you didn't say sorry, not really. you said sorry only when i pushed about it, you said it like an afterthought, like - oh fine, if this is what you want. the apology was already tearing itself apart in the air. you said sorry, but you caused this. you said sorry you feel that way, i guess. you said: what else do you want me to say? you've already made up your mind to be angry about this.
you've moved on since then. i hope you found a therapist. i am stuck with all of the hurt you caused but - you've been working on yourself, on your multiple projects, on that beautiful life you live. happy - you look happier, lighter, free of all of it. you take artsy videos of yourself dancing; caption it - a friend recently abandoned me.
nobody else knows how hard you pushed. nobody else knows what you did. i am sure you tell everyone a version of the truth that makes out the best of you; turns me into a cold unfeeling bitch who just "doesn't understand" you. i am sure you leave out all the ways i gave you myself, over and over, for years. how many times before this you hurt me, crossed my boundaries, laid me bare - what you say to them about when i finally drew the line is - she is just being unfair.
sometimes i feel insane about it. i have to text my best friend, make sure that what-i-think-happened actually-happened. to double-check that i wasn't being a bad person. maybe i'm misremembering it. she often has to guide me back to the same two facts: beyond what any one person could reasonably expect, i gave you everything, and you still wanted more of it.
it makes me angry, when it doesn't make me sick. i force myself to journal about it. how fucked up it makes me, knowing your narrative will be the one that sticks - knowing you are out there, right now, making sure everyone listens. telling them how you are being targeted. how you, hurting me on purpose, making me feel small, ignoring my needs - how that was really my fault, in the end.
yesterday you made a post on instagram talking about how you used to feel guilty about something that had gone wrong in a relationship, but that you've freed yourself from those toxic idealisms. you said: i am not giving her the power to make me feel bad about my mistakes. i am just a human person - it's up to her if she wants to be the bigger person and actually forgive.
and i just sat there and thought: you haven't even actually apologized for it.
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I am BEGGING yall to remember that "gay panic" means "i killed this person because theyre gay so you cant jail me for it" and NOT "UwU too gay to function"
Yall CANNOT reclaim this one please stop trying
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A question I have just recently,
can Sebek handle spicy?
this is what i generally think of fae.
tho i think,
lilia knows spicy spices from his travel.
even tho in dragon form, malleus breathes fire from his mouth, and fire is hot, it might be like the kind of fire that doesn't hurt him in the first place
sebek father might bring spicy spice from human world with him, but since i think of him as a mellow man, he might not be interested in spicy food in the first place
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i know he snores like a fucking beast. i know it wakes everybody up. and i know he falls asleep in a matter of seconds. so you can't even fall asleep before him. you can't beat him. honk shoooo honk shooo head ass. i want him fucking dead. tucking him in bed all nice and warm as i type this.
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dating sim picrew thread!
what would YOU be like in a dating game? several dialogue options to choose from based on how you'd talk - or make one for a fictional character!
picrew link: here
no pressure tags: @true-deru @stigandr-the-cat @meggsngrits @kailali @fushigurro @auslanderka @chaotic-on-main @ceenthesis @giogama08 @heroesfan101 @koushuwu @prettyiwa @ricecrispiebirb & the entirety of planet earth if ya wanna!
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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.
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