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#they think otherwise :')
madohomurat · 6 months
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trans women are everywhere and are so eager to be seen and heard but only if they feel safe around you. if you hardly ever have trans women interacting with you, especially online, then consider there might be a reason for that and you should address it
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druid-for-hire · 5 months
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[images ID: three images of a comic titled "one must imagine sisyphus happy" by druid-for-hire. it is a visual narrative beginning with someone with wrist pain (depicted by bright orange nerves) working at a drafting table. the reader is shown the same wrist as the person uses it for many everyday tasks such as carrying a grocery basket, pushing elevator buttons, typing, and doing dishes, until the pain dissolves all the panels into chaos. the person then performs several physical therapy exercises until the pain subsides. they sit back down at a desk with their laptop, sigh, and begin typing. a small spark of pain reappears. end id]
a fun little piece i made during the semester and submitted into our school comic anthology! (which you can buy at the Static Fish table at MoCCAFest in NYC ;] ). it's about artists and injury
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thy-valhallen · 1 month
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Cass, pointing at Jason: we're twins
Tim:
Jason: *6'3" 200 lbs of Latino rage and muscle*
Cass: *5'1" 120 lbs of Chinese murder and love*
Tim:
Tim: you're just not
Cass, patting his shoulder: it's okay. easy mistake. we're fraternal twins
Jason, holding up a gun: yep. twins.
Tim: ... good for you
Cass: :D
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askshivanulegacy · 6 months
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jorisjurgen · 5 months
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I feel like these 2 quotes are literally the core of Kim's character. Like yeah he spills the whole thing here.
He's afraid of becoming a joke and he really likes not taking the first step when doing something fun. I'm actually speechless about how open he is about it, in these 2 moments.
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yuzuuu4 · 4 months
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happy early valentines please come to penacony with us
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miyakuli · 3 months
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** Permission to post it was granted by the artist Do not repost/edit the art without permission Please, support the artist on their pages too **
Artist : Comet Bug (twitter / IG)
Source
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shepscapades · 19 days
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[dbhc flavored] Hermit a Day May: Day 14 — Doc!
Featuring both a current-day s10 doc and a verrry early s8 post-deviant doc! :]
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muzzleroars · 6 days
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request received, unfulfilled.
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raepliica · 1 year
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【Smoke】 The reunion of tristamp Eriks and Wolfwood
this was based on a vashwood week prompt from twt^^
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A wild Milly has appeared!!! Can't wait for best girl!!!
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cathianemelian · 1 year
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I don't make the rules
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liimonadas · 2 months
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i blacked out and suddenly theres 4 edgeworths on the canvas
bonus design notes edition
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cryptcoop · 2 months
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You're the best, Moira !
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comradekatara · 5 months
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it's national draw your sibling day
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inkskinned · 1 year
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for a while i lived in an old house; the kind u.s americans don't often get to live in - living in a really old house here is super expensive. i found out right before i moved out that the house was actually so old that it features in a poem by emily dickinson.
i liked that there were footprints in front of the sink, worn into the hardwood. there were handprints on some of the handrails. we'd find secret marks from other tenants, little hints someone else had lived and died there. and yeah, there was a lot wrong with the house. there are a lot of DIY skills you learn when you are a grad student that cannot afford to pay someone else to do-it-for-ya. i shared the house with 8 others. the house always had this noise to it. sometimes that noise was really fucking awful.
in the mornings though, the sun would slant in thick amber skiens through the windows, and i'd be the first one up. i'd shuffle around, get showered in this tub that was trying to exit through the floor, get my clothes on. i would usually creep around in the kitchen until it was time to start waking everyone else up - some of them required multiple rounds of polite hey man we gotta go knocks. and it felt... outside of time. a loud kind of quiet.
the ghosts of the house always felt like they were humming in a melody just out of reach. i know people say that the witching hour happens in the dark, but i always felt like it occurred somewhere around 6:45 in the morning. like - for literal centuries, somebody stood here and did the dishes. for literal centuries, somebody else has been looking out the window to this tree in our garden. for literal centuries, people have been stubbing their toes and cracking their backs and complaining about the weather. something about that was so... strangely lovely.
i have to be honest. i'm not a history aficionado. i know, i know; it's tragic of me. i usually respond to "this thing is super old" by being like, wow! cool! and moving on. but this house was the first time i felt like the past was standing there. like it was breathing. like someone else was drying their hands with me. playing chess on the sofa. adding honey to their tea.
i grew up in an old town. like, literally, a few miles off of walden pond (as in of the walden). (also, relatedly, don't swim in walden, it's so unbelievably dirty). but my family didn't have "old house" kind of money. we had a barely-standing house from the 70's. history existed kind of... parallel to me. you had to go somewhere to be in history. your school would pack you up on a bus and take you to some "ye olden times" place and you'd see how they used to make glass or whatever, and then you'd go home to your LEDs. most museums were small and closed before 5. you knew history was, like, somewhere, but the only thing that was open was the mcdonalds and the mall.
i remember one of my seventh grade history teachers telling us - some day you'll see how long we've been human for and that thing has been puzzling me. i know the scientific number, technically.
the house had these little scars of use. my floors didn't actually touch the walls; i had to fill them with a stopgap to stop the wind. other people had shoved rags and pieces of newspaper. i know i've lost rings and earring backs down some of the floorboards. i think the raccoons that lived in our basement probably have collected a small fortune over the years. i complain out loud to myself about how awful the stairs are (uneven, steep, evil, turning, hard to get down while holding anything) and know - someone else has said this exact same thing.
when i was packing up to leave and doing a final deep cleaning, i found a note carved in the furthest corner in the narrow cave of my closet. a child's scrawled name, a faded paint handprint, the scrangly numbers: 1857.
we've been human for a long time. way back before we can remember.
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