beloved mutuals, followers, passers by, this year I will be participating in kinktober, which means my blog is about to become a LOT more nsfw. If you're a minor and following me, please unfollow me now. If nsfw (explicit written sexual content) fiction/art makes you uncomfortable, please unfollow, I won't be offended even if we've been mutuals for years: curate your space :3
the kinktober prompt list I'm following has some niche/taboo kinks, although I'm not sure what prompts I'm posting fic for yet the list includes things like non con, cnc, incest, age gaps, age play, and other potentially triggering topics. this is your warning! I believe in writing whatever the hell tickles your fancy- fiction is fiction, and if you consider yourself an "anti" this might not be the blog for you.
normalize being dogshit amateur at your special interests and hyperfocuses. no more autistic savants. yes i am very into that topic no i am not good at it. we exist <3
I keep thinking about getting older, about miseries getting bigger and joys getting smaller. I think to myself at least once a day, man, being an adult is just farming misery, isn't it. We go out into the fields and spread shit and reap shit and get shit and we do it all over again tomorrow. We get up and farm misery and go home to fresh baked bread in the oven. I think that is life. That is growing up. Like a child screaming with a skinned knee, because it's the worst pain he's ever felt. A teenager screaming with a broken leg, it's the worst pain he's ever felt. To an adult screaming with his father who went to bed and never got up again, it's the worst pain he's ever felt. Our miseries get bigger and our joys get smaller. To that child that grew up safe and loved, what is fresh baked bread in the oven? I don't want bread, I want chocolate, I want ice cream, I want pizza. God, everything is so good that joy just scales up until fresh baked bread is an imposition. Then you start shovelling shit. You gain years and collect miseries and inches, you lose until you know exactly what you have left. You go out into the fields every day and farm misery, but my god, bumblebees still exist. Butterflies are still beautiful, just because. There can be fresh baked bread in the oven if you put it there, you can open all the windows in the summer and invite everyone you love to bake bread and break it together, you can keep your joys so small that they come bursting out of your chest at a blue sky and white fluffy clouds and the passenger seat of your best friend's car. Yes, your miseries get bigger, you shake old shit off your shovel that you used to struggle with in a single flick, and you sink that blunt blade into a pile of shit that stinks so bad and piles up so high that you think, my god, what the hell comes after this? But there can be bread in the oven if you put it there. There can be bread in the oven.
Man, this Arkham asylum breakout is fucked. I just saw a man clap his hands together and say "I am at the end of everything, what am I?" and suddenly every door in my wing blew off it's hinges. Batman didnt even go after him, that's how common this shit is. I'm over here lunging and slashing at guards with a filed down plastic spoon and trying not to stare at nightwing's ass. I think I just heard manic laughter two groups over. I gotta get the fuck outta here.
