Billy: Am I creaming or is that you, Harrington?

Goodness. Currently replaying okami and trying to collect everything... and I just spent over two fucking hours fishing. Still no marlin. Got two mantas and fucking 29 sunfish though. When will it end 🥲

bored...and eepy

i kinda wanna start a cozy-ish series. i have a sim all prepped and ready to go..well almost kinda. but i might as well. how am i gonna navigate two series at the same time? the world may never know. but i have my ways.

FOR TAPAKA!!

*Shoots you with my Pillow Canon (tm)*

Cope

Sometimes when Sam was younger and just couldn't handle dealing with John, he would go into the motels bathroom, and put his headphones on at max volume. It hurt his ears but it drowned out his thoughts. Dean would notice that Sam was gone and go where he knew Sam would be.

Most of the time Sam would be crying, sometimes he was spaced out. No matter what was happening Dean would take Sam's headphones off and tell him not to turn it up so loud. Then Dean would sit next to Sam and he would rub circles on Sam’s back, it helped Sam calm down.

Favourite thing about the movie was the Henry povs. I love Alex, but for the more emotional scenes that they were both going through it was so good to see both of their sides and emotions on screen.

About three days ago I was like "Buddie is a cute ship." and now I'm reading fan-fics at 11:15 pm while giggling and saying "They were made for each other."

Me work-shopping my fanfic idea: What if Nina went though the portal at the end of season two, and instead of season three, grief stricken Sibuna gets messages from her in their dreams asking for their help to return to the land of the living? And they're not sure if it's even her or not. Yes, I am a genius for coming up with this totally original idea that's never been done before, at least in this fandom.

The heartbeats of my abandoned and published WIPs: Trapped in a Dream by artsoccer on fanfiction.net. Summary is, and I quote:

"On the way over to England the plane Nina and Eddie are riding on explodes. No one on board survives. Upon finding out, Sibuna has to struggle through the four stages of grief. Amber, Fabian, and Patricia start getting strange dreams detailing Nina and Eddie. Are these just grief spawned dreams, or something more?"

Me with my fingers in my ears: LALALA I CAN'T HEAR YOU!

The heartbeats of my abandoned and published WIPs/My Inner Critic: I wonder who that artsoccer is? I mean, your original tumblr url was artsoccer, and it's still the title of your blog... Such a mystery.

Are you sure this isn't just Trapped in a Dream 2.0? But with eight years improvement in writing skill?

Me who can't drown them out anymore: They have different plots! For one thing, this one is just Nina, and not both Nina and Eddie. For another thing this is less exploration of grief, and more taking a lot of inspiration from the "Song of Dreams"

My Inner Critic: Ah, so this is less original, got it.

Me who's getting fed up at this point: Shut up and let me write the damn thing. It's been years since I wrote anything other than a one-shot. Let me have this.

The asshole inside my head: It's been a year since your last proper one-shot, too. And if you're that determined to write this, why aren't you writing the fanfic instead of this text post?

Me who thought writing this out would be funny: shut up

Want to know some random headcannons?

Due to events in his past where he's had a bounty on his head, or has gotten shot-Ronin has trust issues, and has a panic attack if he doesn't wear his armor in public. It’s honestly scary to remove even when he knows he's home alone.

2. Ronin locks all his doors times 10 because he always feels like someone is out to get him.

3. Because he gets so paranoid, he's trained himself to sleep with his eyes open.

4. If Ronin were to take his shirt off, you'd see he has SEVERAL scars, stitches, and bullet wounds. Most are around the lethal places. Heart, stomach, neck, etc....

5. The prison lets Ultraviolet get away with not wearing the uniform because she growled, hissed, and scratched the last person who tried getting her in the prison outfit.

6. All the prison guards are terrified of Ultraviolet. She knows that, so her favorite past time is messing with them.

HOLY RAVIOLI, FREDERICK SPRITE

(I learned how to make pixel art + sprite edits and made this w/ my Pizza Tower oc)

Bro is silly. Almost too silly…

Bonus: Frederick has fanart!!! LOOK AT EM’ (made by a cool wacko on the Pizza Tower Power Hour Discord)

I adore this <3

Anyway guys does anyone want to talk to me about the transient nature of life of the fact we're all rotting from the inside but with devine flesh capable of its own act of creation the idea that me as I am had to eat me when I was 16 and 14 and 12 and 10 to be alive where I am today had to take that person and brake it down into parts to build what's next how I too will soon be eaten to create a new form the next me will haunt about the idea of ever shifting sand of skin identical to the last try and the last and the last and the last replication near perfect enduring it's own form of slow decay talk about am I the same me as I was last year? About does it matter? About as long as I love the same things and know all the same people and lay under the same stars does it matter if my flesh that made my hands I used to love the world with have rotted away if the new flesh that takes its place is just as capable of cupped hands of holding of writing of love if they still hold the memory of how to grab onto the things I love and pull

Apparently it’s Ace Awareness Week according to @synthace, so if it isn’t and I’m making a fool out of myself I blame them. Other than that, enjoy this meme I made with the funny joke (iykyk) and happy Ace Awareness Week!

How do you know if you're trans?

It should be easy. You are what you are, and as confusing as it is on the inside, you can at least see that there's something not quite right. You've grown up seeing others stories, hearing people talk of knowing since they were a kid that they weren't what the world told them. It made sense to you, you never questioned them despite the fact you could only see yourself as what the world said you were. You'd know if something was off. Because when the world told you who you were, you listened. When others told you who they were, you listened. Why wouldn't you?

It's not something that comes on you out of the blue, in the dark, that worms your way into your head and asks you the question of "are you sure?" after years of being used to your existence as a guy. After you had spent years accepting trans people as a reality, how could it be? You had all that time, all those chances to ask yourself "am I who I think I am" and the thought never occurred to you, you never doubted you were as you were told to be. You never questioned. But you were unhappy. And you had all these reasons and all these factors that fed into how you felt. Being a guy wasn't the issue, you said to yourself. It was your father, the expectations of manhood that you resisted. It was social malnutrition and perpetrated biases, nothing to do with what lay between your legs, nothing to do with what stretched your bones and bulked your form and fuelled your anger like oxygen to a flame. You had reasons and things to blame, no need to look any further.

But cis guys don't lay in bed imagining what it'd be like not to be a guy. They're not alone in the dark, exhausted at 2 am, trapped imagining a life of being born someone else, someone happier with their body, someone not a guy. They don't recall imagining this all the way a decade back in high-school. All the way back to middle school, day dreaming at night of being with the cute girl in band class who just came out as bi. Not as a guy, never as that. It never crossed your mind, because why would you want to be a guy when anything else was an option?

Cis guys never went through puberty upset at their legs for growing hair, hating their body for betraying them in a way they can't articulate because they're twelve years old and a boy. And boys have hair they're not allowed to shave, because that's what you're taught. You are a boy, and that means there are certain ways your are allowed to present and take care of your body, and there are ways you are explicitly not allowed to. So you put away all your shorts, you discount them as an option for you to ever wear, and you put on those jeans you hate because you hate denim less than you hate your body.

So you sit in the dining room chair as your father buzzes your hair to half an inch despite you begging for only a full, because one inch is the biggest size both he and the clippers will allow you to have. But not this time. And you sit there, losing more hair than you want, in a body with more hair than you want, in jeans too much like your fathers but are all you can wear to hide the limbs that make you feel like a sasquach. Your mother tells you that your such a handsome boy and you smile and your shoulders tighten and you can't look up from the floor and you tell yourself that she was lying. You look weird, with your dumb ears and bald head and hand-me-down clothes you hate. So you put on an appreciative face and bow your head and you take it.

Because you're a boy. You know the song and dance by now.

But you were a boy. You are a man now. You have been so long, you've never questioned it. Except you have. And you have been for so long in so many little ways that it was easy to mistake it for something else. Mistake it for so many various resentments, body issues, societal roles. So much of what gets defined as being a man is nebulous and vague enough you can pull it over your head like a weighted blanket and hide away.

You're no longer a boy. You're a man. Twenty six years old now, standing in your bathroom wearing shorts. It took you until you were twenty two to be comfortable enough to wear them, although you still hate your legs. You could shave, but it takes more effort than you feel you can muster to maintain a proper shave. Plus the heat of the American South along with the jeans you still have to wear for work leaves them irritated and razor rashed. That, and you never learned how how to shave and a part of you is too scared to look up how. Because you learned your leasons well, even if you're trying to unlearn them now. You look into the mirror and you brush your hair, down to your shoulders. You're proud of it, though it's not as well kept as you'd like. You use your mother's brand of shampoo and conditioner, unsure of if it's even the right fit for your type of hair because you're scared to learn how to take care of yourself the way you want to even if it doesn't feel like fear. It's just how things are. But at least the conditioner is a victory, and you smile at how soft your hair feels. You remember your father snide voice telling you conditioner was only for women. You smile because he was wrong. In so many ways he was wrong. But the smile is small and it doesn't stay. You wonder what it means that when you look in a mirror you think you look more like your aunt and mom than your uncles? You can't see any men in your face, in your tired eyes, the lines of your mouth. It's a man's face, but all you can see are women you haven't spoken to in years. Family you avoid.

It's 2 am again and you're unable to sleep. You were reading a story about a man who against their will becomes a woman. It's not an uncommon one for you, as you always find yourself drawn to genderbent fiction. But for some reason this time is different. This time, reading of the main character's strained relationship with their parents, their denials and their isolation, their hangups and fears, it all felt to much like you. Enough you don't immediately notice it. Enough that you can't help but put yourself in their place. And as they reveal themselves to their lesbian childhood friend who they haven't spoken to in over a year, as they get seen as the woman they've come to realize they always were, as this shamelessly wishfullfillment fills your head so completely and you're drawn in so deeply you find yourself weeping in the kind of relief you haven't felt in so long.

But the relief wasn't yours. It was hers. You tell yourself that as you lay in the dark with your cheeks still wet. That all felt nice, but it wasn't for you. You are a man after all. You learned a long time ago that some things that you want just aren't for you. So you pull the blanket of masculinity back over you read and you fall asleep.

Months pass and you find yourself thinking of names. You've always hated yours. You wonder how trans people choose. Your nonbinary partner never changed theirs, but hypothetically—because that's all you'll allow yourself—if you were trans, what would you change your name to? Something connected to the one you have now, you think. But not for your first name, no. You hate it and there's not a good feminine version of it. You've met women with your first name, and for some it fit, but you just can't see it for yourself. So you work a bit with your middle, discarding the obvious feminine form because it was the name of a middle school ex. But you want to keep the feel, and after a bit of thought you find the perfect match. Elaine. You could be an Elaine. You're not sure why but the idea makes you smile for the rest of the day.

More months pass and you have forgotten about Elaine. You're still a man. Not something that'll change any time soon. Why would it? Not that you're thinking of that. Your looking for that story again, the one that made you cry. It's a favorite, though you haven't touched it since that night. It must have updated since then, and it had. On a whim you read the authors blog post. It's a story they've worked on for three years now, and despite its wishfulfillment nature, you've always found it amusing how it was being written by a cis guy, though one who regularly talked with and got advice from trans fans. Except reading the blog you find out they're not as cis as you thought they were. They're not as cis as they thought they were either. A little while after you cried that night, they came out in a blog post. All these months they have been transitioning, and all the confusion and fear and relief that brings. They thought they were a man. They worked on a story about a trans woman for three entire years, spent hours upon hours talking with and listening to trans people tell their stories to better help their work, and it took until they were twenty freaking nine before they knew they were a woman. But you're not twenty nine. You're twenty six.

And it hits you.

Sometimes it can stare at you in the face from a mirror, and you still won't know. You could confess it to a loved one, and somehow you will find some way to brush past it and forget. Because you've been one thing for so long, it's so hard to imagine anything else. It's so easy to ignore because you've been taught to, because you've learned to, because it's so damn hard to see what you're too scared too. It's a monster in your closet, and you know how to pull that heavy hated blanket over your head.

But this time when you reach for it, it's not there. This time you have to face what you've kept hidden.

listening unironically to the song they used in jaws, is the best decision, it makes me calm and peaceful. like hell yeah show me the way to go home. im tired and i wanna go to bed. I've had a little.. drink... about an hour ago...

My therapist is on maternity leave for the next few months and she was able to “let me go with a good feeling” because she thinks I’m holding up great…

It’s been about 3 weeks since my last session and I’m currently - at 12 AM on a Sunday - sitting in my room and after hours of rewatching “The Penguins of Madagascar” episodes I’ve discovered Youtube’s corner of OFMD animatics and almost cried at these roughly drawn sketches of old men experiencing varying degrees of angst.

Mrs B. if you see this, I miss you