Monterey Bay Aquarium
ellievsbear
roma★
occasionally subtle
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
🪼
tannertan36
tumblr dot com
we're not kids anymore.
Claire Keane
ojovivo
Jules of Nature
No title available
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
taylor price
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
Origami Around
hello vonnie
Misplaced Lens Cap
seen from United States
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seen from France
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@a-ers
I follow from @demiiboy
Content warning for untagged blood/injury and religious imagery/content
I tag nsfw/nudity and strobing lights. I do my best to tag unreality and paranoia inducing content
This was a psychosis blog once upon a time
Interests
other blogs, from most to least horny:
@vlvprince (vampires and sadism)
@shefaer (aesthetics, wizardposting)
@pigeonphilosophy (pretentious)
it's okay to draw for glory. don't let anyone convince you that art has to be a hobby. you don't have to rest or take breaks. if you feel yourself hitting a wall feel free to lose sleep over the process. you can forgo friendship if you need to. it's completely fine to want to want your art to win you immortality through your influence and canonization as a master. you don't have to take it easy
brittonie fletcher, the veil
hans bellmer, the machine-gunneress in a state of grace
I think everyone ought to have the opportunity to make art, but you should not view "the joy of the artist making art" as the fundamental reason why other people pay to see your art
you have to be able to separate the value to you from the value to everyone else when thinking about things or you're going come off as frankly self-centered.
You don't need to give a shit about anyone else when you make your art, but if you want attention or resources other people don't get to make it, you might have to consider what anyone but you gets out of that arrangement.
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?
You see my vision
happy pride
in a way i am my own dead wife
robert morris, untitled (passageway), installation, 1961
Little clay creatures
From Veronica Tucker via Pinterest
Actually, I rather like being trans
I suppose being cis would be nice and all, but it doesn’t quite have the same “I will sieze Destiny by the throat and force it into the shape of my choosing” kind of verve
mind you before sinners we didn’t have definitive proof that it was possible to successfully make a movie in 2025
Every time an author reassures readers that the smut is skippable I sigh a disappointed sigh. This is not a reassurance. Why would anybody who likes smut want to read smut that was only included as an afterthought and has no impact on the narrative? Insulting. Just don't write it at all if you're not going to make it matter.
Issue 10 | Summer 2026 of Transfix Magazine is HERE! Get your free digital copy of the new issue (and all the other ones) here!
On the cover: Testosterone Injection, 2026, oil and acrylic on canvas by Quinn Thomas.
Finally finished this:3
