That's so weird how I do not care at this point. I do not care if he cheated, I do not care if she cheated, I would even dare to say I do not care if she's happy. Because we're at a point where all that I can bring myself to care about is that she's, you know, dating a racist, antisemitic, sexist and so on and so on kind of person. She made me not care about her happiness, she made me resent her for proclaiming her happiness. She doesn't seem to care so why should I?
when will people learn that live-action remakes will never be good as their original animated counterparts because the glory of animation is the colour, movement, and fantasy that's just untranslateable to live-action
something bad happened to you, and you died, and you came back wrong.
not wrong all the way. the little ways. you forget important dates, stopped going out with friends. it's harder to make you smile. you're apathetic towards things you used to love, afraid of places you used to go to cheer up. quieter. flinching. different.
you came back for love. you're still here for love. what pulled you back was a brightness so loud that even death couldn't outshout it. death heard the call and smiled at you and said okay. go home. somebody is waiting for you.
but you came back different. like lot's wife; you've turned into salt. you used to chirp through life in hops and skips; but now you lose skin just standing up. you have to move slower, skimming across this world without-touching-it. most things feel dull - until they're suddenly all-too-much. life, and being alive just rushes up and over you and you get hopelessly crushed.
you try to explain it to them: it is ugly, but this is what you are, now. the huge golden hoop of your halo now a little bronze ring. you are still watering your plants and wearing the same clothes. after all, you worked hard to come home. this life; so odd and off-color, now that you are wrong.
but they waited for you - it's just that they wanted the "you" that happened before this. the "you" that could sing in the show and hug people tight and look at a blade without breaking down to cry. the you with a smile in pictures. god, holyshit, it's like looking at a completely different person, isn't it. that other-you; the one they actually wanted.
you are the consolation prize. you are the body that forgot the ghost. you are the memory of the bad thing, and the death after; like you are wearing that memory as a banner. you are a fragment, an assembly. simulacrum. you don't make eye contact in mirrors, afraid the light will glance off and your true nature will flash back at you.
you hear them talk about it in their hushed, desperate whispers. sometimes they even admit it to your face; harsh and violent, acid thrown at christmas dinner. god, can you just fucking be normal again. you do not remember what normal is. you had to climb so far to get back here; you are far too exhausted. you want to open the glass door of your heart and show all the gears. can you help resolve whatever got messed up?
you try so, so hard. you came back for them. because you believed they would love you, even when you were so horribly broken. because you believed they would be patient. because you believed unconditional meant "without exception." you cannot do things the same way. you just get tired too quickly these days.
you want to put them on a couch and pour them the tea with hands that shake more than they remember. you want to line them up and draw them a map of where you have had to wander. you want to show every bruise in a backsplash; the little helpless ant of your soul carrying all that weight, over and over. you want to say: yes! it is different! but i did it for love!
you want to say: "i'm not the same, but i'm yours and i'm here. can that be enough?"
It's been said before, it will be said again, but it's still worth saying: the fact that art centering on straight romance is allowed to just be bad, but art with queer romance in it always has to be indicative of A Serious Problem With the Way We Tell Queer Stories makes being a queer person making queer art deeply stressful
when ur girlfriend tells u to come over so she can "rearrange ur guts" but ur a manananggal and she's a med student 💀✂️
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[Image Description: A drawing depicting a med student studying her manananggal girlfriend's intestines, which are laid out on layers of tarp and plastic sheets. The whole piece is in warm shades of yellow, orange, and brown.
The student has books, notes, and a box of used bloody gloves to her left. Her gloved right hand is placed on the thigh of the manananggal's detached lower body, with one leg casually crossed over each other. Intestines and stylized blood pour from the latter's pelvis, staining her jean shorts red.
The manananggal's upper body and wings rest against a pillow and a drawer. She is scowling and looking slightly peeved at her phone. Next to her is a water bottle and a plate of street food, with an uneaten stick of dugo. /end ID]
Wilbur: Who's the lucky- who's the lucky lady, who's Missa, what's she like?
Phil: It's a dude. *laughs*
Wilbur: Phil, you didn't tell me you were bi, and also polyamorous.
Phil: Definitely not.
Wilbur: What does Kri- what does Kristin think of your- of your... husband?
Phil: SHE'S NOT CANON IN THIS UNIVERSE! And we- and it's not like that, it's not like that- it's uh, we're- it's platonic, we're just dude's hanging out protecting an egg-
[ID START: Illustration of Vash and Wolfwood from Trigun: Maximum. Wolfwood is holding Vash’s head to his chest, his right hand resting gently over his ears and his left hand againtst Vash’s nape. Wolfwood looks at him melancholically as he soothes him. Vash’s eyes are shut, small tears at the corner of his eyes, asleep, and his right hand is holding onto Wolfwood’s arm. Feathered and plant wings are growing out of him, enveloping the both of them like a cocoon, leaving enough space for their heads and arms. The feathered plant wings takes up most of the canvas, colored in dark and muted blues. END]