It’s-friday.avi

gabv1el 2 me

Yes this is a michael reeves ref

not very new hyperfixation rediscovered write a poem abt it

This clip from Hotel Mario is the only surviving example of a musical genre I call “ghoulcore.”

🔸🔷MINTI🔷🔸

birdrabbitraptoralien now in Full Color !

Man, I almost drank myself to death yesterday, I can't even remember my name, if only there was someone that could help me.

The the trustworthy and saint-like lieutenant:

Re-blog if you're accepting anonymous asks from anyone about anything

not only am i pro self diagnosis, i am anti-getting an official diagnosis. only get that shit formalized if youre getting accomidations and/or controlled substances out of it, otherwise the legal system and the psychiatric system do NOT need to know that shit

starting a collection. I'm calling it autistic sexting

this might be cringe, but we had to write 1 page of description about something and I chose my favourite object in the whole world

From how it looks, the statue should smell like algae and regurgitated milk (like an unweaned kitten, if it fell into a pond). In actuality, its only odour comes from the thick blanket of dust it wears. Its four legs are stout, toe-less. Its tail stands straight like the pole of bumper-car, eager and tensed to wag. Two wet eyes peer up. They are black enough to see your own face reflected. Under them, the tight line of a mouth, melancholic and imploring. 

Tapping its stout back (and leaving fingerprints in the dust) would reveal that it is hollow. A living animal might contain organs, and bones, and even a swallowed meal, but this creature holds only air. It can produce no sounds of its own. It will produce no waste. It will never want anything, nor squeeze anything foul out of its rear, but still it seems to beg for sustenance. Being frozen only adds to this tension; staring at it, each would wait for the other to blink. This is why a slab of plastic meat has been laid before it. An offering, like cream and butter for a fairy.

‘Frog kitten’ is how the online listing described it, and accordingly, it has an amphibious lack of ears. Its square body, shaped like a loaf of bread, is covered in mouldy splashes of night-green and white-beige. Two dabs of a cleaner white across its back only serve to emphasize the drabness of its majority. Five rake-marks trail down one side: scars, wounds, the bright green of its meat bleeding through. Could the sculptor have scratched it with their fingers, deeply and deliberately? And why? Why create such a young, sweet creature, and then harm it? 

The creature has no anus. The creature has no ear canals. The creature has no urethra, nor cloaca, no mouth, nor pores, but it does have two penetrating nostrils. If you shone a light down those narrow passages, you could explore the hollowness of its belly.

Touch the creature, and it is cold. Stroke it, and it is smooth, but speckled with the smallest of lumps and warts. It is dry but shines as though wet with perspired oils. You cannot look at this mute dead thing without seeing it as alive. The longer you hold its gaze, the less of the dust you smell, and the more of the algae and the milk.