#tiktok is a godless place

[grandwretch]

IF YOU ARE COSPLAYING MOTHER GOTHEL DO NOT MIMIC HER NOSE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD GET IT TOGETHER

#shut up az #tiktok is a godless place #curse YouTube shorts for exposing me to a 5 minute video of someone contouring their nose to make it look hooked oh my GOD

[sophiastarr05]

how well does pinterest know you?

i saw this on tiktok and it looked so cute! search on pinterest and choose the first option for

animal, place, plant, character, season, hobby, color, and drink!

tag list is the mutuals i’ve made so far on this new acc 🥲🥲 i love having mutuals u guys r just so cute and i am obsessed with u

@blueberrbea @dangeroustaintedflawed @buunnyb00 @iluvluvkatemoss @vaeriia @weenja @etherealbunni @itsjustclaudia @lanadelreystan101 @pheeps @bruhaalla @corpsenoiva @zooxanthellae @the-godless-angel @obonnybunny

#tag game #moots <3 #moodboard #looking for moots #aesthetic #girlblogging mutuals #girlblogging #girlblog #this is what makes us girls

[mariacallous]

The patriarch of a right-wing Canadian family of 11 had had just about enough of gay people in his country. “We didn't feel safe for our children there in the future anymore,” father Arend Feenstra told Russian media. “There's a lot of left-wing ideology, LGBTQ, trans, just a lot of things that we don't agree with that they teach there now, and we wanted to get away from that for our children.”

Yeah, if there’s one place that’s just not safe for kids, it’s Canada. Russia would be soooo much safer. 

So Arend (and wife Anneesa) sold everything they had to move to sunny Russia and raise eight of their nine kids with “orthodox” values. They also gladly took donations on their social media platform from fellow right-wingers, all so they could live in Vladimir Putin’s wonderland. Russian officials assured them that they would work with them to get them established, and even help them get a farm. They did all of this just three weeks ago; long story short, they lived happily ever after. 

Except they didn’t. 

First, according to the family, the Russian bank where they moved the proceeds from selling their farm and belongings? It immediately froze their assets. The amount of money seemed suspicious, Arend states in a Feb. 9 video. I guess it would, since so many Russians outside of Putin’s circle are dirt poor. As a result, the family didn’t have money to live on—apparently those nice Russian officials offering to help them had disappeared.

Since no one in the family speaks Russian, they’ve also had a bear of a time trying to argue for their money—because Russia doesn’t require any bank, or any business, to hire English translators. In the meantime, they discovered that Russia is a pretty damn miserable place to be right now.

TikTok user Ukrainian.Networking translated a Russian Federation Reported Media story in a snarky post. 

The Russian reporter noted that Anneesa spoke her mind in a since-deleted video on the family’s “Countryside Acres” YouTube channel.

"I'm very disappointed in this country at this point. I'm ready to jump on a plane and get out of here. We've hit the first snag where you have to engage logic in this country and it's very, very frustrating."

Hoooo boy. They just arrived and already she’s insulted Russia. Now, I’m not saying Russia doesn’t have freedom of the press, but it’s really just freedom to praise Putin and the country he controls. Anything that resembles criticism in Russia is NOT taken as kindly as it is in our godless Western dystopias. I’m also not suggesting that Russian officials paid the family a visit to remind them of where they are, but I will point out that Arendquickly posted an apology video to the Countryside Acres channel, saying that his wife misspoke and they’d deleted the video. 

In that video, he reiterated that no, Russia is really, really great (subtext: “Please don’t push me out of a window”) and he spoke of his hope to resolve the issue with the bank. Commenters weren’t so sure, or kind. They pointed out that the bank will likely never release their funds and it is more likely that he will be recognized as a foreign agent.

At this point, I’m not sure the Countryside Acres farming gig is going to work out. Patriarch Arend should have agreed to be used as a tool for Russian state media. I mean, if you are going to be a Russian Asset, might as well go all-in. 

I’m willing to bet that living in a country that grants gay people basic civil rights might not be looking so bad now. I was wondering if the family is desperately trying to split, so I looked up how difficult it is to leave Russia. According to the BBC, you can leave “as long as you have money and have not been called up to the army.” 

Even if only for his kids’ sakes, let’s hope Arend’s only lost his money.

And I’ll end with this charming reprise of a German eurodisco tribute to Moscow, originally released in 1979. (English lyrics here)

“Welcome to Moscow!” At least the song is catchy.

Comment Award goes to Laughing Gravy: “I’ll bet back home they used to whine about immigrants who don’t know the language, who have no money, who expect the government to hand them a house and a job, and who complain when they don’t get everything they want.”

#Youtube

[the-larashark]

Okay so the online community is basically non-existent (screaming crying throwing up) but if you're interested in non-mainstream dnd type actual-plays I need you to check out Tabletopnotch right now I'm so serious. Their first campaign was in a homebrew world, it's called A Peak Beneath The Veil, they have bite-sized recaps about ten minutes long if you can't make it through full episodes (about three hours), BUT I've been watching their new campaign called Brunkhollow and I'm completely obsessed.

Brunkhollow is a low-magic campaign, where most magics disappeared (wiped off the planet by the gods?) years ago, and only Clerics use magic. They're highly regarded as Bad News, so make sure you don't run across one! In any case, Brunkhollow centres around this group of people arriving in a new town called, you guessed it, Brunkhollow! This town is only about a year old, and is surrounded by something called the Cusp, which is important to remember when travelling there, as Brunkhollow is known as a "blind-spot to the gods", and no magic or Clerics can be found here. It's a godless place, and gives big Deadwood vibes honestly. Everyone here is trying to get by, find work, start a business. It's said that the only reason anyone comes to Brunkhollow is because "they're either running from something or coming to find someone".

Anyways the DM is amazing, the way he truly inhabits each NPC as he plays them, the physicality and descriptions and voices are just stellar, all the player characters are amazing and I love them, I always think I have a favourite and it changes every twenty minutes or so, I'm only on episode four but I've been watching bits and pieces via YouTube shorts and Instagram for months, seriously the props and the maps and the roleplay and the battles, it's all so good, please go check them out!! They're on YouTube, Twitch (they stream on Sundays!), they have a Discord server which is the most active place for fans, and a TikTok which they also stream on and post clips to!

I'll never stop singing their praises okay they're so so good I'm proud of them??? Seriously you won't regret checking them out they're so fantastic I'm obsessed

#Brunkhollow #tabletopnotch #tc welker #morna istigh #kayt mori #illien tyrun #doxley tyrun #yes illien and doxley are SIBLINGS #if i truly had to pick a favourite it would be Illien without a doubt #that boy has ny whole heart #morna is sus af #i mean theyre all SUUPER sus #but especially morna #i adore all of them #seriously im going to continue yelling about them into the void so you should probably just check them out so you arent lost #plsssss

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

No Christ | BODY BACK Update #4

We're totally going to ignore the fact that it's been 4 months since I last posted a writing update for this book! :)

If you aren't aware, from February-June I drafted a litfic novella called BODY BACK and this is the penultimate update! Harrison has a Shrek moment, feels existentially directionless, imagines a future with Jeremiah--and more! Post under the cut.

Logline: When the effects of 24-Karat Harrison wear off, Harrison is left to mend his fractured relationship with Jeremiah.

Update 1 | Update 2 | Update 3

BODY BACK taglist (please ask to be added or removed :))

@thelivingdeceased @writinglittlebeasts @cuntylittlesalmon @obssesedwithscandaledits @jaydewritesfiction@onomatopiya @euphoniouspandemonium @silassghost @strangerays @rodentwrites @wildswrites @saltwaterbells @encrucijada @cilantrospirit @kiki-is-writing

Writing when life changes & the impacts of place on process

So WHYYY did it take so long for this update to come out? WELL, I wrote the chapter three (24-Karat Harrison) update THE DAY I moved from my university city, and while that went well, the act of changing setting seriously disturbed my writing process.

I'd gotten very used to creating BODY BACK in a very specific way in a very specific place/in certain locations and hadn't considered that a drastic shift in my literal setting could jilt the actual book--as if it too had undergone a major change.

Writing in May was like learning a new craft all over again, which was beyond disorienting. My anxiety was at an all-time high, and No Christ really took the brunt of that discomfort. But now that the book is long over, I'm ready to finish up the updates!

Repetition turns into theme...

Early in writing BODY BACK (chapter 2), I wrote the phrase "Harrison's no Christ," which I then unexpectedly repeated several times in 24kH which made me realize "No Christ" would make a great title.

But "no Christ" wasn’t JUST repetition—the act of repetition created a theme. I love when smaller line-level literary devices can lend to MUCH larger things!

What does it mean to reach a climax of personhood (so you feel like a god) the night before, only to feel godless the next day after the excitement is over? The idea of "no Christ" isn't just that Harrison has no god to follow. I DID want to capture that feeling of faithlessness--when the prayers stop working, when God seems nowhere to be found, but I also wanted to EMBODY "no Christ." How IS Harrison "no Christ" despite seeing himself that way in 24kH?

The plot

No Christ takes place just a few hours after the end of 24-Karat Harrison.

Scene A:

Harrison, who fell asleep in a church, is awoken by a priest.

Scene B:

After disrupting the church service, Harrison heads to the parking lot where he sees a man who looks like his ex, Lonan.

Scene C:

Exhausted from the night before and shaken from the parking lot, Harrison returns to Jeremiah's apartment where he rejects Jeremiah's concern.

Scene D:

Harrison showers the remainders of 24-karat Harrison off, but feels crushed and directionless without the persona. Jeremiah attempts to comfort him.

Scene E:

To help Harrison's hangover, Jeremiah takes him to the restaurant his friend Biyu works at, but her bad impression of Harrison puts him in an awkward position.

Scene F:

Harrison and Jeremiah head to the Greta Arquette, the hotel Jeremiah works at, in a rush of connection.

Excerpts

CW: Mature content ahead. Implications of sex and suicidal ideation. Descriptions of violence.

The opening lines (WHICH apparently tiktok liked):

Harrison wakes to God’s eyes. Dim in this light like a rusted goblet of wine or blood or whatever the fuck. Sad, he thinks. Lusting. Violent in brass.

That leads into a really *sudden* and *intense* recollection of the night previous when Harrison encounters a man named Perry (a friend of Jeremiah's). It's very SUDDEN and very INTENSE lol so here's just a little bit:

They kissed to the sound of someone crying, touched each other the way he imagined Lucifer and Judas might. God’s most hated sons united in exile.

More Harrison and Perry (CW: violence)

As saliva snailed Harrison’s cheeks, he stared at the bathroom ceiling for a hand to reach for him, for a grave to appear. With Perry, he was the runoff, the ashes, the scraps of diary entries dashed into a wastebin. And this was all good, the spit, his desire to be both saved and dead, because it was motivation to knock a fist into Perry’s jaw so he clattered to the floor. He wasn’t the leftovers. The bronze medal. No one could make him feel that way again.

Harrison observes churchgoers:

His jaw overhangs the pew in front of him, a line of drool bisecting the wood. People scoot past him to take their seats—not just people, but believers, all cleanly pressed and ready for god. They’re wearing wingtips buffed with mink oil and Mary Janes heavy enough to bludgeon someone to death.

Harrison becomes interested in the choir when he sees a cute guy (REALLL):

A choir sets up by the frontmost row, unwinding cables, tuning guitars. One woman adjusts her eggplant vest while another fixes her own curl with spit. A married couple flits through sheet music and discuss their kid’s birthday party—little Timothy, little Michael, little James, or whatever generic name. A man with sparkly eyes and a faint scar from a lip piercing smiles at him from the piano. “What are they doing over there?” Harrison asks. The priest bristles. “Who?” “Those people. They’re a choir? I can sing.”

Cont'd - shrek moment/sir this is a place of worship:

He’s aware he’s being loud. He doesn’t need the stares as confirmation. What the fuck does anyone have to stare at anyway? Sure he’s a man with smeared silver eye makeup and mascara tears and a fur coat and another man’s chandelier earring and a cow-print cowboy hat, and what’s this too now, a pair of studded DKNY sunglasses that most certainly aren’t his—but what right do they have? He doesn’t waste his time with gods. He doesn’t need someone to save him at all. And here all these beady people are, their synthetic chiffon dresses like wannabe Charlotte’s webs, their bowties near strangling. They’ve woken up at dawn to do what? Beg a man who won’t listen to them? He’s been there, fucking done that. “Do any of you want pitchforks?” Harrison’s voice booms across the nave, his cheeks flaring.

We find out Harrison stole Perry's moped:

The priest jumps back as he rises, shaking out his sleeves. The movement sends a slim pair of keys flying toward the floor, but not just any keys. The image is as fleeting as a View Master’s neon shuffle, Harrison sweaty and rumpled on the bathroom floor, his head spinning like a taut thread around a spindle. In the velvet night, he hustled toward the club’s parking lot, not thinking about the man he’d abandoned in the stall, not thinking about the man he’d come here with. Something crushed under his boot—baby pink rose petals against the rain-dark pavement, Hansel’s pebbles that drew him forward and when his eyes landed on a teal moped parked in the lot’s north end, his focus was only on how good wind would feel through his too-long hair.

Harrison considers choir man’s potential life:

Harrison leaves when the choir’s mid Holy, Holy, Holy. He only stayed that long, skulking around the backmost pews, to stare at the way choir man’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He imagined kissing that spot. If it tasted like bergamot. If it tasted like eucharist. Maybe that man had a lover waiting at home for him who knew—a coppery chem student who’d kiss him wildly between whispered verses of Revelations, their penance to each other in evenings just as dozy as it was holy.

Harrison wonders what happened to Jeremiah after he left him at the club:

Where is Jeremiah now? Perhaps he found a ride back to his apartment complex with a man he invited inside, someone with tawny hair, jetty eyes. Harrison knows his place in Jeremiah’s life, in Jeremiah’s bed, but what’s he like alone? Perhaps he and the man touched gracefully like swans, recited Whitman on the carpet, shared a bunch of green grapes, talked about prophets, prayed the rosary.

Harrison notices a man who he thinks is Lonan (HE IS NOT):

In a past life, that lack of noticing would’ve been impossible, a fatal wound. But there he is, barely aware of the oil-dark hair—just a flash in the corner of his eye—rounding the parking lot. It’s that fast. His head snaps up and then he’s seeing him, his narrow body, his darting walk, his subtle clefted waves. He doesn’t need to check for the eyes, unmarred like the sky, because he’s running now, hat clattering off his forehead, held narrowly against his neck by the stampede strings. The man walks past a silver Acura—he’s a member of the congregation. Of course. But not just any member. This is where he’s been. On lonely midnights, Harrison’s wondered against all his admittance where he’s been in this city—if they’ve touched the same pavement, if they’ve cried at the same intersections. He’s dreamt about him, he’ll admit now, yearned for his hands again, their bony blueness, their abundant warmth. They’re dancing again in a cramped bathroom, in need of no other music but the other’s heartbeat. They’re blinking into cameraflash, silent as a Polaroid prints, holding each other the way the ocean holds itself. As Harrison runs, his face splits into a grin—relief, of course, because he’s hungry for that touch again, terrifying, careful, and here he is, approaching a car—a car, he’s driving—wearing a blue corduroy jacket, reaching for his keys, he’s leaving, he’s going to leave— Harrison yanks the man’s shoulders, his mouth formed so confidently around the name Lonan that he chokes the moment he sees the face.

Aaaand, how to get punched really fast by a stranger who has no idea why you're running up to him (CW: graphic violence):

When Harrison says nothing, too focused on the necklace, too focused on who isn’t standing in front of him, a fist clips his mouth and splits his lip right open. Blood starbursts the air, spats against the car’s windshield, his jaw cranking toward the sky, but he doesn’t notice the crows above or the flossy clouds because it’s August in the cabin again and there are Lonan’s knuckles connecting with his nose, an accident on purpose, his blood mirrored in that bathroom, and there are Perry’s callused hands, sharp with hangnails, steeled with rings, and Harrison might’ve been choked last night, might’ve wanted that, doesn’t want to remember at all. God makes men in his image, and those men know violence like an oath, a birthright.

Jeremiah questions Harrison about stealing Perry's moped:

Harrison adjusts the cowboy hat over his eyes. Segments of light shift through a hole in the crease. “I didn’t steal anything.” “So what were you doing with it?” “Borrowing it.” “Like my ring?” Harrison sits up, removes the hat from his eyes. The room re-saturates like a kitchen sponge in sudsy water and there’s Jeremiah. Clear-skinned, bright-eyed Jeremiah. He doesn’t look like a man who shared a joint with Harrison last night, who drank just as many cocktails on that dance floor and perhaps even more. He’s changed into a pair of ironed jeans and a white cotton button-up he hasn’t done up all the way. A gold herringbone necklace glints off his throat. Harrison sets the hat onto the chair arm. The moment it knocks against the fabric, he feels the urge to put it back on. “You said you weren’t upset about the ring.” Jeremiah opens his mouth. What’s he going to say? Fuck you. He could say that. He should. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. Or, Who the fuck do you think you are? Who the fuck do you think you are? Instead, he clasps his hands in front of him. “Perry’s not happy with you.” Harrison reaches into his pocket and yanks out the moped’s keys which are attached to a teal surfboard keychain. As he rises from the chair, he tosses the set with a clang and Jeremiah barely catches them. “He wasn’t happy about a lot of things.” “Where are you going?” Harrison rubs his eyes. In the momentary flashes of dark, he sees the face of the man from the parking lot. He can’t fight his own flinch. His lip throbs. He’d been so sure of himself. “To sleep.” “Perry says you tried to kill him.” Harrison laughs. “Good.” “Not good.” Jeremiah steps toward him. He smells of vanilla. Greek yogurt.

Harrison adventures in wanting to befriend animals pt. 2:

Maybe he’ll head out now. Walk west for forty minutes, find some water to touch, some better air to breathe. Jeremiah’s not all that far from Red Rock Canyon. He could lie in a field of larkspur, befriend a kit fox.

Harrison deflects emotional responsibility by asking about towels??:

Jeremiah sighs, crossing his arms. He must’ve washed his hair this morning too—it’s still damp at the roots and smells vaguely of roses. He deserves someone who’ll hold him on Thursday nights, who’ll watch reruns of Futurama with him on a blow-up mattress, pray for him in April and actually mean it. When he looks up, his eyes are rimmed clearish red—the same colour of a ruby. “Last night—you disappeared. I was worried.” Harrison looks away. Jeremiah’s tidied—no board game pieces scattered on the table, all the ashtrays cleaned out. The first time Harrison entered this apartment, he was overcome by its intricacy—the disco ball hung from the ceiling, the ivy clustered in beer bottles along the windowsill. Everything that makes Jeremiah’s space his. And he’s worried him in all this time. What must that be like? To make someone fear for you? “Where do you keep the extra towels?” Harrison asks and Jeremiah nearly deflates.

Jeremiah is concerned!!!

When Harrison opens his mouth, Jeremiah approaches him, takes his face so gently he winces. His hand is slippery with cocoa butter, breaths heavy, brows low. Harrison knows what this means. Concern. Maybe he’s afraid, too. But it doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t at all. One man’s worry is not his problem. Why would he care? Why would he? “What happened to you?” Jeremiah whispers. Perhaps he arrived home alone last night, stayed up till 5:00AM with his eyes staked by toothpicks. Perhaps this weekend is the worst thing that’s happened to him in a long time. If Harrison were someone else, he’d tell Jeremiah to run. Don’t waste time with shoes. Just throw open the front door and sprint barefoot into the neon street. Keep going until everything is a blur, until everything is the clearest it’s been in weeks. The farther away he gets, the better for him. He could learn how to crochet mug cozies. Buy himself a tomato plant. Spend his mornings in a sunny kitchen with a man who actually loves him.

Harrison has an existential crisis after a shower (CW: description of a bruise):

He glances at himself in the mirror, his shoulders hunched forward, hair veering into his eyes. A purple bruise rings his throat like a necklace of lavender pearls. The last time he’d looked at his reflection in this mirror, he’d found something hidden behind his face, gripped it, then tugged it right out with a tube of mascara and a ring finger loaded with silver eyeshadow. That’s all gone. He’s just a man now. Not naked like Michelangelo’s David, but naked like a stranger.

Jeremiah checks up on Harrison:

He imagines Jeremiah now. Leaning half his body weight against the door, his unbuttoned shirt parting with the movement. Perry’s already picked up the moped from outside. Jeremiah probably lied and said Harrison wasn’t there. In the wind, he might’ve said. Gone North to Missoula. Or maybe, Joined a travelling circus. Or, Took a red-eye to Florence. Or, I don’t care as long as he never comes back. All would’ve been suitable excuses because Jeremiah’s a good guy. A good friend. “I wanted to…” says Harrison, his chest rattling with an inhale. I wanted to: apologize. I wanted to: kiss you. I wanted to: say a prayer into your mouth. I wanted to: find you at sunset and link pinkies in dying grass and read screenplays from the 90s with your head on my chest and thank you like a real man should in the evenings and listen to your breaths when you fell asleep. I wanted to be alive. I wanted you there with me. The sound of Jeremiah shifting. What had he planned to do this September—before Harrison turned up at his apartment? On their first night reunited, they’d sipped mimosas while swapping Jeremiah’s Blackberry back and forth to play Brick Breaker, watched Psycho and only kissed at the ending credits. Jeremiah hadn’t even questioned why Harrison had turned up because he’s a good guy. A good friend. He knows Harrison could eat cinnamon on anything, that he’d gargle with black coffee if he could, that cymbals make his teeth ache, that he can’t tolerate the smell of chocolate anymore. Good guy. Good friend. In another life, they could’ve grown up together, played road hockey in humid Junes, shared a half-and-half ice cream cone, fallen for each other delicately. In another life, Harrison would’ve told Jeremiah he loved him and meant it.

At the restaurant, Jeremiah talks about his future (but does it include Harrison?):

It’s going to rain tomorrow, at least according to the mounted bubble TV on the restaurant’s far north side. Its grainy picture is suddenly the most pressing thing in this establishment—a headline about a collision on the I-80, an update on Katrina, a mass power outage in LA. Behind the screen is a window that leads to the kitchen, and Biyu’s face flashes through it every few minutes. He hasn’t even thought of calling Reeve since the last time he’d been in this restaurant, but he could now—find her in the Yellow Pages, invite her to dinner with him and Suz. Would she like that? Perhaps she’s the same woman who’d sat with him that sunny morning in Oregon, her legs stretched out in front of his and Lonan’s tent. There was something both blunt and guarded about her then. She wasn’t a woman, not a sister, not a friend, but a threat. “I’m thinking of heading east in the winter. Maryland. My grandma turns eighty.” Harrison turns to Jeremiah abruptly, his throat dry. “What?” “For a couple months, maybe. Might meet Rory in Hanoi in the spring. He’s thinking of staying there through the new year.” “What about Greta?” Harrison asks when the real question he should be asking is what about me? It takes him a moment to even register he’s gaping. “I’ll find something else to do. Dog-walking. Printmaking. I’m thinking of getting certified in hypnotherapy.”

After Biyu asks Harrison to pay for the bill and Jeremiah ends up footing it, he describes the atmosphere:

The air feels denser now, unstable like Jell-O. The last time he and Jeremiah were here, their relationship was gauzy, a fumbling newborn. But now something’s clotted. They’re unready again, so used to the other’s face they’ve become estranged.

Embarrassed, Harrison can't focus until Jeremiah makes (A VERY SWEET) deal (CW: suicidal ideation):

Harrison’s ears ring. He looks to the window like it’s an out when in reality, all that’s out there are a couple fir trees and a main road. An eighteen-wheeler whizzes by every few minutes. As Jeremiah talks about a paper he needs to turn in on Tuesday, Harrison imagines what those drivers are doing, thinking. One making plans to shoot darts at a dive bar with his brother, another answering a call from his wife to bring home a stick of butter, someone else considering flooring the pedal, letting go of the wheel. “You could come with me, you know.” Harrison looks up and finds Jeremiah’s eyes honeyed in a strand of sun. The realization is obvious: he’s an ember of a man—an effervescent, sacred light. “Come with you?” “Maryland. Hanoi. Dogwalking. Wherever we want to go.”

Harrison's response to the offer falls flat (this is kind of messy lol):

Harrison looks to his hands. He took off Jeremiah’s signet ring before his shower and forgot it on the bathroom sink. It looks like he’s returned it, when in reality, he hasn’t meant to. And then a touch at his hand and Harrison’s back in the dense Oregon woods, another man trailing a pinkie down each of his vertebrae like they were the keys of a flute, joining their fate lines as the sun sets, holding his face kindlier than he did a cigarette, his eyes coined by the moon. The contact is so unviolent, yet the moment Harrison winces, Jeremiah immediately pulls away, drops his hand to the booth’s seat. Harrison shakes. He can’t look at Jeremiah again, is afraid any more understanding will rive him right here. He’d become more of a nuisance than he already is if that were the case—blood on the ground, on the wall’s tiger. “I think I have a headache.” Jeremiah exhales but grabs his wallet. From a zippered pocket, he pulls out a Tylenol. “You need to eat something,” he says, waving over Biyu before Harrison can tell him not to, can tell him to please use this as an out, to please grab his things and beeline to the door and hitch a ride to somewhere gentler than Las Vegas, to someone more reliable. Jeremiah, just go, he could say. Jeremiah, it’s not too late for you. Jeremiah, adopt a dog who’ll love you. Jeremiah, change your locks. Jeremiah, learn how to refinish a deck this summer. Jeremiah, pick honeysuckle by the fistfuls. Jeremiah, laugh because it’s over. Jeremiah, never cry again. Jeremiah, the earth is vast. Jeremiah, there is still so much time to run.

I'M YOURS:

In a few months, Jeremiah won’t be the same person he is today. Whether he ends up out east or in an art class painting alla prima, he’ll change. He’ll make new friends in Baltimore, dance with them in Fell’s Point, photograph tree swallows together at Herring Run, kiss one of them in the state fair’s scorching sun. And that will be good for him. Harrison’s no Christ, no God. He’ll never be omnipotent. Yet, he is certain of this. “Jeremiah?” he interrupts. One day, Jeremiah will drive a silver birch Cadillac alone, inhale for three seconds as the wind rustles his hair. He’ll keep on that road for hours, count the red SUVs on the way, stop for lunch at a taco stand, buy tarry hot coffees from every gas station he passes. He’ll be an even better man. And Harrison? In a year, he could apprentice for a sculptor, make minimum wage flipping burgers on the weekends, memorize the Dewey Decimal System for fun. Maybe he’ll be like Rory, backpack somewhere no one knows him, somewhere with mountain ranges he doesn’t recognize, somewhere with suburbs and lawns, somewhere no one can find him ever again. But he’s here now, Jeremiah looking at him like he’s simultaneously a glass mid-fall and a glass worth piecing back together with school glue and some patience. Jeremiah, look at me a little longer, he could say. Jeremiah, I can’t remember the sound of my own name. Jeremiah, you’re birdsong in the winter, the first glimpse of sunrise. Jeremiah, I’m so sorry. Jeremiah, you’re young enough to forget all of this soon. Jeremiah, be tender while you can. Jeremiah, please go gently. Jeremiah— “I’m yours.”

HAREMIAH ROMANCE FUN (and what would a future with Jeremiah look like?):

Jeremiah’s got a key to Greta—room 118 to be exact. In the dim fizz of a tungsten sconce, he leads Harrison through the doorway and kisses him as soon as the door clicks behind him, urgent and careful at the same time. Harrison catches himself on the wall, right next to an oil painting of a wide prairie. He wraps his arms around Jeremiah’s neck, winds one of his curls around his pinkie, pulls him so close their pelvises touch. Don’t let go of me, he could say as Jeremiah thumbs his eyebrows, bows for another kiss. Don’t let go of me. They don’t go slow nor fast, but a pace tempered like drizzling honey. It isn’t even really about touching. As Harrison mentally connects the umber flecks of Jeremiah’s eyes like they’re constellations, he imagines a future where he follows him to Maryland. He could take the first leg of the trip, tune the radio to throwbacks, belt Bon Jovi’s Livin’ on a Prayer in a Burger King drive-thru just to make Jeremiah laugh. They could rest at a motel similar to Greta—the same stuffy wallpaper, the same berber carpet. Surprise each other the next morning with bagels from the bakery a block away. Go crabbing at Point Lookout on their first weekend in the state. Pose next to each other with their catch for a photo snapped by a stranger. Jeremiah might even invite him to his grandmother’s birthday party, introduce him to an aunt as his boyfriend. They’d link arms the entire night, feed each other spoons of sherry trifle. Harrison could bond with a cousin over their shared interests in bushcraft forts and Neo-Dada art. Jeremiah’s mother would invite them berry picking the next weekend, serve blueberry buckle after Sunday mass, everyone still suited and skirted around the kitchen table. Harrison could cameo in their Christmas card photo. Spend Labour Day weekend at a lakeside cottage. Grill chicken thighs with Jeremiah’s father. Play Marco Polo with his younger brother. It’d all feel like an airy vacation.

And a tiny more romance lol:

Jeremiah leans into Harrison’s chest, brushes his mouth against his ear, down his neck. He touches the way pearls shine—with subtle panache. His lips are tangy with soy sauce, tart with cherry Chapstick, and he’s easy to move into like a current eclipsing itself.

Aaand the end of the chapter! THE DRAMA:

Jeremiah, he could say, the earth keeps turning without me. Jeremiah, which city do you think of as home? Jeremiah, I’m dying of a wound I can’t find. Jeremiah, I love you. Harrison’s head no longer hurts. He glances at the bed ahead of them, the duvet untainted, the throw pillows chopped, then back to Jeremiah. He grips his shoulder so tightly his hand aches. He’ll be needed right now—loved right now. He’ll touch because he needs to. He’ll pray for forgiveness someday. “Don’t let go,” he whispers.

And that's a wrap on No Christ! It was so fun to revisit this chapter now that I'm not... unwell, LOL. I hope you enjoyed this update and stay tuned for the FINAL one (which I meant to include here BUT THIS POST WAS SOOOO LONG)

ily if you made it this far okay bye!

Rachel

#writeblr #writing #amwriting #writerblr #writingupdates #OOOH BODY BACK is BACK lol #just for a little I want to get these up before I write the next one for hallowed bodies!!! #chapter 5 coming soon!!!! #also there's more of this chapter I didn't share floating around on the blog but this post was SOOO LONG LOL

[bugtoast]

This post that I replied to gave me brain worms, so here's some mythology brain vomit i'm coming up with on the fly! why? neurodivergency

1) What caused Tumblr to become cursed

I think the reason why Tumblr was cursed by Yahoo in the first place was because, the curse was meant to be a punishment for their greed and immaturity.

Tumblr, years ago, was known for promising grand adventures and events to whoever would listen, taking donations from those who supported their ambitions. Little did these listeners know, that Tumblr was lying, they'd take the gold they were given and would run off with not another care in the world.

Tumblr, before being cursed, was much meaner. much more vulgar. much more like Twitter was before Twitter was sold into servitude. But, when their patron goddess, Yahoo, caught wind of Tumblr's antics, she stripped them of their ability to tell stories the same way they used to as a punishment for their negligence and greed.

and, as we know, tumblr learnt from their mistake and bettered themself.

2) Other possible mythological figures

Steam, A widely renowned inventor and tinkerer

Valve, once a mortal themself turned god, he used to be a tinkerer just like Steam was. it's very rare that this god makes anything anymore... Whenever Valve visits morals, they tend to take the form of a man who people call "Gaben" (if they were to have symbolism in numbers? their number would be 3 for the funnies-- also yes I really just wanted to make a gaben joke)

Pinterest, a godless traveler who steals quite a bit-- but don't let her thievery fool you, she's willing to share whatever stolen goods she's taken, and is very tidy and motherly.

Twitch, a traveling Jester who never seems to have a consistent act. One thing is for certain, though. They love to give whatever riches they make to their patron god, Amazon

Amazon, a god known for his seemingly endless riches. whenever he visits the world of the mortals, he's a traveling salesman who has anything your heart desires. They, unfortunately, are not the kindest god out there...

Facebook, a god taken the form of an elderly mortal. nothin much to it, really.

Instagram, a maiden known for her intense beauty... but, its rumored amongst townsfolk that she's made a deal with the gods to make her even more beautiful

i'm running out of ideas so...

3) Here's the other mythological figures im imagining:

Snapchat

Tiktok

Vine

Reddit

Discord

4chan (<- stinky)

Google

Deviantart

Youtube

probably forgot some-- anyways, just in case this becomes a thing kinda like the sexyman descendants thing did...

4) Suggestions for if this becomes a tumblr-wide phenomenon (not saying it will, i'm just putting this here just incase)

Creepypasta characters, prominent fandom characters and other internet folklore creatures (and i don't mean creatures that are popular on the internet, I mean creatures made by the internet, like slenderman. no real folklore creatures.) are basically this things cryptids and animals (like a phoenix or a centaur)

all of the stories are allegories for internet events (like vine shutting down, Tumblr when Destiel became canon, the sexyman showdown, etc. nothing like youtuber drama)

we should call it something funny and/or really stupid, like "tumbology" or something-- though if we do want something more serious: Interology (internet mythology)

#tumblr mythology #<-???? #long post #textpost #rambling #Sorry 'bout this it was just taking up space in my brain and I needed to get it out rfhdjeskww /silly #shitpost??????????

[kae-karo]

OKAY someone mentioned on tiktok (x) that perhaps the tsaritsa is from khaenri’ah which like, among other things, would very much explain her vendetta against celestia, goal to collect the gnoses, etc etc but consider for a second. just. consider.

kaeya got a cryo vision

now, i wanna talk abt another theory @revyourriley brought up the other day: that all the cryo vision users (that we know about) received their visions when they were fighting not to lose something they loved

kaeya’s the easy example, he was about to lose diluc but chose to tell him the truth anyway

chongyun was about to lose his credibility as an exorcist and possibly his ability to achieve his life’s goal, but refused to play the charlatan for the sake of pleasing others

qiqi, another easy one, was afraid to die and wanted desperately to stay alive

ganyu took up her mantle to assist the newly-founded liyue qixing to prevent any more destruction and help secure the peace she had fought for

rosaria fought to survive and pull herself out from under the control of the bandits who had used and mistreated her for so long

this is especially interesting if the tsaritsa is from a place that she fought for and lost. another note about the current cryo users is that they are ‘other’ in their places (again, giving @revyourriley credit on this idea where it’s due)

kaeya is consistently described as acting unusually, he works very much outside the knights even as a knight himself, not to mention he’s a khaenri’ahn in mondstadt

chongyun is an exorcist who has never been able to perform an actual exorcism due to his pure yang spirit

qiqi is...a zombie lmao

ganyu is half human, half adeptus, and we had u kno an entire quest about how out of place she feels

rosaria is a sister of the church who feels no particular love for the gods and lives in the shadows, performing all the most sordid duties to keep mondstadt safe

now, imagine how other the tsaritsa must feel as the god of a foreign place, when she lived first in the godless land of khaenri’ah?

very unrelated to anything but like. also, for funsies, consider the tsaritsa as kaeya’s mother

i still like the idea of dain being his father, and his line from the story trailer where he says ‘show me that you are worthier than i to rescue her’ (x) could even potentially refer to the tsaritsa (instead of lumine, although that’s still on the table in my brain) but like ultimately that’s just a fun lil theory to think abt :)

#genshin #genshin impact #kaeya #khaenri'ah #genshin theories

[chuckecheeses]

“Why is tiktok showing me this why is tiktok showing me that” because tiktok is a horrible godless place, as a tumblr user you should understand that

#we think we’re above them but both websites suck so bad

[ask-bolthead-crew]

Hey, if we see your art uncredited and on other websites, would you like us to do anything? There's some on Pinterest and I'm not sure what to do

//Sorry this took me a bit to get to... I kept forgetting to respond.

Unfortunately pinterest is a godless place, and my own personal attempts to get people to properly credit me went... Poorly.

If you could say something if you see them, asking them to credit me (@ceejindeed on most platforms but primarily linking them to my twitter account would be great) is probably the best way to go, but don't have too much hope. The unfortunate thing about reposters is that even if they DO credit you, they usually will not properly give credit anywhere that can be easily accessed right alongside the post...

I post most of my own artwork to instagram, tumblr, tiktok, and twitter (see above), so there should be no reason to see anything getting reposted to any of those platforms.

Thanks so much for asking though! I've had a number of people comment on my work saying things like "I've finally found you!" which is sweet but disheartening. Save for writing my links or username directly onto my art which I really don't want to have to do, I'm not sure there is much more to be done about it.

#asks #mun #mun posts

[nauseateddrive]

LOVESICK LOVEDOLL by Yuya Sakurai

Lovesick Lovedoll by Takuya Angel is artificial roses which love to hate #DontBeSilent BLACKPINK is pigeon blood and Russian Blue narcissus I'm fed up with too many shitstorms in SNS Claustrophobia

QAnon's Canon is Apocrypha of Asexual Angel Tet in Vitnam holidays began at 12th February, 2021 Twitter is Angel Dust of NieR Re [in] carnation, in which replicant/gestalt overdoses X automata

We are Big Tech junkies. #FreeNavalny #FreePussyRiot #FreePoliticalPrisoners #БЕСИТ

Synthetic Anthem of Isola's 5ch: mode is Last Bible of a jihad of NRx VS ultra left I'm listening to Ex:Re's Romance as a memorial to the club scene that is about to be buried

TikTok's hieros gamos is dejavu of Twitter's ex cathedra EVANGELION:3.0+1.0 THRICE UPON A TIME is perfectly post-Coronachan's movie my adolescence is over NRx Samsung is Tsunami fictsexual Hangul fake news in Farthest East where Final Fantasy's Snow Moon rises

Tonight's DJ is Michel Gaubert Blockchain's Sexadoll desires Yifang Taiwan Fruit Tea Keep on dancing even when the night comes Keep on dancing at the chemical complex of Odaiba island in Tokyo Bay

A girl with violet hair who is a smartphone zombie or a self-styled prophet is Dark Enlightenment of Chrome Diva Syndrome of Hatsune Miku's Stand Alone Complex

Femme Fatale with VR headset desires Áo dài of Proud Boys As a primitive AI of Baudelaire, I shouted the LUV in 202X's Brexit Graffiti of Banksy of Massive Attack is deep fake made by Cosplay Hikikomori Otaku boy Akira's Tokyo Olympic 2020 is not over

ANTIFA's Last Bible which screams in the Torrid Zone of Singapore is a dying scream of white supremacy Uber Eats in The Month of Mary raids Coronachan's NRx, QAnon and Proud Boys hot Vietnamese Tết Nguyên Đán of Nguyễn dynasty screams antifascism hip hop

DNA of Angelholic nihilism punks shout to the moon Nihil Unbound's Dark Enlightenment is THA BLUE HERB, the counterattack hip hop from most Northern area, Sapporo in Farthest East Japan under the mirror ball #BLM dances crossdresser/transvestite's S/Z is Hatsune Miku rebellion Angel Dust Chrome exhausts in the black market in Tokyo COMME des GARÇONS is Danse Macabre of Coronachan

Brand New Loveless COMME des GARÇONS is an overdose of Xtasy Acid rain was perfect purple of Xenophobia in Cipherpunk of Bitcoin's jihad Pokémon's World War III started in 2030 after GAFA Konzern raided Chinese Accelerationism Is speculative realism's God the capitalism or the anarchism? Take the black pill, not the blue pill nor the red pill MGTOW don't know love in manosphere TikTok's drag queen is Chrome Diva Syndrome

"The floor could disappear at this very moment, no one knows, and the laws of physics could change at any moment."

GUCCI, Cartier, Dior, Bvlgari, Alexander McQueen in the 90's. In Japan today, it's Uniqlo, Muji, Shimamura, or even secondhand clothes on Mercari. The sequel to Puella Magi Madoka Magica will be made next year, ten years after the last one, the same year as the theatrical version of MAWARU-PENGUINDRUM. DOM PÉRIGNON × LADY GAGA is mental female and anti-Phallocentrism Deus Ex Machina bisexual callboy falls the sickness unto death blue hair of Rei Ayanami is flapping in the wind of EVANGELION:3.0+1.0 THRICE UPON A TIME in a quarter-century Alexander McQueen is a gay born from Asexual Angel of Tokyo hallucination like Deep Fake. Poetry is not dead. There are no catches, no hosts, no cabaret girls, no yakuza in Tokyo, and If you think the language of poetry has disappeared from this country, then I'll show you that poetry is poetry, even if it's the language of a rabid dog, and Mallarmé is dead, and all that's left is Baudelaire reincarnated as a primitive AI, spinning Angelholic. I will end capitalism in the new century.

Post-Apocalypse/Pre-Dystopia I drink halcion in the midnight of sleepless Tokyo Dark Enlightenment is Hakenkreuz Hallucination which punks shout to the moon Last Emperor of Nhà Nguyễn, Vietnamese puppet dynasty déjà vu AKIRA's unrealized Olympic in 2020 Angel's wings open after the catastrophe of Fukushima's 3.11 tsunami and meltdown

GIMMICK of 19XX Apocalypse spread into crowd computer by Yakuza is sold to junkies of Puella Magi Madoka Magica Neo Nazi as white supremacy born from Angelphobia is claustrophobia in Farthest East's Shimabara Rebellion of the Trinity made of Angel Dust, Xtasy and LSD Racist AI's rhyme on trapbeet keens for Babylon as Triskaidekaphobia of lunar eclipse syndrome

YouTuber and Uber Eats are a new Dynasty's Bitcoin made by Satoshi Nakamoto, a new God of new Millennium with Blockchain and Tor Twitter is the place where Justice-holic people gather You say “I'm justice” He/She says “No. I'm justice” The graveyard of perverse senses of justice This is the punk-nihilo apocalypse updated into technothanatos future The nightmares of lunar eclipse lure the deformed fetus into the HAKENKREUZ HALLUCINATION I jamais-vu the moon through the pale smoke of Vogue AROME. In Tokyo, a city that is a fusion of garbage and Chinese medicine, I am watching the super-capitalist Game of Death in Kabukicho through ZEISS IKON with a thin smile on my face I have OVERDOSE the ice blue, I cut my chest into a swastika, but it does not become any kind of raison d'être 19XX Tokyo is burning pale white

TOKIO became like TOKYO-III after Second Impact of Neon Genesis EVANGELION currently because of Fukushima's 3.11 tsunami and meltdown and 2020's Coronachan Radioactive fallout rains and a state of emergency including lockdown is declared Cryptocurrency is Communion in the pandemic catastrophe after old normal when id loves ego like Cybergoth in fin de siècle

Sepher Sephiroth in Final Fantasy VII shakes his wings of sin, crime and punishment Pandemic is also Brand New Ave Maria of Aerith Gainsborough 卐’s code:gadget is LUNA SEA’s LOVELESS 7th heaven under Babylon, the skyscrapers of conglomerate, Shin-Ra Electric Power Company

Last Emperor of Vietnam shouts to the moon Brand new Emperor of Japan looks like Lautréamont's les Chants de Maldoror Chrome Exhaust cries Noir Désir in Tokyo Virus of the moon in which gefallener Engel reignites Black Russian Capitalist Theology and Communist Atheism clone the Internet where the exhaust spewing out of the chromed pipe announces REIGNITION of Godless borg in the age of original-sin-less raison d'être Overdose on the near-future digital decadence of Desire Ex Machina Run away in the 21st century, the avant-garde of the Internet age!

Actias artemis exhausts the pale desire in Game of Death's vainglory tattoed thrill and stimulation The fallen angel keeps on screaming "Scream like vanity of PUNX as the original sin blows up a pale exhaust"

GOD...PILL

I feel dizzy while cracking ghosts without the ice blue raison d'êtres with my boosted brain OS

[Are you Guilty?]

Shinjuku heat haze...punks dressed in Bondage by LOVELESS shout "GOD IS DEAD" by gefallener Engel to the skyscraper MALICE MIZER Deus Ex Machina falsification of the raison d'être///

...PILL?

"Count your sins..."

Schwarz Stein is Asexual Lilith...XXX...Asymmetrical-Androgynous mobile phone like Morpho rhetenor...I make a phone call to the moon... "Ice blue, GIG of original sin, lunar eclipse...There is everything..." A gay punk with blue hair upside down laughs bewitchingly..."God is dead at the end of the century..."

Bảo Đại, the last emperor of Nguyễn Dynasty, a puppet dynasty in Vietnam, is Brand New Madness with Cybergoth's DNA in Last Bible I skateboard in Kabuki-cho which became Guǐchéng I see Tokyo Metropolitan Government Building, a skyscraper, through a mirror shade as I see Hikarie in Shibuya, a ghost town as ex-downtown

Cadenza in which the billion Babel towers rise Martyrdom low-fi of full cyber jacket is heresy Loveholic Lovephobia in Neo Kowloon looks like Baizuo in Tokyo Bay which is s[K]ape:goat in SNS era Tokyo Songlines show death mask of AKIRA's Tokyo Olympic 2020 which makes us witness hallucination of Matrix in 2021 Drag queen looking like Thanatos of Les Fleurs du mal is my raison d'être in the nightmare of HAKENKREUZ HALLUCINATION Kabuki-cho, the sleepless city, is a complex of neons that gets infected the madness of blue night in Billie Eilish’s Vogue

NEON GENESIS overthrow of the Tokugawa Shogunate looks like call girl with bondage Crypto-Christian's Shimabara Rebellion headed by Shiro Amakusa is reborn in 3rd Millennium as boy doll in Shinjuku 2-chome who is an angel with seven wings in Pseudepigrapha, Sepher Sephiroth as The Flowers of Evil anime inflected post-apocalypse and digital decadence are hyper than hype and further than future in MMXXI

HYPEBEAST autopoiesis chrome dust topos overheats in smoke factory of MAGA angel BUCK-TICK Godless Posttruth Android priest holds a Kyrie eleison Mass techno-thanatos Noli Me Tangere Rosen Maiden post singularity Apocrypha junkies smartphone is like present-day castrato faith of absinthe Hypnotic Poison

Tokyo Babylon higher than Babel desert of skyscrapers Synthetic Anthem of neon rose neon butterfly drifts about digital tattoo SATORI Tokyo2021

Cult Trash

text by Yuya Sakurai Twitter @yuyasakurai illustration by ame Twitter @amello_rain

[menlove]

ppl say tiktok is 2013 tumblr and while parts of it certainly are I've seen kids as young as 5 with tiktoks, elderly people with tiktoks, middle schoolers with tiktoks, a shitton of cishet white conservatives with tiktoks, mom groups with tiktoks, asmr tiktoks, incel bros with tiktoks, tiktok accounts dedicated entirely to cats, etc etc. so it's worse than 2013 tumblr. it's like the bastard child of the entire internet in one place. it's 2013 tumblr it's facebook it's twitter it's reddit it's 4chan it's youtube.... and all the worst sides of it. it's godless.

#tiktok is horrifying its really just everyone from everywhere on the internet

[soulquirk]

tiktok is a godless place

@presentmiccockandballtorture this one's for u

#i may not show it but i hate it here #bnha #present mic #hizashi yamada #yamada hizashi #my posts #tiktok #not my video