Ghost always thought of Johnny as something that could never be diminished, never replaced, never dimmed. An unstoppable force of nature. The very definition of the sun to him.

Johnny blazed beautifully. He brought life and colour to everything around him, even to ghost. He thought of mortals that worshipped sun gods, that thanked them for bringing life around them, how they brought upon the very beginning of humanity. Ghost feels his hard ridges melt away in Johnny’s warmth, how he brought his humanity back to him. He doesn’t even know how he did it. It was like second nature to soap, breathing the life back to Simon. It was like nothing to soap. It was the whole world to Simon.

It was acidic, the way he felt about soap. It burned through his skin, sticky-sweet, and made a home in his body. It clung and absorbed itself into his bones, merged and became part of his DNA. It stabbed into the very core of his being, infecting him. He hated it, hated the way it made his heart clench and his throat close up whenever he saw Johnny.

He hated it.

Oh…. Well, it’s over for Crunchyroll I guess

I have strong opinions regarding the walrus/fairy poll

idk y’all should treat fat men better. and i don’t mean mildly chubby guys i mean honest-to-god love-handles-and-double-chins fat guys. stop calling them shit like discord mods or gross weebs or nasty creeps or neckbeards or that they’re stinky or sweaty or beer bellied or whatever else. fatphobia isn’t cute, even repackaged in a neat little box of “ew men”

I was meeting a client at a famous museum’s lounge for lunch (fancy, I know) and had an hour to kill afterwards so I joined the first random docent tour I could find. The woman who took us around was a great-grandmother from the Bronx “back when that was nothing to brag about” and she was doing a talk on alternative mediums within art.

What I thought that meant: telling us about unique sculpture materials and paint mixtures.

What that actually meant: an 84yo woman gingerly holding a beautifully beaded and embroidered dress (apparently from Ukraine and at least 200 years old) and, with tears in her eyes, showing how each individual thread was spun by hand and weaved into place on a cottage floor loom, with bright blue silk embroidery thread and hand-blown beads intricately piercing the work of other labor for days upon days, as the labor of a dozen talented people came together to make something so beautiful for a village girl’s wedding day.

What it also meant: in 1948, a young girl lived in a cramped tenement-like third floor apartment in Manhattan, with a father who had just joined them after not having been allowed to escape through Poland with his pregnant wife nine years earlier. She sits in her father’s lap and watches with wide, quiet eyes as her mother’s deft hands fly across fabric with bright blue silk thread (echoing hands from over a century years earlier). Thread that her mother had salvaged from white embroidery scraps at the tailor’s shop where she worked and spent the last few days carefully dying in the kitchen sink and drying on the roof.

The dress is in the traditional Hungarian fashion and is folded across her mother’s lap: her mother doesn’t had a pattern, but she doesn’t need one to make her daughter’s dress for the fifth grade dance. The dress would end up differing significantly from the pure white, petticoated first communion dresses worn by her daughter’s majority-Catholic classmates, but the young girl would love it all the more for its uniqueness and bright blue thread.

And now, that same young girl (and maybe also the villager from 19th century Ukraine) stands in front of us, trying not to clutch the old fabric too hard as her voice shakes with the emotion of all the love and humanity that is poured into the labor of art. The village girl and the girl in the Bronx were very different people: different centuries, different religions, different ages, and different continents. But the love in the stitches and beads on their dresses was the same. And she tells us that when we look at the labor of art, we don’t just see the work to create that piece - we see the labor of our own creations and the creations of others for us, and the value in something so seemingly frivolous.

But, maybe more importantly, she says that we only admire this piece in a museum because it happened to survive the love of the wearer and those who owned it afterwards, but there have been quite literally billions of small, quiet works of art in billions of small, quiet homes all over the world, for millennia. That your grandmother’s quilt is used as a picnic blanket just as Van Gogh’s works hung in his poor friends’ hallways. That your father’s hand-painted model plane sets are displayed in your parents’ livingroom as Grecian vases are displayed in museums. That your older sister’s engineering drawings in a steady, fine-lined hand are akin to Da Vinci’s scribbles of flying machines.

I don’t think there’s any dramatic conclusions to be drawn from these thoughts - they’ve been echoed by thousands of other people across the centuries. However, if you ever feel bad for spending all of your time sewing, knitting, drawing, building lego sets, or whatever else - especially if you feel like you have to somehow monetize or show off your work online to justify your labor - please know that there’s an 84yo museum docent in the Bronx who would cry simply at the thought of you spending so much effort to quietly create something that’s beautiful to you.

a real blorbo is someone you can both write a lengthy and serious/sad analysis on yet also constantly and i mean constantly make stupid jokes about

ACES!!! Look at this Scientific American article!!! It makes me genuinely so happy to read. We’re making it!!!!

https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/asexuality-is-finally-breaking-free-from-medical-stigma/

alright listen spiderverse fandom. love hobie’s design, but why’s he’s always in his work outfit in group art or fics even when the others are in casual clothes? punk fashion is so cool. look!! look at the things he’d be wearing when he’s clocked out

I hate gay people so much. I haven’t been able to hear an imagine dragons song on the radio or in a shop without my brain just IMMEDIATELY being flooded with ‘Okay im imagining his dragon’. People think i just rly hate imagine dragons with the way my face reacts but i don’t im literally fighting such a personal battle against saying something fruity abt mr dragons out of nowhere because the shit gay people say online is so funny

I DO obsessively read peoples tags when they rb my art

And, yes, I DO kick my little feets and giggle when I get compliments

I had a vision

Maybe I’ll draw it idk

sometimes all you need is one passionate person who goes berserk for your work to keep you creating

:(

being on here and condescending is crazy