I have Autism and ADHD. Both are disabilities that actively make my life harder, so please don't tell me that they're "superpowers".
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DNI if you:
-think that "proshipper" means "someone who ships controversial or bad things".
-comment on fanfics that you didn't like telling the author that you didn't like
-use or defend the use of generative AI
-support the deployment of ICE in U.S. cities
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Even though I sometimes may post art, my art is for me first and foremost. I do not do art professionally or take any kind of commissions. The same is true of writing.
I tried writing Lovecraftian horror and I think I cooked so hard the kitchen is on fire.
Story under cut
There is a deep and terrible truth that I have long sought to conceal from those who would be unable to bear its burden. I leave this letter in the hopes that you, who are reading it, may come to understand my plight.
It first began when I visited a rural town in England by the name of West Colgrave. The reason for my visit is unimportant, and I do not wish to waste what little time I have left relaying it to you. What I will tell you is that whilst I was in this town, one fine Sunday evening as I was taking a walk to enjoy the night air, I stumbled upon a queer gentleman by the name of Arthur Jennings. "Thank goodness you're here", he told me, "for a new face may at last learn of our fate." I was quite baffled by his odd mannerisms, yet some sense of morbid curiosity that I've been victim to since my boyhood urged me onwards, and so I spoke to him rather than simply walking past, as many others would be wont to do. He spoke of three ancient forces, whose duty it was to maintain the story of our universe. First, he said, there was the Editor—the force who governed the future—who would take the universe from one "draft" to the next. Next, he told me, was the Archivist—the force who governed the present—who would store the previous "drafts" so that the universe may remember what it was. And then he told me of the third. The Curator, the force of the past. He told me of how she was meant to remove outdated "drafts" for the universe, but went mad and struck her body against the shelves of the Archivist's storage until she all at once shattered, for her body was made of glass, you see.
But Arthur told me that he believed she did not properly die. For, you see, he could not remember his wife's face or name. Nor could anyone else in the town, not even his daughter who was learning to sew from her. In fact, when I brought this up to the lady behind the counter of my inn, she told me that Arthur had never had a wife, and had he not warned me that this would be the only response I'd get, I would have stopped there and left my curiosity behind in West Colgrave when I went back home.
To this day I do not know if it was a gift or a curse that I chose to stay.
As my one-week trip ballooned into two weeks, then three, then a month, then more, I found that my daily routine would be simply to visit Arthur and listen to whatever he had to say that day. Sometimes, food would be brought, by who I do not know. Arthur would address her as "Sweetie", but I never heard a name.
Perhaps I did, once. It is too foggy to know for sure. Even as I write them, the words seem to swirl in my head, as though something were telling me that I should not be writing them. To me this only confirms that I ought to record my experience so that I do not suffer the same fate as that poor faceless woman.
I cannot record everything that Arthur told me in such short time and on such small pages, so please permit me to take a shortcut and summarize. Arthur believed that the Curator secretly lived on, and now devoted herself to plucking people out of the memory of the universe, and as such killing them. I must confess that I found it fantastical at first, but when he asked me to tell him what he looked like when we first met, I could not remember much more than the color of his coat. He told me then that she had taken his wife and was taking his daughter, and that she was preparing to take him next. I do not believe I need to elaborate on why this concerned me so deeply.
Arthur was a peculiar fellow, but I had grown rather close to him over the short time we had together. Yet despite our many enjoyable evenings discussing the cosmos by his fireplace, I am only able to remember his name by my travel journal, and when I go to think of his handsome face, I am horrified to find that I do not even remember the color of his eyes.
It is these factors that lead me to believe that a man I loved so dearly has met with an untimely and supernatural fate. And that is why I write this letter. You see, Arthur had a theory about the Curator's modus operandi. He believed that she would take someone, then begin taking the people who knew that person, then the people who knew those people, and so on and so forth. My dear friends have long since stopped writing to me, but today I found that the bank had closed my account because they could not remember anyone with my name ever opening an account there, and all of the transaction records had been misplaced.
To put it simply, dear reader, I am being taken just as Arthur and his family were. It is with a heavy heart and no small amount of regret that I place this burden from my shoulders onto yours, but the fact of the matter is that I do not have much longer before I cease to exist altogether. I urge you to continue my work, and find others who know of this greater being and the conspiracy surrounding her. Maybe one day, you will find the Curator and confront her.
And if you do, please tell her that you are there because of Arthur Jennings and myself.
my grandma: at graduation, it always seems like the people who it's a miracle they got through high school get the most applause. (she was judging them based on looks and my mom called her out for this) we're gonna break the cycle for you, we're gonna cheer so loud everyone will hear us.
me, who graduated with no grade higher than a C-: haha yeah. *smiles nervously*
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
text: [ “Some of you have forgotten that only three years ago you were perfectly capable of writing an essay, writing a eulogy, telling a bedtime story to a child, and it should worry you that powerful companies have convinced us we can’t do things we’ve been doing for 5000 years.” ]
Hey I want to try a challenge: Someone give me a colour that one absoutely could not use as a skin tone.
Pure black (#000000), pure white (#ffffff) or colors on full turbo saturation are too easy (for you), but other than that, feel free to get as creative as you can in bullying me.
The other night husband and I were watching a documentary about the yeti where they were doing DNA analysis of samples of supposed yeti fur, and every one of them came back as bears.
Anyway, the next night we watched a thing about some pig man who is supposed to live in Vermont. People said it had claws and a pig nose but walked upright like a man. Now, I happen to know that sideshows used to shave bears and present them as pig men. So every piece of evidence they gave of this monster sounds to me like a bear with mange.
So now the running joke in our house is that everything is bears. Aliens? Bears. Loch Ness monster? Bear. Every cryptozoological mystery is just a very crafty bear.
Bears. They’re everywhere. Be wary. Anyone or anything could be a bear.
As the OP of this post, I’m going to threaten that if this gets to one million notes by the 10 year anniversary on 1 June 2026, one year from today, I will get a lower back tattoo of the loch ness bear monster.
i get that when something is made with Human Leather, it's usually a way to showcase how evil and twisted it is, but why does that always equate to haphazard stitching and discernible parts (i.e. book made of human skin with an eyeball and/or ear on the cover)?
why can't the Evil Artifact Made By Bad People be meticulously crafted and beautiful to captivate people into its dark embrace?
why do human books always use the face?
anyways consider this when you're designing your Evil Grimoire Of Badness
Contrary to popular belief the biggest beginner's roadblock to art isn't even technical skill it's frustration tolerance, especially in the age of social media. It hurts and the frustration is endless but you must build the frustration tolerance equivalent to a roach's capacity to survive a nuclear explosion. That's how you build on the technical skill. Throw that "won't even start because I'm afraid it won't be perfect" shit out the window. Just do it. Just start. Good luck.
Tag game reblog this and put Baby’s First Blorbo in the tags like who was the first Character to move into your head and live there back when you were still figuring out how to tie your shoes
