What My body gave me for 17th bday: blood curlingly painful periods
What my body gave ne for 18th birthday: suddenly allergic reactions all over my body
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If you fall for a social media prank, do you reblog/pass it on to your followers?
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The manga industry, especially JUMP, needs to hurry up and do away with weekly scheduling for mangaka. There needs to better regulations put into place for their health and safety because this is pitiful. Two weeks - monthly updates should’ve already been the standard for the manga industry at this point. These money grabbers will only continue to put the lives of these artists at stake for the sake of capitalism unless some serious changes are implemented.
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at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"
like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.
"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."
... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.
and i'd still keep writing.
i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.
i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley
"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"
and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.
it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.
you create because you're greedy.
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*makes a pointless throwaway post*
tumblr: 25k notes. this post will never die. 5 years from now you will still be cursing the fact that you made this post
*posts an objectively incredible masterwork, the fruit of weeks of labor*
tumblr: 3 likes, 1 pity reblog from your ride or die
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There's a level of Hell that Constantine loves and hates in equal measure.
The Level of Lust and Debauchery.
He loves it for what it is, but he also really, really hates it. The beings in it are unhinged at best, completely insane at worst. Stronger than Demons, but weaker than Gods-it's always more stressful than fun dealing with them.
So needing to summon the King of that level is...well. John can already feel the exhaustion.
But instead of exhaustion, he feel rage. Disgust.
The King that shimmers into existence is a fucking child.
And John honestly loses some time after that.
He comes back from ranting with the tiny King forcefully yanking him to a stop.
"Wait, you thought the Infinite Realms were what?"
Turns out, that wasn't the Level of Lust and Debauchery at all. Turns out, the Infinite Realms has a Red Light District.
Turns out, that is a very, very small part of the Infinite Realms, and this tiny child King had no idea it was there, and now he has to explain what a Red Light District is to an increasingly mortified Royal Teenager.
All around, it's not a fun time for anyone present.
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There's some tension in all the fighting, but eventually the series' pointless nihilism drains even that amidst the huge body count as the Governor sieges the prison.
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Context: Israel “allowed” aid in the forms of flour bags to be airdropped into Gaza, waited for hundreds to congregate, and then opened fire into the crowd of desperate, starving Palestinians. 150 Palestinians were killed. Hundreds more wounded. This is being called “The Flourbag Massacre”.
source
Meanwhile, over on the other side…
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