Meet me! (This is a threat)
Finally made a meet the artist, Iâve been wanting to do one for literal years but never felt relevant enough, lmao.
Mike Driver
Acquired Stardust
d e v o n

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I'd rather be in outer space đž
Keni
YOU ARE THE REASON
Game of Thrones Daily
art blog(derogatory)

ç„æ„ / Permanent Vacation

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Today's Document
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
Cosimo Galluzzi

⣠Chile in a Photography âŁ
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year

ellievsbear
Peter Solarz

seen from Malaysia
seen from TĂŒrkiye

seen from Kuwait

seen from Malaysia

seen from Malaysia

seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Canada
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@deepseapotato
Meet me! (This is a threat)
Finally made a meet the artist, Iâve been wanting to do one for literal years but never felt relevant enough, lmao.
In honor of his anime debut gaslighting us for good.
(Before we move on to the horrors)
Anime Dad Support Group.
Gained a bunch of weight and got sad that this specific outfit won't fit me anymore, so I put it on an OC instead.
"Watch Witch Hat Atelier, it has gorgeous visuals" And the visuals are just the father I never had.
(Posting because I'll probably never finish this)
Revisiting Dorsamon + yet unnamed human partner.
I have once again changed this kid's design, it will never be final.
'ShootAround,' a webcomic about a zombie attack, will be made into live-action feature from Lion Forge Entertainment and Webtoon Productions
MFW. BIG NEWS. AUAUGUHU. I'm gonna let the article speak for itself. I rambled about it a bit over on Patreon but for now I need to like, lie down for a moment. AND EAT SOME CELEBRATORY TREATS!!!
SCREAMING VCRYING HOWLING AT THE MOON SHOOTAROUND IS GETTING A MOVIE EVERYONE READ SHOOTAROUND IMMEDIATELY!!!!!
Y'all if you're American please email your politicians and senators against the parents decide act. I'm fucking begging because we're reaching a tipping point.
Quick and easy link to both find your congressmen/women and giving you a quick and easy way to copy / paste the message into it. You want to oppose. It's an act that will demand that all major OS makers integrate a direct forced age verification control into all OS.
I received a comment on this that I figured would be very helpful- it's a template for communicating with your representatives. Be sure to use it for reference
Dear Representative [Name],
I am writing to express my strong opposition to H.R. 8250 (The "Parents Decide Act"). As your constituent and a concerned citizen, I believe this bill introduces unprecedented risks to digital privacy and security.
Specifically, I am alarmed by:
SEC. 2(a)(1)(B): Requiring age verification to even use an operating system creates a mandatory "hardware lockout" that ends anonymous computing and forces users to hand over sensitive identification data to major corporations just to power on their devices.
SEC. 2(a)(3): Mandating that OS providers create a system for all app developers to access verification data is a massive security vulnerability. This effectively creates a centralized API of user identities accessible to thousands of third-party developers, many of whom may lack adequate data protection.
This bill does not protect children; it creates a centralized surveillance infrastructure at the OS level. I urge you to protect the privacy of your constituents and vote NO on H.R. 8250.
Sincerely,
[Your Name]
[Your Zip Code]
This is a hell that us down under in Australia are already living in, and itâs not even effective at what it claims to do in protecting children.
Given that, in the wake of this mandatory identification policy, my country seems to be moving to hand over its citizens biometric data, like fingerprints, Face ID files, and identification documents, over to the USA and to ICE to maintain the visa free travel (ESTA) we have, I strongly urge any US resident to send these emails, or make calls.
But if you canât do that, the most powerful thing you can do is spread the word. Tell your friends, family, coworkers, anyone who can help.
My reach will likely be small, and so I donât know if this will mean very much in the grand scheme of things, but I cannot stand to see this tracking happen to another population as it did to mine.
And if you think it wonât affect you, it will. All anonymity goes out the window when your accounts can be linked via your personal ID
I wish you all luck in preventing this act from going through.
Curious children who try to sneak a look at the Wild Hunter are usually robbed of their sight.
OC concept: Wild Hunter
Ever since my little fixation on the wild hunt has started, I've been wanting to create some sort of terrifying woman.
(Part of my fairytale/folktale OCs)
abomination and jester wip experimenting w a sketch coloring technique
in complete honesty, a big part of why i dont post consistently is because i hate tagging. oh? you have to do a thing before posting? then it wont get done.
anyways, like a normal person, i decided the best solution to this was to create my own tumblr tag generator per topic/character so i'd just need to input whats in my art and paste it/add my tag comments. of course
it originally was just going to be the community-determined default tags, but i got curious about the "tag followers" features and started logging those too. i checked the tumblr api but unfortunately it seems that tag statistics for this aren't available, so this was mainly done by hand using the tag search and "related tags" feature.
what results is an overview of tag collections per community/fandom that gives a general sense of the popularity of certain things. of note, this doesn't actually say anything about the number of people visiting the tag, just how many people follow it.
i think it's interesting, so here's a breakdown of the darkest dungeon tag logging. it contains game title, characters, and (followed) ships as of April 18th, 2026. a list of the most followed tags is also included.
Character Development.
Rabbits
Keep reading
Oc doodles - Esther. Still figuring out how to draw eyepatches.
I was supposed to give a speech to over a thousand people today at a labor rally, but the rally was planned mostly around white union organizers who have not been to ICE recently or maybe ever. I say this because they planned this as follows: a Rally, with a march to ICE, followed by a second half of a Rally, the second half of which was to include my speech, which seemingly was the only speech to include a Salvadoran migrant speaker.
I was not originally invited to speak, but heard last minute that someone else had fallen ill and was giving up their slot, and begged white organizers through the grape vine to let me speak as a Salvadoran migrant and union steward who came to the US at age 7.
I have long been soured of going to so many rallies and felt alienated that they were allegedly for or about my people, but that no one had thought people /like/ me exist - we are still here! There are migrants in your work spaces and neighborhoods and organizations, we have stories and labor songs and speeches to share, we are marxists and labor organizers and have reasons to speak out too.
But seldom if ever do you hear our music or faces or voices near the banners. Instead of Tigres Del Norte we heard Bella Ciao, and none of the singers knew the Italian words or bothered to even translate them, so they sang nanananananana, instead of the powerful lyrics that maybe meant something once to someone somewhere. Instead of Somos MĂĄs Americanos we heard Donât Worry, Be Happy.
Instead of a Salvadoran woman who wanted to speak to the American union workers about the Banana workers unions, we heard from a dozen white people about democracy, and justice, and the constitution, and no one was warned about what would happen if they marched down the street from the park to the ICE facility. They fully expected everyone to come back and complete the second half of the rally.
Instead, marchers with their dogs and children were tear-gassed to hell and back the second they dared get close to the facility, maybe at best 1/3rd of the marchers returned while the rest were bottlenecked towards ICE. There was little to no water to treat the untrained protestors. I returned to the rally quickly realizing I could not get caught up at ICE, knowing who I am and what awaits me.
When I got back a chorus of smiling white faces sang a silly song like a Christmas carol with their heads bobbling, reading the lyrics from some handed out papers. White people with upside down flags cheered. Then a black woman in overalls abruptly got on the mic and said âWell thank you everyone but we have to close the program early because people are getting tear-gassed, please get home to safety righty away,â - and I swore I couldnât believe my ears.
They had brought us all here, marched all these people down to the ICE facility, and expected us all to march back without encountering teargas? And then when some people had made it back they had them sing a little jingle but turned the one migrant away? I begged them to let me speak for the three minutes I had allotted, noting that I had put myself in serious danger to come out here today. That I needed to be heard just this once, and that all the white people had their fair turn to say many unrelated things, and to sing many unrelated songs.
She said, âyou donât understand, there are children down here,â and I had to say âyou donât understand, there are children in the camps.â
And she tried again, âyes but the gas is spreading,â and I said âyes we have been down here being gassed for six months, donât you understand?â
She blinked twice and told me they just had to break down. I watched from the sidelines as they continued to blare Caribbean Blue and smooth jazz while people filtered out, stood around talking, chatting - finally I said, âplease let me speak, you still have speakers going, itâs been 20 minutes,â and the DJ, a white elderly man in a sweater vest who had a strict âonly the classicsâ policy that seems to actually mean âno hip hop and no curse words,â - barked at me that he had to break down and to help him take down his canopy. I am no maid, so I did not listen. He then turned to my comrades and told them to take his canopy down, which they did not. Then turned to his two other labor organizers who were not paying attention, and they took a leg of the canopy and moved it somewhere without breaking it down.
And one looked at me and said quietly, âitâs okay, take that bullhorn no one will notice,â and we took it and ran.
And we ran to a firetruck which I climbed, and I gave the speech, which was in fact more than 3 minutes, sorry not sorry, to a crowd of workers who were slowly pouring out from the ice facility, some stopping, some going, some who heard me, some who didnât. And I gave it there and it was the only speech most of these people will ever hear from a migrant in all of this, and I think that is tragic. But I firmly believe that had I not given it, had I not climbed the truck, had I not taken the mic, some people would have never heard this story at all. And I think very much you should hear it. And I hope you will share it, if you have the chance. And I hope I get to tell it again, someday, to people who actually listen, to the masses who came to actually support immigrants, and not just to the dredges after theyâve been gassed and are running for shelter while Iâm coughing myself.
This is what I had to say.
Transcribed for accessibility + added links for context, but please still watch/listen to the speech if possible. A live speech really resonates. Begin transcription.
Olivia: I came to the United States when I was 7 years old. And I became a citizen when I was 20. But I am on this stage to ask: if you will give me 3 minutes of your time, *cough* I will give you 300 years of American History that has been taken from you.
There are five crops that changed the world as we know it. Bananas. Coffee. Tobacco. Sugar. And Cotton.
First grown by slaves in the New World, these crops all happened to also grow in a little bean-shaped country that my parents lived in near the Caribbean called Cuzcatlan, âThe Land of Precious Things.â It would be renamed El Salvador in the 1800âs.Â
But the precious things remained after the name changed. And the people were captured, and they were forced to work for pennies on the dollar to dredge the precious things from the soil, and the sea, and the mountains, and the sand. Cuzcatlan was not precious just to us, you see. It was coveted by the Americans. And once they saw our jewels, they would never be satisfied again.Â
The people suffered. And how we suffered! Dying in the fields, raped by their masters, buried in the shining black volcanic sands, their blood fertilizing the crops.
Of Bananas. Coffee. Sugar. Cotton. And Tobacco.
Until one day, the people of Cuzcatlan said, âWe can bear it no more.â And they broke their shovels in half, and they plunged the stems into their masters, and they rode through the streets on their mastersâ Spanish horses, and they cried out that Cuzcatlan would no longer belong to the American companies that demanded their precious things without paying precious prices. Perhaps, soon, those business leaders would learn to negotiate for the labor and crops they so needed.
And the Americans? The Americans could not stand it! They would not abide such a story be told. And so you never heard it! The American companies, and all of their corporate masters came down on Cuzcatlan, with a fury seldom seen before. They killed everyone.
Instead, you heard a story about âCommunistsâ and âTerroristsâ in Central America, spreading a disease that would destroy your country and families. You heard a story that we have no good will towards you. That we wanted you to starve, that we were lazy, and formed gangs, and were lawless, and wore weapons to sell you drugs and fund terrorism.Â
But you never heard the story of Cuzcatlan, because it was a sad story, and sad stories do not sell fruit, and coffee, and cigarettes!
No, they came to my country, and they wiped out entire villages. The Archbishop, Don Remar - er, Don Romero, himself, was shot by the military during his Sunday Mass, for having dared to wonder whether the workers deserved some mercy. Assassinated for having dared to wonder, and he was left bleeding on the pulpit, even as worshippers bowed their heads.Â
EVERYBODY was KILLED.Â
EVERYBODY! The women, with their children still in their arms. Anyone looking for cover; people who found cover, people who didnât. People who worked, and people who had no jobs. Communists. Catholics. Those who didnât know how to read, those who didnât know what labor rights were. Simple folks. Smart folks.Â
And they didnât stop there. They went through the countryside, and they killed everyone they thought was hiding labor organizers or communists sympathizers. Banana union men and women, who they labeled terrorists. And in one village, we still only speak about in whispers, called âEl Mozote.â The Americans tied women and children to trees, and they threw their babies in the air, and they shot them. Everyone was killed, to send one message, and that is: âA union is a threat to the American Empire. Not one union man or woman will hide in your village, or any other. And if you hid one here, now or ever, you will never breathe to hide one again."
And I tell you this because I am you from the future. You and I, all of you, are very much alike. You worked very hard to buy the precious things you have from the ground, the sky, the water, and the aether. You all wrote stories, you filed insurance policies, you taught children, you rung people up, you made sure whatever sorry system they had worked, not because you believed in it, not because you wanted it, but because it was all you could do.Â
And in exchange, they offered you cheap bananas. Coffee. Sugar. Tobacco. Bananas.
But I will tell you a secret. They were never cheap. They were precious. And so are you.Â
And they stole you, and they stole us, and they stole it all, and they told you: if you look the other way, you get to be satisfied and at least well-fed. But who can afford the luxuries of cigarettes or vapes or groceries anymore? Even that is being taken from you. And even if you have them, your food or your small pleasures wonât satisfy you. Not more than knowing the truth about Cuzcatlan, not more than knowing the truth about El Salvador. Today, where our precious land once stood, they built a concentration camp called CECOT. And not just for our precious things, our people, but yours. Your citizens, your dissenters, your unwanted disappeared into the hole that America built.Â
And what will we do when they start building incinerators at the camps? What will you do when they open up mass graves?Â
For our people, the most precious gift of all: do not take my warning lightly. The story of Cuzcatlan is not just from the past. It is from the future. The workers face the same enemy, and the enemy never had your interest in mind. From the moment they had you, the plan was to have a worker. From the moment you existed, it was to create another soldier against the people of Cuzcatlan and the rest of the world. You were a commodity to them.Â
But we have written you a new future. One in which we no longer point guns at each other. One in which our billionaires fear the land of precious people from learning they are no longer precious things.Â
Turn to me now! And tell me you will not forget the last three minutes. You will never again be ignorant of this story. And you will not let it happen here. You will close the camps. You will destroy ICE.
Spectator: Yeah! Olivia: You would rather have seasonal bananas or never see one again than have it covered in blood.Â
Spectators: Thatâs right! Yeah!Â
Olivia: You would rather trade fairly with other union workers than kill your fellow man, wouldnât you?Â
Spectators: Yes! Olivia: Tell me you love me, and that our fates are tied! Tell me youâll stop them from dragging me down from this place, and Iâll never let them do to you what they did to us. I promise. El pueblo unidoâŠ
Spectator: JAMĂS SERĂ VENCIDO!
Olivia: Nunca serĂĄ vencido. Amen.
End Transcription.
It means a lot to me, that someone wrote down this speech for me, that I in the middle of the night wrote for as a love letter to the American labor movement.
I know I stuttered a bit, as I had just been gassed, as it took place not but 400 feet maybe from the Portland ICE facility.
One correction among many tiny ones:
âYou worked very hard to /ply/ the precious things you have from the ground, the sky, the water, and the aether.â - And that work, it is very precious.
May the message make it to you all regardless.
May I hog your attention? đđ