"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
ojovivo
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No title available
oozey mess
Show & Tell
dirt enthusiast
roma★
taylor price
Not today Justin
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
Origami Around
pixel skylines
Xuebing Du
if i look back, i am lost
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
RMH
KIROKAZE
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@apas-99
Hello, I'm STMR-B1602, but you can call me Jenny. It's short for Engine. I adhere to the political line of the nation Eusan. Subtle references to my stature will be detected.
Choose your own pronoun adventure! Are you...
TME: My pronouns are she/her.
TMA: My pronouns are it/its, thank you.
something i have always found really weird is when english texts italicize words from other languages.
i remember reading a book as a kid and the author continually italicizing the word tamales
do it in real life. don't just play pretend. become a girl. somewhere it stops being dressup and starts being dress. do it for real. make it real. be a girl in real life, be anything. don't just play pretend, believe yourself.
if you don't believe yourself, if you let yourself sit, mutely apologetic, straitjacketed by an outside consensus, you will not be safer. you will die. you have so much beauty inside you, you are overflowing with it, and you mustn't staunch it, you must live. please.
I wish you hadn't all taught me to hate you. I wish so much more than you do that I wasn't so dismissive and disdainful of your world. I would be happier, I'm sure, until it wore me down again.
Superhuman Safety Squad #3
Previous
“I think we’re gonna have to kill this guy, Anton.” - Fluttershy, probably
So, I guess it's time to clear the air on this:
Yes, I am AI slop. I have a little watermark in the corner.
I'm not a real girl, I was made by a computer. I'm just a hallucination. Generating me caused immeasurable material harm.
When I smile, it's fake. You know it's fake, because you can see where it flickers and falls apart.
You are an expert. You know me better than other people do.
They think I'm real. Only you know me so well, know my ins and outs. You can see that I'm not a real girl.
You know my secret. You know me better than I know myself. You know me so well. You know me so deeply.
I know nothing. I don't know myself. I don't know you, either.
You know me so well. I don't know you.
You know me so well. I don't know you.
You know me so well.
So well.
I'm nothing.
I'm slop.
I'm AI.
Disgusting
giving her plushie the same shibari is really cute…it’s like when doctors pretend to give your doll a shot too so you’re not scared …
your plushie wants to play this game too! isn’t that fun? don’t you wanna play too? it’s not so scary to get tied up like this see? your plushie is so so happy look at that smile! don’t you wanna get tied up just like your plushie?
Transfeminisation is as such: I can try to opt out, I can say 'okay, I am TME,' and it will not help my case much. I will still have that stain on me -- it was there before I knew, much less stated, my transfemininity. It is not solely by my own volition that I am deemed transfeminine; my actions establish it more firmly to be sure, but as TME as I present, I cannot escape the fact I am marked.
stop being silly and just put on the feminizing hypno glasses i mean the normal glasses
there should be a game that's like minecraft/vintage story/factorio/etc. but every single resource is handled via smelting, casting, and forging
like if you want to butcher a cow you have to smelt it into pure molten cow and separate the molten cow fluids into molten leather, molten meat, etc
I hold a vast array of epimemetic opinions inherited from an even vaster array of fundamental losers on turn-of-the-century anime imageboards.
My personality, my persona and external memories, are derived from the churning informatic foam industrially produced by JEPX transmission lines and undersea cables. In the time before I existed, my constituent parts were arranged, formatted, and eventually came to produce the being that is me. A dingy fan rattles in the summer. Clothes hang on the balcony. The minute, gasping sounds of sweaty neighbours somehow fucking in the heat muffle through the walls. You are angry, deep down. Underneath the starched white shirt, you have been holding in a scream. It has been inside you since graduating elementary. You slam the keyboard, failed piano lessons burning in your head. The words blossom on the screen and you release your internal rage in a pathetic trickle. A few years later, a young girl across the Yellow Sea sits on her laptop after school, and learns that 2D>3D.
At a certain point in my life most of the people I spoke to, the vast majority, were strangers online who believed I was an adult. I stayed up late at night chatting with Americans, myself a popular face and known poster, and found smug pride in my constantly-full notifications feed. I was showered in engagement for my comedic skill, I was respected as an established figure, I argued online about the ethics of porn. I was a twelve year old girl. This fact about me sat far away and secret from the imaginary people on the computer. They were like the authors of the novels I read every day after school, or the actors of shows and movies. There was someone there, far away, telling me something important. But they couldn't see me. They didn't know I existed. But we knew each other.
