VENT POST

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@jjsbizarreadveyj
VENT POST
Since it's mid-august it's time for a reminder for the DIY folks or those who like to cosplay
It's about that time of year again, and after having this circulate for a year now, it interesting seeing some observations:
Despite making this post in August, this post spikes in brief periods throughout the year, depending on when folks like to start.
Reading all the cool costume projects people are working on
Some of you animals reblog this on November 1st
being able to go to work with hickeys and bite marks on your neck is a human right.
the bosses are allowed creampie while the workers are punished for a simple little hickey. in this essay i will examine sexual politics through the lens of Marxian analysi-
OP, what planet are you from on which it's not MORTIFYING to walk around with visible hickies? Of course that's unprofessional; you're a grown ass man. Grow up!!
I’m an adult woman who likes to do adult things with other adult women. sex is a part of life. grow up.
Your behaviors and opinions are absolutely those of a male. And sex is a part of life that should be kept PRIVATE from the rest of the world, especially in a professional setting where absolutely no one has consented to witnessing your sex life.
women love to eat my pussy
i think it's really funny how twerfs got super mad at this post
Danku lesbiennes!
I really need a comparison to grasp what a feat this is, so here's the Netherlands as they are now. (Image from Google maps)
japanese first person pronouns appeal to me on a pure information conveyance level. you're telling me with just the word "i" i could be communicating that I'm an adult man and an asshole?
Mammal in a Sunday Dress, by Georgina M. Cox, 2026
Mammal in a Sunday Dress explores the uneasy relationship between femininity, civilisation, and the animal body. At first glance, the figure appears modest and withdrawn. Her posture is composed, her gaze seemingly lowered towards her bare feet, recalling the conventions of nineteenth-century portraiture where women were often depicted as passive objects of observation. Yet as the viewer moves closer, the illusion collapses. Her eyes are not lowered at all. She is looking directly back. The delayed eye contact transforms the encounter. The viewer approaches believing they are safely observing a woman; instead, they realise they have been observed themselves. The work refuses the traditional power dynamic of portraiture, denying the comfort of anonymous spectatorship. Looking becomes a reciprocal act. For Cox, the painting considers humanity's persistent desire to separate itself from the rest of the animal kingdom. The title quietly undermines this distinction. A "mammal" is not another creature—it is us. The Sunday dress, rich with cultural associations of femininity, morality, and respectability, becomes an attempt to distinguish ourselves from nature. Yet clothing cannot alter biology. Beneath lace and ritual remains the same vulnerable animal body. The work also reflects on the historical relationship between women and nature. Across art, religion, and philosophy, women have repeatedly been positioned as closer to instinct, emotion, reproduction, and the body itself, while men have been aligned with reason, culture, and civilisation. Mammal in a Sunday Dress does not reject this comparison. Instead, it questions why proximity to nature has so often been treated as something lesser. Chiaroscuro isolates the figure within darkness, allowing the luminous dress to symbolise the performance of civilisation while the bare feet quietly return the body to the earth. Neither is presented as more truthful than the other. The painting exists in the tension between performance and instinct, refinement and biology. Mammal in a Sunday Dress ultimately asks a simple but unsettling question: if every layer of culture were stripped away, what would remain? Not a king. Not a saint. Not a gentleman or a lady. Only another mammal, looking back.
source
Me trying to say something to my partner about some cool fanart I just saw on my dash.
Him: back up back up, what the FUCK is Mouse Effect.
Lizardsex I love you...
The burning question of course is whether everyone is mice, or just the humans. Like are the salarians little frogs or is it Mice and Mice With Blue Tentacles???
sorry im absolutely too floored by the fact you just called me 'lizardsex' to give you an answer
... I see now your name is probably Lizards Exposed and not in fact Lizard Sex Posed.
This exact phenomenon is why there’s now a hyphen in my url.
👏👏👏
So--when I was in my mid-twenties and the Disaster Ex tried to make me kill myself, the local mental hospital didn't have any beds open in the usual ward for attempted suicides.
What they did have was a single spare bed in the small, comfortable, quiet, wildly expensive facility for girls with eating disorders.
They asked each of the young women currently living there if it was acceptable that I might occupy a bed in one of the rooms for a while, just the long weekend while I was waiting for a doctor's evaluation. I hadn't been violent, I had gone with the cops without putting up any fight at all, and I was still and I was small and all those things were sufficient for me to be deemed safe. So up they sent me, to somewhere high in Western Psych, above the smells and sounds of the denser-packed wards, above where the care workers were harried and frustrated, to a gentle space with seven or eight young women in it.
I was five foot three, and I weighed about 115 pounds. I was underweight for my frame, as a fair amount of that weight was martial arts muscle; I would probably have been ten pounds heavier if I were healthy, with the amount of activity I got.
I was at least two inches shorter than pretty much every other young woman there, six or seven inches shorter than one of them, and I had at least thirty pounds on several of them. The tallest was not allowed to walk, she had to sit in a wheelchair and be pushed around, because her condition was so advanced that the motion would undo what good her hard work had done.
And over the course of the four or five days I was there, multiple of them came up to me alone to quietly tell me that I had the *perfect* body, and they wished they could be as skinny as I was. That I needed to live, because I was beautiful, and if they were as beautiful as I was, they wouldn't need to be here.
Their eyes were on me all the time, in the hours that I wasn't sleeping. I spent a lot of time sleeping, and we took our meals separately (I not needing to be monitored while I ate, and not having my food weighed), but we spent a fair amount of time sitting around in the little shared living room space, talking about movies and magazines and books we'd loved, talking about our families. I didn't talk about my family; they didn't pry.
They were all so fucking nice.
And I could have broken any one of them over my narrow knee. They each thought they were bigger than I was.
Their brains lied to them, every time they looked at a mirror. Every time they looked down at their own thighs. What they saw was not what I could see. They had bright, beautiful eyes in dark hollows, and I could count their vertebrae, could see their ribs winging when they breathed, could see the motion of every tendon on the backs of their hands.
They weren't celebrities. They weren't being paid to have particular bodies, nor were they deep in the toxic sea of having strangers take photos of them to sell to gossip rags if they stepped out of doors in old jeans. They had families and loved ones who were doing everything that they could to protect them, to uplift them and help them be healthy. They were just everyday people--a nurse, a couple of students, a couple of recent college grads, a young woman who had decided it was time to really get help because she wanted to be a mother--and still they'd been so injured by the neverending fucking deluge of body-image bullshit that they were dying of it.
That was in 2009. Things are worse now. I think about them still. I hope that they're all right.
And in case some people aren't aware: anorexia is deadly. There is a point at which your body looses the ability to digest food and you are no longer capable of improving.
when a foxgirl unleashes a tinyyy fraction of her true power
cocking her ears to prime a powerful scream
take me to Scot land 🏴😩 and kiss me 💋 on top of the locked nest monster 💘💕😍🦕
they need to invent the opposite of an nda called an fda where u have to tell everyone everything
subpoena
tumblr
alcohol
war thunder forums
you learn something new everyday. unless you're a historian. then you learn something old
This is the first and only time this note preview feature has landed. the faint whisper of mike lurking in the shadows
I like how this post is still going around long after it’s outlived this entire website feature
I love this text post so I drew it
I love this text post so I drew it
the koi in the koi pond waiting for you to feed them the food pebbles
i think about this post at least once a week