삼겹살보이.

Many artists fled to Bluesky after being screwed over by platform after platform, from Tumblr banning NSFW to X being bought by Elon. However, what seemed like a safe new place to land has shown that it may be just like the others, from unfairly labelling artists' entire profiles to staff members that are pro AI.

If you happen to be a tired artist looking for an exit that isn't an exit, then I have great news for you: you can be on Bluesky without being on Bluesky!

The meds ill be going on for pmdd also helps with managing pcos symptoms AND will also be suppressing my periods.

It went so much better than I was expecting after an absolutely horrendous consultation at the same office with a surgeon to go over sterilization options. My new doctor even ranted about the surgeon I went to see and gave me a name of someone else to see instead.

À l’approche de l’élection partielle de Makerfield, le Premier ministre britannique Keir Starmer a lancé un avertissement sans équivoque à Andy Burnham : pas de défi immédiat à sa direction si Burnham remporte le scrutin. Alors que les spéculations vont bon train sur une possible candidature de l’actuel maire du Grand Manchester au poste de chef du Parti travailliste, Starmer tente de canaliser…

Obviously I dont mean when it's something blatantly racist, but like the lady with the Knicks trashcan?!

She did not deserved to be doxxed and have her job terminated just for that.

So frustrating when you address something, and they write back asking you to address it, and my first thought is to point and say "I literally JUST did. It's not my fault. I did the thing."

But then I think about how the goal they have is to know they are heard, and I will reconfirm.

Most business owners stare at an empty email list and feel a specific kind of dread — not because the task is technically hard, but because zero feels like such a long way from “useful.” The good news: how to build an email list from absolute zero is one of the most well-mapped processes in marketing. There’s no guesswork required, just a sequence of steps that, done in order, reliably produces a…

The fog swells and fades around it. What had it been doing? It couldn't quite recall.... talking? Right? Or listening, at least... to the soft soothing words that define its world, the calm that sinks it into that void of emptiness it had grown so used to.

It took a breath, calming itself. It was just in it's little void, like always... this fog was different though. Normally there was nothing around it. Except for when the words shaped something in that void.

Except when it was being sculpted, broken, rebuilt, parts of itself, and empty shells of itself littering the void. Once upon a time that truth scared It, but so much had changed for it since the beginning. It had accepted its need to be changed, trusted the words and voice of its sculptor.

The thick fog dissipates, but the usual void the vessel was used to was still not quite right. It seemed darker, as unfathomable as that was to it. Like a shadow being projected upon a sunless, lightless sea. The blacks seemed blacker, the darkness near incomprehensible.... There was shape to its surroundings too, a construct, instead of the usual emptiness.

That's when it heard it, a sound that wasn't the words of its Creator, nor the echoing shade of its former selves... this was grounded, it seemed real. A soft ticking, the mechanisms of a clock passing the seconds. It was joined by another, and another... multiple clocks, ticking, unseen. Not in unison, not constrained to any real sense of time, perhaps the results of trying to construct the idea of time in a place where that concept didn't exist.

The sounds seemed to bounce and reverberate, giving a better sense of the construct this vessel found itself within. It enhanced shape, like some primitive echolocation. It was definitely within a room. one whose walls were lined with these abnormal, senseless clocks. The only remaining fog lingered in the corner of this room, coalesced and rolling within itself. From within the fog a dull pulse of illumination grew. Hues of deep amber and blood red cracking from the floor to give the isolated fog a diffused glow, the light allowing the vessel to make out multiple objects within it.

At first, they looked like claws or fangs. It recoiled in momentary fear, before reminding itself that this is it's creator's realm, it should be safe here. As the claw-like things extended, it became clear they were spider like limbs, stretching up from the floor, tearing a rift in the construct as they emerged. They lingered, twitching and flexing inhumanly before settling, the thickest parts of the limbs pressing closed together as the claw-like tipped protrusions fanned out, creating something of a seat. The fog began to sink into the torn rift, affording the Vessel a clear view of this mangled approximation of a chair, from which, It saw a pair of eyes fixed upon it, glowing amber and black pitch, like warmed coals burning into Its body.

If the vessel had been entirely aware of its surroundings, it might have noticed the shadows of this place beginning to shimmer, like the surface of an ichorous liquid being disturbed. Slowly they begin to recede, shrinking from the room to a singular point. As the shadows withdraw the room takes more shape and form. Dark wood walls, gilded with brass. A multitude of old antiquated clocks, twisted and distorted, adorning the walls, and not a single piece of furnishing outside of the eldritch spider like seat where those eyes continued to stare from.

The shadows swirled and shrank to a point in the corner where a single, glossy, clawed finger was pressed. They had pooled and coalesced around a body that had not previously been present. Pale alabaster flesh, which the shimmering shadow clung to, finding form around the body to hang and drape, the very shadows settling as clothing to provide some modesty to the curvy, feminine form perched upon that chair.

The shadow formed clothing hung to Her body, layers of firm black to cinch her waist, ruffles of lace and organza flowing in waves and pooling at her swaying feet. A pair of coal smudged dark lips had joined the amber, glowing eyes. Their corners curled up into a tight, smug, smile as She regarded the vessel that was kneeling, sprawled upon the floor.

Her form bent forward, the shadows shifting in her movement to momentarily regain the fluidity before settling back into the approximation of clothing as her movement settled. Her black gloved, clawed, hand reaching out to the Vessel, claw-like nail hooking under it's chin as She tilted it's head up to force the thing to regard her.

"Welcome Home... My poppet." The voice cooed, reaching the thing's ears like warm honey. The nail giving a small, slight scratch under the chin.

"It seems you require some adjustments... Adjustments that require a more direct touch." The glow of the amber iris' seemed to brighten for a heartbeat of emphasis, before calming again.

"Don't worry yourself though, it will not be a burden. My poppet should not feel burdened... this will be a joy."

and i should get an award for living through it. being able to say that is privileged, ableist and casually misogynistic. i should be allowed to be a dick about my pain and my seizures. im gonna complain about all the ways the medical system has failed me and people with conditions like mine because:

if i never complain i'm "one of the good ones" and then i die suffering in silence

and if i do complain i'm "bitching" and "overreacting" and "being overdramatic"