Come closer, I'll let you hear my secret. No, closer than that. Closer. Press your cheek against my face. Burrow your way under my skin and clutch my bones in your fingers. Don't stop until you feel my breath coming from your own lungs. Then you're close enough to hear my secret.

everything is a transgender allegory except being transgender which is about being alive

if you’re a trans ally you have to be ok with seeing topless dudes with their tits out & girls with bulges in their jeans or skirts etc. trans bodies are normal, get used to them, they’re not going anywhere.

do you think GLaDOS ever made Chell suck her own dick using the portal gun

the lachrymose reality of being a closeted puppy is the utter disbelief when seeing "owned by ___" or hearing "___ is my owner". i cannot fathom such a dedicated dynamic ever being a part of my reality for a dirty laundry list of broken reasons

if i was truly a dog, i would have an owner by now, but i don't, because im not, because puppies can't wander through trains and hospitals and bars and college campuses for long before someone approaches them and says "hey, heyy there buddy, are you lost?"

i know im not a dog because dogs are treated like innocent creatures.

i know im not a dog because if i were to start being a dog, it would be a matter of time before hearing: "stop that" or "you need to be a person now" or "aren't you getting a little old for that?" no matter how much the person speaking loves me. the permanence of such a thing is an inherently fleeting feeling to chase, and something about being 25 has me unable to indulge in such concepts anymore. it can only ever be temporary.

then, the emotional weight of understanding that being treated this way is not an effortless exchange. and you can only really get it if you ask for it, if you beg for it. that is antithetical to dogs. dogs do not beg to be dogs.

this leaves it trapped in the world of "play", a direct acknowledgment that it is not real and it cannot be real. it is purely fantasy. a fantasy you must ask for from someone else, as though inquiring if your friend will be your trip sitter. this is precisely why i feel sick when i think of the collar she puts on me. in this way, it is a drug, i have a problem, i can't do this forever. in this way, the innocence is mutated to guilt

this is because the yearning extends further than it could ever be fulfilled. after having sex, i want to do something other than fuck. after dinner, i want to do something other than eat. i never, once, ever, have wanted to stop being someone's dog. it fills me with the same morose sickness i felt as a child at my grandmother's home where i was an innocent and beloved creature showered in joy for merely existing, and the terrible feeling of my sinking, sick blood when realizing it was only a matter of hours, minutes, until the doorbell rang and i would have to return to a place where expectations are abundant and love is sparse

You think I'm so weird and you want me so bad

you cook for me 🤝 i mount you against the kitchen counter

*listening to music* ahhh,,, it’s like music to my ears 

if you're not following at least one person who posts beatles rpf are you even on tumblr. it's an important food group. along with that 1 person who still posts abt an obscure 80s movie every single day and 3-4 mid 20s trans women who all follow each other and have a super specific robot/computer fetish that mostly manifests in blogging abt a robot girlfriend overheating like a macbook. it's not about what you're into it's about anthropology

the 3.5mm headphone jack was the wound through which light entered your phone it was a little cave for angels to live in inside your phone and big tech got rid of it cause theyre scared of God the wrong way