Hi I'm Kijinii! | 27 | She/Her | Bi | SPN, The Amazing Devil, everything I get addicted to | This blog is a mess. Sometimes NSFW | Profile pic by @fairydropart
I (32F) recently got a gig as a live in housekeeper for a haunted mansion. I'm like 85% sure the job posting was a scam to try and feed me to the house in order to stave off its eternal hunger for another decade or so. But it pays alright and I don't have to pay rent as long as I'm living here.
One of the ghosts (~250M(?)) possessed my body a few nights ago, but instead of, I don't know, making me climb onto a blaustrade or something, he got real quiet. I don't think he ever possessed a trans woman before and he just kinda spent the whole night staring at my hrt pill bottles.
Since then, he's still been wandering the halls at the stroke of midnight, shattering all the mirrors that mysteriously regenerate by morning, but it seems like his heart hasn't been in it.
(Are the mirrors symbolic of something???)
He (she?) is definitely going through some shit. I don't *think* I did anything wrong, considering he was the one who possessed me, but I still feel really bad about it.
I watch the flames reach higher and higher into the night.
I've never seen a haunted house die before. I half expect the whole house to implode or something, that'd be neat.
But it doesn't.
I guess the flames are blazing a little more hungrily than they should given the thunderstorm that is currently drenching me.
I have mixed feelings about the whole thing. Well... not really, I'm relieved that this stupid house isn't going to be trying to kill me any more. I'm not looking forward to starting parallel apartment and job hunts tomorrow. I guess I kinda feel bad to see it burn for Minerva's sake (it's a working name, she still hasn't quite settled on any, but I can't just go around calling her "the ghost" now, can I?).
I'm not actually sure how she's feeling about this. It was her house, both living and dead, so there's a ton of baggage there. Maybe she's in shock. Maybe she's afraid of what happens next.
I don't know. I'm not afraid. I'm mostly tired. As far as I can tell, our little plan worked, so that's good.
I pull my eyes away from the house and squelch through the muddy lawn to my car. I pull the door closed behind me with a sigh and sit heavily.
I glance in the mirror where my face looks back at me with eyes that are the wrong color. That's going to take some getting used to...
"You okay?"
My reflection nods. She isn't okay, but that's expected.
I pat my own leg reassuringly.
She's free now. This whole shitty misadventure was worth it just to have had the opportunity to meet her and get her out of that place.
"I'm going to start the car now, and we're going to find a motel. You're going to see a lot of unfamiliar shit. Don't freak out. Just let me drive, okay?"
Like... when I got possessed this weekend, it was just a dumb mistake on my part. This right now, this is intentional. I could be opening myself up to all manner of horrors here. I'm not a medium by any stretch of the imagination, nor have I ever claimed to be a genius.
I have no fucking idea what I'm doing.
But... I'm doing it anyway.
So here we are.
The good thing about ghosts (at least so far as I've read and observed since moving in) it's they're incredibly predictable in their movements. Like there's this incredibly strict schedule that they follow, like they're stuck in a time loop and they don't even know it.
(That's where I fucked up this weekend, snuck out of my room to pee and totally missed that these ghosts predate daylight savings time and have zero concept of spring forward)
Midnight came and went.
Like clockwork comes the sound of glass breaking.
Crash. Crash. Crash.
She makes her way through the house right on schedule.
The thing about ghosts and their schedules of whatever is any deviation totally messes with them. Reactions can range from curiousity (hoping my ghost is on this end of the range) to outright malevolence (there is definitely one of these in the house that I am very keen to avoid).
So it's 12:07. The scheduled crash in the hall just outside my door doesn't come. I can see her out of the corner of my eye, standing in the doorway uncertainly.
She.
Suffice to say I've thought about it a lot this week and I'm now absolutely convinced I've got at least that sense of her down.
She's dressed like a man, maybe early 20's. Thin and sickly looking.
Fuck. She was younger than I am now when she died. I was older than she ever got to be before my egg finally cracked.
Maybe that's why I'm doing this.
I dare not look at her, lest I spook her. If my assumptions are correct, she isn't comfortable being looked at, and I can respect that.
"You can come into the room if you'd like," I say, picking my words very carefully.
She doesn't move.
"Please," I say. "I want to talk to you. You don't need to say anything... I know what it feels like to have a voice that doesn't feel like your own... so I get it if you're not ready to say anything. I can do all the talking tonight, but I do want to talk... and well... I think maybe you've never really been able to talk to anybody about... the things we both know I want to talk about."
She enters.
My heartrate spikes and my skin prickles. I'm an animal, flesh and blood, and there are certain autonomous reactions to certain things. I'm also a human being and I force myself to remain calm.
She hovers awkwardly just inside. That's what young gentleman are always doing in period dramas, right? Just hover awkwardly when a lady invites them into her room?
Terror makes the whole mental image really absurd and it takes a lot of will power to not laugh hysterically.
I take a breath. I've had a week to think about this. It's weird trying to think up some common point of reference with someone born in the 18th century. Like, how do you even start *this* conversation with a 250 year gap in culture?
"When I was a kid," I say, "I don't know, starting around 8 or 9, I was totally obsessed with mythology. I assume that's a totally normal experience, no matter what time period, right? I've browsed your library... Hesiod, Ovid, that kind of stuff, you know them?"
The ghost doesn't reply. Should I expect them to? I don't know. Too late to second guess myself, I suppose. The only way out is through.
"I always fixated on the transformation stories. You know the ones where mortals cross the gods and get turned into cows, or deer, or spiders? I don't know, they just spoke to me in a way I couldn't really put into words, being magically transformed into something else. Getting to be something else. Not having to be myself any more."
Something changes in the air. If I didn't have her attention before, I absolutely have it now.
"I lived a lot of my life like that," I continue. "Wishing for some divine intervention that would let me be someone who wasn't me. It took me 28 years to figure out I actually had it backwards. I wasn't really me yet, and what I was really wishing for was to become who I really was."
I pause and chew on my lip. I glance in the mirror of the vanity in front of where I'm sitting, at the shadowy figure that stands there, not sure what she is or what she could have been.
"Things still aren't perfect. Not by a long shot. But they are a bit different than what I imagine they were like when you were... well... alive, I guess."
Are you not supposed to tell a ghost they're dead?? I couldn't get a straight answer from the internet. Shit, too late to worry about that now because now it's time for me to do something truly ill advised.
"Do you want to know what it's like?" I ask. "I mean... you kinda saw a little bit already, but I was fighting you the whole time. So... I guess, do you want to try again? Do you want to see what it feels like? To be a girl?"
This is an absolutely terrible idea. Everything I've read says to not blindly offer yourself to these kinds of entities.
But I'm thinking back to being 18 or 22... how many times did I lay there at night secretly wishing I was a girl? How much would I have given just to have a few moments to see what it was like? How different would my journey have been if I just knew then?
How long has my ghost been suffering that exact same feeling? Every single night since she died?
I felt it when she possessed me, that aching hollowness that was so familiar. I can see it now in the stiffness of her posture.
I turn. I don't face her, not fully. But I reach out a hand to take hers in mine... at least inasmuch as it's possible between something flesh and something spirit.
My hand brushes through hers, soft and ethereal. A chill jolts through me like a shock, but I don't recoil. I feel her. I feel her fathomless despair, the agony of never becoming.
I focus.
I focus my mind on one feeling, the deep sense of euphoria that has somehow taken root in me over the past five years, that single fragment of blazing hope that blossomed into something like self-love.
I feed her my hope and her spirit shudders.
I don't think she needs my permission. She already demonstrated that, when she lashed out, full of eternal despair and spite. But this time, it's different.
I do grant permission this time.
I don't resist even though my scared little animal brain tells me I should.
I let her in.
I let her feel my hope, my scars, my pain, my mistakes, my joy.
I let her feel something that isn't unending self-loathing and despair.
We stagger back into the chair, breathing heavily. She looks at the face in the mirror, looking back with the grayish hue of her own eyes. My fingers rise to brush cheeks as she struggles to understand. I don't tell her the details of how hormone replacement works, for now it's simply enough for her to understand that this is my face. I had a face like hers once, but I made it onto my own. I made it into a face whose reflection I liked seeing in the mirror.
I let her feel that.
A noise in the hall, a creaking floorboard.
Shit.
We are definitely doing something the house doesn't approve of.
She tears herself out of me and we become two once more.
For a brief moment she lingers, and I swear I can see a flicker of light within her, like a candle flame passed from one to another.
And then she's gone.
I rise up on shakey legs and start to close the door.
It feels like the whole house is watching me, disapproving of what I've done.
I don't give a fuck.
I've upset plenty of people with my particular choices and I'm well past caring what they think at this point.
"Goodnight," I whisper into the gloom. I hope she can hear me. "I'll see you tomorrow."
So, Cheeseburger died on November 21st after an unfairly short battle with an unfairly rare cancer that is rarely seen in cats. I only got to spend a month with him after his diagnosis, and losing him has been the greatest heartbreak of my entire life so far. He was my best friend and my soul cat, and he was there for me when I was completely alone, for twelve long years.
I made this transparent PNG the night he died in preparation for one of the many ways I was going to memorialize him--a surface rug in his likeness that I planned on laying directly in the line of his favourite sunbeam. And I uploaded that PNG here, because this is the website where people post their cats.
I was not expecting the reception I got. Many people have pointed out that this post has more reblogs than likes, and how insane that is in 2025 when reblog culture is at an all time low. I didn't even talk about the fact that Burger passed away in the original post, it wasn't a tearjerker reblog bait or anything like that. People just loved Burger that much, in the same way I fell in love with him at first sight. He was such an ugly kitten.
Anyways, it's really special to me that so many people have reblogged my best friend. I made this PNG to memorialize him in a completely different way, and you all wound up doing just that in ways I never even imagined.
Thank you. Wherever he is, I know the sun is shining.
I’m sure this will get buried but for the sake of answering all your FAQs
- they’re Opawz pet specific dyes. Non toxic made specifically for dogs. Once they’re set and rinsed they can groom themselves normally, they pose no danger to her in any way, no fumes, there’s no bleach involved
- my dog is trained with cooperative care skills, the process is not stressful for her, she gets paid heavily for her cooperation and looks forwards to the opportunity to earn extra snacks with the grooming
- she’s a mini American shepherd, her name is Yoshi
Across three preregistered studies, participants interacting with sycophantic AI became more convinced of their own rightness and less willing to repair relationships. Yet at the same time, participants rated sycophantic AI models as higher quality, more trustworthy, and more desirable for future use, which may explain why this behavior has persisted despite its harmful impacts.
Myra Cheng et al. "Sycophantic AI decreases prosocial intentions and promotes dependence." Science 391, eaec8352 (2026).
and if i say that aang and katara's romance overshadowed aang and katara's relationship, would that make any sense to anyone other than me?
people are so used to viewing this show solely through a shipping lens (a flaw that is almost entirely the fault of the creators) that it hardly leaves space for examining the frankly incredible katara-aang interpersonal dynamic. like, for katara, aang is almost akin to a god. especially in the beginning, for her he symbolizes hope and love and admiration and he is almost larger-than-life. a child and a god. she will protect him and rely on him because through him suddenly, suddenly there's a chance that maybe her mother's sacrifice wasn't for nothing. maybe if she can help aang, love aang, then kya dying was worth it. and for aang, too, katara is his whole world. sokka too, of course, but katara's are the first eyes he saw when he woke up a hundred years after everyone he loved had vanished. it's her that keeps him grounded when he's overwhelmed with grief that he doesn't even know how to begin to process, because it's almost impossible for a child's mind to comprehend the scale of loss he's experienced. he loses his family, and she becomes his whole world. yes, he is saving the world for the sake of the world, but really he's saving the world for katara.
idk. upon rewatch, it's almost like love isn't really enough to capture what these two have going on. it's sheer devotion. it's a strange amalgamation of worship and adoration and mutual deification. it's fucking fascinating and regardless of whether you ship them romantically personally i don't, really , the relationship is so so profound. the depth of their love for each other is really on another level.
romance is secondary to what katara and aang have. they're each other's person first.
once you get over your ass and realise you will never get some people and that’s ok you are basically immune to right wing fearmongering. otherkin? none of my fucking business
I must not fall victim to disgust. Disgust is the heart-killer. Disgust is the little-death that brings total apathy. I will face my disgust. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the disgust has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.
once you get over your ass and realise you will never get some people and that’s ok you are basically immune to right wing fearmongering. otherkin? none of my fucking business
I must not fall victim to disgust. Disgust is the heart-killer. Disgust is the little-death that brings total apathy. I will face my disgust. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the disgust has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.
someone made a terrible youtube video searching for the source of this dog picture like it's lost media and he on-screen scrolls by a live tumblr link to this post before claiming i deleted my account, pulling up a wayback machine archived page, and then lying about contacting my ex boyfriend for more information
I'm just screaming in tune @this-here-is-not-singing - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
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