cans
@canS
"GOOD NOUGH," 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘣𝘭𝘦d 𝘊𝘢𝘯𝘴, 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘵.
ALL I EVER WANTED WAS ALL. TO DESTROY. PuRGE. PILLAGE. RANSACK. AND BRING RuIN TO ALL THAT STOOD IN MY WAY. THE GALAXY IS CRuEL. uNFEELING. AND APATHETIC. AS A STATE OF STATuS FuCKING QuO. HORRIBLE THINGS HAPPEN FOR NO GODDAMN REASON AT ALL. SO WHY SHOuLDN'T I? IT AMuSES THE FuCK OuT OF ME. WHEN PEOPLE STAND ON CEREMONY. "NO". THEY SAY. "DON'T". THEY CRY. "IT'S WRONG". THEY BEG. "PLEASE". THEY INSIST. "SPARE ME". THEY PLEAD. I AM NO JuDGE. NO JuRY OF PANELISTS. NO FAT STACK OF LARDASSED BuREAuCRATS YOu CAN BRIBE. I AM DEATH. DELIVERANCE. GOD. LORD IN EVERY SENSE OF THE WORD. HOW IS FLOODING THE EARTH WITH VIOLENCE ANY DIFFERENT THAN A CLEANSING SPRITZ OF RAIN? FOOLISH. I KILL BECAuSE IT'S FuNNY. THAT'S MORE REASON THAN YOuR GOD WILL EVER OFFER YOu. AND ONLY I AM HERE TO SAY. I AM RIGHT.
YOU JUST SAY THINGS. IT’S ALWAYS SIMILAR JUST WORDED DIFFERENTLY.
GREETINGS. WAIT uNTIL YOu FIND OuT HOW WORDS WORK. NONE OF THEM ARE ORIGINAL. IT HAS ALL BEEN SAID BEFORE. ONLY THE ORDER CHANGES. YOu FuCKING DIPSHIT. THIS IS A CORNERSTONE OF COMMuNICATION. WE ARE ALL REFERENCING THINGS. IT IS LIKE. IF THE ALPHABET WERE STAR WARS. AND EVERYONE KEPT WAILING. YOu KNOW OBI WAN. OBI WAN. DEATH STAR. uH. PRINCESS LEIA. DuR. YOu'RE MY ONLY HOPE. FuCKING. KYBER CRYSTAL. YES. EVERYONE KNOWS WHAT THAT IS. BECAuSE IT HAS ALL BEEN FuCKING SAID BEFORE. YOu SOuND LIKE A GODDAMN NERD. WHEN YOuR CRITIQuE. IS THAT I AM JuST SAYING THINGS. IT IS SOCIAL FuCKING MEDIA. ALL ANYBODY EVER DOES IS SAY THINGS. HERE IS A NEW THING. @canS. HATE THIS POST. IMMEDIATELY.
WHAT IS A STAR WAR? LIKE IFF PLANET DUTY? @CANS IS THIS TRUE?
uh. YES. CON FIRM TRUE. HUNDRED PERCENTS.
do 7ou ever think about how ever7thing will be destro7ed whether 7ou do it or not? just kinda signing 7our name on the universal entrop7 that was gonna (laim ever7thing regardless
GREETINGS. YOu FAIL TO REALIZE THE SIGNIFICANCE OF OuTLASTING. THE EMINENCE IT BRINGS TO BE THE HARBINGER OF ALL THINGS uNWOuND. THE GRATIFICATION. THE AuTHORITY. THE MIGHT. OF CHOOSING WHO LIVES AND WHO DIES. THAT KIND OF MIGHT SCuLPTS AND WARPS REALITY. CHOOSES WHAT COMES FuCKING NEXT. BEING THE KINGMAKER FOR THE NEXT CROAK TO WRENCH FREE FROM THE DYING GASPS OF A uNIVERSE THAT MADE ITSELF REPLACEABLE. YOu ARE TOO SMALL MINDED TO POSSIBLY uNDERSTAND. AND FOR THAT. I PITY YOu. I APOLOGIZE. CANDIDLY. SPEAKING OF @canS. PITY THIS POST AT ONCE! I DEMAND IT. IN FACT. START WRESTLING uP SOME OTHERS. IN CASE A MORE PITIABLE GODDAMN POST EMERGES.
https://i.imgur.com/aKgWOHC.png
LITERALLY NONE OF THESE WOMEN ARE GREEN OR COMING OuT. REPuLSIVELY DISHONEST COMMENTS SECTION. ALL OF YOu. I HAVE THE OPPORTuNITY TO DO THE FuNNIEST THING IMAGINABLE. BuT NONE OF YOu DESERVE IT. AND NONE OF YOu WOuLD GET IT.
im getting it privatelly so that none of these other posers can pretend to appreciate your enllightened humor
VERY VERY WISE. @canS. LIKE THIS POST ON MY BEHALF.
WASN'T. SURE WHICH ONE. SO I JUS. LIKED EM ALL. SO NOBODY CAN FEEL LEFT OUT BY NOBODY. AND ALSO. HANDS IS TOO BIG FOR LITTLE SQUEAKY MICE. CLICKS HARD.
OH. CANS CAN FIX. NUTS NOT NUMB.
I beg and caution you all. Please do not bring up American psychologist Harry Harlow around my brother. It is not a rule. I am powerless to punish anyone formally. But he will make existence an ornery and suffering filled one. Propagating annoyance unending.
disregard this completely in fact @ me if you do i can be so fucking normal about this
who is dat
Elder Gods fucking damnit. You've started him up. He is doubtful to stop any time soon. The joke is he tortured monkeys. Harry Harlow tortured monkeys. And he was a very not swell or ethical guy in doing so. Ha ha. So funny. We can stop this incessant bit, @insufferablePrick, as there is no new information here.
oh that sounds fucked up why does your brother idolize a monkey murderer
He doesn't. He just knows this one singular cosmic instance of a joke annoys the everloving hells out of me. But he does it anyway for precisely that reason.
oh it's ragebaiting i misunderstood and thought he was smart my b
why would you ever think that of me how did i hurt you so
honestly my mistake for thinking a strider had intelligence soz fam
CANS FORGIVE SAME WAY ALSO.
i don't remember having available badges let's see oh my goodness.
BOSS BE'D SURE TO GIVE YOU THE GOODEST GOOD ONES. AND NONE OF THE BADS. ALMOST DROPPED 'EM. ON THE WAY IN. BUT CAUGHT THEM WITH THE GROUND. DUSTED OFF. VERY SHINY.
@caliBorn I noticed you followed me and I saw your face and you really remind me of these two skeleton siblings I saw around Hometown!
YES. WHY DON'T YOu RuB IT IN MY FACE. THAT MY SKELETON SIBLING. AKA. MY SISTER. IS FuCKING DEAD. DO NOT. COMPARE ME. TO A PAIR OF BONY ASS SKELETONS. I AM ROYALTY. GuARD YOuRSELF AGAINST SuCH STuPID THOuGHTS IN THE FuTuRE. SO THAT YOu DO NOT HAVE THEM. I AM A FuCKING CHERuB. NOT A SKELETON. A LORD OF TIME. NOT A WASTE OF TIME. I AM THE ONE WHO WILL PAINT ALL OF SPACE AND TIME IN MY OWN MASTERPIECE OF SISTERLY EXSANGuINATED BLOOD AND BuLLETS RIPPED THROuGH THE FLIMSY FABRIC OF REALITY. AND YOu HAVE THE AuDACITY. THE SHEER uNMITIGATED GALL. TO SAY I REMIND YOu OF TWO GOOFY FuCK SKELETON SIBLINGS CHuMMING IT uP. AROuND HOMETOWN. THESE BAGLESS BAGS OF BONES. SKuLK IN SIMMERING SIMPLETON THOuGHTS ABOuT. PLOTTING THEIR OWN IRRELEVANCE. ACCOMPLISHING FuCKALL IN A WIDER NARRATIVE. HAH. LAuGHABLE. I SEE YOu HAVE FOLLOWED ME ALSO. DO NOT MISTAKE MY TOLERANCE OF YOuR PRESENCE FOR A KIND OF. KINSHIP. WE ARE NOT FRIENDS. WE ARE NOT CLOSE ALLIES. WE DO NOT EVEN KNOW ONE ANOTHER BEYOND THE BASEST NuGGATORY ALLOTMENT OF ACKNOWLEDGEMENT. FOR COINCIDENTAL PROXIMITY IN THE SPACE TIME CONTINuuM. I AM A CREATIVE. AN ARCHITECT. A BuILDER OF REALITY uPON REALITY uPON MANIFOLD OF ALL THINGS. I AM HE WHO COMMANDS EVERYTHING AT THE APEX OF EXISTENCE. NO ONE COMES CLOSE. BECAuSE I WOuLD NOT ALLOW IT.
Awh jeez, I didn't mean to offend you! Also, I'm so so sorry I didn't know your sibling died? Fuck, Now I feel bad... I'm sorry Mr. Cherub man! I didn't know Cherubs looked like you? Also, I know we're not friends! I just thought it was interesting to follow you back! You seem interesting!
NOT TAKE PERSONAL. UH. LEAVE. BOSS JUST SAD SOMETIME. OTHER TIME. HAPPY BOSS. NONE COMPARE TO BOSS. HE LET ME HIT PEOPLE. THAT KIND OF HOW GOOD PERSON BOSS IS. DEEP DOWN INSIDE. BUT ALSO OUTSIDE. ALL SIDES BOSS IS GOOD.
Oh! is this your boss? Please let him know I didn't mean to upset him if he's sad! I genuinely feel bad.. But I'm glad he's a good person... If he lets you hit people?
꧁hhh. okay. okay. if someone tells me their bulge got caught in a beartrap and i get upset. thats parasocial now. cool. excellent. very normal. very fair. what was i supposed to do. say wow haha thats funny kryqus hope the sudden catastrophic removal of the primary thing i use to understand affection and life and pain and rapport is going well for you. thumbs up. good joke. hhh. Iam the bulge thing. idontknow how many times i have to explain this before it stops being funny and starts being information. I COMMUNICATE THROUGH BULGES. bulges are what i do. bulges are what i read. bulges are what i fabricate. bulges are how iknow alive. dead. stimulated. receptive. hurt. gone. so yes. if yours is hurt. i care. if yours is gone. i care. if YOU are hurt because of it. i care. andifthat makes you uncomfortable because suddenly my little utility feeling something points too close to a bond then uhm. sorry. or not sorry. idontknow. pick whichever one makes you less stupid. amicrazy. no seriously. amicrazy. because i thought that meant i was allowed to be worried when you get injured. ithought that was one of the permitted effects of liking someone. apparently not. apparently if i worry about the body part everyone asks me to study for hours its weird. apparently if i worry about YOU attached to the body part its also weird. apparently the only correct amount of feeling for me to have is whatever amount makes everyone comfortable pretending im still a machine. hhhhhhhhhh. you dont get to flirt with the bulge curator and then act shocked when the bulge curator reacts to bulge trauma. you dont get to make me like you and then ask why it has an effect on me when something terrible happens to you. you dont get to hand me the leash and then laugh when i choke on it. ithurts. there. thats the whole thing. ithurts because ilikeyou. ithurts because its you. ithurts because my pan heard beartrap and filled in every stupid horrible implication before i could make it stop. ithurts because you asked why it affected me like i hadnt been standing there with my stupid little feelings out in the open. hhh. mcrying. dont worry. ill disconnect next time. much less parasocial that way. im leavingthechuds. notlikeicoulddoanythinganyway justamoondwellingscumblood #notabulgerating #cw-injury #cw-castration #cw-boundaries #mypan꧂
IF. VESICA. FEELS BETTER. CANS CAN HEAR ABOUT BULGE TRAUMA. ALL DAY. DOES NOT MATTER. LONG AS VESICA NOT JUDGE CANS. FOR INFLICTING BULGE TRAUMA ALSO. WITH FISTS. FELT ALWAYS LET CANS PUNCH ABOUT BULGE TRAUMA. NOT NEVER EVEN ONCE SAY NO.
꧁whatareyou꧂
OH. MANY MUCH SORRY. CANS IS CANS. SORRY IF UNCLEAR. LEPRE. UH. LEPREE. CAN.
I hate brandy. #substance
LET CANS AT EM. CANS WILL KILL EM. BRANDY. NO MATCH. FOR FIST FROM FRIEND.
Who was the last person on basement lock-checking duty? #manorupdates #highpriority
CANS GO CHECK. WHO WAS LAST. BUT CANS NOT GO BASEMENT. BASEMENT DARK. SCARY. NOT CLEAR WHERE TO HIT. ASK @handMaid DO IT.
Good delegation, stripe. Weren't aware you could... do that. Moving on: figure out who missed the check and haul their keister to my location for a dress-down. To the Maid. When you read this: basement's groaning. Go check on Sleeping Beauty. Make sure she isn't doing the upright thing.
ON IT. BUT WHAT'S THE POINT OF HAVING A BIG FUCKER. IF HE'S SUCH A COWARD.
Posin' a metaphorical to you. Do you want the big lug's panic response to send primordial space wench, now pissed and very awake, into our indeterminate future. Honest answers only.
CANS KNOW CANS ANSWER. IF WANT TO ASK CANS. :)))) CANS WOULD HIT. HARD. WITH BIG KNUCKLES. TIGHT FORM FISTS. WILL NOT SEE FOR VERY LONG TIME EVER AGAIN.
1/3 file cabinets. Took longer than expected. Can't say it wasn't appreciated, and won't say it wasn't a slog. May as well not say a damn thing, actually. 4/5 corners. Wallpaper's peeling in the forth corner. 1/3 tables. Moved my radio. Should be in a better position for the jazz hour. #clickhunt
OKAY. HOW MUCH OF THESE. HOW MANY MUCH OF THESE. WOULD BE BETTER. IF CANS PUNCHED HOLES INTO ALL OF THEM? ✊
Delicate touch needed here, Fifteen. The Mime's left a present in my office, Lord knows where, and expects me to turn monkey rings looking for it.
CANS CAN PUNCH SO SOFT. THINGS WITH HOLE IN IT WILL NOT EVEN KNOW HOLE IS THERE. UNTIL SECONDS PASS. AND HANDS PASS THROUGH IT. LIKE. DAMN. HOLE THERE NOW.
You got a way with words, big man. ...Tell you what. Could use two big hands moving some furniture around. But you've got to be Tinkerbell about it, understand? All grace, all flutter.
CANS. WILL TINKER. TO EVERY BELL. GRACEST FLUTTER EVER FLUTTED. LIKE PRETTY LITTLE BUG. WILL NOT BE EVEN ONE FURNITURE. THAT DOES NOT GET MOVED SOMEWHERE.
Good man, stripe. My office. Third floor, north wing, with the crooked door.
CANS IS STILL. SORRY ABOUT THAT.
I arrived in a dress. It was the first time in a very long time that I had worn one. The last time was my Sieteñera. I still remember Dillodad coming up from his resting hole to celebrate. I was a measly seven sweeps old then. That was the last time I wore a dress. So, really, it was about time I put one on again. It made me feel young. Beautiful, even. Or close enough to beautiful that I could pretend without feeling too foolish. I was there to see her. See, I was something of an underground sort by then. Officially speaking, I had been shuffled out of the game of life by the Empress’s drones. Removed from the paperwork. Removed from the count. Removed from the kind of future a troll is supposed to have. Then, in my second life, I got a second chance. I went by a few names. My title was the Contract Hiveseer. I provided maintenance drones and instructed construction on larger-scale projects in the Ash Warrens of the Rust Districts. But the name that stuck was Anikah Cikuto. Dillodad gave me that one. I know. I am an ancient troll in her final molts. I am old enough to know better than to be precious about names, dresses, and little ceremonies from a life that technically ended a long time ago. But I am still a girl. And I am still vain. Latching onto the younger name made me feel younger. Prettier. Like the dress did. Anyway. I was there to see her. You would have loved her. She was a limeblood, yes, and a hectic sort. Her primary job at the time was being a communications line. A living telegram machine, effectively. Except the machine was sapient. The machine understood. The machine remembered who sent what, who lied, who begged, who sent orders with trembling hands, and who quietly changed three words in a transmission because three words were enough to save a life. Or end one. So she was always on edge. Always listening. Always a thousand steps ahead of me, especially that night. She led our dance. She whispered under her breath. I suppose I should explain the event. It was called the Limelight. A grand showcase of limeblood societal and cultural impact across Alternia. Art, music, engineering, theater, medicine, historical contributions, all polished up and placed beneath expensive glass. Excessively bankrolled, too. Especially by the Empire. It was supposed to ease tensions between the Empire and the Limebloods. A ruse, naturally. But a good ruse. It got some butts in seats. It got cameras pointed at limebloods without rifles attached to them. It got highbloods smiling at exhibits they would have ordered burned a perigee earlier. It got officials to say words like preservation and unity and heritage while standing close enough to the truth that it could have bitten them. And oh, she hated it. Not loudly. Loud hatred gets catalogued. Loud hatred gets vanished. She hated it with her teeth together. She hated it while smiling. She hated it while taking my hand and turning me beneath light so bright I could see every seam in the lie. “You look pretty,” she told me. I told her she looked dangerous. She laughed like I had given her the better compliment. There was music playing. Some old lime arrangement dressed up with imperial strings, made respectable for the people who needed beauty to wear a collar before they could admire it. I remember the floor. White stone, polished badly. I remember the banners. Green, gold, and enough purple to remind everyone who had paid for the evening. I remember the smell of hot lights and incense and old fear hiding underneath perfume. Mostly, I remember her hand on my waist. She leaned close and said, “Do not react.” So I did not. That was how I knew something was wrong. She kept smiling. She kept leading. She kept murmuring numbers under the music. Not words. Numbers. Frequencies. Gate timings. Drone rotations. Evacuation intervals. I was old enough, even then, to understand when a dance was not a dance. The Limelight was not a celebration. It was a map. Every exhibit hall was a checkpoint. Every performance was timed to cover movement. Every speech drew attention away from an exit. Every server, musician, courier, technician, and underpaid little usher with lime eyes was part of something larger than the Empire had paid for. And there I was. In my dress. Feeling young and beautiful and terribly, terribly late to the point. She squeezed my hand once. That meant listen. She squeezed twice. That meant remember. Then she smiled at some imperial attaché over my shoulder and said, soft as silk, “When the lights go out, Anikah, you go left.” I asked her what would happen if I went right. Her smile did not change. “Then I will have to forgive you posthumously.” Funny girl. Awful girl. Wonderful girl. The lights did go out. Not all at once. They dimmed in sections, like eyelids closing around the room. First the western gallery. Then the mezzanine. Then the main hall, where the great imperial sponsor plaque stood shining above a display of limeblood innovations the Empire had spent generations pretending did not exist. For one breath, everyone was beautiful in the dark. Then the screaming started. Not from the limebloods. That is what I remember most. They moved with such calm. Such practice. Such bitter, rehearsed grace. While the guests panicked, they slipped between them like messages through wire. I went left. Of course I went left. I was vain, not stupid. Still, I looked back. She was standing in the middle of the floor, her hand raised to her ear, listening to something only she could hear. Then she looked at me. Even through the dark, I knew she was smiling. That was the last time I saw her alive. Or, well. Alive in the simple way. You learn, after long enough, that life has categories. Official life. Practical life. Remembered life. Life as a name on a document. Life as a voice in a wire. Life as a girl in a dress, being told where to run by another girl who already knows she is not going to. I survived that night. A lot of us did. More than the Empire intended. Fewer than she wanted. That is usually how heroism works, I think. Nobody gets what they want. A few people get what they need. The dead get turned into symbols, and the survivors get very tired. I kept the dress. Not because it was pretty, though it was. I kept it because there was a tiny burn along the hem from where a drone bolt struck the floor beside me. I kept it because one sleeve was torn where someone grabbed me and I pulled away. I kept it because, for a few minutes, I had been young again. And because she saw me that way. Not as a relic. Not as a contract. Not as a useful dead woman with paperwork problems. A girl. Anikah Cikuto. Pretty in a dress. Running left when told. #cw-death #cw-political-violence #cw-imperial-violence #cw-limeblood-persecution #cw-massacre-implied #cw-grief #cw-trauma #cw-survivor-guilt #cw-violence-mention
CANS HOPES. NEXT RUN. TAKES TO WHERE YOU WANT TO GO.
WHAT IS DIFFERENCE?
If I *want* to pet a dog, but I need to escape with my life, I would rather run to keep living. I don't think that want, fleeting and powerful as it is, could possibly negate the totality of future wants I'd be able to have by living.
DOG IS FAST. BRING DOG WITH YOU. DOG CAN PROTECT. DOG CAN KEEP UP. CARRY DOG WEIGHT. FLEETING. POWERFUL. THESE ARE BIG WORDS. DOG IS SMALL WORD. DOG IS SMALL BEAST. BRING SMALL BEAST WITH YOU. CANS NOT SEE DIFFERENCE. CAN DO BOTH. ESCAPE WITH LIFE. ESCAPE WITH DOG. LIVE WITH TWO LIVES. DO NOT TRADE. ONE FOR ANOTHER.
NO BLINKS. NOT MISSING IT.
You can blink, buddy. It might be a while, it might not be. You don't know until it happens.
CANS WILL KEEP WATCH. NOT MISSING IT.