𐙚 Chrisie 𐙚

just a kid :D (a grown woman)

[lilichrisie]

New video about slime knight!!!!

[weirdo-offical]

guys guys guys

its 666 day

6/6/26

AND its pride month

we are the strongest

time to kill god.

[i-promise-i-am-not-on-drugs]

Person with the janka sign at the pride parade yesterday, I love you

[nonaferatu]

people hate it when i say "black people getting cancer is racist" but im literally fucking right because systemic racism has led to chemical dumping being acceptable in black/brown neighborhoods and black people have higher rates of cancer as a result

[queer-as-in-fuck-12]

drug addicts deserve housing, food, water, and healthcare btw

[formerlyluckymanticore]

Reblog if you will never. Ever. Use AI in your writing.

[the-irreverend]

And stay safe everyone!

[deepintoforestwego]

Mokosh

The home welcomes you.

This isn’t your house, but it is your home. It is everybody’s home, in a sense, but here and now it is yours, it belongs to you, it welcomes and guards and loves you, it tells you that here you can rest, that you can trust it, here you are to grow and be cared for.

So you wander through corridors made of memories and mist, a patchwork world of all places you hold dear, through great woods and mountains of your childhood, from cities your wife took you to, through rooms that belonged to friends of your youth, to mirages of houses that you have never seen before, but that will one day be yours. And so you walk forward, following sound of your uncle’s lullabies, your mother-in-law’s laughter, your godmother’s jokes.

She awaits you inside, in place that is hearth of each home and family, built upon love and made of trust, place where you walk on ground of softest clay and breathe in moist autumn air, smelling like harvest after rain. Great tables lay out, piled with food upon food, with cauldrons and stoves, with butter churns and fridges at sides. A hearth burns in center, as soft as stars in summer, as strong as core of Earth. You want to leap across threshold, to squeal with joy, driven by some great nostalgia that burrows in your soul, to greet and enjoy and dream in this place that ancestors of your ancestors forgot.

Her visage may have surprised some, though it makes absolute sense to you. She seems common, seems simple and lowly and boring. Not at all form some would expect from power like her, not a face they would carve or paint for their temples and altars. She doesn’t seem impossibly beautiful, doesn’t seem grand or frightening or young-because why should she, when she is a mother, has been one since life came to be, shaped and guided by her hand? There are wrinkles upon her, and rolling fat, and hair on her body, there are freckles and beauty marks and crooked teeth, there is rough and raw, cracking skin on her ankles. She is guardian of mothers and children, of family and that love that is so necessary for humans, so of course she looks like one, of course she is a woman and real and human.

She looks familiar above all. There is some energy to her, some warmth and kindness that makes you feel as if you stood on solid earth for first time in months, as if you drunk for first time after centuries. Something in your chest tugs you to her, who has loved and cherished and guarded you since before you came to be (not that it means she won’t admonish you, teach you, curse you, banish you if you deserve so, but she will still mourn for you). For moment you almost can remember, almost recall being that first live thing her primordial power brought in world, can feel what it was like when there were no humans and no mothers, just you and her, your demiurge and caretaker. In her face you see your own mother, so long dead, and aunts and grandparents and even father, you see your mothers-in-law and yourself, far off in future when you are ready for that, you see all deserving mothers of world, so often overlooked and forgotten ( all but one, though she bore son, though she loves him so so much, though she is of waters, for there is nothing soft and warm in her, for she came in world hungry and wanting and alone and waiting for reason to wear mourning veil, whom not even this force could hold or punish or count as her own), their crucial work so undervalued and unremarked, their sacrifices and plights forgotten, but there is always future to fix that. she trusts in you for that.

Her hands, thick and strong and protective, are covered in all manners of clothing, shifting with each blink, for mothers have lives and likes and styles  of their own, and are covered in flour and sugar and salt and ground marble. There is apron around her wide hips, and in it are brooms and medicines, books and spinning wheels,shears and poisons, blades and charms, all things woman might need in her life. Her hair falls far down her back, and it seems like rough, wet wool, like still not finished weaving, of all colours and styles. She changes size, race, posture, age, from dying matron to scared little girl, and it seems all things from winter to spring flow from her ( in moments she seems to become even animals, most commonly sheep). She seems to meld in world, to arise from earth and water without clearly defined borders separating them, almost as if she is extension of them, just a mask and name for something far older and wider.

Some wouldn’t call her powerful. They are fools, and just proof of her might. For her is subtle, passive power, invisible and necessary above all, gripping and holding all. Hers was power men called upon at their most desperate hour, when they were at their weakest. Her was power that length strength to young and new things, so that they might survive and become something else, something great and new and beautiful, so they might choose and be people, and remember that lesson, for nobody could live without others. Hers was power of protection and care and creation, power to beget and begin, power whose apathy was more fearsome then it’s rage, power that guided fate.

‘‘Come.’‘ She says, doesn’t order, even if she had every right, because she doesn’t need to, because you chose this, again and again, and you come into her embrace, as great as mountains, as soft and warm as hide of sheep, as refreshing as favourite ice cream bought by smiling mother in August,  and you smile, smile,  for there is no monster and no nightmare that can stand against what you devoted yourself to, against She who accepted you.

[sapphireh3arts]

i know folks are gonna call me a pedo for this one, but i grew up seeing my mom and grandma naked. they had health issues and at times needed care and help showering. and i truly think more kids need to be shown the nonsexual reality of naked women at a young age. there is nothing sexual about my grandmothers breasts, they were simply body parts. more women die of heart attacks because people are too afraid of breasts to do real chest compressions, because they are scared to touch their breasts. the sexualization of our bodies literally kills us. i need people to be more normal about naked bodies and i'm 100% serious.

[reasons-to-not-end-it]

REASONS TO NOT END IT:

"if you're queer, stay alive purely to spite the ones who want you dead this pride month, if you're an ally, stay alive to support"

-anonymous

#813

[lilichrisie]

BTW GUYS if you want 5% or 10% off some skincare and make up on skincare, PLEASE USE MY LINK OR MY CODE aka CHRISIE100 !!!!

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If you want some specific products i have a series on youtube (of shorts) rewieving them!

Yesstyle skincare and makeup reviews!

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

dropped an embroidery needle on my floor in the dark and couldn't recover it so hopefully a bug is about to use it as a sword and go on some adventures and shit

[p1nk3y33]

People who kill bees genuinely piss me off because why? They don't even want to sting you. I hope someone kills you because you went near them.

[twiggythetwiggers]

Hm…wide kier

[lilichrisie]

[mawofthemagnetar]

What do you mean “chat” is now referring to ChatGPT and not twitch chat? What? What? What the fuck? No?

When I address chat I am speaking to a presumed Greek chorus of real human people shitposting on their lunch break, not a machine that devours lakes to covert electricity into slop.

[synx]