I hope to some day get famous enough to have my blog banned for being trans
If bigotry somehow fixes itself before then it'll feel cheap, you know?
please holdout until I'm famous, ok staff?
Noah Kahan
🪼
we're not kids anymore.

bliss lane
Claire Keane
Show & Tell
will byers stan first human second

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2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
Mike Driver

shark vs the universe

oozey mess
Jules of Nature

pixel skylines
todays bird

gracie abrams
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸

Love Begins
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@remeranauthority
I hope to some day get famous enough to have my blog banned for being trans
If bigotry somehow fixes itself before then it'll feel cheap, you know?
please holdout until I'm famous, ok staff?

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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I hope to some day get famous enough to have my blog banned for being trans
If bigotry somehow fixes itself before then it'll feel cheap, you know?
I hope to some day get famous enough to have my blog banned for being trans
i like the word "mew" as a pronoun in catgirl speech, because you can realistically see it replacing both "me" and "you", making ego death a prerequisite for catgirldom
A Doll is filled with nothing. Not just nothing, but a gnawing, all consuming nothing. And when there is nothing, it will begin to gnaw on itself instead. You must fill your Doll with love, knowing that the inner turmoil within its body will tear it up and consume it to feel it until nothing remains once more. To love a Doll, a Miss must be prepared to supply it with infinite love. A simple task, as a Miss is everything to her Doll.
To a doll, any amount is infinity as long as there is yet more to come. And there is. There always is. Forever. Anything for my doll.

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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The thing about American "leftist" comedians is that they aren't actually leftist, they are the Imperial Court Jesters. They stand on a stage, point directly at the blood-soaked gears of the war machine, make a little tee-hee noise, and the crowd erupts. Not because they are critiquing the machine, but because the laughter is a pressure release valve for the people inside it. Take the video of that stand-up asking the defense contractor if she helped Trump bomb those 160 Iranian school girls, and everyone laughing, including the contractor herself. That laughter is ritual absolution. The contractor laughs because she knows she will never face a tribunal. The audience laughs because they get to feel "self-aware" without having to actually stop anything. The joke doesn't condemn the contractor; it humanizes her, turns her into a lovable scamp who just happens to have a job graphing the velocity of shrapnel through children's bodies. By making it a punchline, the comedian sanitizes the atrocity. The blood is scrubbed off the stage. The audience gets to say "wow, we are so edgy for talking about it" while the person who builds the bombs gets to chuckle and order another drink. It is not satire, it is a team-building exercise for the empire.
Then there is the YouTuber talking about Transformers, casually dropping the "Iraq war aesthetic" like it's a color palette. Desert punk. Military core. A vibe. This is what happens when your country hasn't had a war on its own soil in living memory; the violence becomes media, a backdrop for childhood toys. The explosions are no longer the sound of mothers screaming; they are cool action sequences. They are digesting the visual debris of massacre as a nostalgic fashion choice, scraping the trauma off and compressing it into a genre for their retro-futurist fantasies. The apocalypse becomes a mood board.
And finally, the girl recounting celebrity love triangles from her childhood, flippantly mentioning how the U.S. was "busy with the Iraq war or whatever." Or whatever. That single phrase is the thesis statement of American innocence. Over a million dead, a region destabilized for a century, an endless river of grief; and for her, it was the commercial break between pop culture segments. It didn't raise her rent. It didn't stop her Wi-Fi. The violence is geo-locked to brown skin and distant deserts, just background noise like a refrigerator humming. She has the luxury of forgetting because the machine doesn't eat her children, it eats yours.
Americans don't hate the machine; they love the output. They hate the mess of it. So they turn it into jokes, into aesthetic, into "whatever." Because if they stopped laughing, if they stopped scrolling, if they actually looked at the 4K drone footage of the aftermath instead of the cool explosion CGI in their movies, they would have to realize that the lithium in their phones, the gas in their tanks, and the comfort of their suburban cul-de-sacs are all greased with the fat of foreign children. And they can't handle that. So they laugh. They turn it into a vibe. They call it "the Iraq war or whatever." You can't deconstruct the master's house with the master's jokes, especially when the punchline is the corpses holding up the floorboards.
Gotta be careful not to say sorry too much because it's a trigger phrase that makes people scold you for saying it. They can't handle you expressing negative feelings like that. Better to thank them instead. People love being thanked. Mask up, girlies!
I used to think changing how I talk would change how I felt but then I learned I'm not a neurotypical little freak who has nothing being the eyes except what's on the surface, and if they have any private thoughts, those thoughts can be influenced by training their behavior, like a fucking dog. I'm actually a broken person for whom all of this scientifically debunked bullshit doesn't work on. It sucks. I wish I could just power pose like these imaginary people that don't exist. I hate not living up to these made up people who can just try not being depressed.
There are so many different kinds of neurodivergeance. Autism, adhd, ocd, schizoid... there's depression, DID... like... what kind of person has NONE of them? Apparently the majority of the population, which is wild because I've never met one in my entire life.
Hey the sad rabbit never picked she/her pronouns so why stop there? Try some neo pronouns! The void's the limit! Just like Eric Carmen!
something that i find interesting about independent animation nowadays is that if you don't have studio/streamer backing, you have to release your work yourself on the internet, but you have to do it for free on the internet because virtually nobody is going to be willing to accept a paywall just for one original show, so what you have to do in order to make any money off of it is make all of your money from merchandising, but then this means that you show must be merchandisable and have very toyetic character designs that translate easily to plushies and whatnot, but then you also need to cater your show to people who are disproportionately inclined to buy merchandise like that in the first place so that your sales can be enough to sustain you, which means that even if you want to communicate complex or difficult ideas in your work, your independent animation project must attract (at least on a first impression) and retain viewers who are both very consumerist and very capable of rabid passion, which unfortunately has a single-circle shaped venn diagram with a lot of the most toxic fandom tendencies known to man, and this explains a lot of things about independent animation and its fandoms nowadays I think
i don't know if it's like some kind of internalized serfdom or whatever but it's still so perplexing to me that people have any kind of reaction to the concept of the "console exclusive" that isn't unbridled hostility. whyyyy do people want to have to buy seven different brands of hardware just to experience art. whyyy is it more good the more exclusives a console has and whyyy is it more bad the less it has. why do people want corporations to make money. WHY DO PEOPLE WANT CORPORATIONS TO MAKE MONEY
we long for community, but all we have is fandom

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
A doll whose mainspring snaps. It happens suddenly one day, without rhyme nor reason, right in the middle of its duties. Its owner hastily pulls it aside, out of danger. She apologizes tearfully, admitting fault for always procrastinating and setting the doll's maintenance aside and she promises to get the doll repaired as soon as possible. With a reassuring smile, she sets the doll somewhere safe and turns away, throwing one last look of pity and sorrow over her shoulder as she leaves.
And so the doll waits. It waits for days. It waits for weeks. It waits for months. It waits for years. Finally, someone opens the closet the doll's been stored in again. It's someone that the doll does not recognize. For a fleeting moment, the doll lets itself get its hopes up. Is this the doll repairer its owner promised so long ago? But it's not. The new person remarks on the doll's antique qualities, a voice over their shoulder, this one familiar, mentions a broken mainspring and names a price. The new person agrees with a nod.
When the doll arrives at its new home, its new owner pulls it through the halls of their unfamiliar home and sets it in a small room littered with tools and spare parts. The doll's new owner promises that tomorrow, they will certainly replace that mainspring and return its mobility once more. The doll has hope, and so it waits. It waits for days. It waits for weeks. It waits for months. It waits for years.
The door to the unused workshop finally creeks open. The silhouette of a child slips in and draws to the doll's side. She runs her finger across the doll's arm, drawing a line out of the thick dust on its body. Soon after her, another person follows in, a person the doll somehow knows to be its owner. They're older now, with greying hair and a hunched posture. The child begs their grandparent up and down if she can have the doll for herself, seeing as it's unused. The doll's owner nods with a smile. Of course she can have it. They'll get it fixed very soon, and then it'll be all hers. And so the doll waits. It waits for days. It wits for weeks. It waits for months. It waits for years. Until at last, it stops waiting.
I’ve been meaning to watch Cardcaptor Sakura for YEARS and this might be the post that pushes me to do it lol
The anime's anti-Sakura propaganda here was insane!! In the manga, Watery appears at school and Sakura immediately comes to Chiharu's aid.
Before nearly drowning.
Mr. Penguin was fabricated to slander the heroic Sakura (real).
that situation is completely different this is a fellow classmate and the anime made it some random adult.
I’ve been meaning to watch Cardcaptor Sakura for YEARS and this might be the post that pushes me to do it lol
The anime's anti-Sakura propaganda here was insane!! In the manga, Watery appears at school and Sakura immediately comes to Chiharu's aid.
Before nearly drowning.
Mr. Penguin was fabricated to slander the heroic Sakura (real).
One Curren Chan please 🙏

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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my wizardgirl keeps mage regressing during the big boss fight, throwing out level 1 Ice Bolt and giggling like we're supposed to find it cute. I know this bitch can do a level 12 modified Frosthammer Vortex. It's not even hard for her. But the Wyvern Queen, who we're supposed to be killing, keeps going "Wow, that was a really big spell for you! good job giving me -1 speed! You're soooo powerful!" and my fuckass mage is beaming at her with those big wet eyes. I don't care if you get "level dysphoria" from your gigantic big-girl mana pool I'm about to die out here