#spillage

[crushing-pyts]

[todayontumblr]

Thursday, January 4.

Existential Ben Affleck.

Well it's January 4, after all—indeed it cannot be anything else. And nothing quite distills the suffocating existential weight quite like another image of Ben Affleck trying, and failing, to carry out the most menial tasks of the day. There is a little Ben Affleck in all of us.   So once you're done staring at the sad, widening pool of coffee at your feet, come celebrate this gaping abyss of a month with a series of Affleck-inspired gazes into the void.

@batfleckgifs

[vortexanomaly]

how do you close this thing?...

[giftofgabber]

*banjo acoustic guitar rhythm* the padfamily pads go wild, they’ve gone wild, trust me you will not believe it. If this is a prank my damn head will roll, blood and mud in a spillage

[captainbanana365]

Hilli, so l'm a newbie trans man in need of some advice on binding!

I'm a 36 C cup and I have a hard time with getting my breasts to STAY in the binder. They keep coming out the top and just giving me an oddly placed "uniboob" :(

Does anyone have any advice, recommendations, or alternative binding methods? Literally ANYTHING helps!

(I also posted this in queer to the core lol)

[theblvcksupreme]

[sirartwork]

a small selection of things that activate my neurons

[its-toasted]

Icarus shit

He's falling in love in a vacuum. Chasing her as light, but a few night-years late and now he's just wasting soul, as in dripping for show, or tripping-on-nothing controlled. Mistaking information for intimacy (on purpose): a boy shadowboxes, dreamfights in myth. Rekindling rhythm and flow. Like sharpen the ship, emcee into stone, all give-and-go with it. A beatwriter sipping slow again, swinging bitters as the wild must sleep. A gonzo dropping heat in suburbia, with that weakness for shade. Or derelict liminal spaces with enough left to lose. And he adores Baltimore but would never live there. He loved Chicago but couldn't stay. His whole history is still four lefts out, a soft and crooked angle down a farm road, wide as cali kings. No one is a phone call away. So he taps instead of talks, since idle hands are sins of satan flaunting. Everything he writes is by green or for green or both, a warmup for the speech he may never tell his brother at his wedding. He already knows. It might be for the best. He's not scared of skying, or falling, he's owned it. Flight is a hunt we both let go of. There are two years of blueprints for new wings in a crate in a chest in a hand of a stranger with not enough to give. But a lot left to say. And it's all the same to him. Forsaking sins of his faces, infamously.