins to yield. You lean back slightly, feeling the world tilting along with you in slow motion like a steady dance with gravity. You're falling, you realize. To say you care would be another lie because you don't. Rather, the eventual fall feels surreal and oddly comforting, like you're drifting into a gentle dream, and the cold floor is like that of a comforting bed that you slump into after a long-awaited day of hard work.

Time stretches, and the world dims, leaving only the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ears and the arrival of the wooden floor, a final act of surrender as you wait for impact.

If I fall, art will perish with me.

If I don't...

You wait and wait and wait, but the feeling of the harsh wooden floor never comes into contact with your head. Instead, all you could feel were those calloused, ever-so-cautious, indistinguishable hands. You need no vision to identify whose hands those belong to; their touch alone speaks volumes. Those were the hands of a person who has spent a lifetime honing their ability to the utmost, practicing every day with precision and care. The hands of a talented, hardworking genius, someone that you believe you were.

"You're home early." You let out a voice barely above a whisper and drained of a will to live.

"I'm afraid I'm late."

Her usual sultry and dragged-out voice has significantly softened to quiet murmurs only meant for the comfort of your ears. There's an intimacy in her tone as if every whisper is a precious secret she's reluctant to reveal to the world.

You let out an 'Mn' sound, acknowledging her words before you open your teary eyes. Kafka remains silent, her expression unreadable as she observes your evident misery and the wrecked, enormous portrait that she perceives as a reflection of herself, waiting patiently for you to break the silence. Her eyes, filled with equal concern and curiosity.

A deep, shaky exhale escapes you. You sit up before bending forward with your clasped hands pressed tightly against your head and your arms on your thighs. "Kafka," another heavy exhale releases. "Why... tell me, why do we choose to create?"

You hear a slight hesitation in her step; then you feel her hand gently resting on top of your head, the warmth of her touch seeping through, and another hand on your shoulder, grounding you in her presence.

"Because it is the only thing that fate cannot define."

That fate cannot define? You jumped out of your seat, knocking the stool to the ground and catching Kafka off guard, even more so when you hauled her by the collar.

"That's bold coming from you," you pull her closer, "A genius like you wouldn't know how hard it is to struggle to create, especially considering the human desire is to CREATE. You will never KNOW the struggle to have passion but never the talent to make something that isn't nauseating to look at." Kafka's lips part to speak, but in the midst of the storm that has clouded your sight, the world is all but utter darkness to you, and she is the one exception on whom you can vent your frustration.

"People are CHOSEN by FATE; they are CHOSEN, not MADE, not LEARNED. THEY ARE CHOSEN. KAFKA."

"Music is to the soul what words are to the mind, and art is no different; it is a language without words."

Kafka's left fingers traced your collarbone to your jawline, tilting your head slightly until she rested her hand on your cheek, gently wiping away the streaming tears.

"Would you call a genius who spent countless hours and years cultivating their skills until their hands are imprinted with their experience an act of fate, a chosen one?"

"I—"

"You wouldn't." Kafka leans towards you to kiss away the tears of the untouched side. "What a silly question, isn't it? Why do we create? There is no definite answer, and that's what makes art, art."

"Art is a reflection of an artist's truest form of emotion, a way of communication away from the eyes of the world; is it not?"

It is. You admit it mentally, but that reason does not define you; no, the opposite is really, but ashamed to admit it to your fiancée, you turn away from her gaze to save what little dignity you have left.

If I fall... I will give up on art.

Kafka sighed; she let go of her hold and walked past you. Your fists clenched, and you bit your bottom lip until the flesh of it was pierced through until blood was the only thing you could taste, and loud, discordant noise was all you could hear. Your heart was pounding, and it was dropping. Did you just lose the one soul that you have found comfort in? Did you really just lose the one fucking thing that remained a constant in your life? Are you this much of an imbecile?

If I don't... I will continue.

"You look like a lost puppy," Kafka trailed a small streak of red paint on your cheek. "That said, I prefer to see my puppy smiling."

You blink, and for the first time since her arrival, clarity cuts through the haze of your own downpour, revealing your fianc��e, your wife, your lover—the woman who has not just stolen but nurtured your heart.

"Was it not you who told me all those years ago that I should stop obsessing over every little detail when I was a naïve teenager?" Kafka sighed dreamily, her smile reaching her eyes and that tender gaze boring mesmerizingly into yours. In this moment, this woman, this woman who presents herself in such a devilish presence, now looks like God's most beautiful creation, an angel who has descended from heaven.

Your lips part, wanting to say something, but those words get lost in your throat as you drag yourself across the floor, hands reaching out to embrace her tightly.

This time for myself.

"...Why couldn't I be a genius? Why couldn't I be born with natural talents?"

"Shh, my love, let your mind rest and focus on the sound of my heartbeat."

As you stand there, the world outside fades into background noises, and her heartbeat is the only melody in which you allow yourself to indulge. Her thumb rubs the painted streak on your cheek, and you lean into her touch, feeling the frustration of before melt away.

"I should have been here for you; a month away from you is a grave regret." Kafka pressed her lips against your head. "You are enough just as you are, and I am here now to prove it to you."

Your eyes grew heavier and heavier until, in the peace of her presence and the warmth of her love, you felt a sense of tranquility wash over you, guiding you into a much-needed, peaceful slumber.

"Ludwig van Beethoven once stated that the true artist is not proud; he unfortunately sees that art has no limits. He feels darkly how far he is from the goal, and though he may be admired by others, he is sad not to have reached that point to which his better genius appears only as a distant guiding sun."

"Then I guess... I'll just have to work until you can't tell the difference between me and a genius."

"Kafka, art is a reflection of an artist's truest form of emotion; it is a way of communicating away from the eyes of the world, a language of the soul. If you practice too much, you will eventually lose your passion. What is art without emotions? What is art without a reason?"

"Are you saying I will never be able to reach their level?"

"There's no such thing as a ranking when it comes to the human desire to create; art is subjective, and so is the beauty of it. Being able to produce any form of art is still art, and no matter the nonsensical opinions of others, it is only you who deserves to make a judgment."

Kafka runs her hand through your hair, feeling the soft strands slip through her fingers as she observes your peacefully resting form.

"A struggle of artistic ideals, an impossibly fast pace of flowing ideas that disappear just as fast as their appearance, and a perfectionistic reality in which the succession of manifestations is humanly impossible."

She chuckled softly, shaking her head. "It's a shame you have fallen prey to it as well," Smoothly, she picked you up, cradling you protectively in her arms, where no harm can be done to you anymore.

"No matter," she continued, her voice a soothing lullaby to your ears. "Just as you once did for me in the past, I will come save your soul."

[zadr-day]

Why ZaDr?

Think of every worthwhile rival ship that has ever existed; dip it in a poison coating of cynical worldbuilding, sprinkle it with a topping of shunned existence, and let the devil kiss it with a waxy pair of slimy, scifi alien lips. Only then, will you  have yourself a sample of what ZaDr has to offer. These characters are compelling in themselves; one being a bizarre and paranormal obsessed clone of Earth's greatest scientific mind, the other a malfunctioning spaztic robot ant from beyond the stars. Each of them ostracized, for one reason or another, largely by virtue of their own passionate past mistakes.Those mistakes, failed efforts to be seen as worthwhile, to be praised, to be loved. But then you set them against each other, as enemies. As mirrored foils. Neither of them in the right, gray morality reigns supreme as they are  purely obsessed with their own selfish reasons for self aggrandizement. Anything “good” that might happen as a result of their actions is always cast in the light of unintended circumstance. The true fight is with reality itself, while the sharp end of that crushing conflict is pointed towards the only one who could possibly understand what they’re going through. In the world of Invader Zim, every mentor, leader, parental figure, teacher, adult, child and Invader, feels more real by virtue of misanthropic absurdity. Their inability to provide the support and guidance for the main characters to function in a healthy way, is so very like the absence of nurturing many people feel in their youth. To anyone who has experienced life at its worst growing up, these caricatures of the real world provide a powerful sense of being seen. There is something radical about a story that isn’t written with any other moral than “ this living in society shit sucks”. That speaks to people, and continues to speak to me. ZaDr has always smacked of tragedy, in that you know things will end badly for everyone involved, but it’s still impossible to look away as everything is set ablaze. Two headstrong protagonists, locked in a battle of opposing wills and addictive delusion. It makes the sweetness sweeter, it makes the pains of grand fantasy ache deeper, knowing that these two characters are ultimately fighting losing battles for pitiful reasons.The denial of personal failure, the stubbornness to find purpose. In all of reality, all they truly have is each other. To see that dynamic and ship them is to say that love is possible even in the most dire of circumstances. Time and time again I find myself returning to ZaDr. I think something about the dynamic speaks to the part of us that knows things are wrong and that the fight against it is worthwhile. And that struggle, while futile, can still hold a tremendous amount of personal importance. It speaks to failing, and having the strength to get back up to try again. No matter the odds. For a pairing hated by its own creator, the fixation that Zim and Dib have on each other is an undeniable magnetism seen by the fandom since the launch of the cartoon, all the way back in 2001. This ship has staying power, and after over two decades has failed to fall into total obscurity.  Those touched by its effects have gone on to create resonant, deeply meaningful works. This blog, and the posts that I make on the topic, are my way of giving back to the ZaDr community. By displaying the stories of triumph and tragedy put forward by the IZ community, I hope to welcome new fans and give back to long standing fans by providing a living archive and blog space. I look forward to sharing the wonderful talents of so many artists with you all. Happy first ZaDr day of many

[aclowntiny]

Hiiii!!! First I wanna say how much I really like your work! Also, I stumbled upon our Seventeen and Enhypen as Hogwarts students, but saw you didn’t have it for Stray Kids 😭 I know they’ve mentioned in 2019 what house they think they are, but you seem to have a much better understanding of the houses and I’m very curious to see what you would think their houses would be.

I was wondering if I could request a similar sort of headcannon for them 🥹 Thank you!

Heck yeah! Can't believe I didn't do this sooner tbh but I love this so here we are 😌 I agree, not necessarily that I'm the best at the job, lol, but that people just go for very generic ideas of the houses (Gryffindor is cool, Slytherin is evil, Hufflepuff is nice/silly, Ravenclaw is smart) rather than the true reflection of where they'd be hehe! Like Ravenclaw is actually also known for being artistic and eccentric, Slytherin for strong determination, Hufflepuff for acceptance and breaking tradition, Gryffindor for being the other self-sacrificing house. So sometimes people just say "I'm a Gryffindor because I'm a good guy!!!" anyway rant over here's the actual content we want🤣

🏰 Stray Kids as Hogwarts Students🔮

Bang Chan

☆ Some kids got sorted instantly, but with one Christopher Bang the Hat took longer. Muttered to itself a lot as it waffled between his qualities, dubbing him hardworking and courageous and ambitious and loving. He couldn't help but flush under the hat's words, almost not hearing when its voice finally bellowed "Gryffindor!”

☆ Being Pure-Blood was only ever a phrase on a family tree for Chris. Who one’s ancestors were, what they looked like, or how much money they had said nothing for their value- only their choices and character did that.

☆ It’s only a formal class for one year, but he adores Flying. The feeling of freedom and getting to have some time outside is heaven for him. Defense Against the Dark Arts is another favorite for the similar reason of being able to get active and challenge himself, even literally facing his fears.

☆ Astronomy is very cool to him, but he finds having to fill in the same charts week after week a bit repetitive and not the best use of his time, frankly.

☆ Gryffindor’s Quidditch captain! He plays Keeper, working with great patience and synergy with the rest of the team to keep the goals clear.

☆ Blessed is the only word Chris can think of when he realizes how many happy memories he can pull from- not everyone can say that. As the word comes to mind, his wand lights up, producing a shining silver wolf standing majestically, protectively, before him.

Lee Know

☆ "You're an interesting one," came the Hat's comment upon touching Minho's head, "you've certainly got your priorities...whatever those are. A unique mind for sure. Better be Ravenclaw!" Some of Minho's friends had teased him as a Slytherin, so he was a bit surprised. Not that he would let his house define him entirely.

☆ He hates the reputation and unnecessary pressure that comes with being a Pure-Blood. It’s stupid and not worth debating in Minho’s mind. The only benefit is just the resources and opportunities he might get, and it’s tempting to turn those down on principle. Money and status don’t matter to him at all and there’s a part of him that wants to ‘sully the bloodline’ just for the hell of it! Luckily his parents don’t care either.

☆ Potions whiz. One of the few who actually get it and enjoy the calm, precise art and its beautiful results and wants to go N.E.W.T. with it. He’s also great at Care of Magical Creatures, naturally focused on the well-being of animals and other living things over his own excitement or whims.

☆ Having a fear of heights, Flying is not it for him. No thanks. He passes, but barely, and in his mind it’s not a skill he plans to use.

☆ Naturally, Minho opts out of Quidditch signups, but instead joins the Gobstones club because he thinks spraying the losers with stone juice is funny. Also gets invited to the Slug Club for his Potions skills and influence.

☆ No one is surprised when Minho closes his eyes, focuses, and boom! Produces a little glowing cat bursting from his wand with a few swipes of its paw to groom its nonexistent striped fur.

Changbin

☆ "Quite a softie underneath it all, eh?" Beneath the weight of the tattered Hat, Changbin strikes a bit of a pose. "Got a lot of ambition, but you've also got a lot of...that. Hmmm..." The Hat muses for a few more moments. "At the end of the day, this one’s a Slytherin!” Pride flows through Changbin’s veins- he doesn’t care for the reputation of producing dark wizards, the potential snobbery. All he cares about is showing his ambition to be the best if he puts his mind to it.

☆ He’s a Half-Blood, but both of his parents are wizards so his familiarity is much more with the Wizarding World. He wants to understand Muggles better to connect with them, too, as well as Muggleborns.

☆ Taking Muggle Studies helps with this and learning about another culture is quite fascinating to him- technology especially is amazing, like that’s what people do instead of magic? Wires of captured lightning? Sounds pretty magical to Changbin. He gets into tinkering with technology because of this. Another class he enjoys is Defense Against the Dark Arts. Changbin loves feeling ready to protect himself and others, so that’s the class he spends the most time practicing and taking notes in. He always thinks of his friends and his sister as he does so.

☆ History of Magic is boring, though, Changbin wants to cast some spells! At the end of the day, where certain spells come from don’t matter to him as long as he can use them. However, the idea of showing up in a ‘great wizards’ history highlight one day is appealing to him…

☆ His strength comes in handy serving as one of Slytherin’s two Beaters. The other teams are lowkey afraid of the Bludgers Changbin sends their way because they know how hard he hits!

☆ Bets are flying on what his Patronus animal would be, a pig or a rabbit. Pig is the most popular choice, mostly in jest, but shushing them all Changbin focuses all the great joy he’s expressing…and out leaps a rabbit! Not just any rabbit, though, but the massive, fluffy form of a Flemish giant rabbit that has everyone laughing and Changbin grinning, reaching out to it.

Hyunjin

☆ Nearly the second the Sorting Hat rests atop his head, it's shouting 'Ravenclaw!' Hyunjin himself can't be surprised, really, not when he's heard talk of the great artists in that house. In fact, pride glows in his chest as he joins his table that the Hat could see that in him.

☆ The Hwangs are an old wizarding family. Hyunjin has a lot of opportunities because of this, but fights against the idea that he could be any better than anyone else because of a name. Rather, he is often seen lifting up Muggleborn classmates and highlighting struggled of other magical people.

☆ Ancient Runes comes naturally to Hyunjin, something about his eye for detail, symbols, and decoding. Language is an area of interest for him so that class is like a beautiful puzzle. Astronomy grants Hyunjin so much art inspiration as well as time to relax and appreciate the gifts of nature and their inherent magic.

☆ There's no one class he hates, but like a lot of students Hyunjin has a harder time focusing on all the information getting dumped on him in History of Magic.

☆ Hyunjin’s extracurriculars include the Muggle Art club where he hones his painting skills and the Ravenclaw Quidditch team, where he plays as the team’s Seeker.

☆ Expectations fly as everyone wonders what the next Hwang’s Patronus will be. Will he get a stag, the majestic animal associated with famous wizards? An eagle, symbolizing his house? Not at all, in fact what Hyunjin summons is a beautiful, delicate silver dove that lights upon his shoulder.

Han

☆ “Don’t be so shy, kid, you’ve got heart.” “Really? Thanks bro.” “Yes, that’s what I’m talking about,” the Hat chuckles, “this one’s a Hufflepuff!” Jisung’s eyes go wide. He wasn’t expecting to get Hufflepuff, but if the hat says so, well, who is he to fight it? It’s nice getting the kindest house, too- maybe he’ll make a lot of friends.

☆ As a Half-Blood, the heavy weight of prejudice never really fell on Jisung. Half-Bloods tended to fall between the cracks as having already been sullied, just middle ground. As he witnesses bullying more and more, though, his passion grows to somehow help others and remind people that nobody can help who their ancestors married.

☆ Charms are quick, snappy, spur-of-the-moment but effective in a pinch, and Jisung likes that. It's fun and he can cast charms as quickly as he cracks a joke or comeback! Ancient Runes brings him a lot of inspiration from history and other languages that he loves to bring to his songwriting.

☆ Flying, thank goodness, isn't enforced every year! It scares him, frankly, and he'd much rather stay on the ground where he belongs.

☆ Because flying isn’t his favorite, no way in hell is he doing it with giant leather and metal things trying to smash him. Nope. However he’ll happily watch and commentate, hence him taking the mic and giving very entertaining descriptions of everything that happens. He’s also in the Frog Choir, always trying to get them to perform one of his compositions.

☆ Jokes around that he’s going to get a massive Patronus animal like a bear or a lion, but once he sees the embodiment of his joy skipping from his wand as a little quokka, he can’t even be embarrassed, just smile!

Felix

☆ "Well, you're just a delight, aren't you?" Felix couldn't tell if the Hat was being sarcastic, but still he chose to respond in kind. "I try!" At that, the Sorting Hat chuckled. "Yes, this one's a Hufflepuff for sure!" His sister had told him as much, but Felix couldn't complain- he liked the idea of being a Hufflepuff!

☆ Felix is a Muggleborn, so he takes in every step of starting school with wonder…though it is a bit overwhelming feeling like everyone’s speaking another language sometimes. But then again, magic candy! Brewing potions!

☆ Absolute wonder at Care of Magical Creatures and Herbology. Felix is so gentle and good with every living thing, they practically request he be the one to handle them and that makes his heart burst with joy and honor! He also loves Potions, thinking the idea is so classic and cool, plus despite what most students say it’s kind of relaxing to him.

☆ Transfiguration dropped lower on his list when they started using living subjects. Sure, the idea that anyone and anything can grow and change and exist in many forms is really inspiring, but those poor mice and birds!

☆ Slug Club inductee part two! Even though he’s a Muggleborn with no direct influence, Felix is such a good student and avid potioneer that he’s a shoo-in. He also plays Quidditch as Hufflepuff’s Seeker.

☆ Felix isn’t sure what animal he’ll get, but he certainly isn’t expecting multiple! The entire class is shocked when a whole brood of chicks tumbles forth from his wand, eliciting shock and charmed coos alike.

Seungmin

☆ "This one's a bit of a surprise now," the Hat commented upon being set atop Seungmin's head. Seungmin couldn't help wondering what that meant and if it was bad, how to prove the Hat wrong. "No, lad, all you just did was prove my point. Looks can be deceiving, after all. Slytherin!" He wasn't sure what he expected, but that might not have been it. Sort of made sense, though- he could have fun with that!

☆ He can’t help wondering if the Hat chose as it did because he’s a Pure-Blood, taking Salazar’s old favors into account. Then again, he did just throw a cheating Gryffindor under the bus in class…

☆ Thinking logically is no trouble for Seungmin, so Arithmancy isn’t a bad choice for him. Connecting relationships between numbers and their power just makes sense to him- eight is his lucky number, after all. He also frequents the Potions dungeon, but that’s mostly just to brew the photo solution that grants his personal art projects motion!

☆ Defense Against the Dark Arts is a fun and active class, but it's boisterous and people take the duels too far sometimes.

☆ Frankly, he didn’t have time to join the Quidditch team due to his other extracurriculars, being an avid Frog Choir singer and the Hogwarts paper’s photographer.

☆ Everyone is sure the student everyone sees as a puppy will get a dog for his Patronus. Imagine their surprise when he casts a tanuki! Cute and cunning, no one can deny it matches him perfectly in the end.

I.N

☆ He forgot the Hat could read his thoughts. “So you want a house where you can show your talents and look out for people, huh?” Flushing, Jeongin just nods with a faint, bashful smile. “Well, better be Gryffindor, then!” He’s surprised, thinking maybe he’d have gotten Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff- he isn’t particularly brave, is he? “Trust me, kid, you’ll find your way,” the Hat promises, and do its eyelike folds wink?

☆ As a Half-Blood, he has knowledge of the Wizarding World, but also life outside of magic. Having one Muggle parent means one person getting yanked into the world of wonder, after all! Jeongin is proud to understand both sides of his world and guide his friends on how Muggles really live.

☆ Details don’t escape Jeongin, so he loves drawing star charts for Astronomy. Transfiguration is another favorite of his for similar reasons: he enjoys the focus, the idea that he can reshape objects into something greater or something new. It feels symbolic, poetic.

☆ Potions stresses him out because it's so easy to burn things or measure wrong; even if little details usually fascinate him, he can be a bit clumsy with the required finesse.

☆ Joins the wizard chess club, art club, and plays Quidditch- what can’t our baby bread do? Jeongin becomes Gryffindor’s Seeker, one especially known for turning the tides of the game for his team completely!

☆ He can barely contain his excitement that day in Defense Against the Dark Arts when it comes time to cast Patronus charms! He wonders if his animal will look like him and he certainly gets his wish when a charming little desert fox pops forth.

[androdragynous]

tell me something about your art. fucking love the recent sharp angles.

thank you for giving me an excuse to ramble I love you. kiss

this is going to be a long post but I think it's important so I'm leaving it as a normal post and not a read more

I wrote more words and changed my mind because I got distracted a bunch of times by talking to myself. Enjoy

my own works in general have always been like. The Way By Which I Interact With The World which I think is a pretty common artist experience. my fan art tended to focus on my own characters in those settings rather than on the existing characters because of that, to my younger self's chagrin at times (the desire to Appeal To Fandom was much stronger in my younger years, which I think is also pretty typical). so there was always that lens of, like, these characters aren't me, but they could have been, in some way, or at least when viewed at certain angles. first guy is dealing with the same shit, second guy is doing some gender stuff baby me won't unpack for another five years, you get the idea.

and then the whole disability thing ramped up a few notches and everything went to shit, which is to say, for a really long time there I couldn't so much as look at art without pain, let alone long enough to create it. I did not have the tools to accomodate that disability or the finances to get them, and so for a really long time I was basically cut off from... what honestly felt like my ability to connect with people.

this sucked very badly in many ways. it's still not back to where it was before things got worse, but I'm happy with where it's been recently. I don't know how much of that is connected to getting a blood transfusion and the affiliated correction to my quantity of blood. I don't know how much of it is just pure desperation to reconnect with a world that I feel estranged from. We will come back to this point because I have a different tangent first:

I really don't like vent art. I don't like making it, I don't like posting it, and I don't like seeing it. I understand why people make it - I understand why I do - but there's a very harsh rawness to it that feels inappropriate as a viewer. It's voyeuristic; it's a look into something incredibly deeply personal hurt and an equally deep and genuine desire to have that hurt seen, validified, comforted.

I do not think vent art is bad to create or share, to be clear. The fact it makes me uncomfortable does not illegitimize it. Could honestly strengthen its reason for existing, to be quite honest.

The line blurs with disability, though, and this is where we come back to the original tangent, because to talk about disability that cannot be cured will innately be seen as venting. It's basically inevitable, in my experience. You're supposed to want to get better. You're supposed to hate existing like this. So if you mention it, to people who haven't either been in the same boat or who haven't taken the time to work through their own baggage about it, it's innately a vent. It's innately a hurt that you're burdening them with, a hurt that you want recognized and helped. My family members have been particularly bad about this viewpoint, but so have friends and medical professionals. So have strangers. I find it akin to arguments against gay public displays of affection; two men holding hands is sexual, using a mobility aid is pitiable. You get me? There's that innate sense that you, as the person watching a disabled person be disabled, should be feeling something about it, and if it's not inspiration porn, obviously you're meant to be sad. If it wasn't clear, this is the description of a train of thought that I believe is entirely incorrect.

Anyways. So disability art ends up grouped as vent art if you talk about it sucking at all, even if the suck is about the barriers presented by society and not the disability itself. I can, of course, only speak for my own experience, which is what this post is about, so my situation is very much barriers-focused.

People really, really aren't good at dealing with the discomfort part, what I detailed as the emotions I feel around vent art. People don't know what to do when you don't want help, or their help doesn't help (for whatever reason), or basically in any situation where you can't actually fix things, which is a lot of Being Disabled. It's hard to sit with that discomfort, especially when it's about a person's vulnerability. People want to help others, generally, in my experience, and it's difficult to not be able to when it's someone you care about.

Which all ties back into the voyeurism; to be visibly disabled is to be a spectacle. This has also been pretty inevitable, in my experience. Being in a wheelchair draws attention. Using a cane draws attention. Wearing an eye patch draws attention. So on and so forth. Sometimes this is great - people will offer their chairs to me sometimes if I'm using my cane, for example, which I appreciate - and sometimes it is less great.

This ties in, for me, with the part people REALLY don't like talking about, which is sex and sexuality. How do you date when you can't go out to many places? How do you get to know someone when you live with others and can't invite them over? How do you look sexy when you feel and kind of look like a corpse? These are all questions I'd love to know the answers to, because I'm shit out of luck on figuring it out so far, and that's not even touching on the actual sex, because I don't want to get this post filtered if I can help it. There's a balance, right, of being visible on purpose by flirting, dressing up, going out, making an impact, that is both directly overlapping with and directly opposed to the inevitable visibility of visible disability. They juxtapose magnificently, in a kind of sun and moon during an eclipse sort of way, you get me? You have to lean into it. You have to make yourself comfortable in that visibility because it's inevitable, and you are going to inevitably be viewed as a spectacle because you've leaned into it, and you're never going to be viewed as sexual because nobody will ever distinguish that there are two kinds of visibility being done, here.

And THAT I think is where my art is at right now, trying to convey that overlap. I do not think I have been subtle about it - it's loud colors, sharp lines, layers of vandalism over the original draft, a kind of intentional obscuration that implies many others were drawn to leave their mark there. You know? But because of What It Is, I do think it causes discomfort in the overlap. It's supposed to. It's inevitable that it would. I think being disabled is overtly sexual in the way being gay is overtly sexual in the way being trans is overtly sexual, in that none of them are but none of them aren't, either, in the right contexts or the wrong ones. People are going to see you exist and come to their own conclusions about how wrong you must feel in existing, and they will be made uncomfortable by that perception, and they will want to fix you. You have to accept that or you have to be uncomfortable right back. There's not really a third option that keeps you alive. This is all connected to the art, because the art is also inherently sexual, for approximately the same reasons.

So the tldr is "op is it weird if I think this is hot" is both the intended response and yes, it is weird, and you have to sit with the fact that both of those are true and you have to be normal about it for the rest of your life forever, and also you should take that knowledge and get weirder about it. It's a complex system. I also may have described none of it. Good luck.

[mobiuslab]

Reverse: 1999 seems unreal; too good to be true.

The reason I even took notice of it in the first place was its soundtrack. I hate jazz, but they made a jazz song that I actually like, and then there's ReReReRegulus!, what a banger. And then I watched the trailer, to get a feel of what the game is even about. First of all, the accents! Hello? I normally always play games in JP, but this game seems to be set not in some fictional world, but in our real world, in the real London, so the British English dub would be so much more immersive (but of course there are a lot of familiar JP seiyuu, I'm very conflicted.) If this game, unlike Genshin, has a good voice director, who actually does their work and tells the VA's how the character is supposed to sound, I might play in English tbh. As a former FGO player, traveling to the past isn't an entirely novel concept to me, however, we are going to the 20th century, which is quite interesting. I mean, think about it, the 20th century of our real world, there are so many fascinating historical events. And it seems that they are putting in much more effort in portraying the zeitgeist of the era than FGO ever did. The artistic direction seems to be on point for this game. Apparently there is a main character, with a canon personality and fully voiced dialogue. Hoyo making Honkai Impact 2.0's new MC a self-insert was the stupidest move, and I'm so glad that this game understands how much better a canon protagonist is. It really convinces me that they care about storytelling and characterization. The general artistic direction is so impressive, but the game itself also surprises me. The base rate of 6-stars is 1.5% (compared to Genshin and Star Rail's 0.6%) AND the soft pity starts at 60, with hard pity being at 70. There doesn't seem to be a weapon gacha and the dupes only increase skill multipliers instead of completely changing how a character can be played. At first, I thought it was unfortunate that pick-up rate was only 50%, but every character joins the standard pool, so losing the 50/50 won't be nearly as bad. Unless the gacha currency economy is completely fucked, this seems extremely generous. The combat is thankfully not one of those god-awful auto-fights like Blue Archive or PriConne, but it's turn-based, which is much more engaging, allowing for challenging battles that actually pick your brain and require some skill.

However, there is an auto-mode for the mundane stuff, and get this, you can record your actions, rather than having an AI do everything wrong. And thankfully, there is no PvP, so you don't need to compete with whales. Knowing all this, I really have to wonder, where is the catch? There must be some huge flaw, right? It is as if the devs of Reverse: 1999 looked at all the complaints and criticism of all other gacha games, and just decided to address all of them. As long as the game doesn't have a huge reliance on meta characters to clear endgame content and event-limited content and the writing doesn't absolutely suck, then this game might be the perfect gacha game. I'm so excited to give it a try!

[a-doubleh-x]

A little frustrated lately with the Hazbin fandom

At the present moment, it's been about 3 months since Hazbin Hotel's first season dropped. It's a lot of story at once, but it's also a proper start ever since the pilot era.

I'm sure most people expected some sort of controversy coming from a show that takes place in Hell, whose main characters include porn stars and murderers, but personally, I didn't expect the biggest ones to come from the fandom itself.

From the start we've heard of all sorts of tone deaf opinions coming from inside the house, included but not limited to:

• The idea that Angel Dust's character and his music video, Poison, glorifies abuse when its artistic intention clearly is to denounce it.

• The vitriol against problematic characters like Valentino, which has lead to the harrassment of cosplayers and fans of said characters.

• Ship wars mixed with hate speech, from SJWs claiming Alastor ships are ace erasure from Vaggie haters attacking Chaggie because it's canon.

I could go into detail on each of these incidents, but I won't go into it today. I'll just say for now I'm *really* disappointed by this fandom. I was really excited about HH because I thought it would bring much needed attention to certain topics, such as the still ongoing demonization of minorities to the crippling self loathing that comes from abusive relationships.

It feels like the people to whom the show's message is made for are the ones who are working the hardest to tear it down, which is not only a disservice to themselves but everyone involved as well. I expected the harshest criticism involving the show would come from the typical rabid christian ultra conservatives, but apparently they don't need to do their job anymore because they already got us to do it, apparently.

Hazbin Hotel became a creative spark for me when I was lost and empty of motivation. I began writing loads of fan fiction from just before season 1 came out, but during the latest weeks I've just gotten tired of it.

As a mutli-shipper, I'm constantly in the middle of ship wars. I'm hearing constantly on this very site of Charlastor shippers who hate Vaggie because she's supposedly terrible and hate her role in the show canon. I'm hearing of Charlastor haters that claim it's ace erasure, even though no shipper I've heard of denies the fact that Alastor is canonically ace. And worst of all, I hate the fact that some people still claim that Charlie is a lesbian and shouldn't be shipped with men when she's canonically bi.

As a biromantic person who recently came out of the closet, it used to be very liberating to write fics where Charlie gets involved with both Vaggie and Alastor. I like both characters and I like the idea of Charlie being romantically involved with both characters. But apparently the one thing that is not still worthy of respect in this day and age is divergence of opinions.

I came to this realization the other day when episode 2 of The Amazing Digital Circus came out. It's a smaller fandom, even though the audience attention is *massive*. I was looking through the community posts and... guess what? Practically little to none inflamatory speech or ship wars.

People there ship Pomni with Jax, Jax with Ragatha, Ragatha with Pomni, even Pomni with *Caine* for some bizarre reason that I can't comprehend and even Gangle and Zooble.

People *get* the intended message, which I must admit it can be largely attributed to the fact that the writing is better (sorry Vivz) and the episodes are more sparce. But the few people who don't get it don't go around attacking anyone with a different opinion or the showrunners themselves.

I apoligize formaking an unfair comparison, since, as I previously mentioned, these two fandoms have very different sizes and their respective shows deal with very different issues, but I'm just expressing my perspective.

I'm still highly disappointed in Hazbin fans. I expected better than you, but if this post reaches the type of fans I'm talking about, I'm sure they're happy that I'm upset. So, congratulations, you won.

Anyways, I'm gonna stop writing Hazbin fics for a while, for how long, who knows and I'm going to start writing TADC fics instead. I already had an idea in mind, so it's little trouble for me.

Thank you to the fans who have been engaging in peaceful discourse and have sated my shipping thirst so far with wonderful art and writing pieces alike. You've pulled me through some hard times, but it's time for me to part.

Sorry as well for the melodramatic tone of this post, but I'm just really sad and general and I need something to obsess with in order to prevent my inner demons from taking over.

In any case, thank you for reading, and I hope to see you all again soon 👋

[meraki-yao]

I don’t get why anybody would want to hate on Taylor or Nick. I have stopped going on Twitter because everyone seems to be either private or unhinged. People doxxing Taylor weekly. The poorly hidden racism from people claiming he is untalented. I mean, we are all here discussing him and Nick because their talent brought us together so how does that work exactly? And then you have the people going after Nick because they want to punish him for shit other people say? Camping in his tags daily calling him a chubby, inbred and ugly white man, thinking that’s somehow helpful? These guys have done nothing to deserve such bullshit! I wish we could kick people out of fandom when they are just here to ruin it for everyone else. Thank god for Tumblr though. And the block button.

I've only ever heard shit things about Twitter so I think it's reputation speaks for itself. Weibo on China is somewhat similar so I do get a gist of what's its like (but to be clear I don't have an account on either platform). I don't understand hatred like this either, it comes from nothing besides delusion and a weird sense of arrogance and superiority.

Also I just think hating is such a tiring thing to do mentally and emotionally? So I don't get why would anyone hate on people who have done nothing to deserve it. You're exactly right, we're here because of both of their hard work and talent, there's no fucking point in fighting, and it's so stupid and such a waste of time.

On Weibo super topics (the somewhat equivalent of fandom Tags) there is a host, self nominated and voted by the community/Fandom who re-enforces set rules in the tag (ex: no insulting the material or the actor, no bringing up unrelated person, no discussing actors' private lives etc) and the host can kick out people who violate the rules. That has its own set of problems (cuz it's... Kinda a dictatorship?) but just a little insight on other forms of social media regulating since you brought up wanting to kick people out (which I understand but I don't think it would be that practical to implement fairly)

And yeah thank God Tumblr has a pretty flexible/free block button. Keep your peace, stay away from bullshit like that, and trying to focus on the happier things in the fandom, like the wonder fan creations our fellow artists, gif makers and authors make, and the various posts/rambles about the movie and cast that are posted here.

❤️🤍💙

[cxcewg]

This will go down like a lead balloon with the person who has been messaging you, but the sanctimonious attitude all over social media toward Lando this weekend is every bit as awful as anything he did or said.

99% of those people, including I would put money on the person who has been messaging you, could not have cared less about that trophy before it got broken and I can guarantee knew nothing about its origin or worth and yet now they are acting like he deliberately smashed it against a wall and then personally insulted the artisans. Half the F1 fandom including a lot of the people who have been sending him abuse on social media, were calling it ugly and saying it looked like an urn and should be used for grandma's ashes last week. That is far more disrespectful toward the artist and company than anything Lando did. Not once did he or Max or Red Bull aim any of their jokes toward the artist or the company or the trophy itself. Their jokes were purely aimed at each other.

He apologised to the company who said they weren't angry at him and know it was an accident. They are the only people who deserve an apology. He doesn't need to send them a five page handwritten note self-flagellating himself and publish it on social media for the satisfaction of a bunch of jackals who would then only tear him apart for being 'insincere' or 'only doing it for pr'. He found out how much time went into it and what it meant and he said sorry to the people who made it. He owes nothing else to anyone else, regardless of what those who sit in self-appointed moral judgement believe. There is a nothing wrong in pulling someone up in a polite way or having an opinion that someone is being bit of an ass. However sitting on their high horses and passing judgement and acting like someone's faults makes them the worst person in the world and demanding public apologies for mistakes (I'm not talking bigotry or hate here obviously, that's a different thing entirely, I'm talking the kind of faults that EVERYONE has, yes even those of you who act like self-appointed moral judges) does not make those sitting in judgement good people. Quite the opposite in fact. It's one of the worst parts of online culture, this pitchfork mentality where people go on self-righteous mob crusades. It says nothing good about the people who do that.

The stuff on the radio - EVERY driver gets rude on the radio. They are driving at huge speeds with adrenaline coursing through their bodies and have engineers wittering in their ears often at the worst possible time when they are trying to concentrate. I can promise you that not a single engineer in F1 cares or takes it personally when a driver gets snappy. F1TV only play select radio clips, usually ones that either are important in terms of the race or they think the commentators can turn into some kind of drama. Lando, Lewis and Max are three of the drivers who fall victim to this more than others and every time it happens, people go on a tirade about them being rude whiny awful people and yet in reality they are the 3 drivers who have the best driver/engineer relationships on the grid. They are genuine friends with their race engineers, they have worked with them for years andt their engineers love them. That should tell these judgemental people how much anyone cares about people snapping or getting stressed on the radio in F1 but no, it apparently makes them the devil incarnate.

The comment about the backmarkers - it may have sounded rude but in that instance he was absolutely right. Yuki held him up for almost two minutes, passed 17 blue flags and had to be told 3 times by his engineer to move out of Lando's way before he finally did so and even then he made Lando go out on the marbles to pass him. Checo made up 3 seconds on Lando in that time Yuki was quite frankly being an ass. Magnussen and Zhou were also very slow to let both Lando and Checo past (Checo also complained about it after the race) - not as bad as Yuki but they also held them both up for the best part of a lap allowing Lewis to hone in. People dragged Alex every which way last year when he did the same to Charles in Monaco and Charles said something similar on the radio to what Lando did, and everyone went with 'poor Sharl, evil Alex', but because it's Lando who said it, he's the villain not the guys who almost ruined his race. Not one of those drivers was fighting for anything at the time - they were alone on track, nobody anywhere near them, them getting out of the way would have cost them nothing but some dirty tyres for a lap. Lando (and Checo as well) had every right to be angry.

As for the absurd 'he was so rude about Lewis' carry-on - No, he wasn't. All he did was stated facts. There is something about certain parts of Lewis's fanbase who for some reason lose their minds when anyone points out he has been in front-running cars for the vast majority of his career and even when he has had cars that are not so great, they have not been backmarkers, not even the 2009 McLaren despite what they try and claim. I watched that season, I can promise you it was not close to the slowest car on the grid. Nobody is putting Lewis down by pointing this out. Not Lando, not other drivers in the past who have mentioned it, not the media, not other fans. They are simply stating facts. Max openly says he wouldn't be where he is without having the best or one of the best cars and his fan readily admit it as well, and he spent more time not in front-running cars than Lewis ever did. But when it comes to Lewis, his fans cannot accept the same is true. There have been times in the last 18 months where Lewis has carried on like he is driving a 2021 Haas. Yes he's used to having the best and it's all relative, but can you imagine how galling it is for those who are truly driving cars that can barely fight for p15 week in week out to hear him moaning about having a car that is still capable 90% of the time for fighting for high points scores and podiums? I can promise you they all think far worse things about Lewis and his woe is me comments than Lando's jokes about Lewis never having fought over 19th & 20th. There was more than one race this season where Oscar and Lando were doing just that, where they were dead slowest car on the grid. Also Lando adding "it's the one thing I've achieved that Lewis hasn't" is not a dig at Lewis, it's a self-deprecating joke about himself and how awful McLaren were in the first part of this season.

Lando has joked about this stuff in front of Lewis before. Lewis is not offended. Lewis doesn't care. Lewis likes Lando and his sense of humour and actually knows him and chooses to spend time with him. He's a grown man with his own agency capable of making his own decisions about who he likes and hangs out with. He does not need a bunch of chronically online people with massive parasocial relationship issues getting endlessly offended on his behalf. There is a reason he liked that awful twitter fan's tweet saying she would unfollow him if he posted the selfie he took with Max and Alonso and then posted the selfie a few minutes later. He's not proud to have those people as his fans. He's too polite to say it directly, but knowing what we do of Lewis, I have no doubt he finds them disgusting and has no interest in being associated with people like that. If they think he would admire them or thank them for behaving as they do and going after people he likes and respects like a bunch of rabid dogs in his name or in his behalf, then they know nothing about who he is.

Sorry this is so long, just really needed to rant about all of this. Some people's behaviour in the last couple if days has been abhorrent - far worse than anything Lando has ever done.

please let it all out :)

first of all A-freaking-men.

but this is exactly what im saying, they'll find any excuse to target him. they didn't give a shit about the trophy until it was broken.

to be honest, it's funny how friendly all the drivers are (i can't think of one driver relationship that is bad right now) and how the fans are just at each others throat constantly.

and the backmarkers thing is something that needs to be repeated. lando got held up for almost TWO MINUTES. as an athlete i empathize because i get frustrated all the freaking time and i say things that i wouldn't say if i wasn't chock full on adrenaline.

but thank you.

[radiation]

favorite pieces of art where the author's interests and personality are really obviously reflected in their work(e.g. the monogatari series, maybe house of leaves)? I've seen this kind of art be described as "self-indulgent"

I do like authors who write about what they love but I tend to really dislike art that feels extremely self indulgent. I guess the distinction is whether the artist’s interests make the story feel more believable through its specificity and passion (love it) or break immersion just because the artist wanted to blow their load (can’t stand it unless it’s really intentional or if it’s so-bad-it’s-good/extremely baffling). And the authors personality being really apparent sucks when they’re myopic, I hate feeling like the author is the omnipotent god of the universe they’re writing and everything is funneled through their will and their opinions to the point where it’s inescapable, it’s ludicrous and exhausting

So that’s the stuff I can’t stand LOL umm as for the stuff I like, Matt Johnson’s filmography (The Dirties, NTBTS, BlackBerry, Operation Avalanche) would be my favorite example because he plays a really similar goofy character in everything who’s socially inept, obsessed with movies, and is always making tone-deaf media references. Like obviously he does just love doing this, but also this kind of character just feels so appropriate every time and excellently lends itself to the story’s themes and mood (which are always something different). Other examples would be beanytuesday’s long-form stories and comics — I love it when he goes on a really long tangent or has some stupid anime shit happening cuz it’s just a blast…dungeon meshi has a lot of kui’s personality and interests in it but it feels perfectly balanced and intentional… ultimately though I feel like all of these creators also have an unusual and very admirable amount of self restraint, which is something I value extremely extremely highly in writing. And incredible amounts of passion + incredible amounts of self restraint = Fucking amazing

[gloopytits-chaosmod]

it wont matter how great you make a thing, people who see art as a productive force will always judge you for how well your life fits into an office environment you're not even working in. like the act of work is so worthless you gotta make up reasons to be upset at people as if mild pressure from the guy above the guy above suddenly promotes you to "middle manager of the internet people"

i can't see myself working with office people for this reason. im sure it feels great to publish but like graduation and childbirth it feels like a moment you build up to in order to alleviate the pains of abiding by the system that creates its conditions.

like think about it: authors are okay with publishing. it's a given they'd want to publish because in their craft they are labourer first, craftsmen second. Writing is an all consuming profession that as a protocol wants to create as much writing as possible. Through the lens of laymen lithit, authors are recognized by their extensive bibliographies and not by individual works because a subjective categorization system that'd acknowledge the art isn't compatible with a complete system of categorization when the end product is something acceptable to the vibes in the room.

When authors fight and wrestle a literal industry of money bags and their middle managers and their legalese translators how much of that effort build a foundation that whatever comes after was worth the time and effort and retroactively paints the "bumpy road" authors survive through as a path up in some immeasurable quantity of success even if it was just a path forwards in time?

What gets me about these questions is the paranoia I come to regard my fellow writers with. Why should someone on the outside looking in believe there is a balance between supporting existing power and getting the bag? Arguments could be made about "holding the door open", but what does that do? I think it feels good to think about a philanthropic gesture and we focus on that feeling of the possibility of goodness and we ignore that any radical voice would still be watered down to hell and that "risky and radical" projects that "indie houses" are taking "chances" on are still selected by the projected capacity for that work to keep the lights on.

Where does that leave any radical project? Can radicalism exist in a world where there is no basis for self-rejection, for stepping out of the grindset and judging what you've become? "It's better than nothing" is all it boils down to, but there's no capacity for the creation of radical art when opinions like this are actively argued against by people who see that tiny crack in the door and got their eyes fixed on it. I mean I'm not hating on anyone who gets the bag but I think there's a violation against the medium itself for it to only be discussed through a lens that is friendly to Capital and copyright and yadda yadda. Small artists LOVE capitalism. And after all, why wouldn't they? Do you get paid being a downer?

Nobody gets paid being a downer. You gotta choose to be a downer, that's my superpower. You choose positive positive and then you'll be pickme'd by the algo or some dutch broad with 1.5k followers as long as you give out the vibe of someone who is compatible with an office environment. There are no friendships or comradery in here if the conditions of art involve 1 person and 10 others contractually obligated to review. Yes, the process makes good art, great art even, but it creates a soulless forum where everyone is arguing against their self interest in building independence from the incentives.

"I got rent next month! I got family to feed! People depends on my income. These are just idealist ideas not coherent plans for what YOU'RE going to be doing. It's unfair to say we are arguing against incentives when we are doing what makes sense in our current conditions."

I know what I'm going to be doing. I want to make my art. Not great art, or even good art, just my art. I've rambled on my perspectives because I find them increasingly uncommon in a very corporate digital environment. and I'm not reading medium articles fuck that. They got guilds and stuff now! You can self publish but the top spots appear reserved for people who are signed with a publishing house IT JUST KEEPS HAPPENING WAAAAH i was gonna fact check this but the sign is now locked behind login? i guess?

A society of evil is made through the virtual happiness. An untainted happiness that cannot be smeared by human imperfections or a refusal to feel joy when it knows of indignities committed in her name. This intelligence exists because everyone believes they are doing their best with what they are. They were. The current state of affairs is hundreds of millions of people over centuries doing their best and a handful of white guys in offices at random times undoing that work periodically as a heart pumps. Those guys only stayed there because even at the height of enslavement nobody with arms reach shot to power recognized what they were doing as evil. The same way indignities were codified through law and underclasses were created by warping biological facts and historical myth to fit the notions of what "felt right", we continue this tradition of mythmaking to paint the pointless suffering our existence leaves behind as somehow good, as somehow contributing, as somehow spiritual, all while praying whatever poison lies at the bottom of the pond doesn't clasp its maws around your neck as you bend down for a gulp of fresh dharma mmmm yum yum. What we leave behind is already clear to me: a soup that can tell any story we like. Authors defined by their bibliographies and not what they said. Corporate fluff pieces and twitter threads.

What we leave behind is an untainted happiness that cannot be smeared by human imperfections or a refusal to feel joy when it knows of indignities committed in her name. It exists because everyone had a really good idea of what they should be doing, and they did it, so the only ones left to tell you what happened will tell you that their lives was good. Perfect. Like everything that existed, like everything that ends.

[itspileofgoodthings]

So sorry if this is bothering you but so curious as well... why do you hate Guts?

Thanks for your time ❤

you’re not bothering me!

I think the simplest way to answer this is with one of Olivia’s own lyrics from pretty isn’t pretty when she sings “none of it matters and none of it ends” because. That is kind of her whole ethos about how life works. She believes that! And so her work, to me, is profoundly cynical and self-absorbed because it can’t point to anything bigger (none of it matters) so it revolves purely around her own feelings. It won’t ever situate itself in a wider picture. And I love whining in a song tbh. I love when an artist captures those uglier emotions —the discontent, the restlessness, the irritation, the blandness and staleness of it all and the railing against it—because those are all part of the human experience. I am continually shocked—it is shoCKING—by how many negative emotions I can and do experience over and over again. But it is thankfully against the backdrop of reality. My bad moods are something that can be so unpleasant to feel and so ugly to witness—I wrestle with how ugly and small my suffering is—but there is a way in which, all discourse about the validity of any and all of my feelings accounted for, those aren’t real. Just symptoms of my suffering and sometimes my convalescence (lol, love a symptom of convalescence) but reality is still always so much realer. It’s always ready to break in a million times a day; the beauty and sturdiness of reality, the texture of existence, as Flannery O’Connor once said, is always there and with enough time (and with patience and help and love) I can get back to contact with it. Not just the state of my own mind full of bitterness and worry and pain, endlessly stewing in its own unhappiness.

I am not good at that, it takes a lot to get me there. But I guess my point is—to circle back—Olivia’s music doesn’t try and doesn’t want to. Its scope is so narrow, every song no matter how pleasing at first eventually sours (lololololol) because it’s JUST rooted in her own experience, generally her own suffering. And there’s no sharpness or cleverness in the world (she can be both sharp and clever!) that can hide that lack of range. So you hear a song once—for me, it was brutal—-and you’re like YEAH. I recognize this kind of whininess because I’ve felt it before. There is something true to it! But the more she writes the more you watch her do it over and over again (sonically, too, she loves to speak-talk and tbh they’re just sub-par remixes of brutal) the more you start to be like “oh, is that it? We’re not going anywhere with this? There’s no turn or catharsis or bridge or anything that lifts us out of this even for a second?” and it’s just —blegh.

And the thing is there doesn’t even have to be, like, some triumphant girlboss victory where she feels better. I’m not saying her songs are bad because they’re sad and depressing. It’s that they establish no outside contact with reality. They are, for all her clever little film-noir references or whatever, only ever self-referential. And that gets old so fast no matter who is talking.

[nerodivergentgrimreaper]

CastleAudio Werewolf HeadCanons

Here are some personal headcanons that I have for a few of the pack members please let me know if there are any other characters you want head cannons for or if you want any of the characters in certain situations

Claire

- Claire can’t cook, she has burned water. However, she is very good at mixing drinks. She can make a drink for every occasion. 

- She wakes up at the ass crack of dawn, I’m talking before the sun even thinks about rising. Gets dressed, goes on a run, and gets coffee before anyone in the pack wakes up. 

- That being said she goes to bed super early, like 9:00- 9:30

- She has a binder full of facts about each of her pack members. I’m talking Birthdays, interests, even finger prints. 

- Because of this she is the best gift giver. She plans the holidays out two months in advance. 

- She on multiple occasions has picked up younger pack members from awkward situations. It’s reassuring that they trust her enough to call her when they need help. 

- She let Sweetheart/ Knight tattoo her when they first started their apprenticeship, the tattoo itself is bad but the memory is one of her favorites. 

- She hates heels, can't stand them, She has no idea how Beth can walk around so casually in them. 

- She lives in a leather jacket and jeans, Beth and Ro make jokes about how stereotypical their Alpha’s outfit is.

- She has always been tall and is very self aware about her height and how it makes her look more intimidating.  

Beth 

- Beth will forever feel guilty that she didn’t help Claire more during the night of the accident 

- She unlike Claire hates mornings with a passion, if it were up to her the world would not start until noon. 

- She wants to get a tattoo but has no idea what to get. She wants it to have meaning but can’t make a decision.  

- She either could look like a million bucks, dress, heals, hair done, or she is dressed like a middle school boy. 

- Beth doesn’t get sick often but when she does it's bad, I’m talking in bed for a week, can’t function at all. 

- Secretly loves romantic comedies 

- While she doesn’t have a sweet tooth she loves spicy food. Her cabinet is stocked with spicy ramen for the days she doesn’t feel like cooking. 

- She finds sewing very calming but the actual process of make clothing stressful 

- She can play the piano, she used to take lessons but now its just turned into more of a party trick 

- She can sprint in a pair of stilettos

Knight/SweetHeart 

- Knight works as a tattoo artist most of the time but also does odd jobs around town for some extra side cash 

- They are a jack of all trades. You need your car fixed? They got tools. You locked yourself out? They’ll pick and change the lock for you. You need a rollerskating buddy? Give them a minute to find their skates. 

- They are also very observant. While they are more of the quiet type, they listen and watch and just over all gather information. 

- Most of the tattoos they have they did themself. 

- When they are angry instead of the silent treatment they will just shift and stare at you in wolf form to avoid having to talk. 

- They live for horror movies, it's one of their favorite ways to pass the time. (It's also a great excuse for Evie to hold on to them). 

- They are dyslexic. Can’t read for shit. 

- They are a strong believer in hydrate or diedrate. 

- They have a lot of sketchbooks full of drawings of the pack members and nature. 

- They have a little turtle named Mikey (Yes after the Ninja Turtle)