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diseased cucumbers

@poppyseedmuffiin

congratulations if youre reading this you're at the threshold of hell. you can call me poppy or elly and i dont speak gamer. she/her/they, 18. sideblog for my art and ocs and hyperfixation and fictional world I write about is prismaticasolis. I want aeryn sun to step on me

ive been working on digitizing this drawing bc I thought it was kinda cool for the past few hours and im not even close to done (😭) but mostly happy with how it looks so far :D

(leave me alone ik I dont know how to color or like. draw 😭💀 were working on it mkay)

Anonymous asked:

we're apparently opposites lol. i dont know ANY women currently. i keep trying to meet more and they keep turning out to be trans men who hadn't figured it out yet. most recent guy came out to me YESTERDAY which is the 7th in the last three months. im cis and straight i dont know why this keeps happening. my dating life is in shambles but i have SO MANY new buddies im teaching how to shave and torrent movies

not to be weird but i think i'm obsessed with you

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what i miss most about being a chocolatier (besides the honor of gayest job title imaginable) is we had these massive bars of chocolate for tempering that were 10lbs and we had to break them into smaller chunks. by using a sledgehammer of course. i LIVED for that shit

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all the other people in production HATED busting them especially at the end of the shift but i fucking loved it. give me the hammer. i can be trusted with the hammer. And everyone did in fact trust me with the hammer because again they all thought it was tedious and painful. me? i was having the time of my life. even if i had to pick up the slack for other people i would be annoyed for all of five seconds before the euphoria of getting to smash things set in. and the production areas had windows too so customers often just got to watch me beat the shit out of a massive chocolate bar. with a hammer. like a zoo animal. i was getting paid to do that. every day i miss it.

If you want to see more exciting & interesting queer art you're going to have to support independent queer creators and look at the stuff they make.

Yeah

To add onto this, you also have to be okay with Queer Art that you don't personally enjoy. You cannot scream "give us more queer art!" before unceremoniously burning a pile of queer art because you don't like it for one reason or another.

Artists will see that, and no, you won't force artists into creating a perfectly curated pile for content for your exclusive enjoyment. They just won't make art anymore, because having slurs and false allegations hurled at them for artwork tends to kill the creative process.

i love my therapist but i hate being in therapy. 10 minutes before my appointment, i’m in a meeting with my boss - we discuss my artistic choices; my boss recommends i artistically choose less. 10 minutes after therapy, i wash my hair and think about everything that was said, and then i have to switch it off, like a lamp, and go back to work again.

i was on a walk the other day and someone had the perfect combination of his cologne and whatever-else. it was almost exactly his scent. i fucking hate that. after all these years, i remember that? i tell my therapist - i feel like a fucking wolf. try telling a middle-aged blonde lady. oh i scented him on the air. i’m 30, and i’m having a panic attack over something that would be a plotline in the omegaverse.

what they don’t tell you about mental illness is that if you are lucky enough to survive it into adulthood; it becomes a weird slice of your life. because you do, eventually, have to build a life. i realized in a panic somewhere around 22 - oh. i don’t know what i’m fucking doing, because i always assumed i’d just go ahead and die. i didn’t die, and i’m grateful for that, and i’m very happy about that choice. but it does mean that i am an adult in an apartment, living with my conditions side-by-side like. oh, that’s my roommate, adhd. ignore the glass, bytheway, that’s ocd.

so you pick your stupid life up by the scruff of the neck and you’re, like glad for it (so much laughter and light and friends you would have never thought possible, when you were in the worst of it). but it feels so strange to be dancing around these odd little microcosms, these patchwork moments of your symptoms. if you have a panic attack at night, you still need to wake up and walk the dog in the morning. if your depression is making everything boring, well, you don’t have any sick days left, and a job’s not really supposed to be that exciting anyway. your ocd tears out each individual leg hair, and then, an hour later, you sigh, patch up the bloody bits, and go get dinner with friends. and the life is kitten-quiet, mewling and pathetic, but it’s also like - it’s yours, so you’re fond of it.

and it’s like - you’re real. so you still enjoy pushing the shopping cart really fast and then riding on the back of it down an empty aisle. and you’re not, like, so sick anymore that when you accidentally drop a mug you burst into tears (except for the days you do that. which are bad). and no, you’re not allowed around certain items anymore. oops! but you’ve learned to be good about brushing your teeth most days of the week. and yeah sometimes in the middle of the day you have a little freak-out about how fucking unfair it all is, how fucking hard, how other people can just do this without having to fucking hurt the whole time. and then you sigh and force yourself to sit down and fucking journal about it so you can tell the nice middle-aged blonde woman yeah i had a hard day but i practiced grounding. you still sometimes want to burst out of your own skin, but you force yourself to eat kind-of healthy and to take your vitamins. you let yourself chop off all your hair in the sink in a dramatic poetry of control and relief - and you also have developed good hobbies that help you move your body more frequently. you feel helplessly behind, lost in the shuffle - but you also practice gratitude, taking stock of what you have garnered. because you’re trying. even if you’re never gonna be normal, you have something… close enough.

and the little kitten of your life, this mangy, starlit tigercub, this thing you expected to rot so young: in your arms, it turns itself over, belly-up. exposing this new soft part, all the organs and guts. like it’s saying i trust you now. you won’t give me up.

i saw some comments on tiktok where people were talking bout how they found tumblr too hard to use and part of it being that there was no lack of dates so “what if you reblog or like something from five years ago?!” 

buddy… we have posts circulating still from 2011, its literally just how it is

Being on tumblr for years like:

this post is 2 years old and it’s only going to get funnier as it gets older

I was reading something about Whitestown, Indiana and my eyes nearly popped out of my head thinking it was one of THOSE comically racist towns. Nice to know, at least the name, wasn’t that.

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Racisttown, named after the abolitionist Stopbeing Racist,

Hyperfixating on your own OC is so frustrating. Nobody else wants to rotate them in their minds the way you do and if you talk too much about it they can get impatient and exasperated.

My poor blorbo. Unloved by all but me and to a lesser extent my boyfriend. My blorbo OC is so amazing and I can't explain it to anyone else.

I don't know; I kind of think that our culture is based around systematic denial of human limitations. I mean, there's the eight-hour work day (which is about 4 hours longer than most people are consistently able to remain productive); buffing your qualifications on job applications (which everyone needs to do to some extent, because everyone else is doing it); the expectation of multitasking, even though it's not really possible; academics are running around with impostor syndrome, ultimately because there's only so many books that an individual is capable of reading, while a bunch of liars and grifters pretend that they're experts at *everything* and are held up as thought leaders. Billionaires are held up as if they're just incredibly hard workers, photoshopped movie stars held up as if they're just incredibly beautiful. We feel guilty for not being something that never has and can never exist.