they don't make 'em like they used to before, cuz they don't make 'em at all

my chest, arm, and hand ploded

I destroyed my tongue

smells silly in here

whirm iceberg level 5 entry 7: forgotten jennifer

i love u trans men

i wish i could be good for everyone

feast thine eyes upon my new pile of flesh style blorbo

i want dinner mints.

like no one would ever want to touch me and i’m just covered in slimy goop that will taint your hands if you do!!!

i don't know why i try. i'm such a fucking weirdo, i'm disgusting and the shameful parts of me will never be loved

WE'RE SO BACK

antonio's board-flat chest will save me, surely

i either continue to learn a lot about myself or i just happen to change a lot

what a joyful creature

writing complicated worldbuilding with magic systems and new technology is fun but i feel like i'd rather focus on the characters

you all lie to me. stop lying to me. stop trying to give hope to, in essence, a fog in the small morning. stop trying to force me to be a person. i’m not. i’m a collection of things i found and put in a jar pretending to be something that can be loved.

i’m a rock under someone’s else’s shoe who keeps being told it’s something when it’s not. if i am something, then why am i jagged, and broken, and ridiculously small?

i'm not "good" for any of it. i don’t “sacrifice,” i remain silent. i scatter. i become something else, a flitting swarm or a faceless tower, and then i return to restless stagnation

i am nothing more than some nebulous thing acting on a jenga tower of desire