remembering the time I called american psycho (a satirical film about toxic masculinity) a dark comedy and the overwhelming response was 'oh so u think men killing sex workers is funny? u think THAT'S funny?' like no I find a patrick batemen listening to 'i'm walking on sunshine', killing jared leto while wearing a clear raincoat and giving a dissertation on huey lewis n the news, using 'I need to return some video tapes' to get out of awkward situations, throwing a hissy fit about business cards, dropping a chainsaw down a flight of stairs, thinking an atm is telling him to feed it cats, and crying hysterically under a desk is funny. but thank u for ur wonderful insight
15K notes
·
View notes
i like Raphael bg3 but unfortunately i dont think its for the same reasons anyone else does. he swoops in so fucking confident like "hello my baby mice (/derogatory) you wish you could kill me. you fucking wish. anyway sell me your soul or die in an unsexy tentacle explosion."
and then he sort of follows you around for like 3 acts. all quiet. spying on u. hoping youll call him. waiting by the phone. and then when you finally do run into him hes like "haha so, you miserable worms (/derogatory), have you considered i can save you and i have this really cool donkey kong hammer you want? sell me this insanely OP crown and ill give it to you. please. haha it isnt like i need you or anything, baka."
and then you break into raphaels house. hes cucked bc his girl Hope wont get with him, and she looks at you for 2 seconds and decides youre it instead. you run into his sidepiece, who is literally just a horny mirror of himself, and you can either kill or fuck the horny mirror of himself. the pathetic horny mirror of himself will absolutely tell you raphael is shit at sex. you lie to raphaels librarian, kill all his guys, rob his house, break out his girl, steal his head henchman to your side, and then fucking kill him. youre like, four sadboy adventurers with worms in your brains and you were level one like two weeks ago, and you straight up obliterate raphael and leave his house to his angry girlfriend in the will. you steal his fucking diaries. and you dont even die in an unsexy tentacle explosion.
raphael is trying so hard to be cool and hes absolutely not. he sings his little song and stalks around the shadows, but hes so uncool i think im a little obsessed actually.
3K notes
·
View notes
the best way to luffy’s stomach is through his heart (or something like that)
a four page one piece fancomic in which luffy and law talk about luffy’s stomach
page 1
panel 1: a top view of luffy and law sitting in grass. luffy is leaning back on his hands with his legs outstretched. law sits crosslegged between them. they are both looking down at the hole in luffy’s abdomen, where law has used his devil fruit power to remove his stomach. “whoa! cool!” says luffy, while law hums, “hmm… interesting.”
panel 2: a close-up of law’s hand holding luffy’s stomach in its cube-like container. “it looks surprisingly average,” law says, “for a bottomless pit.”
panel 3: “isn’t it weird?” luffy asks. he is sitting with his back to the viewer, but his smile is still visible as he leans into law’s space. law is still crosslegged, holding the stomach, and he looks vaguely uncomfortable as luffy keeps talking. luffy says, “that thing can make food stop looking like food and start looking like poop! huh. wonder how it does that…”
page 2
panel 1: law looks off to the side, sweating and kinda grouchy. knowing he’ll regret this, he mutters, “i… know how… at least for NORMAL humans.”
panel 2: the back of luffy’s head takes up most of the panel as he demands, “what?! i wanna know too!” law grits his teeth and shouts back, “you’re just gonna fall asleep!” and luffy yells, “nuh-uh!”
panel 3: luffy grins widely, throws his arms out to the side, and flops onto his back in the grass. he’s loudly yelling, “tell me! tell me, traffy!”
page 3
panel 1: law is visible from a low-angle, as if from luffy’s pov on the ground. he sighs, “fine. here’s how it works.”
panel 2: this panel looks similar to the previous, but its slightly darker, with gray bars at the top and bottom, narrowing visibility to show luffy’s eyes are closing. law continues, “the stomach has two main functions.”
panel 3: law is now barely visible through the gap. luffy is almost asleep. law says, “the first, as YOU know, is the storage of food.”
panel 4: the background is completely dark, and law’s words trail off, “the second is—“
page 4
panel 1: a large, top view of luffy lying on his back in the grass. his arms are thrown wide still and his eyes are open. he has just jolted awake, saying, “hmm?” off-screen, law complains, “i don’t know WHY i bothered.”
panel 2: law accuses, “you didn’t listen to a word i said.” luffy sits up, his lips pursed and eyes narrowed because he’s a terrible liar. he says, “sure i did,” dragging out the “sure.”
panel 3: luffy breaks into a grin and proudly declares, “it’s a mystery!” law cuts him off with a “NO,” his speech bubble literally dripping with disdain.
panel 4: the silhouette of luffy and law sitting side by side. law is whapping luffy on the head with a light fist. law says, “idiot…” before bonking him. luffy yells, “hey!” but he is laughing, and a small “heh” shows law is too.
5K notes
·
View notes
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.
18K notes
·
View notes
gojo loves the marks you leave behind on his skin. it’s like they’re proof you were there, underneath him as he presses his cock deeper into the tight hug of your pussy— feeling your nails burn vermillion lines along the smooth skin of his back and shoulders with every orgasm he pulls from you.
he likes to admire them in the mirror, feeling a little smug despite the way he hisses when the steady stream from the shower head makes them burn slightly — aching everytime he’s trying to sleep at night.
but with every little shock of pain, gojo can remember the pretty face you made as your walls hugged around him— crying out his name in quick pants as his hips smacked against yours and he wouldn’t call himself a masochist but he loves it. he loves you.
even when he’s got you bouncing on his lap, his long fingers squeezing into the space where your thigh meets your hips, he’s intoxicated by the way you bury your face into the crook of his neck— his free palm curling at the back of your head, pressing you deeper until he can feel your teeth nipping at the skin there. his crystalline eyes almost roll back, snowy peaks of his hair framing his flushed features and he’s never came as hard or as fast as he did when you laved your tongue over the blooming marks you left across his throat.
gojo can’t help but press his fingers against them as he looks at himself in the mirror, hissing at the sting but he sees it as a silent little claim — teasing you about it later on, about how you “want everyone to know i’m yours, huh sweet thing? ‘ts cause i’m so handsome, right?”
6K notes
·
View notes