I’ll check the backroom
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@xcgallivan
I’ll check the backroom

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the style of writing is not the problem, not the genre, not the subject matter, not even the words themselves. the SINGLE defining issue with the “Tumblr Prose” style i was trying to tackle is that it’s front loaded with imagery and metaphor and completely lacking in sense, reason, symmetry, motion, conveying information. i agree that plenty of writing can sound good and feel good to read when it’s all metaphor and visceral images but it needs to have a baseline that can carry it through or else the tail wags the dog and it’s all cool “quotable” lines and no substance, nothing to read between the lines, no character
How do you feel about driving?
I can drive, I am good at driving, I enjoy driving.
I can drive, I am good at driving, I do not enjoy driving.
I can drive, I am bad at driving, I enjoy driving.
I can drive, I am bad at driving, I do not enjoy driving.
I haven't learned to drive, I think I would enjoy driving.
I haven't learned to drive, I do not think I would enjoy driving.
I can't drive anymore, I was good at it, I enjoyed driving.
I can't drive anymore, I was good at it, I didn't enjoy it.
I can't drive anymore, I was bad at it, I enjoyed it.
I can't drive anymore, I was bad at it, I didn't enjoy it.
if pjackk can return from the dead then maybe there is hope for us all
got bad news.

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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girl is that a knife in your hand or are you jerking off your sharp detachable penis in my stomach
slamming the big red button on my desk labeled "bweh" over and over again to no discernible effect
at the club no drinks.in.fully stone cold sober: what if thsre was a secret city
Face twists with bravery as a chill runs through the air We have to find it.
We have to find it
There is a reality not so far from our own in which Ratitouille (2007) was filmed as an avant-garde conceptual horror akin to Eraserhead (1977)
There is a young American man in France. His mother has passed away. He has few friends, and works the thankless job of a bus boy in a prestigious restaurant, but dreams of becoming a chef despite having very little skill.
He returns one night to his humble apartment, which is known to have vermin, and comes across a rat, which he could easily kill or set loose on the street.
But the rat- it is special. It seems to speak to him. Promises him every little thing he desires- talent, fame, and fortune. Recognition and esteem like he has only ever seen from afar; fine company like the wealthy men and women whose scraps he picks at over the sink.
Put me on your head, the rat says. Put me on your head and think of nothing.
It is strange at first, yes. Strange to feel another take control of his life and live it better than he ever could. To see miraculous things created with his own two hands, to feel his feet move in graceful and fantastic ways with a confidence he has never had.
But the rat delivers as he had promised: he receives promotions, notoriety, admiration. He is noticed. Envied. Every day is a waking dream, rubbing elbows with beautiful women and handsome men and influential personalities who lavish him with praise. It is addictive, this lifestyle- never mind that he is only ever truly conscious of it as a passenger of in own brain.
It is when he has reached heights few can ever conceive, with all that the rat had ever promised- a beautiful wife in a beautiful house with all the world in his palm, in possession of all the wealth and success a man could ever want, that the rat says that it is leaving.
Leaving? The rat cannot leave. Everything he is, the rat has provided.
"I have delivered on our bargain", the rat says. "I have brought to you all that you have ever dreamed. What more could you desire? I must live my own life, now."
The man is furious. He is terrified. He destroys the rat, in all of the ways that a rat can be destroyed, until nothing is left of it but a fine smear of marinara sauce.
He returns to the restaurant the next day moving like the shell of something hollowed-out and brittle. He cooks well- his fingers remember the movements, his eyes recognize the patterns, his mouth knows without his asking what orders to speak and what platitudes make patrons smile pleasantly with their straight white teeth.
He retains the talents of the rat. The charm of the rat. All the worldly pleasures the rat had provided him.
Still, it seems, he is little more than a vessel for the talents of the rat.
But the rat is gone.
What remains of the man?

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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not the twitter migrants putting "reblog heavy" in their bios on here... like yeah. that's what we do here
reblog heavy
auto immune disorders happen when the immune system ignores regulatory factors and begins attacking healthy bodily tissues, due to what scientists refer to as "sheer love of the game"
I'm imagining a world where RPGMaker somehow made it as the de facto codebase for software and you have to navigate your banking app by walking around in a huge room full of NPCs named "make deposit" and "make withdrawal" etc and there's loud as fuck stock music playing
i get that americans love their cultural imperialism, but it really does piss me off that june is “international” pride month just because something happened in the united states.
in aotearoa, june isn’t our pride, it’s theirs. marsha p johnson and sylvia rivera are their historical figures, not ours. the phrase that “you owe your rights to Black trans women” is true there, but here we owe our rights to (mostly) Māori historical figures. i have the freedoms i do because of the legacy of an entirely different set of people operating in an entirely different context at entirely different times.
But because of american cultural imperialism, most queer people in Aotearoa don’t even know our own queer history. Carmen Rupe, Ngahuia Te Awekotuku, the Dorian Society, Gillian Laundon, Georgina Beyer, and the Wolfenden Association are some of our queer history. We should know their names! we should know what they did for us! but because of the power of the american imperial machine, we don’t.
our national pride month should be july, the month that the Homosexual Law Reform Act passed in 1986. our two largest cities hold their pride festivals in february and march, respectively. american queer history has very little (or nothing, depending on who you ask) to do with our queer history. anecdotally, from my own queries, queer youth in aotearoa know more about american queer history than our own.
anyway, happy pride, americans. i’m truly sorry that most of you don’t see the negative impact your nation’s culture has on the rest of the world. and to the rest of the world reading this, try searching for your own country and culture’s queer history, don’t accept the american narratives as your own. we deserve our own histories divorced from the cultural hegemony of the USA.
given the current climate this pride especially i feel i must mention that i love my trans friends, i stand with trans people in the fight against transphobic legislation and those who would enforce it, and this blog is not a good place for you to be if you do not vibe with that

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3 hours of sleep = i hate people who laugh
0 ours of sleep = waouw 🌼🌼🌼🌼🐎