𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦’𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘱 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘢 𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 7 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘦𝘵𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘯 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘱𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘤𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘴. 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘪 𝘧��𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵.

Here is some stress hormones to my fellow poor people: Your phone will break some day.

To people who didn't start feeling deep anxiety and fear about that - do you like the taste of fancy fish eggs much or is caviar overrated and it's all about clams or some shit?

i have my period😞

So Fox News ran a story about how they think libraries are turning into drug-infested sex dens and I am shocked, shocked that I was never offered any drugs during my 15+ years working in libraries.

had a fucking hilarious dream that tumblr replaced the "block" function with the far funnier "glock" function, which did the exact same thing except whenever anyone blocked you a random bullet hole, like a png of a bullet hole, would appear on your blog. discourse blogs were unreadable bc you'd go to the page and the sheer amount of bullet hole pngs stacked over the blogs obscured everything. I woke myself up laughing

I fucked up

Crocodile finds a strange stray cat an 11-year old Nico Robin (AU where they met 13 years earlier. Robin's been on the run from the World Government for 3 years. Crocodile's 27 and has not set up base in Alabasta yet)

It seems like I have become possessed. By some sort of demon.

Bonus:

Big fan of sun motifs in characters not necessarily being about positivity and happiness and how they're so " bright and warm" but instead being about fucking brutal they are.

Radiant. A FORCE of nature that will turn you to ash. That warmth that burns so hot it feels like ice. Piercing yellow and red and white. A character being a Sun because you cannot challenge a Sun without burning alive or taking everything down with them if victorious.

Yes, Greece still exists, we didn't all die 2000 years ago. Yes, people speak Greek. You people are so fucking stupid for real. So many of you claim to love ancient shit but can't even acknowledge the actual living culture of the people whose mythology and classics you romanticize. You keep leaving annoying comments about how you just forget Greek people still exist, thinking you're being quirky because you love ancient stuff soooo much that you forgot about the people it came from. You think about it so little you don't even realize that an actual Greek person has to read this shit, making it clear how little you actually care about the culture beyond the romanticized (and westernized) mythology. Don't claim you love Greece, don't use our mythology anymore if you can't acknowledge that we're still around without making it about how little you think about us. It's mind boggling that you'd think a Greek person would read this and think you're anything but obnoxious. Explode.

why is religious Christmas imagery all so joyful and pleasant? where is the inherent horror of the birth of Christ? A mother is handed her newborn child, wailing and innocent. Her hands come away sticky. Red. Simply by giving her son life she has already killed him. He is doomed from the beginning. Her love will not save him from suffering. Because the thing cradled in her arms is not a baby, it is a sacrifice: born amongst the other bleating animals whose blood will one day be spilled in the name of what demands it. the night is silent with anticipation. Mary, did you know? That your womb was also a grave?

Ahmed Saad, a Palestinian man who had to jump through an insane amount of loops to get the funds necessary for escaping Gaza, is asking us all to donate to his friend’s family fund.

Mohamed is a hemophilia patient who needs access to medicine and to do surgery on his knees, his 11-year-old daughter also needs thigh surgery (she was supposed to do it outside Gaza in November but couldn't travel due to the border issues). Mohammed’s condition is worsening rapidly and, with Israel destroying the last functional hospital in Gaza, things are looking dire.

Please donate generously!

people when trauma victims act traumatized especially in a way that is unpalatable to them because it involves lashing out and unpredictable moods and having boundary issues rather than just being demure, sad, and consumable

liberté, egalité, fraternité et yaoi

I've talked about this before, but emotional dysregulation is such a mother fucker aspect of ADHD.

Like, sure, not being able to regulate my attention sucks, but it's genuinely fucking nothing compared to the absolute rollercoaster of emotions I just went on because someone said something in a shitty tone, and now I'm having to actively walk myself through DBT methods lest my idiot shit for brains 'shiny-can't-sit-still-disorder' drop the match on that particular bridge because the rejection sensitive dysphoria feels like my chest is burning and not being able to act on the hurt feels like I'm suffocating under the weight of emotions pushing down on me and lashing out in anger is quicker than taking the time to self soothe.

And the annoying fucking thing is I know it's me.

I've done enough therapy to know my emotional response to their shittiness is overblown and dysregulated. I know I'm taking it to heart more than they could ever imagine.

And I've got to fucking sit with that and process it because if I don't, I'll be the inconsiderate cunt in this interaction and hhnnggg--wailing, gnashing, biting my thumb at you in the marketplace, etc, etc.

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

Tanline booty 😜