glory hole...... in the Time Room...... Prismo puts himself over it... put your thang in it and he can feel it???????????????????

BSUDHEJDNWM SEYDNIS SKEMDKEBSNW DUEHJSMWKSNWS W SHWUSH TJSUS SHAUSHR THUS RUIP !! SHUR UP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SHUT UUUUUIPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP PUDT THAT BACK. UNSEND THIS ASK

sometimes the executive function fairy godmother finally shows up, whacks you, and then you’ve got to run around like cinderella on a midnight deadline trying to get things done before time runs out and your brain makes it illegal again

do u think katara and sokka ever coordinate their little outfits. like what if one day katara wants to try out a darker shade of blue bc she thinks she’d look cute in navy but sokka’s like “no katara we talked about this. I always wear the darker outfit no matter what to represent that I am the more cynical and jaded sibling and you wear the lighter shade of blue because your heart is pure and full of light. god katara it’s like you don’t even understand basic color symbolism. smh katara 🙄🙄”

lil nas x being so outrageously gay and so aggressively unapologetic is what ive been fucking waiting for.

ppl say "we get it ur gay stfu already" and he says ok imma make a whole music video with butt ass naked men

like, he will not stop in order to make the straights comfortable and im fucking living for it

bloodborne is about waking up and going “wots all this then” and getting increasingly horrifying answers

SAW A TWEET TODAY THAT WAS LIKE “TODAY IS THE 21ST OF SEPTEMBER ON THE 21ST YEAR OF THE 21ST CENTURY” 

turkish coffee my beloved

hello closeted trans student. id like to play a game. the device you are trapped inside of is something i call a “pronoun circle”. when the cisgender professor finishes saying she goes by “She/Her/Hers/Herself :)” you will have five seconds to make your decision: either out yourself, or suffer the silent shame of misgendering yourself. live or die...make your choice

anyways, japanese imperialism is not a thing of the past and still exists today. japanese propaganda is in the little things, and to end it you have to recognize them. stop glorifying the rising sun flag. pay attention to how japanese media treats its korean characters as opposed to the white ones. be on your guard when anyone or anything implies that japan is in any way superior to other asian countries. above all, listen to and support any poc who has been affected by japanese imperialism.

preview of a print im gna have in my next shop update >:)

i have a lot to say about the culture surrounding coming out and how much i hate it but it basically all boils down to how coming out is framed as necessary and something you just do as soon as it’s “safe” when you’re really not obligated to come out at all. like you literally don’t have to. even if it is relatively safe you do not have to put yourself through a potentially traumatic experience because you think it’s part of the lgbt experience or a rite of passage or whatever. you don’t have to. that is an option.

people are like what are you up to and i’m like seething with justified rage

despite all my dread i am still just a rat made of thread

i wasn't supposed to write about roses or blood or silver, about hearts or wings or galaxies; my teacher used to press her hands, firmly, to the top of our poetry stacks and beg us - love different. she was bored of it. i'd go home and write something with each of her off-limits words, emboldened by spite.

for a stint of time, i was a reader for a poetry magazine, shifting through thousands of submitted writings, each hopefully printed onto my tiny laptop screen for next-submission-viewing. one editor had a pile where we would put all the poems with parsnips or cauliflower, one pile for long-thin emergency rants that devolved into a blank scream, one pile for mentions of belladonna and chartreuse - for a whole year, i'd go to bed hearing chartreuse and silver and cities playing in my head in calligraphy. every three months, the beautiful public eye would become just-fascinated by pretty things. unusual, beautiful monstrosities. one winter, all about daises. the next, a fascination with posies. i watched the world spin from catching love in language to the same five phrases - help, it's ending, i'm alone, help, it's dark here, come home, help -

later, as an english teacher, i saw patterns. every semester, one million essays about four specific things. it wasn't pretty enough to be a teachable moment: the content they wanted to discuss was all extremely violent; a broken anthem of climate change and constantly being videoed is destroying us. i would wake up shaking, worried their visions were prophetic, soon-to-be-true. selfish, i couldn't handle the constant semester-to-semester panic they scribbled into six paragraphs, MLA-formatted text. read the world is ending fifty times every month; sob to your therapist i'm not doing enough, tell your students: please, no more violence, i don't have the right stomach.

each one seemed the same poem: we're dying, and nobody is coming to save us.

there are very few celebration poems these days. i want to rest my hand on a stack of poems about love in big red wings. love in a jacket, standing under an open galaxy. love written on the bicep, in an anatomically correct heart, with an arrow shot through the center so you can see the pink viscera of surviving a wound - so you know that even permanent tattoos are permeable. blood on the snout of a newborn lamb. silver rings around the pink scales of a pigeon's leg, and love with her hand around the ribs of a bird. i want to read boring essays about lunch. about which video games run the best graphics. about carnivals. about love in big cliche terms: standing in a garden of parsnips, clutching daises to her chest, eating raw meat over the body of a rich man.

i want to open the poetry magazine and have pages of sonnets about bluebells. about survival. about a mundane, beautiful spring. about sitting with your dog on a front porch, writing without spite, happily toying with the idea of ice cream.

my student sends me an email. i know you said to write about what brings you joy. but nothing really makes me happy these days. i don't know what i'm doing.

i also made this

800 years