#whatever the fuck this is !!!!

[bananakeiky]

hey guys check out my headcanon

[hrastavretsky]

hello peopl

i dont know what to post really hhh

[z00lea]

non-furry sona thing

[rightintheghoulies]

If you don't take care of yourself and stay alive out of spite, HE will come for you

[quillxpy]

YEAAAH WH69P DE D69. S9 ANYWAY, I DREW THE MER VERS 9F MYSELF 6ECAUSE I’M AN AUTISTIC LITTLE FREAK WITH T69 MUCH TIME 9N MY HANDS. F9CUS 9N THE SEC9ND 9NE. FUCHSIA BL69D. AIN’T THAT THE DARNEST THING. 6ASHING MY HEAD INT9 THE FUCKING FL69R!!

[soufre-de-paris]

i am so tired despite having slept a full night

it's the little things—like being unable to fucking leave the house for any reason lest i end up fatigued to shit for days afterwards—that remind me i am still chronically ill 😒

[bleper]

Got attacked by the brain worms

Centaur time

[howsharpie]

Viren finds Aaravos hunched by the cliff, coated in grime, torn up cloak, dark blood covering the lower part of his face, dripping from his chin, and he's like “hey, babe, what's up?”

“God is dead. I know it because I feasted on its carrion like fifteen minutes ago, so I guess that makes me god now. I saved you a bit.”

To which Viren blushes and responds, “Oh, thank you, you didn't need to. Which bit?”

So Aaravos fishes out a wriggling, pulsing piece of stark white flesh from his pocket and offers it up to him. It's only because of the rhythmic beating Viren recognizes it as a heart, or what was left from a once upon a time dragonheart.

Falling on his knees, Viren eats it directly from his lover's palm, chokes a little on the rancid flesh that fights being chewed, Aaravos's firm hand on the back of his head thankfully keeping him in place.

The now demigod hums happily as Viren finishes his treat, not giving him a beat to breathe before pulling him into a sloppy kiss.

It is such a beautiful evening. They go for a stroll. They bang by the riverbank, with a clear vision of the so-called corpse of god rotting and birds chirping in the distance.

[skullbonesmoothies]

[beastie-art]

So I just watched episode 9 of Yellowjackets

[pika-skin-goddess]

babidi chandler scolds christian weston buu for posting videos of their house on the internet

[noxonoxious]

“I am dramatic”

I am dramatic. I stare wistfully at the setting sun and gaze upon the twilight sky. Pretending to be a character from an old book whose name I can’t quite remember the name of. I listen to the wind rustling the leaves in a peaceful evening and think I like this life, maybe I like being alive. 

I am dramatic. I get sad for no reason and make it obvious so that when people ask me what’s wrong, I can smile sadly and say “I don’t know”.  I schedule my time to cry to a random evening to watch the day shift to night from the comfort of my bed. I get addicted to my spiralling staircase of descending thoughts because they offer respite from my normal and comfortable life that I’m lucky to live, with my parents that I’m lucky to have. Wallowing in self-pity has always felt so damning and free. 

I am dramatic. I call myself a paradox because I have always been there for me through thick and thin and protected me all the same. Yet no one has ever inflicted the amount of violence on me as I have. I confess, one of me once mutilated myself in my dreams, made my exposed vocal cords into a violin (I can’t even play) and made my corpse into a garden with dainty white flowers that smelled divine. Picture perfect and artistic like a kill from NBC’s Hannibal. Of course this was when the weight scale said I weighed too much to be pretty but not enough to be truly depressed about. But how dare someone else raise their voice at me and someone else says that I’m not enough. 

I am dramatic. I say I have better things to think about than what I would wear at the altar and whom I would tie my life together with. I don’t need a man (nor a woman nor anyone), they are like accessories on an outfit—makes it better but they aren’t necessary. In the same breath, I sometimes let out that I want love, very quietly because I don’t want anyone to hear. In the silence of the night, I yearn for someone to hold me like I’m something precious and make love to me like I’m something fierce. My partners have always been faceless figures or people who I barely know or put on a distant pedestal. Sometimes they have only ever existed behind a screen or in ink and paper. 

I am dramatic. I like love but I don’t want to love love or even like like-like feelings. I hate how it's accompanied by constant anxiety about the way l look, talk or behave, and the general uncomfortableness I feel, being in my own skin. Though I have to laugh, I’ve often been uncomfortable in my own skin so I guess this just makes me more uncomfortable? I don’t like love, yet I dedicate a second verse to it in this brain vomit poem. I have the capacity for romance, I know I do, my best friend says I do too. Things have happened that make me think I do. But I’m terrified of yearning for a person like that. Of them knowing me. So I push opportunities away and act like casual fun is better for me (not situationships though, I do have enough self-respect to avoid those). Yet I fantasise and daydream about a person loving me the way I would love them. Enough for their world to stop for a minute at my smile, for their breath to seize in their chest when I look at them. Enough for them to write poems or love letters or at the very least, try to create something out of their love for me. I have never yet fallen in love but I wish somebody I would like, would fall in love with me.  I wish that when it happens, I wouldn’t think that the universe or the person is playing some sort of cruel joke.  

I am dramatic. I pour my heart and soul into words and pictures. Every piece I create is embedded with a piece of myself. I get peace and tranquillity from turning myself into something tangible. Yet, if a person were to find them, they would think that those pieces are cringe. For I, sometimes also think they are cringe. My unsaid emotions and deepest vulnerabilities as something imperfectly visible and physical? How every cringe indeed. I’m scared of anyone ever gazing upon my work, but I envision they would line up to meet me, its creator because something resonated with them. There is always someone better at it than me, a better writer, a better artist. But I’m also better than someone at it. A better writer, a better artist. A better person. I honestly believe that I’m a better person than some, but I’m also a worse person because my ego sometimes enlarges my head. I ruminate about all the things I may have done wrong and verbalise them to my best friend so she can say that “a bad person wouldn’t feel bad for doing bad things”. But do I truly feel bad, or do I just want the dopamine from hearing that I’m good? I create worlds upon worlds to slip into during my daydreams. Worlds with a perfect me, one for every potential I could be. One where I would be loved and admired unconditionally and one where I would be scorned and feared relentlessly. One where I have reasons to act out and rage and scream, and one where I have the confidence for my presence to take up the whole room and for my elegance to have everyone hanging on to my words. One where everyone I ever admired felt comfortable in my presence—so much so that they fell in love with me. Maybe little by little. There goes my ego again. 

“I am dramatic,” I say, to the vast void of millions of people. To anyone who would listen. I love contradictions, juxtapositions, and contrast. Anything that isn’t what it seems to appear. I love the theatrics in its most quiet form. And monologues. God, I love monologues. Do my previous verses have a purpose? Or were they just to be loud and flaunt and jest? 

Regardless I take my dramatic bow. For I, am dramatic.

[junibugs]

gender envy

[midnightcatlol]

i feel like sharing this monstrosity i made

tw ig? kinda creepy lmao

this freak of nature i made at least a year or two ago is called the ribworm

basically its this invincible creature made of ribs and an eye. it only targets things with a ribcage and digests anythibg through its eye and uses the nerves on the end of its tail to connect the ribs to itself and grow.

you cant kill it, only stun it. its eye can grow back.

bro i built up so much lore for this dumbass thing like oml.

if anyone got questions feel free to ask!

[carinelian]

all this AI 'writing' and 'art' shit had always been set up to blow...laptops can't even handle humans on academic and work hellweeks what makes u think a machine can keep up on the collective crackhead consciousness and GENERATE more of that

the beauty of human creativity is that it's either divinely inspired or demonically cursed like u need to be flesh and bone and be bound by the limits of mortality to get access to that

u need to feel the red bull sliding down your throat, ur eyelids getting heavy from sleep deprivation, the rush of excitement when you figure out how to unfuck yourself out of a rut, that 'I AM GOD' moment after finishing a piece and 'I AM WORM' from facing creative block

u need the deadpan coffee highs! u need to feel that ache in your chest, that need to turn your longing into words and paint and scream your love to strangers in what otherwise would be an imperfect yet irrevocably human piece of creative work!