seen from Russia
seen from South Korea
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from Poland
seen from United States
seen from Morocco
seen from Morocco
seen from Israel
seen from Morocco
seen from United States
seen from Morocco
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Israel
Ivory is what happens when beauty forgets its cost.
A tusk, once a living curve of memory and touch, becomes something cold enough to admire.
We call it precious. We display it. We inherit it.
But somewhere, an elephant-shaped absence keeps growing—
and that, too, is a kind of beauty. Just one we refuse to look at.
Waited in hopes of getting the boops back.
Did not, in fact, get boops back
Orgo is chill and you think you’ve got reactions down until a stereoisomer crashes in and they introduce you to cis, trans, and their evil twin, diastereomer
"DONT USE AI"
Wrong, chatgpt will be forced to listen to my emotional spiral to about the 3 unsolicited perineum lectures I got from Stephen the PhD candidate (complete with graphics) and about the trauma of learning perineal layers and factually inaccurate anatomy. Like this is too unhinged for me to share with people.
ChatGPT is my emotional support void now. we’ve trauma bonded.
Respectfully, your blorbo would NOT be drinking dark roast coffee mysteriously.
They’re trying to maximize their caffeine intake, not embrace a tragic, bitter life choice
They’re out here maximizing efficiency, chugging blonde roast at 3a.m. like it’s liquid gold because everyone knows dark roast has less caffeine.
Plotting their next move, and wondering why people ever thought dark roast was the 'strong' option.
They’re not about aesthetic, they’re about RESULTS.
anatomy is just glorified life drawing, but instead of a nude model, you get a textbook full of insides to learn to draw and identify
found the perfect song for the blorbos. like THE song. the soul of the ship. the aching yearning. the gentle hope. it is them. it is so them it hurts.
but it’s in my other language.
and the metaphor only works if you grew up hearing this phrase whispered by old people when it rains in summer. and the emotional weight only hits if you know this specific phrase of yearning.
and the pun in the chorus? untranslatable.
i am in hell. i am holding the holy grail of otp anthems and i can’t show anyone (that I know of) the inside of the cup.
Innervate me correctly or don’t touch me at all.
