#Modern femininity

[barbara-herself]

Womanhood in the twenty-first century in a predominantly Western culture has been a confusing experience to me so far. Having grown up in Eastern Europe, I have soaked in the habit of contradictions to my bones.

I know not to speak when not spoken to, but my mother taught me to fight the patriarchy. People around me said that girls don't swear and girls don't smoke and girls don't drink or do drugs, so I did all those things just to prove them wrong. They have said that I should not live with a man I'm not going to marry, so I also did that for a while. My teachers told me that girls shouldn't kiss girls, naturally I did that as well. I was taught I am fragile and emotional, but in my core I always knew I must be strong and better than everyone else to prove them all wrong.

People of my generation on the Internet send the message that I should be skinny or not skinny and healthy and have a journey that I share online with pretty pictures and high-resolution videos. I should be active and go to the gym and also read all these books on mental health and definitely see a therapist, but not that one, and also do yoga and mindfullness meditation and travel to new places and talk to friends and also be a career girlboss. I should be proud of my hairy legs and try microdosing LSD, I must be a vegan because otherwise I want the Earth to burst in epic flames, I must be a saviour to everyone, an empath and a strong voice. I must be all these things, but above all, I must be myself.

Don't get me wrong - I am definitely so happy about the fact that we are getting healthier and are taking better care of ourselves and our planet. I hope that one day we get to wake up to the news of Earth's temperatures not being record high that year and we come up with an energy-efficient way to remove carbon dioxide from the atmosphere and also use ecologically friendly packaging for everything. Nonetheless, finding my voice and understanding what I truly want has been incredibly hard for me in all the background noise.

Sometimes, I just think about how nice it would be if I could just tune it all out. Remove myself quietly from the party - no one will even notice, I'm a nobody, no one invited me here - and just breathe. How nice it would have been not to have a childhood spent on social media, constantly informed of Once in a Lifetime Cataclysms. How great it must be to hear your heart speak to you and then do the things it wants you to.

My heart's been battered and broken and it feels like trucks drove through it quite violently. Its voice is weak and breathy, but persistent. It tells me to create art, however I can, whatever it takes. I have no idea how Do I Do Art realistically without starving or being a burden to everyone around me. I'm not even that good. How do I be all those things I must be + be an artist + earn a living + have a social life and eat homecooked meals?

It's April, and I have shedded my old skin. One day, I'll be wise to know what to do after.

#writers on tumblr #writing #spilled words #words #spilled thoughts #writers and poets #writeblr #feminism #female writers #modern femininity #art #artists on tumblr

[princessbabygirlforever]

An older trans woman once told me that she sits to pee, which occasionally results in her peeing on herself, because that’s how hard she’s worked to block out the fact that she’s still retained her original organ all of these years. That’s what girls do: we deal in affect–feelings, vibes, emotions, moods—to counteract dissonance. If you feel like a girl, you are a girl. Serving cunt is the law of assumption. Pussy-stunting is a mindset. Delusion is a lifestyle. And dissociation is effortless, unselfconscious, easy.

After white men, only white women and girls are afforded an unstudied ease, a universalizing, pedestalizing canvas-like blankness free of aesthetic assumptions, charged with authority and unburdened by race and gender. The rest of us are seen as open wounds. I used to try to fight how I am perceived by feigning a sense of aloofness, insouciance and smallness. I did so by tucking my hair behind my ear, wistfully, longingly staring off into the distance, dissociating from my body to temporarily transport to a place where I could write like a white girl.

I would conjure the white girl vibe instantaneously when I’d listen to music, especially if the music I am listening to is really loud, almost dulling my other senses and causing me to feel what can only be described as the opposite of embodied: void-like. There, I could exist as an empty, diaphanous vessel unfilled by anything at all. There’s no burden of “identity” in the club or the bedroom or the hammam or the garden or online as the avatar of your choosing–anywhere deemed a feminine space worth inhabiting. Online, especially, is where anyone can lay down their burdens—the thick coating of class and race, geography and gender–and escape the indignities of womanhood, blackness, otherness. No fat…no trauma…no spiritual heaviness…no intensity…only purity. A blank canvas no one can ascribe assumptions and project onto. You’re the default player in the game. A babygirl.

As a terminally concerned girl teeming with big, electrical emotions, presenting myself as an open wound–where the id is steering the ship despite societal expectations and pressures to the contrary to flatten and suppress– has never quite appealed to me because I know it doesn’t appeal much to anyone else. I think of myself in relation to others, in a sort of triangulation with the world. I don’t want to be a spectacle, if I can help it, because I know I already am, that there is an audience baked into my experience, mercilessly ascribing the same assumptions to me that they would someone engaging with hallucinations on a city bus. On a city bus, to witness someone mumbling to themselves, smiling exuberantly, screaming, singing terribly or sobbing loudly in public, is to have a front row seat to an undesired excess, intensity and earnestness. That person has unconsciously chosen to present themselves, to the subtly disciplinary gaze of surveilling strangers, like a spectacle to be gawked at. They’ve interrupted the homogenizing edicts of polite society in a manner considered vulnerable, neurotic, unusual, boundaryless, histrionic, unrefined, unserious, grotesque, eccentric, amoral, out of control, shameless and cringe-worthy. Their vivid displays of animatedness, too gauche for “normal” sensibilities, so we’d rather tuck them away like an unsightly pile of rags on the floor, undermining them like we do our own id in the company of others.

This image is commonly associated with the mentally ill and the homeless, whom the public bodies and perceptions of are heavily policed and politicized. States of animatedness, of excess, are also racialized and gendered. Femininity and blackness, its sincerest expressions, deemed maximalist, evidence of effort, and therefore, failure. Too much.

To transcend our animatedness, we must turn our disciplining gaze to ourselves, self-effacing to make space for whiteness and maleness, totally erase ourselves. This palimpsestic quality is achieved through minimalist attire (no garish, colorful clothes re: avant basic), eliminating girlish and black vocal tics, adapting middlebrow tastes, writing in 3rd person, muting one’s melanated state with black and white photography, aspirational thinness so there is less of you, and an attitude that communicates aloofness so severe that you don’t even care about yourself.

These attempts at minimization, of disciplining your public animated body, will allow you to enjoy a certain remove from the wider world. You’ll be cured, no longer teeming with niggerishness and schlepping the mantle of womanhood into every room you walk into for the rest of your life. You’ll be the babygirl again, who you were before you ever knew that you occupy a subordinate role in society, and before you were privy to the myths and ideologies that have been created around your image and identity.

Like a princess, your girlhood and daughterhood had a sense of prestige, making the fact of your consanguinity almost secondary, except as a matter of differentiation from the masses of non-princesses. There wasn’t yet a force larger than life requiring self-minimization as a necessary boon. You were presumed to be a pure, guileless blank canvas of a girl. You didn’t have to arm yourself with knowledge of that—or any truth—to feel a claim to safety and purity because the fact of it was informed by your singularity.

The babygirl, elegantly inert and slow, never had to run outside of the context of a freewheeling and uninterrupted playtime. She was never embarrassed into velocity. She never had to be strong or work hard. She’s never had to learn to self-preserve because her existence hadn’t called for that skill set. Self-preservation is the ministry of wounded girls. The babygirl has never been wounded.

The babygirl is light, buoyant with a feeling she belongs right where she is. She’s preternaturally interested and keenly aware, with an insatiable attention and curiosity for entertainment, her commodities, the objects in her bedroom. She prefers living in a rapt state, the romantic eye of her mind transporting her from her present surroundings and the inherent ennui of girlhood into her imagination.

The babygirl’s emotions don’t give the appearance of an overflowing volcano of lava curdling into evidence of effort and maintenance and failure and toxicity, clumps for other people to step over, ignore, forget, apply a disciplining gaze to. She is like the waves in the ocean crashing freely into each other, free to express the gamut of her emotions, whether sad, irritable, annoyed or enraged, without it sweeping up the rest of her image and identity until there’s nothing left of her but her feelings, in the unforgiving, cynical eyes of the strangers she will meet in the world who will, inevitably, only see animatedness.

What makes me a babygirl–and what unifies me with all the other babygirls online who’re so hotly debated and contested and disbelieved–is our sensitivity and an unrelenting over-identification with objects and other people. Babygirls are committed to the aesthetic reading and viewing of still images, films and the internet, which informs a girly canon of derealization ephemera not intended to be over-identified with: antiheroines, dreams, the moon, theory, book spines, social outcasts, fonts, hysterical and ribald women, “invalid” women who live in their beds, dolls, numbers, voids, the color pink, avatars on social media, God.

All that is ostensibly facile and self-explanatory, for the babygirl, is gleaned through persistent observation. The babygirl fills emptiness with a divine estuary from which an embodied and pillow-soft love audaciously converges with nature’s brutal architecture—pulsating alive with blood and flesh.

Being a babygirl is like the infinitude of the world contained in a pop song or the gaze of someone staring down the barrel of a gun; it stretches on and on forever. Anyone, then, who sees through people like they are vacant homes waiting to be occupied by her, who thinks they know others with the cultic conviction of a true believer, who is wildly and wholeheartedly alert, is a babygirl.

And I am Princess Babygirl.

I am novelty combined with appropriation like collage art, music sampling and recipes. My palimpsest quality is not an encryption of the self; but rather, an illuminating synthesis of my embodied experience. I have been the host to various narratives, epistemes, connections and dreams that I’ve neither fully abandoned nor refined. I’ve imprinted my affects and vibes forever–going on and on like the perfect pop song on repeat–so I can never be erased. Princess Babygirl is who I was before all of the sublimated tensions, marketplace competitions, traumas, vulnerabilities, anxieties, mimetic rivalries, delusions, dreams and violence of womanhood happened to me.

As Carl Jung foretold in his writings on the Age of Aquarius, human consciousness is moving toward a more feminine-centric paradigm. I want to represent the metamodern conditions of this moment in a blend of identity-critical autotheory and audiovisual stimuli exploring affects, aesthetics, taste, psychology, consumerism, the performance of womanhood and modern femininity.

#girls #girlhood #womanhood #gynocriticism #self-optimized girl #identity #cultural criticism #identity politics #girlblogger #writers #substack #vibes #affect theory #collage art #maximalism #minimalism #taste #aesthetics #princess babygirl #babygirl #princessbabygirlforever #autotheory #autofiction #esoteric #femininity #modern femininity #feminism #femcels #it girls #otessa moshfegh

[ahb-writes]

Manga Review: 'Skip and Loafer' #5

Skip and Loafer #5 by Misaki Takamatsu

comedy

coming of age

romance

wholesome manga

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

The thin, pearlescent line between adolescent affection and early-adult romance grows thinner and more transparent with each passing season. For some of the girls and boys of SKIP AND LOAFER v5, the signs are obvious. For others, it's a bit more complicated. Regardless of the nature of the inconvenient venture toward that thing called love, one truth is for certain: It's a journey best had with a good friend by one's side.

The end of the calendar year brings with it all sorts of hilarious ponderings from the manga's central cast about the destiny of their relationships. When is it okay to push for romance? How does one deal with the anxiety over pressing too hard? If popularity doesn't bring one comfort, then are reputation and admiration overrated? What the heck is the deal with Christmas gifts? Nobody knows the answers to these questions. But these kids will figure things out, sooner or later, for better or for worse. Probably.

Image and identity have served as stealth themes for much of this manga. Readers haven't had much reason to think the creative team would lean too far into these topics when their characters so wildly and fondly traipse through sports events, exams, school festivals, and the usual gossip. But SKIP AND LOAFER v5 is a much-deserved punch to the gut. Mitsumi's plainness grows more apparent the longer she lives in Tokyo, and the girl dreads the possibility that her comfort in being who she is (i.e., absent most aesthetics of modern femininity) presumes her incapable of navigating her nascent adulthood. And Makoto, the bookworm, takes a chance on witty banter with a guy from her lit club, and all the while she's fighting against the exhaustion and the insecurity that come with stepping out of one's comfort zone.

There's plenty more, too. But on these character notes, readers glide through the frustrations of Mitsumi and Makoto, observing the painful truth that the reason teenage life is so fraught is because it takes so much effort to survive without giving in to dishonesty.

Mitsumi turns to Fumi, Mika, and Auntie Nao for a pep talk and for inspiration. Is makeup necessary? Is femininity necessary? What is femininity to a teenager? And how much is enough? Nao's six-page heart-to-heart on trusting in oneself to know what's "beautiful" is exquisite. As for Makocchan? She has a totally-not-a-date date with Honda, a second-year guy in the lit club. Makoto has the same battle with self-esteem and self-understanding that Mitsumi has, only further magnified by her own earnestness. A trip to book-town, Jinbocho, could bring Makoto and her senpai closer together. How nice should she dress? Should she put her hair up? Why are contact lenses so troublesome? Makoto seeks help from Yuzuki, whose increasingly reliable disposition foretells more best-buds shenanigans in the future.

SKIP AND LOAFER v5 once again validates Takamatsu's manga series as one of the most genuine and sensitive, yet humorously pragmatic titles on the market. And while the girls are the focus of the current volume's main stories, readers engage plenty of awkwardness on the part of Sousuke, Tsukasa (Mukai, Sousuke's even-tempered, childhood friend), and Kento (Yamada, the excitable guy). In a pair of delightful twists, it turns out the girls respect Kento for his honesty, the guys worry about Mitsumi being Sosuke's blind spot, and everybody likes bowling.

❯ ❯ Manga Reviews || ahb writes on Good Reads

#manga review #review #skip and loafer #misaki takamatsu #mitsumi iwakura #sousuke shima #mika egashira #makoto kurume #kento yamada #yuzuki murashige #adolescent affection #christmas gifts #bookworm #modern femininity #auntie nao

[candylandphotos]

Female Hipster Model Lingerie Outfit Clothing Underwear Fur❤️

"Expressing Individuality: A Female Hipster Model Embraces Confidence in a Stylish Lingerie Outfit, Underwear Fashion with a Touch of Fur ❤️"

#Fashionable hipster #Model photography #Lingerie fashion #Stylish outfit #Underwear elegance #Fur accent #Self-expression #Trendy clothing #Unique fashion statement #Contemporary chic #Urban fashion #Model's allure #Confident style #Edgy fashion #Individuality and fashion #Modern femininity #Fashion photography #Hipster style #Feminine empowerment #Fashionable flair #beautiful women #pretty woman #pretty girl

[ladyamericanasstuff]

#moon #crescent moon #moon phases #moon art #whimsical #whimsigoth #whimsicore #witchy vibes #witchcore #modern witch #witches #witch aesthetic #witchythings #divine feminine

[osm2]

#traditional #traditional gender roles #traditional marriage #traditional femininity #reject modernity embrace tradition #traditional masculinity

[gynoidgearhead]

tradwife is a neogender for mostly cis people. change my mind

#i am not sure how serious i am about this but it's also just like. extremely funny that cis people are trying to earn #like prestige classes of cisgender heteronormative genders. #why yes tell me how you're an alpha sigma sigma male. tell me about your greek letters and your wolves and your hot take on masculinity #why yes tell me about how you're not like all the other girls but only in a way that only bolsters and sanctifies your femininity especiall #like i'm not being mean here it's just. extremely funny and really demonstrates to me that they are not that far from getting trans people #like. i think a lot of modern transphobia is cognitive dissonance because so many of them are so close to getting it. yet so far. #it's like. cis rebound. #gender #shitposting

[hanwiore]

a/n: little smut for könig! I love him uhhhh, don’t mind any typos, my pussy wrote this and she’s really tired rn okay!

“uh fuck! s-sorry!” you whine, drool slipping pass your once glossed glittery lips. a smack was swatted against your left ass cheek this time, painting an angry dark red against your brown skin. “cussin now, love? tsk.” two smacks were swatted on the back of your thighs this time.

yours thighs instantly closed, your wetness dripping down them, “g-god, m’ sorry daddy, uhn gosh, m’ so sorry.” it was a shame really, you came to königs house looking so cute, hair freshly done in a half up, half down with a bow right on top of the ponytail. white fold over leggings with a baby pink fitted jacket, you came looking comfortable and smelling so good just to get in trouble.

all because you said his enemy ‘Simon ‘ghost’ Riley ’ was an attractive male, of course it was a joke. I mean, you said it days ago! you thought it was over. but you should have known messing with a guy who have gone through things among what you can imagine would go so kindly on someone who means little harm.

“ja, you sorry baby?” he hums, face sounding tired but in truth. he’s holding back from fucking you. your face is bent over the arm rest of his big couch, booty perched up while your cherry printed panties are half way down your butt cheeks. leggings down to your ankles as your toes curled underneath your fuzzy socks. “hm? you sorry?” he grabs the hood of your jacket, grips it to pull your whole body up, “the fuck you sorry for huh? tell me.”

the same hand on your hoodie moves to the front of you to grip just an inch under your jaw, he moves you back enough to you feel his bulge against your ass. “I-i didn’t mean it papa, I s-swear.” you gargle, still shaking from the spanking you have received.

his lips moves to kiss the side of your forehead, then moves down to your neck, “yea, I know princess.” now his other hand moves and covers your pussy, you feel him moving it against your bud slowly. and you being so damn sensitive, you think you could’ve came right then and there if it wasn’t from the sudden slap he left on your cunt. “ha-haah! daddy- oh my g-gosh.” your body jerks forward and your thighs press against each other, you barely get a moment to do so before your receiving another slap, this time to your boobs that was revealed due to him tugging the zipper down.

you felt like crying, you really did. you whimpered out loud, your fingers found their way to both of his wrist—the one on your jaw and the other one on your thigh that forces it open—you squeeze them as you beg. “p-please. I-it hurts so much.” honestly, you were lucky. you may not have felt as if you were but god, it could have been worse than this. but könig just has a sweet spot for you, you haven’t ran away from him yet, you take it like the good girl you are, he hurts you and you come to him to fix it.

he loves it.

he loves you.

“it hurts princess?” he moves his arms away from you, pushing you back down so your ass is back in the air. “mines hurts too.” his jagged fingers goes and squeezes his dick through his sweats, “fuck, hurts so bad. m’ drippin’ baby.” he sees your head moving to lay flat on your cheek so you can look back at him, a pout on your cute face but he can see your eyes.

you fucking adored him.

“l-love you so much daddy, d-daddy i love y-you so much.” he smiles at that, he bends down slightly to kiss both of your perky butt cheeks, that jiggles with every quiver you’ve made. And all of a sudden you gasp as he quite literally tongue kisses your pussy. His nose so close to your puckered hole as his tongue is making out with the hole that creates the taste he’s obsessed with.

“o-oh.” it almost sound like a cry for help, you were so happy though. you felt so good. you relax against the couch, dainty fingers grabbing anywhere to calm your racing heart and shaggy breathing. “mph, h-heavens.”

his hands grips the fat of your ass to scoot you closer against him, tongue now going side by side against your clit, nose just as wet as his mouth is. then he does the most disgusting thing ever and spits right on your pussy just to slurp it back up and spit on your puckered hole. his thumb is already in there before you think, “oh! f-fuck, shit-,” you know you aren’t allowed to say such words but you just can’t help it.

and he knows, daddy always knows.

he leans back up and pulls down his sweatpants half way down his thick tensing thighs.

you feel it on the wet hole he just spit on. and you’ve seen it a thousand times but you loved to see it all over again.

it was uncut, pink with veins peaking out here and there, but it was so fucking thick. and when ever he was hard enough the extra skin will peel slowly down to show his angry red—wet— tip. You loved it.

that fascination was short lived once you were flipped over and your knees were damn near touching your shoulders, “put it in for me.” his breath was almost as ragged as yours was.

your long acrylic nails, painted pink and white with 3D flowers on it every where clinked against eachother as you stroked his dick once, twice until you slapped it on your chubby lips. making a slimy sound, almost sounds as if it hurts before your pushed it into you.

“d-daddy- o-oh daddy fuck- imma cum a-already.” you moan once he bottoms out. his hands rested right by your head on the arm rest, his legs bent slightly so he can give you short but fast strokes that bruise your g-spot tremendously.

“yea, you taking it baby? taking that d-dick.” his hair falls across his forehead slightly, lips bitten red from his own abuse. eyes clenched shut. “f-fuck mama.” his rough hand slaps your thigh once he picks up the pace more, putting his hands on the back of your knees to fold you impossibly. he was so urgent, urgent to please you. urgent to make you fucking scream.

and you were.

he swore you can make a perfect picture.

you pink bow still in your hair as your hair flows across the couch. eyebrows furrowed and cute lips open slightly to let out the most, sluttiest but cutest whines ever. “a-ah, ah, ah. y-yes daddy- m’ taking it, uh.” your hands moved to grab behind your thighs instead of his while he moves back to inspect your pussy.

he goes to take it out, only an inch away from going completely out before he drops right on in, as if he was tired of doing push ups and gave up. he watches your brown fat pussy lips open wide from his heavy dick, watches how the inside of vibrant pink was creamy with white substance that you caused.

“S-shit, fuck- you creamin on my shit liebe?”

you cry out, head falling back, “c-can’t help it- daddy imma cum- gonna make me cu-cum!” your legs start to shake as well as your walls do, it makes him go sloppy a little bit before he moves forward and now have his hands in fist, legs straight while his fit is on his toes, and he goes absolutely ham in your pussy.

Goes up, then drop again.

Ya’ll make a beautiful musical.

Slapping sounds from his thick chubby balls slamming on your wet asshole, slimy sounds from your wetness and his precum, whiney moans from your and his deep groans that he can’t help but let out.

cause he knows he digging that lil shit out. he knows it.

you’re cumming already, three more strokes in and your absolutely convulsing against his cock. “Ah-ah-ah d-daddyyyy, oh my fu-fucking gosh!” Your fingers pinch your thighs as you can feel your wetness stream from your pussy down to the bottom of your ass on the couch.

he’s not far behind you. between your face, the bouncing of your tits and your tight & wet ass pussy taking his dick like a soldier, every single time makes him moan in your face.

“gonna make cum schönes mädchen.” he legs pull forward so he back on his knees and he pulls you above him, while he’s sitting up. You let go under your legs, wrapping your arms around his neck, reaching around to rub your fingers through his hair as you moan in his ear, “give it to me daddy, gimme it. wan it so bad!”

both of his hands are on your hips, grinding you almost angrily onto his dick, he felt so fucking good.

“a-ah fuck, fuck baby, s-shit-“ he’s grabbing the back of your neck as you feel a warm squirt of cum go inside your throbbing hole, and he’s still going. “G-goddamn.” he shoves his face in your neck as he moves his hips up against you slower and more sloppy.

“no more scherzhaft, yes?” he huffs into your ear.

“yes, no more joking.” you mumble.

#konig #black reader #smut #black woman #black fem reader #black women #black woman femininity #konig cod #konig x reader #konig mw2 #konig call of duty #konig x you #konig modern warfare #konig smut #konig x y/n #konig x black reader #daddy’s babygirl #older daddy #spank me daddy

[canisalbus]

you say machete has to be closeted then why's he always wearing them little heels

Maybe he thinks he's a tiny bit nicer looking in them.

#no in fact he's just a little ahead of the curve let me try to explain #again I'm not a historian I'm just sharing what I've read I might be misremembering stuff so don't quote me on this #high heels became extremely fashionable in the early 1600's probably just a few decades after Machete's time #and they were originally worn by men #because they were inspired by Persian riding boots #if your shoes had heels you'd have easier time keeping your feet in the stirrups (think of cowboy boots) #Europeans saw them thought they looked snazzy and they became wildly popular in noble circles fairly quickly #for some hundred years or so high heels were the epitome of class wealth power and status and they were essentially genderless #remember that concepts of masculinity and femininity are fluid and change over time #things that were seen as manly a few centuries ago may seem downright effeminate to a modern viewer #it's all matter of perspective neither is objectively more correct than the other #they started to separate into men's heels and women's heels around mid 1700's iirc but the changes weren't massive even then #and only truly went out of vogue when the French Revolution hit in 1789 #and people all across the continent were suddenly put off by everything that reminded them #of the frivolousness and extravagance of royalty and aristicracy #so in his canon timeline I don't think people are looking at him and going “hmmm that's pretty gay” #because heels hadn't become gendered yet #maybe he likes how they accentuate his already tiny paws and make his legs look even longer than they are #he's interested in fashion or at least likes to dress nicely in high quality garments #he tries very hard to look his best despite never really feeling comfortable in his skin #he was a real shrimp as a kid and even though he eventually grew up to be a beanpole he might still find the extra height appealing #no one's going to look down on him ever again #I admit the way I draw them is a lot more modern than the true historical style at the time but not outrageously so #artistic freedom and all that in the end I'm not aiming for 100% accuracy #modern au Machete has no excuses though he's just a little bit fruity #if the guy feels empowered by wearing little clip cloppers let him #answered #anonymous #Machete

[nychthemeron-rants]

Ok, so IDK how canon the ages we have for when the Hazbin crew died is, but it has been giving me massive fucking brainrot.

But not only that, but also the match up of their ages and the eras in which they died.

There was a point in time where Alastor, Angel Dust, and Husk were all alive at the same time.

Assuming "mid-30's" means 35, it means that since Angel died in 1947, he was born in 1912.

Husk dying at 75 in the 70's means he was born in the 1900's or maybe even the late 1890's.

Alastor being in his 40's when he died in 1933 means he was born in the 1890's (roughly)

So from 1912 (ish), to 1933 all 3 were alive at the same time.

At the time of Alastor's death: Alastor was in his 40's, Husk was in his mid 30's to maybe early 40's, and Angel (or rather Anthony as we know his human name) was about 21.

Also all 3 experienced the great depression. Husk and Angel experienced WW2. Theres a chance they both fought in the fucking war!

#angel in particular gives me brain rot because now knowing he was a 30 something in the late 40's #he gives me the vibe of a man who was repressed as fuck in life (and considering he was a 1940's mobster that tracks) #and now revels in the freedom modern sensibilities give him to be as flamboyantly queer and dress as feminine as he wants now in public #i wonder if he went to queer ballrooms in life #a lot had mob connections or were mob run because they were illegal #but also Husk living through the bulk of the 1900's is insane #no wonder dude is as gruff as he is #man has had a LIFE #hazbin hotel #hazbin #angel dust #hazbin hotel husk #huskerdust #husker hazbin hotel #alastor #alastor hazbin hotel

[homemakinghippie]

#homemaker #housewife #homemaking #traditional housewife #50s housewife #vintage housewife #stay at home wife #traditional wife #traditional gender roles #tradwife #tradfem #traditional femininity #hippie mom #stay at home mom #crunchy mom #traditional family #traditional home #traditional marriage #traditionalism #trad wife #tradblr #tradwoman #trad wives #trad women #hyper feminine #femininity #feminine #modern homemaker #sahm #sahmlife

[candylandphotos]

Female Hipster Model Lingerie Outfit Clothing Underwear Fur Dance

"Unveiling Confidence: A Female Hipster Model Dances in a Stylish Lingerie Outfit, Embracing Underwear Fashion with a Touch of Fur"

#Fashionable hipster #Model photography #Lingerie fashion #Stylish outfit #Underwear elegance #Fur accent #Confidence and style #Dance photoshoot #Trendy clothing #Fashionable ensemble #Urban chic #Model's allure #Unique fashion statement #Modern femininity #Contemporary elegance #Hipster style #Dance movement #Fashion photography #Fashionable flair #Edgy fashion #pretty girl #beautiful women #pretty woman

[oksurethisismyname]

Sanji, pulling out a cigarette and saying under their breath: ✨✨✨girl dinner✨✨✨

Sanji, before every cigarette : I deserve a little treat!

Sanji, when someone points out they actually smoked 6 cigarettes when they said it was 5: one of them was the last of an old pack so it doesn’t count. Girl math.

#Sanji is a modern woman #and by woman I mean gender fluid feminine masculine masterpiece #smoking kills tho fr #black leg sanji #sanji #vinsmoke sanji #one piece #one piece sanji

[maneater2008]

as a liberal,i can confirm this is accurate n this is what i visualize exactly

#modern feminism #girlboss #localy hated #femcel #girl blogger #girl blogguing #girl blog #female urge #female gaze #female experience #female hysteria #female manipulator #light feminine #dark femininity #dark feminine energy #hyper feminine #girl interrupted syndrome #lana del rey #lizzy grant aesthetic #lily rose depp #alana champion #angelina jolie #gaslight gatekeep girlboss #it girl #it girl energy

[osm2]

#traditional masculinity #traditional #traditional gender roles #traditional marriage #traditional femininity #reject modernity embrace tradition