Getting a master's degree and finally seriously trying to write a novel is hard.
Sade Olutola

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oozey mess
d e v o n

Love Begins
$LAYYYTER
Aqua Utopiaď˝ćľˇăŽĺşă§č¨ćśăç´Ąă

Kiana Khansmith
i don't do bad sauce passes

pixel skylines
Xuebing Du
Not today Justin
hello vonnie

will byers stan first human second

Cosimo Galluzzi
noise dept.
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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@springtimebat
Getting a master's degree and finally seriously trying to write a novel is hard.

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People with most mainstream tastes imaginable should not open their mouth on how anti piracy they are btw. Yea no shit you can depend on legal sources to watch Marvel and listen to tswift and Maroon 5. Thank you so much for signing the petition to close that platform that was the only one i could download this 2008 romanian dungeon synth ep from
Cheryl Dunyeâs directorial debut, The Watermelon Woman, was out of print between 2000 and 2018. Garth Marenghiâs Darkplace was only available to watch on a pirate channel on YouTube until last year. There is still no way to watch the X-Files spinoff, The Lone Gunmen except to own a dvd box set that has been out of print since 2005. Or to pirate it. Itâs on YouTube.
Piracy is incredibly important to keep media thatâs weird, or out there or just embarrassing to someone in power, alive. We need piracy and we need to stop being snitches when someone pirates stuff.
Welcome Autumn đ
Purity Test (A Small Fable)
Once, Velm was a unicorn of the First Choir; horned, radiant, engineered for childhood. His horn was a filament of sanctified bone, calibrated to extract sorrow and leave behind silence. He was deployed to sanctuaries, orphanages, warzones. Wherever grief bloomed, Velm was sent to prune it.Â
He was not allowed to feel, to choose. He was purity incarnate.
Her name was Lisse. She was born without memory. The priests call her âpureâ. Her blood was untainted, her mind unburdened. Kept in a glass monastery, Lisse was studied, revered, and left untouched.Â
One day, once upon a time, Velm was sent to perform the Ceremony of Grace, a ritual where a unicornâs horn would hover above the humanâs heart, drawing out invisible sorrow. It was symbolic. It was a sacred to-do list.
On this ceremony day, something went wrong.
Velm approached. Lisse smiled. The horn trembled. And then- contact.Â
Not a graze. Not a touch. Impaled.Â
The horn pierced her chest, clean through. Her blood was not red. It was white, the colour of memory denied. She did not scream. Instead, she whispered,
âNow I remember.â
She died. Velm stood frozen, horn slick with purity.
The priests declared Velm defiled. His horn was removed, his mane burned. He was cast into some forgotten pasture, where disfigured unicorns learn to read, to write, to bleed.Â
But Velm did not forget. He began to dream.Â
He carved Lisseâs final whisper into the earth with his hooves. The soil absorbed it. The wind recited it. Other hornless unicorns gathered. They sang, not to mourn Lisse, but to remember her.Â
Thus, Velm became the first unicorn to memorialise a humanâs death as truth, not tragedy. He was no longer a healer; he was a woundkeeper.
An age crawled by before a child wandered into Velmâs frozen pasture. She approached and touched Velmâs scar with fleshhand. Lisseâs memory flashed like lightning across her mind, her body. The impalement, the purity. Most of all, the choice.Â
The human whispered,Â
âShe wanted it.â
And Velm wept. Not because he was forgiven. But because he understood.
Velm leads no one nowadays. He sings gruffly with scars straining his vocal cords and a dark maw of a face. He archives slowly in silence.
And every year, on the anniversary of Lisseâs death, he performs the ancient ceremony again, alone, hornless, bleeding memory into the giant oaks.Â
Not to heal, but to remember.Â
Nekojiru x LSD dream emulatorđ

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So back in 2021, Game Builder Garage was released! In it, you could make your own games. Generally, people were dissatisfied with how limited we were and moved onto other things, but meanwhile I was whittling away at a big game! In 2022 I finished it and released it, though I don't really know where to post it. I tried sending it to some social media channels that keep track of GBG games, and I tried sending it to AntDude, but I think in general I missed the moment. Well, the Switch 2 has just come out, and Game Builder Garage is playable on it too, so I'm using this as the excuse to do another push on this!
Play my game!!! Play it!!! Please, play it!!! You want something to do on your Switch, right? Do you lack the Switch 2 and want to play something new on your Switch 1? Do you have a Switch 2 and just want more games to play on it? Then get Game Builder Garage, input my programmer ID, download the five maps, and play my game!
"But DJay, what is your Game?" I hear you ask. "Isn't GBG just where people make shitposts in the form of games? There weren't many original games made for it. How could there be, with all the limits?"
One question at a time! The subject of limits is a good one. GBG gives you limited space for each "game" you make, but it also gives you access to this thing called the "Game Swap Nodon" (and then did not mention this at all in the tutorials). Guess what, I figured that thing out! I used it to link multiple "games" together and transfer save progress and items collected across them! Each of my "games" are just maps in one bigger Game! And originally I had planned to make my full game like 25 maps long, but for various reasons I elected to just stick with 5 maps. This is not a shitpost game! This will take you more than just a couple minutes to get through!
You will have to navigate and discover and interpret strange spectacles! Use vehicles! Get power-ups that you can backtrack with, figure out how their mechanics work! Look for secrets! Fight the shadows that populate this mysterious world! There may or may not be three boss battles, some of which are optional! If you have headphones on, you may enjoy the surreal ambience of the city!
You are in the Empty City, a living breathing ideal organism that coexists with humanity but which has been generally forgotten! See it build itself around you, observe the interaction between the City and the void, look for any signs of anyone else trapped here with you, and beware, as it may be possible for life to be born here... what would they even look like, raised here in this isolated city? What form would they take?
Your only goal is to find an exit back to the real world. You'll know you beat the game because it will kick you back to the GBG menu. Until that's happened, you haven't beaten it.
Do you want me to offer comparisons to other games, the ones that inspired this? That feels a little tacky for a promotional post like this, but, sure, I'll try anything! Empty City comes from a love of games like Yume Nikki, Half-Life (and its modification Sven Co-op), and Metroid! There's some slight Undertale influence too, but who doesn't take influence from that nowadays, am I right gamers? Haha, bazinga!
Please, play my game. Please, AntDude, Arlo, StephenPlays, Scott the Woz, one of you nintendo youtubers, play my game. Please, anyone with a copy of Game Builder Garage, play my game. I made it to be played. I worked on it for months. I put so much into this, as I wanted to make the best possible thing GBG could produce. I have no fucking idea how to spread this thing, so reblogs are cherished. Help me! Play my game! Help me break out of this eldritch city!
Alright, that's all I have to say on this. DJay out.
Eeeeee Jordan game! He showed me this and it was very fun and intriguing!
Exeunt (A Short Story)
One or twice
The old count married
And set his wife upon the ice
Until she miscarried, slipped upon the snowÂ
Towards her open tombÂ
For all she wasÂ
Was an empty wombÂ
ExeuntÂ
The lady lived with her father and her brother in a sprawling manor-house, out in the country where only the grass and the trees could hear her sorrowful tears. Once upon a time, her mother had been there, although she could not remember anything about the woman. Her father, once pressed, said she had been old and careworn, and should never have had children. The words stung his daughter, but they only made her wish she remembered more of the little details. The colour of her motherâs eyes, the way she used to smile, even the chair she preferred to sit in. Instead, she was just empty space, a speck in her daughterâs mind that greeted her when she was especially lonely but needed to hurt more. The lady did remember her fatherâs second wife, her brotherâs mother, and, she supposed, loosely, her own mother too. For a time that was far too short, she used to lie on the old chaise in the public study, as the man often locked himself away in his own private wing, away from his family. Her hair had been golden, and that made her stepdaughter envious, curling effortlessly down her back to her waist, unlike the ladyâs eerie straight locks.Â
He arrived on a dreary afternoon in October, as the leaves of golden wine fell. She watched his carriage, swollen like a leech-fly, weighted down with the heavy pounds of silver that decorated its wheels and hinges. His coach, his rider, and his footmen were sorrowfully melancholy or sorrowfully drunk, their eyes ringed with dried blood. The road outside her parents' manor was rickety, full of bumps and humps. Whenever the carriage hit one, the rider fell apart on his perch. The master himself could not be seen, for the windows were tinted, black like the abyss. Therefore, the only characteristics she could imagine were the hidden wealth on display and the dragon who curled around it. From the excessive amounts of jewellery gilded upon the coach door, he seemed to be the type of man to hoard. Luckily, he managed to have enough to hoard in the first place.Â
âItâs a pumpkin!â The ladyâs brother squealed, making her feel sick to her stomach. Of course, he had to remind her of mice, balls, and wedding vows. Meaningful things she had already dreamed of for most of her life. None of which would come true. ExceptâŚmaybe the glass, spewed across the floor, intent on scarring her feet.Â
âNo. Itâs just a carriage.âÂ
âItâs your carriage.â He grinned. His sister gave a disheartened chuckle.
âItâs here to drag me away.â
âTo where?â
âSomeplace lost and hollow.â
âWhy would father let it take you someplace like that?â
âBecause he has done the same. He has done the same thing almost four times over.â
âAlmost?â
âThe last one got away. They lost themselves in the woods, in the grass, and the breeze before they found themselves lost in brick. They are now a sister of the air.â
âThe air doesnât talk much,â And the boy looked oddly morose. âDonât they get lonely?â
The lady smiled, finally beginning to understand her brother just before being snatched away from him.
âSheâs not as lonely as she could have been.â
âChildren!â The thunder roared impatiently outside the drawing-room door, âCome sit! Have tea with me!â
Turned inside out
Herded through fieldsÂ
Twisted in and out of brick shithousesÂ
Overflowing with painful ignorance
The eyeâs are going lazy
My mouth is starting to slobber
My guts lie scattered on the floor
My ears flap on a wooden plank beside my head
Iâm done for
A swollen, bloated corpse
Thrown out onto the slab
Side to side with concrete
Trying to fly away
She wonders how many wives he has taken. His beard is long, untameable, and he makes no effort to display it attractively. One moment, it's black, filled with stars like a late night sky. Another moment, it's blood red, reminding her of the man with a particularly brutish countenance she read about once; the pirate who blew his face up to strike fear in the hearts of his enemies. A man thick with his own smoke.Â
Disregarding this still, the manâs eyes are bulbous and greyed over, even as he sneaks glances at her. For all the ribbons and lace upon his dinner jacket, his rough fists clench and unclench as he listens to her fatherâs dreary lecture and reprimands. His clumsy feet twist into knots when she is told to use the dessert fork instead of the butter knife to cut her carrot cake apart. Itâs odd to contemplate him being annoyed or angry at another man, at a kindred spirit. Is he mad at him for wasting their, and therefore his, time with silly trivialities? Or is he mad simply because another is ordering his property around? The ring sits in his open pocket, purposefully catching the light within the small glass conservatory. His intentions are more than clear, and they are unbearable.Â
He is ugly, yet he does not provoke the disgust she believes she should feel. Maybe his overwhelmingly grotesque appearance endears him to her? Or, perhaps she feels sympathy for the irritation scrawled across his face as her father continues, onâŚand onâŚand on. Not that all this matters. She will end up where all the rest are left; spilled across the floor, hung upon the hook, maybe even buried in the ground if sheâs a lucky girl. He will grow tired of her soon and rid himself of the burden she represents. She hopes he will keep her bones as decorations.Â
âHowâs the tea, my dear?â The visitor asks, and her fatherâs talk slows, his words dying in a poisonous mouth. The man of the house turns to her, his eyes pinpoint red.Â
The lady clears her throat, âExceptional. The tea leaves are fresh from across the sea. A fresh cartel arrived just last week. Am I correct, Father?âÂ
He smirks, proud. The beast is tamed for now.Â
Her husband doesnât know how to kiss. Whenever he leans in, it's like he is opening up his chest, waiting for her to strike him between his aging ribs. His beard bristles when he is near her, transforming into a sunset red, a strawberry pink. It endears him to her so much that she has started calling him her husband before the important vows are exchanged. The eyes, once cracked glass, are now an ocean blue, reflecting harsh storms rather than calm waters. She nuzzles his cheeks when he is called away from her. She awaits in dark and dusty corners for him to find her and embrace her.Â
A fog of twilight and discord began its slow descent upon the manor as the dayâs last brittle light vanished behind barren hedgerows. The lady, caught between the allure of sorrow and the hope of escape, found herself staring at a reflection distorted in the silvered glass of the conservatory. There, she saw not the pale, forlorn visage of a woman resigned to her fate, but rather an echo of forbidden possibility; a quiet, insistent defiance that promised revolution in the silence. A whispered promise, like the fading echo of an old lullaby, wove itself through the corridors of her mind.
In the deep interstice where poetry met nightmare, the old countâs monstrous bride turned inward. The clamor of a thousand muted regrets surmounted her as she recalled the half-remembered touch of a vanished mother's love, a warmth that had once stirred life from desolation. With every pulse of her aching heart, she stitched together a tapestry of loss and hope, determined to reclaim the fragments of her identity, even as they lay dismembered upon the rough-hewn floors of memory. The air around her thickened with the weight of unsung secrets and buried truths, and somewhere beyond the grasp of her despair, the silent figure of the man, her husband, hovered like an omen.
That man, with eyes like ocean storms and a beard that shifted like a chimeric twilight, stood as a living allegory of impermanence and decay. His awkward, clumsy affections, the painful gestures that danced along the razorâs edge of intimacy, all spoke of a love cursed by trembling imperfection. And so, in the obscure corners of that vast, foreboding household, as the tea cooled and the conversation wilted into trivialities, she began to see the beauty in the broken. Her heart, an arena of relentless, warring passions, pounded with the clarity of a newfound purpose: to unravel the twisted skein of her inherited misery and to craft, from each shard of sorrow, a portrait of liberation.
Outside, the relentless October rain tapped a staccato rhythm on ancient stone, echoing the relentless march of time that granted no reprieve. In that moment, when the mundane and the macabre merged into one symphony, the lady resolved to step beyond the confines of her mourning. She would no longer be the silent quarry of others' ambitions nor the fragile heirloom of tragedies past. Instead, she envisioned a metamorphosis as radical and surreal as the shifting hues of her husbandâs beard, a rebirth sculpted in the raw crucible of agony and ecstasy. Like a solemn incantation whispered into the void, her desire to reclaim her lost self surged forth, defiant and insistent.
When the old countâs voice finally faded into the distance, a lingering echo in a forsaken hall, the lady rose. Footsteps soft and resolute, she walked toward the shadowed corridor where remnants of gold and lace trembled under the weight of abandonment. With every measured step, she shed the layers of imposed grief, embracing instead the uncertain splendor of what might lie ahead. Fate, she mused, rarely offered a second sunrise, yet here she sensed that her own light awaited its rebirth. A light that might one day transform tears into a mosaic of art, an anthology of impossible dreams.
And as the night claimed the remnants of day, she whispered to the silent spaces around her an oath, a promise to search for that elusive spark of truth hidden deep within the darkness, where even the most tattered souls might rise again, buoyed by the resilient grace of forgotten hope.
The stage falls silent, yet beneath the whisper of rain and regret, a new narrative begins, a tale of transformation that challenges the very cruelty of fate, urging all who dare listen to find the beauty hidden in the broken.
My newest stupid pet peeve is video essays / analysis of Alice: Madness Returns who tie the games themes and story to the real life of Alice Liddell and her relationship with Lewis Carroll...while not saying her name correctly. It's "Liddle," as in rhyming with "riddle," not "Lid-DELL" with an emphasis on the Dell. It would be all fine and good if they just looked up the name and mispronounced it, but THE MAIN CHARACTER'S NAME in the game they're analysing is pronounced this way! I swear I've watched at least four videos that bring up this exact same point somberly at the end and pronounce the surename the same way! Like...regardless of doing any outside research, did they mishear Alice's name all the way through? Did they not play the game?
4 albums! 2 EPs! 2 secrets!
9 hours of music, and all of it bafflingly good!
11 years in the making!
1 brand-new creepy little horror story for you to find!
you have no idea how much effort this has taken!
if you're new to the Sunsetters Project, you'll find a thorough and very-readable summary on the website! welcome to the midi machine!!
if you're a returning listener, you'll find a whopping 32 of the 40 old songs are new again! plus the new stuff! and just look at that website, seriously!!
guys this has been a nuts two months, I am so tired!! I did it all for the art!!
Boyfriend made a thing! :)
đ¨ đ¨ đ¨ đ¨ đ¨ đ¨ đ¨ đ¨
Defend the Internet Archive
PLEASE REMEMBER THAT YOUR DONATIONS ON CHANGE.ORG DO NOT GO TO THE SUBJECT OF THE CAMPAIGN
That means that when you donate, it goes to change.org. Now, this isn't useless â it does mean that the petition gets boosted. However, you're pretty much doing the same thing by reblogging. I am concerned about people donating something like $40 dollars since I'm not sure if they realize it doesn't contribute to the legal fund or not.
If you want to donate to the internet archive's legal fund (and help with operation costs), then you can click here to go their donation page
I saw this without that last bit before. READ THAT LAST BIT.

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Hey hey, as a librarian, can I just say donât pace yourself at the library. I get a lot of customers saying âoh I shouldnât get too many books out at onceâ but like you should!!!! Max out your card, take everything we have on a subject youâre interested in, make a book fort in your home. We love that shit! It doesnât matter if you read them or not; just take them for an adventure and bring them back whenever theyâre due!
For public libraries, one of the ways we secure funding year to year is lending. Governments donât want to fund more books if theyâre not being used and the way we measure use is by issues. Regardless of whether you read it or not, whether you have it for a day or a month, if you issue it to your library card, we get the stats! It makes the library look good!
Help your local library; get books out even if you know you canât read them all!
The replies and reblogs and tags on this post have brought my little librarian heart such joy! Feel free to ask me any questions you want to ask a librarian but havenât had a chance to yet!
Now more than ever: Support your local public library!
I just learned that the Russian word for âladybugâ translates to âGodâs Little Cowâ
Itâs the same in Irish! bĂłĂn DĂŠ!
in hebrew itâs âour rabbi mosesâs cowâ
Oh I love this news!!!!
Multiple cultures upon seeing a ladybug for the first time: âWhoâs cow is this????â
Squidward clocking out of the Krusty Krab and heading to the nearest gay after hours eventÂ
Come on, now, op. We all know squidward doesnât go to the club.
Heâs one of those âIâm not like other gaysâ gays who goes home to a bottle of wine and his obscure 50s vaudeville records, and then mopes because he can never find a boyfriend.
I love this website so much
Getting moldy this semester
Me fr
This is me if you even care

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I'm so glad that machinima is alive and well
Everyone reading Wicked the Book for the first time after watching Wicked the Movie