#apr 3

[apolladay]

would you fuck your clone

yes

no

yes under specific circumstances

no except for certain circumstances

maybe idk

other (comment)

my clone is bald (results)

Voting ended onMay 17, 2025

[hey-color-palettes]

Maybe a palette based off of “Wish that you were here” by florence + the machine?? ❤️❤️

e4d2bc || #8b9ea3 || #758983 || #405761 || #364a5a

[vocalsynthbdays]

happy birthday to aiko(synthv) and number bronze(utau) !!!!!!! [apr 3]

aiko

number bronze

number bronze is an utau created, voiced, and illustrated by 鳥我 -trigger. their "date of manufacture" for their human body is 28 June, but seeing as they're separate to their human body I'm counting their release date as their birthday. they were first released in 2015. their gender is listed as "female body". in their real form they're 1108 years old, have a "total length" of 3200m, and have a mass of 45 billion tons. in their humanoid form they're 157cm tall. for what I gathered by Google translating their description from their official website, they're an "environmental maintenance system" which "observes everything and works to maintain an environment appropriate for the development and maintenance of life" aiko is a mandarin Chinese synth first released on 28 Dec 2018, however her character birthday is 3 Apr. she is 16 and 154cm tall. her vp is liang xiao miao, and her illustrator is LAM. she has a maid, digital, preach/ missionary, and performer design. on slide 5 they are in order of preach, digital, them maid. her performer design is used as her synthv design. she is the mascot for Animen digital technology co ltd.

I honestly love number bronze sm OH ALSO i referred to them with they/them pronouns because I couldn't find any official instance of them being referred to with any gendered pronouns (I didn't search very hard though) and "female body" doesn't necessarily mean woman or she/her

[fullcravings]

Nutella Mug Cake

Recipe source: Marsha’s Baking Addiction

Congratulations marshasbakeblog for having the winning submission April 3, 2021!

[color--pals]

could i get a palette based off my blog? thank you :D

i-cannot-remember

[sheerioswifties]

I just wanted to say that I hope you are a doing a bit better today. The fact that you are truly trying to stay positive through all of this darkness is a treasure to behold. You're a wonderful soul, and I thank you for all of the help you are giving others in this time of crisis. I wish it will get returned back to you soon, because you deserve nothing less and even more.

Thank you so, so much for this. I keep reading it when I'm going through hell within hell. Thank you for all your kind words it really means SO much to me! I'm just at a complete lack of words right now how to fully respond besides again big giant thank you!!!! I'm trying

[i-am-rmt]

I shoot my shot, nearly knocked prone by the recoil of the gun. I turn around, seeing my ghost of a chance slipping away from my touch. My fingers, grasping at straws, are clutching my wound. I’m crying out for those faces covered in grief and holding each other, etching touch into skin.

Red hot, the ghosts of bullets burn my skin and at the thought of killing anyone, I recoil. Wounded upon wounded are piling up; mothers, lost in grief, are crying out, thieving last touches, praying for a ghost or spirit to watch over them—clamping the wound and wrapping the skin, craving live touch—

praying to ghosts of ancestors, “Bless us with your touch, bring us health.” Children recoil at ash on their skin and mothers crowd the room, told to stay away—don’t touch the wound, you aren’t doctors—and younger brothers recoil at the sight of so much blood. “Is he becoming a ghost?” he asks, grabbing his mother’s hand, who is consumed in grief.

Does grief consume? Or do we consume grief? A mother comes running through the wounded, if only to touch her boy one more time before he turns to ash and ghost and spirit, blood running out, and blue, cold skin. And the ghosts cry at our feeble understanding, and recoil at our small attempts to thieve death and stop the wound—

I’m watching this unfold, still clutching my own wound. I see blue skin and blue eyes and wet eyes and tears of grief enfolding mothers and brothers-in-arms; there is no disgust or recoil, only grief. Only tears and final glimpses and touch, hoping to etch a memory in mind, a name in skin. I’m watching this unfold, feeling more and more like a ghost.

There’s standing room only (perhaps room for a ghost, a wallflower that’s not yet dead, with a wound not yet bleeding out, but a hefty cut in skin). The room is loud. Louder than the voices is the grief filled tears and sobs, the reaching arms to touch one last time, and the finality of it all makes me recoil.

And I do recoil, perhaps bumping into a ghost, feeling a chill from its touch, eliciting pain from my wound. Or perhaps it’s the grief in the air, finally sinking into my skin.

r/m/t

[the-hidden-will]

happy birthday to moi!! finally 19!