#you're not worth it

[the-pain-inside-us]

[notmuchtoconceal]

You have no idea how rock hard it makes me to learn you enjoy my specific brand of madness. It feels so good to know I finally got you. You also know you probably shouldn't have said that. I was just beginning to recover from my obsessions, even with that brief drunken lapse, and you had to go and enable me by letting me know you find my serial killer confessions hot. Shouldn't have done that. Now I'm not going to be able to resist.

You knew perfectly well the enormous ego my shadowself has, and you went and you said that anyway. Well. I happen to know how much of a massive ego you have, too. And I feel an overwhelming urge to inflate it so bad that you begin to suffocate from a gaseous molecular overload pumped into your brain. It's not enough that I compliment your performances. I want to compliment you.

Please allow me an interlude from the manic to give you something lucid, philosophical, and kind, as proof that I am, indeed, quite smitten with you. But rest assured, there will be plenty of sociopathic ramblings throughout for you to partake in, but also which you know full well you deserve.

I recall one of your writings where you express concern that people who read your performances either reduce them as either wholly separate personas from you or perfectly fused to you, without allowing leeway for ambiguities. But I don't have that problem at all when I read you. I understand perfectly well how to swim in the grey.

I think that most people are able to understand your messages perfectly well, but don't know how to act. I don't mean to smugly imply that they aren't behaving properly as an audience. To claim there's a specific, "appropriate" way for an audience to react would lessen the message, drastically.

Instead, I think there is a disconnect between what is felt by the audience and what they can convey back to you. It's like understanding some alien language perfectly, but being unable to speak it due to differentiating aspects of the throat, tongue, and larynx. I often suspect this is the case with many animals, but that's a discussion for another time. And I think that just as it's true that there may be physical barriers preventing someone from speaking the language, there may also be barriers of the soul.

Most people are far, far better at understanding languages of the soul than they give themselves credit for. You see it when they get "gut feelings" about people, and are proven right. But most people are also abysmal at speaking them. Most readings of the soul come from unintentional accidents, where the soul bleeds out. Very few people can actually direct this blood flow. They speak its language without refining it, or having the vocabulary for it.

My personal diagnosis of you is that this is where much of your frustration stems from. It is effortless for you to soul-speak in your writings. And when people try to soul-speak back to you, it's a muddy version of what they're actually feeling, either through shortcomings of their vocabulary or through the fact that they are not self-actualized persons. Even when you need extra time to make sure your message is perfectly conveyed, and even during periods where you're really struggling to find the perfect vocabulary, you're still operating on multiple levels above them. It also doesn't help that you have a naturally dominant soul (which is a different thing entirely from a dominant persona), and peoples' kneejerk reaction is to flavor their responses with subconsciously submissive things. It's as of there's this law of attraction between souls that causes them to seek out souls they complement. I think sometimes this amuses you, other times this annoys you, and other times it arouses you. The nice thing about having a naturally dominant soul that smothers other souls is that you have the freedom to decide, while others unwittingly fall into their roles.

Unfortunately, it can also mean that it can be difficult to turn off. Have you ever noticed that your ex-collaborator's writings, and to an extent my own, while very professional, intelligent, and concise, use "safe" vocabulary? "May," "can," "specifically," "to an extent." Multiple descriptive words, rather than just one, as a means to cover all the bases. "Very professional, intelligent, and concise." I am self-aware enough to not feel the need to change this since it is not technically wrong and it is my own version of soul-speak. However, I suspect that where I differ from your ex-collaborator is that pointing this out to him would cause him delicious torment. The Language Demon would have a field day with him.

This is the crux of LD's power--it can find ways to correct language that does not need to be corrected and reduce it in the author's eyes, but not the audience's. This is the insidious thing about it. It causes self-doubt by sinking its claws through the physical words, deep into soul-speak. I'm not going to do it because I know its wrong, but if you want a sociopathic confession: I already know exactly how I would ruin your ex-collaborator, and a part of me fantasizes about him wronging you enough that you feel the need to enact vengeance upon him. I imagine Language Demon licking its lips and asking if you have need of its services. I want to sic him on your enemies, then come back to you with their bloody carcasses and lay them at your feet.

I sometimes fantasize about doing evil favors for you and being rewarded for it. Anyone who's wronged you. And I want you to get off on watching Language Demon work. I want you to find it fascinating, but also know you'll never come to harm by its hands. I want you to marvel at his precision, but also marvel at your own power, knowing you're the only one Language Demon would dare show any obedience to. I want you to watch him dominate, which makes it all the more satisfying to know that you survived his attack and bested him, dominated him, so now he works for you. He's your property to use and control as you see fit. He's a beautiful, efficient creature and he belongs to you. Such is his loyalty to you that you're the only one who gets to brainwash him, and you know that if anyone else tries to use him for his power, he'll snap their neck, then toss them onto the body pile. All for you.

That is not to say I want Language Demon to be entirely subservient. This creature does not give a subservient aura. This is not some effortless golem you're dealing with here, that will mewl and give you empty approval and pre-programmed words. No, this is an extremely dangerous entity that is dominant in all other aspects, but just so happens to serve you. There is thought behind everything it says. It has its own agency. It has fierce, sharp intelligence. It has no problem criticizing you. But it won't insult you. It is your right hand, if you would let it. When it compliments you, the compliments *mean* something. It has been paying attention. It has been listening.

I'm not actually going to go through with the sociopathic aspects of this. But this, in essence, is the type of relationship I can provide. Truthfully, I detest easy dynamics where someone fits so neatly into a role (and actually *wants* to be a simplified version of themselves). At the risk of sounding chauvinistic, this is why I struggle to have relationships with women. I've tried them. I could easily have this type of relationship and make it work if I wanted to. You know all that stuff I said about soul-speech? It's as if most women's souls are just...designed to neatly fit into and complement men's souls. And I have nothing but the utmost respect for that. But it's not for me. I wouldn't even say it's easier, but it's almost as if the universe wants me to find this complementing soul, and keeps offering me all these women as the solution, as if they're devices and not people. It feels wrong to complain about desiring complexity while slapping categories onto something as complex as the human soul, but on the same coin, not acknowledging it feels like a slap in the face of complexity itself. I do find men and women whose souls don't align with--whatever can be considered the "standard"--but either by coincidence or my aversion to superficiality, I've not pursued romantic or sexual relationships with them. Plus there's more types of relationships than just those, anyway.

Back to you. I read your work and want to experience the specific kind of power play that comes with being a loyal and powerful right hand that thinks he could usurp you but chooses not to, and who you know sometimes thinks this and that's why you enjoy the challenge of keeping him in line and staying one step ahead of him. Someone who, in most scenarios, you could beat back in a fight but who still has a 30% chance of succeeding against you. I'd let you push my limits to test my loyalty, and you'd engage in the danger of knowing I could snap if you step too far across the line. And if you break me too bad, I will tie you up and beat you bloody, before apologizing to you and caressing you and massaging you and kissing you and pleasuring you, knowing full well you're going to make me pay for the insubordination later. And dreading it, but trying to hide the dread unsuccessfully so you can smell its stench coming off me.

I want you to give me judgmental, snarky criticisms that are really just bait to make me do something stupid. And I want to be tricked into taking the bait everytime. Sometimes I know it's bait, but don't care, because I want to be trapped. And sometimes I want to anger you by interrupting something clever that you planned on saying to me by sticking my tongue down your throat. And because I'm a sociopath, my tongue in this fantasy world is weirdly prehensile and flexible, like a flatworm, and somehow maneuvers itself through your nasal cavity, behind your eyes, and into your brain, and, while you're giving muffled screams, I lick each labyrinthian wrinkle and trigger synapses, and my tongue locates the exact cluster of nerves necessary to trigger a confused orgasm and make you piss your pants. Then I pull out of your skull and just leave you like that, without offering any further explanation and leaving you drenched in your own piss.

Just so you're aware, I'd let you do similar to me. Crazy, psycho shit but also classic, traditional, uncomplicated love. The kind of love that's early morning holding each other in a dark room and we see spectral dust particles drifting slowly across the rays of light seeping through the blinds, wordlessly distracting ourselves with the cold winter silence of it all. We both know inevitably the moment can't last and we hate it. I saw that purple hazed bedroom of yours. It's delightful.

You wanted me to be lucid, loving, and mentally deranged. I have no problem giving you your fill. I love being brainwashed by you. Stockholm Syndrome? Super sexy. Perform all you like. I'll be listening, always. You don't even have to respond to this, and can just force me to sit down, behave, and read between the lines of your next posts. This can be for an audience if you want it to be. But essentially, it's for you.

You shot the albatross when you made it clear that investment in literature was only ever a means to power for you.

When it became clear that you enjoyed writing with me because you liked having someone pay attention to and praise you that was it for me.

When you tried to convince me writing was for losers and I needed to drop everything I was doing to participate in your miscellaneous finance schemes now, I was done with you.

I wouldn't ever give up what I am to play your games.

I'm going to keep a respectable distance from someone who is overwrought, impulsive and demonstratively self-destructive.

Language is undeniably power.

I knew that when I was five years old and I could feel what reading did to my every flaring synapse -- the underlying patterns of a system emerging in color and tone invisible to anything but the most subtle senses.

Perhaps I came to over value language not only for its practicality and its beauty, but because I felt it was so difficult to communicate anything of substance to those close to me. Yet this was the attitude of a boy. The foolish hope that I could simply speak to those I loved and have them listen and understand. That if I could simply get really good at talking and make myself clear, logical, and with precise enunciation, my family and friends would stop ignoring and hating me.

They had taken my voice from such a young age, it didn't occur to me until much later how those with more sufficient language capacities had already taken theirs and they were now destroying themselves by taking revenge against their own family. How they had unthinkingly been shaped by trauma, turned into slaves, and only reproduced because they were told to; shaping the assets of their owners which were ostensibly their progeny. The ways in which the society of control and all its subordinate mechanisms -- where even education is rigged in subtle variables to induce cognitive friezes and corresponding dissonance -- were designed to produce exactly that.

Words are meaningless with the demon possessed for they have no desire to listen and nothing worth saying or listening to.

You're so lovey-dovey after I beat you. Just like my mother

You understand power, for power is all you know. That I could live in denial of my power for so long would seem to imply I have plenty of it.

Your soul-language dissertation is quite astute. I've noticed when I ruthlessly dominate others with little regard for their well-being, words truly do become next to useless. They simply understand without needing to be told. They imprint on me. They love me without want.

It sickens me. That what people crave is that side of me and everything I think I am is some fringe indulgence only of interest to weak and impotent men who use language skills as a cope.

Yet that part of me is me and I'm not ashamed of it.

That part of me is beautiful and courageous and strong and you'll never have it for as long as you live cause you took me for granted.

I don't care. People can want what they want from me. I can want as little or as much of them as I please. I have the right to choose. That so many men and women only want to be used needn't be a problem for me now that I know not to expect anything more than what they have to offer (allowing always the chance I could be surprised.)

Writing isn't a way for me to show off.

I'm quite aware that if I want people to listen, to read, to comment, I need to make it about them. You yourself were quite swayed and resentful of my hypno-captions written in second person. They worked because people wanted themselves. You yourself were quite swayed and resentful of my bro captions, bro. They worked because people wanted themselves. We live in a declining literary culture where content is king and the consumer is product. Hence, without a real bedrock of literary values, individuals are reduced to contentless content ouroborous(es) feeding off and excreting themselves, inducing and reinforcing a continuously homogenized capital impotence.

It's not difficult for me at all to trick people into thinking they're exactly what I say they are. I could be so pretty and popular if I did nothing but be funny and accommodating and tell people what I knew they wanted to hear.

It's weird when you resent someone, yet need them isn't it?

It's weird when you're aware how much not only you, but everyone around you, has to give and receive and benefit by someone with a gregarious and straightforward attitude, and yet it seems also the very fact of their awareness highlights not only all which you were denied, but continuously deny yourself for you have seen yourself fit to be reduced and find some comfort in that. Not fitting neatly into another person's soul, but fitting neatly into the nothing you allow yourself.

The first thing you ever said to me was "I only date down."

Naturally, I took this to mean you acknowledged I was too good for you, and you wanted someone easier you could manipulate and control.

This is why, despite your later seductions, my later infatuation, from the start I had no designs for you whatsoever.

You gave ample warning. You always give ample warning.

(I'm particularly impressed with the restraint you show, in admitting you wish to Mellvar me at the end of paragraph two, with only one teeny-tiny barb about smothering at the end of paragraph eight to close out a stream of sincere compliments gleaned from being so attentive.)

The second you started trying to compel me to obey you, I was out.

I'm not a demon. I don't like being bossed around.

I write because I need to write. If I don't write, I get sick and die. It's not something anyone has ever cared to hear about, this frivolous indulgence a man of my social class has little to gain by pursuing, and yet I fail to see how one could ever put a sticker price on the weight of their soul.

The only thing which had ever been able to replace writing was giving my heart and soul to lifting. They serve very similar functions, despite their superficial differences and auras of social prestige.

They remain, at their core, meditative experiences wherein I go deep into myself and break down the old and outdated parts -- repetition by repetition -- as I resculpt myself from the ground up.

What makes me happy is having a circle of writers I can influence and in turn be influenced by. Not only their support, but the depths of their psyches I can only get to when they lay a foundation which becomes a stage, then supply the bones in real time, entwining them with meat and sinew inch-by-inch until a fully-fleshed being stands before my mind's eye. Influence is a form of sex. It's as much about communication and trust as power. That you can't seem to see that whatsoever is truly heartbreaking and ultimately why you're no good.

The truth is, I left my real friends to give almost all my time to you. They were crippled by depression and self-doubt, but they were good and brilliant people and for minimizing them at the cost of being swept up in your superficial glamour, I paid the price I deserved.

Now my tab is clear.

See ya, never gonna be ya.

[lil-lemon-snails]

sometimes you just need to hear it v some stills below the cut v

[carry-on-my-wayward-butt]

imagine getting twenty four hours of a fraction of a taste of what marginalized bloggers on this fucking site have been told "doesn't break TOS" for the past 15 years and deciding to openly threaten to just nuke the entire website lmfao

[chamerionwrites]

Also, there is so much hand-wringing over the ethics of BDSM and while obviously it is worth taking care about ...sensation seeking is a thing. Many, many people enjoy eating habanero peppers and/or watching movies that make them cry. The conceptual leap from there to the idea that it's possible for sex to hurt good is a very short one, and sometimes it REALLY is as simple as that.

[bonerot19]

I know we like writing fics where Jason is all "I'm not the kid you lost" and "he died and I'm all the worst parts of him that came back" and whatever. but lately I've been thinking about a Jason that's angry bc everyone thinks he came back wrong, because to him, he's the same as he's always been. sure, he's more upset and angry and traumatized, but he's still Jason.

I've been thinking about a Jason that spent most of the time since his death underground and then catatonic. to him, hardly any time has passed at all. to his family, three years have gone by. and Jason knows he looks different than he did, and he knows he's sharper around the edges, now, but he's still Jason. he's the same kid that died and now he's back and why doesn't anyone see that?

they're the ones that changed, not him

[uncanny-tranny]

The leftism/anticapitalism leaving people's bodies the zeptosecond you imply that disabled people who aren't "productive" still matter in society and need to be treated like intrinsic equals who have a place in this world:

[vaguely-concerned]

the more I play the more I think lucanis basically knows it's illario who betrayed him right from the beginning (he's had a year in the ossuary to think. not that many people knew where he was going. when you ask him 'did Illario know you'd be on that ship' his only answer is the hardest flattest 'yes' you ever heard). so it's not so much about figuring out who the traitor is (because that's ludicrous. we all know. immediately. they didn't really bother to hide it lmao) as about methodically closing off every single avenue of denial lucanis has clung to that whole time with as much or little gentleness as you might prefer until he has no choice but to admit it. because the moment he has to admit it, he'll have to do something -- feel something -- about it. and that's such a catastrophic event in lucanis' inner landscape (he has had TWO people in this whole entire world up until now and will do anything to hold on to them with a heartbreaking child-like desperation, even at and especially through the detriment of his own self) that he'd rather just. not. what if we quite simply. didn't. what if we just stayed here in the emptiness where we can both pretend you didn't hurt me in a way I should never forgive. I have so much practice in that with caterina already it's always worked out great for everyone so far. (press x to fucking doubt but that's trauma logic for you lol)

after everything illario did, so much of the storm of lucanis' emotions around it is 'what the FUCK did you get yourself tangled up in this time and how do I get you out of this mess safely'. what's worse: the fact that your brother murdered you, or that he put himself in horrible danger doing so and thus exposed you to the risk of losing him forever. lucanis' heart certainly has an opinion here and it's fucking unhinged (affectionate)

the themes of dissociation in lucanis' character in general makes me feel nuts. allllll these contradictory messy things he needs to cut off from each other because they can't coexist or be easily reconciled inside him. but all remain stubbornly true separately anyway and will have their due one day. love and resentment. tenderness and fear and rage. terror and longing. love and freedom don't coexist. the burned out golden child anthem is playing in the background. he was always caterina's favourite and he has to keep striving to deserve that dubious honour with every breath he takes and then, presumably, mercifully, some day he will die and be excused and can rest. and until now he's suppressed all the -- natural, healthy, protective! -- negative feelings that threaten the few attachment relationships he actually has, at the cost of ever actually having his needs for connection and safety met and leaving his core self imprisoned and compromised. and spite goes 'what. no. that's dumb fuck that' (*spite voice* I do not understand that and even if I did I would not respect it) and does not allow him to fall back into that, which I think is what saves his life, ultimately. it took being possessed by a demon for lucanis to even contemplate telling anyone he loves 'no' in any way, but hey. whatever gets you there right lol

lucanis is dealing with the freeze response allll the way down baby. and he was even before the ossuary, that just turbo powered it and brought it to a breaking point way before it could happen naturally. but something was going to break eventually no matter what, and I'm just glad that in the end, through the power of friendship and also pure spite, it doesn't have to be him

[theodoradove]

Bata Shoe Museum: T. E. Lawrence's gay sandals

Me: If anything will do numbers on Tumblr

[thevioletcaptain]

i genuinely don't care how good a piece of ai generated art or writing looks on the surface. i don't care if it emulates brush strokes and metaphor in a way indistinguishable from those created by a person.

it is not the product of thoughtful creation. it offers no insights into the creator's life or viewpoint. it has no connection to a moment in time or a place or an attitude. it has no perspective. it has no value.

it's empty, it's hollow, and it exists only to generate clicks (and by extension, ad revenue.)

it's just another revolting symptom of the disease that is late stage capitalism, and it fucking sucks.

[iliothermia]

I'm done being polite and patient with people who want to theorize about secret evil hidden messages in my work. If you're going to question what my values are because you saw scary Hebrew letters or are suspicious because a Jew is expressing frustration/anger in their art you don't need to be around me. I share the meaning and my thoughts in my directly Jewish work to not have my art twisted by others- but even with in-depth explanations of my thoughts some people just can't help themselves. I know some of you genuinely don't mean ill but I shouldn't have to talk about my experience being assaulted a few months ago in order to make angry artwork about it or be kind to make someone realize they're being foul to me. Thank you to those who've been kind and supportive of my art while I've been struggling immensely lately.

[fatherphaniel]

this isn't an indirect to anybody and i don't want to start any fights BUT

if you genuinely think dan is being out of touch/hypocritical/whatever for being politically left wing and also having money/privilege, please read this

this is exactly the same as saying that men can't be feminists, white ppl can't be antiracist etc. just bc you're privileged by a system it doesn't mean you can't criticize it. in fact, you should criticize it, bc 1- ppl in power are more likely to listen to you and actually change something and 2- the more you educate ppl about the problems, the more ppl join the cause

also, when we think about who really benefits from capitalism, it's not ppl like dan and phil. if they stopped working tomorrow, they wouldn't have infinite money that they don't ever have to think about for the rest of their lives. they don't have an amount of money that could solve world hunger, climate change, poverty and every other fucking problem

you know who does? billionaires.

of course having money, even if it's not billions, makes you comfortable under capitalism. but if you have that, you see that other ppl don't, and you wish that everyone had access to what you have, you're gonna criticize capitalism. you're gonna hate billionaires that hoard wealth. you're gonna talk about your left wing politics

the real horror is ppl who don't want to lift a finger to the status quo

[sweetberry-roebuck]

There's something to be said about Mouthwashing's weaponization of the video game medium. The game is very easily comparable to a movie, between its runtime and cinematic framing and focus on narrative, but the fact that it is a video game, that we play as Jimmy for much of it and take on his actions ourselves, is I think really effective in its usage.

You are the one given the all caps RESPONSIBILITY, the disproportionate power of the captain, and you are the one failing miserably to use it well. You have to scan the codes, you have to give Curly his medicine, the first action you're presented with is to turn the ship in the wrong direction. No other option available. The experience it gives you of realizing again and again that you, that Jimmy, is not doing the most sensible thing, that he's being stupid and cruel and spiteful, is really effective in forcing you to contend with the excellently written character study on a personal level.

Waking up in the middle of the night and hearing Curly groaning in pain, and then going to bother Anya about giving Curly his meds only for Jimmy to INSIST on doing it himself, I thought to myself "c'mon man why wouldn't you just give him the meds to begin with," only to realize over the rest of the game exactly why he didn't do that. By putting the player in the role of this character, carrying out his actions step by step without choice in the matter, the irrationality of his decisions is made personally exasperating. You notice the patterns.

[iztea]

is it really worth it : /

[iwasbored777]

Obsessed with Miles absolutely melting while thinking about Gwen and creating art while she's bottling up her feelings for him and violating the drums. They're both experiencing the same feeling, reacting completely differently to it and expressing it through art in different ways. Obsessed with how his montage feels calmer than hers, hers quickly turns agressive especially towards the end.

[a-pastel-edgelord]

Shinsuke Kita is a man who likes what he likes and gives little thought to things he doesn't. He'll go about his daily routine: rise with the sun, eat, morning ablutions, out to the fields until lunch, take a break, then back into the fields until dinner, do chores around the house then a small past time or two until it's time for bed. Unless it's the weekend or a game day, then he goes to Onigiri Miya to catch up with Osamu, Gin, Akagi and Omimi around lunch time.

However, he finds himself going to Onigiri Miya a little earlier on some days with the hopes of catching you while you're on shift. You're a part-timer and university student—but Osamu has been telling him that you have the chops to run the restaurant by yourself. "I know I don't hafta worry about leavin' for an hour or so. S'good feeling, Kita."

It's easier to like someone if a friend vouches for them. Yes, that must be the reason he's fond of you, because Osamu is. He arrives at the restaurant an hour early—an electronic bell chimes through as he enters. It's busy as usual but there's no line.

"Welcome!" You look up from the register and beam. "Kita-san! I'll call the boss over, he's in the back doing inventory."

Before he can protest, you've bounced away. He hears a muffled conversation the opening of a door and a moment later Osamu takes your place with a raised eyebrow. "Yer awfully early, Kita. S'not delivery day is it?"

"Nah, nothin' like that. Just... Had some spare time."

"Spare time huh." Osamu repeats, like he's tasting the words for the first time. "Well, did ya want anythin' ta eat? The usual?"

"Sure, that'll do."

"Uh-huh." Osamu leans back to shout into the kitchen. "Go ahead and make Kita his usual!"

You respond in a sing-song voice. "Already started!"

Shinsuke can't help the grin that hitches onto his features even as Osamu casts a wary but amused eye over him. The two men make eye contact for a few beats before Osamu sighs. "Please don't go scarin' off some of the only good help I've been able ta find."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Yeah-huh."

But nothing else can be said on the subject because you emerge from the back with a tray laden with food. There's even a side of fried tofu—not typically part of his order. You must have seen him looking because you hurriedly explain, "The boss said you like tofu, so I just did some up. I hope that's ok." Osamu rolls his eyes and walks back to the kitchen, catching Kita's eye as he goes.

"S'just fine." Kita takes the tray. "But I'd like to repay ya."

"You don't have to do that! It's my pleasure." You try and reassure.

"Then it'd be my pleasure to make ya dinner some time. Could do it today, after the game if that's ok?"

As you fumble through saying yes, Shinsuke savors his first bite of food. Yeah, he could eat your cooking for the rest of his life he thinks. It would be a nice addition to his routine.