Hang On I’m Trying To See Something

I cannot be the only adhd addled motherfucker who squeaks and squeals at random when things make me happier than I can handle.

Is this stimming? Probably. I don’t care though. You’re not gonna stop me from dancing on my tiptoes and squeaking like a little creature.

WHY IS THE THIRD ONE ME BUT FOR FLOWERS AND PLANTS

I DIDN’T ASK TO BE CALLED OUT ON A WEDNESDAY

I still can’t believe I saw someone try and put fucking pine down for a bald cypress though, I wanted to throw hands. NOT EVEN IN THE SAME GENUS BRO.

Gentle reminder that when I say something isn’t my best work, it’s because my art brain does fantastic sketches in like grayscale or whatever that are usually extremely messy- the example I’m about to show is like, on its third or fourth clean up sketch- but the MINUTE I go to render it my art stops arting. Shading with colors? Who? Never met them.

And it’s painful because I was a color pencil artist WHO FUCKING KILLS IT with a set of prismacolors by the way, always have, but I try to absolutely murder the render and;

It become soup. I don’t know what happens to my concept of dimension the minute I render but something happens because as much as I want to make this sketch into a finished piece, the minute I try it’s going to look like soup. So I’m just gonna stop touching it.

Lmk if anyone else has this problem or how to solve it, cause….

I do not appreciate the soup.

Me

I should clarify that it’s me because I see them everywhere and don’t have the slightest fucking clue what’s going on

pov you’re on tumblr for halloween:

Like right now? I can bust that shit out rn.

Ahem, ahem.

The sky itself seemed to have been painted like oils on canvas as the sun slinked down over the silhouetted tree-line, pops of color in the form of innumerable wild grasses and flowers so abundant it stung at the eyes, illuminated and joyously glowing with the fading golden light. Winds oh-so-gently kissed longingly at the clearing, grasses swaying in time with their wistful embrace; that same timeless dance that whispered gently at the skin of one’s ears with the brisk chill of oncoming night. The stars spattering across the sky, unabashedly inviting themselves onwards into the streaks of lilac nightfall. The swaying grasses lapping gently against the skin of calves with tender touches, the sound of a gale blustering past, roaring in the shells of ears as the last of a wayward storm was pushed into distant memory of the dewy land that subtly gave way underfoot. The scent of nectar and petrichor wafted up as peat and flowers were crushed under heel.

It couldn’t have been more perfect if it tried.

How was that? Up to par?

I’m absolutely wearing the most shit eating grin and idgaf. I have the opposite problem. I would describe a scene for an entire page and forget about plot points in favor of waxing poetic about sensations and sights. I’m begging you, do not encourage me like this.

I’ve been like this since my queer ass was in the fourth grade. I could never finish shit on time.

writing challenge! describe a single room. or like. anything that is happening outside of the conversation. an outfit. something, anything, please

Snorting, cackling, and consoling my itty bitty inner child at this.

What else am I to slay encroachers with?

Sometimes I feel bad about my body.

And then I remember I’m basically a giant wandering ecosystem, in which all things contributing to my existence have done so just so that they could survive, and then I basically feel like I established world peace on a cellular level because now everything in my body has to work together harmoniously to survive or nothing survives. There just isn’t room for war in this house. :)

And then I’m like. “Damn. I’m like a little mini biome for bacteria and single celled organisms and cells. A walking terrarium. Fuck yeah. That’s cool.”

This is not a friendly reminder, this is goddamn emotional warfare you have sent shrapnel flinging across the walls of my home and emotional safety.

I don’t even drink enough to feel tipsy and I want to cry.

I don’t even own a cat!!! (I wish I did)

Yknow this is why I got embarrassed when I played with the doors open. Sorry, I know you’d look at me weird if you saw a little girl about to hang a traitorous stuffed dog for his many war crimes with a string of cheap marti gras beads in front of the doorway with an audience, authority figures, last words rites, and all. I’ve built a society with birth, death, tragedy, relief, societial expectations, rituals, and traditions.

You wouldn’t be able to keep up. To you it’d just look weird. To me, it is the most invigorating story and I’m having a fucking blast.

Then of course they came back from the dead and have a revenge arc, because they were a wrongful convict.

Suck it, loser. I’m having fun.

(There was also this one time I made literal armor for my stuffed elephant out of ball bearings and magnets because I was obsessed with them as a kid. I was gonna make them go to war. Then the magnets collapsed in on eachother and were nearly impossible to remove because of the shear number of magnets I used. I could barely lift it to get my parents to help me. )

i love in fantasy when its like “king galamir the mighty golden eagle and his most trusted advisor who would never betray him, gruelworm bloodeye the treacherous”