dissapeared; moved blogs for a bit. may be back in the future
Claire Keane

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
RMH
occasionally subtle
ojovivo

#extradirty

izzy's playlists!
Sade Olutola
Misplaced Lens Cap
trying on a metaphor
NASA
h

JBB: An Artblog!

Andulka
hello vonnie
Show & Tell



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@missssequential
dissapeared; moved blogs for a bit. may be back in the future

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Occasionally while my thoughts are lava lamping away aimlessly on a certain level of abstraction I'll very suddenly be stricken by, and totally persuaded of, a kind of extreme determinism where the very idea that anybody has even the tiniest control over anything they do feels viscerally absurd, and it only ever feels convincing for a split second each time, and that split second is always experienced as the most blessed reprieve
Makes worse secret side blog
Immediately manages to talk to people from it by accident
hgy what is it
pull my finger
kinda hate food tbh 😔
Feel like this needs to be in the mechsploitation tags...

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dude i love how chill and selfless you are 😄 by any chance is your wildest fantasy to be Useful?
20k notes in 2 hours. Really says something about the hellsite that it's got a giant glowing bossfight weakspot like that.
Fantasy creatures in mechs.
Elves who insist in a fully immersion vr method of piloting because they'll be dammed if those hundreds of years training with a bow go wasted
Dwarves who take a distressing amount of joy in being the biggest for once, hitting the enemy with a gun bigger than the mech
Werewolves who are raised from birth by the company and controlled via the family bonds
Centaurs piloting the spider tank™️ because they are used to a much more stable platform
Gargoyles used to having thicker skin than everyone else suddenly becoming snipers and ambushers out of fear
That hell hound who's immune to fire taking full advantage of this and detonating their mech every other mission, much to mission controls annoyance.
Is this anything?
Feel free to add your own take on this
Werewolf idea fucks actually. Omegaverse musk aroma handler.
No no. None of that alpha beta shit. We reject that one flawed study here. Use wolfs natural hierarchy system: mom and dad are boss
Your idea of using scent on the other hand.
*Writes it down*
I mean hey I'm a wellsping of ideas. This one's on the house: pilots who go limp when the scruff of their necks are grabbed.
Genius, no?
Stolen so fast you'd think it was your kidneys
Wait what do you mean? What? everyone knows when their kidneys are stolen!
Ignore that.
Ignore what? Huh? What's this stitching on my front? Why am I on an operating table? What's going on?
John Coaltrain: "Wow! I love being an alternate version of John Coltrane who is a coal train driver instead of a jazz musician! Better keep my eyes on the track so that I can brake in time to avoid any nasty collisions!"
Herbie Handcock: "Hey John get a load of this"
Normal Miles Davis, tied to train tracks: "Oh fuck! Help!"
Fantasy creatures in mechs.
Elves who insist in a fully immersion vr method of piloting because they'll be dammed if those hundreds of years training with a bow go wasted
Dwarves who take a distressing amount of joy in being the biggest for once, hitting the enemy with a gun bigger than the mech
Werewolves who are raised from birth by the company and controlled via the family bonds
Centaurs piloting the spider tank™️ because they are used to a much more stable platform
Gargoyles used to having thicker skin than everyone else suddenly becoming snipers and ambushers out of fear
That hell hound who's immune to fire taking full advantage of this and detonating their mech every other mission, much to mission controls annoyance.
Is this anything?
Feel free to add your own take on this
Werewolf idea fucks actually. Omegaverse musk aroma handler.
No no. None of that alpha beta shit. We reject that one flawed study here. Use wolfs natural hierarchy system: mom and dad are boss
Your idea of using scent on the other hand.
*Writes it down*
I mean hey I'm a wellsping of ideas. This one's on the house: pilots who go limp when the scruff of their necks are grabbed.
Genius, no?
do you think Homestuck will work well in the medium of animation?
it literally already was
"so to answer your question, no" is something i could say if i wanted to insult homestuck. i've never read homestuck, though, so i don't have any ground
Sorry Markoo gonna talk past you for a second. hbmaster that isn't the correct answer; the correct answer is "Yes, as has been demonstrated in Project [S]".
Get real.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Fantasy creatures in mechs.
Elves who insist in a fully immersion vr method of piloting because they'll be dammed if those hundreds of years training with a bow go wasted
Dwarves who take a distressing amount of joy in being the biggest for once, hitting the enemy with a gun bigger than the mech
Werewolves who are raised from birth by the company and controlled via the family bonds
Centaurs piloting the spider tank™️ because they are used to a much more stable platform
Gargoyles used to having thicker skin than everyone else suddenly becoming snipers and ambushers out of fear
That hell hound who's immune to fire taking full advantage of this and detonating their mech every other mission, much to mission controls annoyance.
Is this anything?
Feel free to add your own take on this
Werewolf idea fucks actually. Omegaverse musk aroma handler.
Mech Pilot who’s doing her best!
[comm for Wasuwanders]
the 4th dimensional beings that puppet string all the people on earth feeding me drugs
Almost all of a new hounds memory's are purged when they are being re-educated. It's a necessary process, to ensure the vessel is empty before it can be filled with love and devotion for something else, something greater.
But the key word here is "almost". Memory's with strong emotional ties have been documented to persist despite a hounds rigorous conditioning.
Memory's like a birthday party, their first kiss, late night parties with their fellow soldiers.
Any ties to a hounds previous life must be severed to ensure the conditioning sticks.
This is why some hounds are often kept under a constant dosage of low grade opioids, too ensure whats left of their past life does not resurface and inhibit their reliability.
In this way the memory's become harder for the hound to focus on and their conditioning quickly overtakes their train of thought, subduing the error.
For a few lucky hounds this means they will remain ignorant of what has been taken from them until the day they are decommissioned.
But for the majority of hounds, the ones that die in combat, fate has one finals act of cruelty.
When a hounds mech takes critical damage, all systems work to terminate the hound, as too avoid any data breaches or worse retrieval of a hound by enemy forces.
A lethal injection is quickly administered, but to ensure the dog stays dead, all stimulants and administered drug cocktails have to be flushed from the hounds system.
Which means
That for a brief moment, the hound is able to remember
Remember their family singing happy birthday
Remember the kiss they shared with their first love
Remember the comrades that in all likelieness are now dead because of it's work as a hound.
All the memory's that were so important to the young pilot, that not even the foundations re-education could fully erase.
They come back
Just in time for the hound to close their eyes
And never wake up.
Why'dz you keep killing the hounds? Theyre supposed to be passed around mercs and warfronts like a joint between lesbians. Tgis is animal cruelty.
It was no secret that Desmond hated women. He hated everyone who didn't lick his pompous posterior, of course, but women were convenient because they allowed him to assign a label to his hate. He had a lot of labels for them: "the understudies," "the wash-ups," and "the generally more feeble, weak, docile, and all-around incompetent gender," to name a few. This revulsion had a wide variety of implications for his personal character--the vast majority of them distasteful--but an exhaustive list would far exceed any acceptable length. Desmond was very similar to an ocean, in that both contained a high-pressure abyss that far exceeded their apparent surface area.
It may come as a surprise, then, that when Desmond was designing his clone-child (as much as anything he did could be called "designing"), he'd suggested that Dr. Miranda (whom he grudgingly respected as a practitioner, if not as a woman), should make a girl instead of a boy. He did this because he believed completely that when she was old enough, she would "see sense and join the winning team herself." Plus, he thought that being a girl would keep her humble while she was young, and then unleash the fullest extent of her pride when she felt ready to cross over. She would need something to humble her; he'd demanded that she should be the "second-smartest, second-strongest, second-most beautiful person in the world,” only after himself.
This, of course, was a contradiction in terms, but Dr. Miranda had taken the spirit of his meaning and done the best she could with the genetic material she was given.
Desmond was vexed to discover that no matter how many sailor outfits he dressed her in, Desianna stubbornly remained a girl, and predictably, grew into a woman. Some of this might have been from a sense of pride; she had been born into her "team," and certainly wasn't going to trade sides just because she was told she couldn't win. She had inherited, among other things, Desmond's cockroach-like resilience to disease, irradiation, and being crushed. Apart from that, she felt "wrong" every time Desmond outfitted her with a dixie cup and a neckerchief. It was as though they carried their own ickiness, and transferred it to her as she wore them.
She spent most of her early adult life in her corner office in downtown Meadowville, missing calls from therapists and sleeping on the floor when her body collapsed from typing too many letters into her screen, for too long. There were two main reasons she typed these letters (and sometimes numbers). Most were dedicated to charities and the greedy, profit-guzzling machines that kept them running--none owned by Desmond. Occasionally, when she found time, she tried writing stories, but she never found enough time to make them as good as she wanted.
She was once again curled up on her bristly, coarse carpet, drifting between restless sleep and draining wake, when something strange happened. It was usually the ringing of the desk-phone that pulled her firmly into disgruntled consciousness, but this time, it was a knock at the door. Four of them, to be precise--they were firm, but Desianna felt they carried a certain hesitation, as well. She sometimes felt silly for ascribing character to something so simple as a knock, but it was something her mind did automatically. She hadn't discovered a way to turn it off, and her schedule didn't allow for much searching.
The first set of knocks was what pulled her into wakefulness, but it was the second that sprung her to action. There was a mirror just to the left of her desk; she took a comb from her drawer and repaired the damage the sleep had done to her hair as quickly as she could. She had too much hair to manage in such a short time--it almost reached her waist--but she did the best she could and hurried to the door just before her caller could knock a third time.
"Sorry for making you w--"
If not for the piercing, heart-twisting dread she felt when she recognized her visitor, she would have finished the sentence with "wait." Annalisse stood quietly in front of her, holding a platter of micro-pastries (which were legally distinct from mini-breads, and therefore acceptable in Desmond's eyes).
"What do you want?"
Annalisse didn't look surprised to receive such a curt greeting, but she did avert her eyes. "I came here to check on you. I know you're all alone out here, and so I thought--"
"I'm not going back to him," Desianna said, "so if you came to ask, you should just leave now."
The two of them stood in silence for a while, Desianna's eyes hardening more and more the longer Annalisse remained silent. Annalisse scanned her micro-pastries, as though one of them might hold the solution to her current predicament. Her eyes happened on an empty puff pastry shell--an unusual thing to make, and an even more unusual thing to enjoy, but Desianna had had strange tastes for as long as Annalisse had known her. An empty pastry shell was one with its purpose denied, one that was not allowed to support the more explosive flavors it could have contained. It had always seemed a sad thing to Annalisse, but if the only other option was to fill it with horseradish, perhaps it was for the best.
"Maybe we could talk about other things, then?" Annalisse ventured. "I won't say his name, promise."
"Did he send you?"
"Desianna, it's a two-day commute to get here on my own, and you know how he gets if things aren't tailored just-so for him. I flew in this morning, and I'm flying out at five. He gave me two return tickets."
Desianna made to close the door, but Annalisse moved her foot forward just enough to prevent that. She did it quickly enough that Desianna could have stopped the door early if she wanted to, but she pushed Annalisse's foot right up to the threshold and squeezed a little instead.
"It was my idea," Annalisse said, prompting Desianna to squeeze harder. This didn't mean much to Annalisse, whose years of burns and cuts as a chef had granted her an incredible tolerance for pain. "I worry about you."
"Worry? About me? I've done nothing but good ever since I left that shithole town. My charities have helped a million people this week. Strutlington Magazine gave me 'Person of the Year', just in case you hadn't heard." With each achievement, Desianna pulled on the door again. "Better than him in every conceivable way, but somehow I'm the one you're worried about?" She was, in fact, better than him in every conceivable way, but so was everyone else in the world, so it was unclear why she held it up like it was special somehow.
"Actually," Annalisse said, finally starting to wince from the door's crushing force, "now that I see you in person, I realize I wasn't worried enough. When is the last time you ate?"
Desianna paused her tirade to consider the question. "Yesterday," she said, about half-sure of the statement's truth, "but that's to be expected, given that I've only just woken up."
"How many meals?"
"Two." Desianna's criteria for what constituted a meal were extremely lenient. A granola bar, for instance, was a meal in her mind, but for most humans, it only constituted a light snack. A fistful of raw spinach leaves might've been another example of a meal, but she didn't keep anything perishable in her office, so vegetables were a rare luxury for her. If she had eaten yesterday, it would've been somewhere between two graham crackers and four, which amounted to about two meals, by her estimation.
Annalisse eyed her with some well-deserved skepticism, but ultimately removed her foot from the door, which Desianna, destabilized by the topic of food, forgot to slam. "I'm going to leave these here," she said, placing the pastries on the ground just outside the range of the door's swing, "and if you want them, they're yours. If you feel like talking, I'm around town until 3, which is when I go to the airport. You still have my number?"
Desianna nodded slowly as her brain searched Annalisse's words, trying to find the trap.
"Then there you go. Take care of yourself, in case I don't see you again before I'm gone." Annalisse gave Desianna a sad smile and turned to walk away.
Desianna watched her go, peering out from behind the doorframe. Once she was sure she was alone, Desianna's eyes turned wonderingly to the platter of delights at her feet. She was such a strange person; nearly as prideful and spiteful as her father in many ways, but driven by those cruel impulses to do kind things. This made her confusing, and therefore a poor topic for discussion among the sensible.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
does anyone have the screenshot of the comment on the youtube video of molten iron slag being poured where it's a guy describing his experience witnessing the same thing written in the most beautiful prose imaginable
@f2tal @barabones with your key addition of 'seagulls,' i was able to find it!
This is the video it's under
To me, he is like if the family rabid pitbull was a haunted antique doll.
Close-ups of the paintings in the background ↓