bi-casualpapayas

[bi-casualpapayas]

CUTE BOY FROM CLASS WHO IS GROWING HIS HAIR OUT AND WEARING A HOODIE: thanks for helping me with my homework! hey um... is it okay if I tell you something important? you have to promise to keep it a secret....

SKELETON BALLING:

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being obsessed w a piece of media is so scary. what if my mutuals see how insane i go about it and think oh i gotta check out what this is about and then think it sucks and kill me with rocks. what if they hate my favorite characters

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girl typing a very specific question into google search bar, scrunching her face as she takes time to make sure she hasn't made any spelling errors, hitting enter, shaking her head as google only presents her with unhelpful websites that don't answer her query at all, moving her cursor back to the search bar and clicking on it so she can carefully write 'reddit' at the end, hitting enter again, sighing with relief as she finds a link to a reddit post asking the exact question she needed answered posted in a subreddit for a very niche topic, finally moving her cursor to click on the link, wondering why she didn't go straight to the subreddit earlier, only to be met with a deleted comment with a reply from the OP stating 'that was very helpful, thanks', sighing with frustration as she moves her cursor back to the search bar so she can copy the link and paste it into the wayback machine,

[bi-casualpapayas]

BRING BACK THE BEAR!!! 🗣️👉🐻

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the anime cut some of kabru's internal monologue, and i need you anime only people to Witness this guy's bizarro thought patterns in social interactions. all this man knows is eat hot chip and lie.

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because sometimes there are invisible tests and invisible rules and you're just supposed to ... know the rule. someone you thought of as a friend asks you for book recommendations, so you give her a list of like 30 books, each with a brief blurb and why you like it. later, you find out she screenshotted the list and send it out to a group chat with the note: what an absolute freak can you believe this. you saw the responses: emojis where people are rolling over laughing. too much and obsessive and actually kind of creepy in the comments. you thought you'd been doing the right thing. she'd asked, right? an invisible rule: this is what happens when you get too excited.

you aren't supposed to laugh at your own jokes, so you don't, but then you're too serious. you're not supposed to be too loud, but then people say you're too quiet. you aren't supposed to get passionate about things, but then you're shy, boring. you aren't supposed to talk too much, but then people are mad when you're not good at replying.

you fold yourself into a prettier paper crane. since you never know what is "selfish" and what is "charity," you give yourself over, fully. you'd rather be empty and over-generous - you'd rather eat your own boundaries than have even one person believe that you're mean. since you don't know what the thing is that will make them hate you, you simply scrub yourself clean of any form of roughness. if you are perfect and smiling and funny, they can love you. if you are always there for them and never admit what's happening and never mention your past and never make them uncomfortable - you can make up for it. you can earn it.

don't fuck up. they're all testing you, always. they're tolerating you. whatever secret club happened, over a summer somewhere - during some activity you didn't get to attend - everyone else just... figured it out. like they got some kind of award or examination that allowed them to know how-to-be-normal. how to fit. and for the rest of your life, you've been playing catch-up. you've been trying to prove that - haha! you get it! that the joke they're telling, the people they are, the manual they got- yeah, you've totally read it.

if you can just divide yourself in two - the lovable one, and the one that is you - you can do this. you can walk the line. they can laugh and accept you. if you are always-balanced, never burdensome, a delight to have in class, champagne and glittering and never gawky or florescent or god-forbid cringe: you can get away with it.

you stare at your therapist, whom you can make jokes with, and who laughs at your jokes, because you are so fucking good at people-pleasing. you smile at her, and she asks you how you're doing, and you automatically say i'm good, thanks, how are you? while the answer swims somewhere in your little lizard brain:

how long have you been doing this now? mastering the art of your body and mind like you're piloting a puppet. has it worked? what do you mean that all you feel is... just exhausted. pick yourself up, the tightrope has no net. after all, you're cheating, somehow, but nobody seems to know you actually flunked the test. it's working!

aren't you happy yet?

[bi-casualpapayas]

Hey, Spamton.

I don't know how to word this without it coming off as possibly condescending, but...

Hang in there, man. If the heaven you're after is out there, im sure the angels are rooting for ya.

@bleedingbonemarrow + like four anons.

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hey. hey. you should read my fan fiction.

here's the link

and the first chapter is under the cut

You've always loved working with costumes and props. You were fascinated to no end by how movies could turn lifeless sculptures and empty costumes into living, breathing characters.

It's no wonder that you ended up working as a preservation artist for the special effect exhibits featured in the local pop culture museum. You really do love your work, but sometimes you question your career choice when you're up before sunrise, (not that impressive, given the short winter days) waiting at a bus stop under the misting clouds.

Now what you might find yourself asking is: why you, a perfectly sane and reasonable night owl would be up at this hour? The answer is clear. All the blame falls on the movie industry. This might seem strange, or perhaps even illogical. "Surely movie producers don't expect anyone to need their costumes after filming," and "Nobody in the film industry actively antagonizes art preservationists, least of all one lowly museum worker," but that would simply be wrong.

For you see, anyone that refuses to make props and costumes even remotely capable of holding up against the inexorable march of time is automatically an inconvenience and mortal enemy to you in particular.

One of the older, more fragile and decaying costumes had a piece broken off of it after closing. Nobody actually touched it as all the pieces are either trapped inside glass display boxes, or hiding several feet behind a crowd-control rope.

It just happens that whatever artists decided to make that particular suit chose a type of foam that starts disintegrating after 15 or so years of soft, indirect light and low-to-moderate humidity like some sort of rich lady’s over-pampered, over-engineered purse dog with 17 different diseases. And so, you've been called over at too-fucking-early o'clock to deal with it before opening.

As you vacantly stare into the distance, something strange catches your eye. Across the street, a row of stores sit. They're the same ones you see every day you take this route, but at this time of day the windows are dark, still not opening time.

Your eyes settle on a dingy, narrow alleyway, concrete ground muddied from rain. It's nestled between an unlabeled building with only a sliding garage door on its front, and a small dance school with unlit dance floors and mirrors visible through the darkened second floor window.

In the alleyway there are two oval shapes, glistening with a distinctive glassy glint. They're shifting slightly, with a sparkly graininess that you're not sure is actually there, or is just due to the faint lighting creating static. They look like they’re part of a larger silhouette behind them, enshrouded in shadows that the weak light that creeps out from the street just can’t seem to kill. 

You wouldn't really know how to describe it. Under the dim halos of yellow street lamps, you want to say it's a figure, but that might just be the sleepiness talking, because the proportions are way off to be human.

You check the time and see that your bus won't be here for another 15 or so minutes, so you decide to investigate. Crossing the street, you can make out a little bit more detail.

It does appear to be some sort of figure, slumped over and propped up against a stack of discarded wooden pallets that had been left leaning against the wall.

You walk up to the entrance of the alleyway and stare at the figure some more while you stand under the dance studio's little overhang to avoid the slight drizzle. The first detail that sticks out to you is its absurdly long nose and plasticky white skin.

Correct in your assumptions that it wasn't human, you relax a little bit. You're glad that you aren't being nosy about some poor person just sleeping in an alleyway. Instead, you're being nosy about some strange abandoned doll, which is much more within your scope.

You realize that the strange, staticky shapes you first noticed are glasses. You assume that there's some sort of color-shifting material glued behind the glasses to create that static effect, you wonder where you could buy some for your own projects.

Weighing your curiosity against the risks, you step over to crouch down in front of the doll to examine it more closely. You work with a fair amount of dummies, mannequins, dolls and puppets, so you're decently familiar with common practices in the crafts. You often need to be able to look at a project and know from a glance what steps need to be taken to preserve it. In spite of this, you're having a hard time figuring out the make of this specific doll.

It looks fancy enough to be custom-made, based on the unique face and considerable size. Standing up, it would probably land just around your mid-chest, in comparison. Then again, somebody clearly left it just sitting out like trash out here, not even properly sheltered from rain under the awning. You decide to test the articulation in the arms.

To your delight, you find ball joints that roll smoothly when you move them. Gently setting back down the arms, you grab its head with both your hands and lift it up for a better look. It has little red dots on its exaggerated cheeks and greasy black hair swept up in a mullet.

To your trepidation, the strange doll has a ventriloquist dummy's jaw as well. You've always been freaked out by their weird, detached jaws. It's ironic considering that working with puppets and strange costumes is your literal job .

Now, that isn't to say you're afraid of puppets in general! You're quite fond of marionettes and stop-motion figurines, but ventriloquist dummies in particular have always spooked you way worse than any of the horror movie props you work on. Something about those jaws   with their unmoving lips and jerky way they moved always set you on edge. The image of fake teeth biting down and crunching through skin and flesh unwillingly flashes through your mind.

Nevertheless, you'll be as thorough as possible. You pick the puppet up and feel around the back for the jaw's control mechanism, but you don't find anything. Maybe it's just for aesthetics?

The hands of the puppet are the most intricate, all ivory-white hinges and telescoping, layered articulation that can fold over itself and move with the same fluidity as human hands. It's beautiful craftsmanship. Part of you wants to figure out how to take them apart so you can study the mechanisms and improve your own technique, but the preservation worker in you screams about fragile parts and lack of replacement pieces.

In any manner, this puppet seems to be abandoned and unwanted… and it is your job to preserve and repair things like this. Your workplace doesn't mind if you use their space for your own projects so long as it doesn't get in the way of actual work and you're in between personal projects right now, so you think you'll just take this thing with you to your job. Then once you're done with work, you can start on fixing up and modifying this new plaything of yours. 

Looking at the time again, you hastily sling the puppet over your shoulder, its limp head rolling as you manhandle it. You rush to get back to the bus stop. It's only a few minutes until it's meant to arrive.

Nobody on the bus minds your extra passenger. It isn't the first time you've proudly dragged some unwieldy contraption or elaborate costume onto public transport, nor will it be the last. The middle-aged bus driver with big, colorful earrings just gives you a tired look of recognition: she's used to your antics by now. 

The trip goes by quickly, with you entertaining yourself on the last stretch of walking from the bus stop to your museum with the stares and weird looks you receive from the handful of people up and moving this early.

Now you've made it through the building and into your little backstage workshop, complete with bins of craft supplies and jerry-rigged tools.

You clear off a space on your personal workbench affectionately named 'the operation table,' for being made of dull stainless steel and having remarkably similar proportions to a twin-size bed, or per the namesake: operating table. Not that you've ever seen one in person. A surgical table, that is.

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[bi-casualpapayas]

this was supposed to be a 5 min doodle.......

Anyways Will Wood x Spamton everybody!! Hooray!!

[bi-casualpapayas]

Happy [[PIPIS]]ter :]

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In my defense, I just wanted to see if he'd like it... :(

[bi-casualpapayas]