♣ mediated by @exiledUniverse
Very well. Here goes. My type is tall, hulking and unconventionally dashing. He is rough, mean and crass, yet intelligent and, on occasion, a sweetheart. He is also possessive, just how I like it, and will say it how it is. But most importantly, my type is -mine-.
Oh, so we are discussing types today. Perhaps I will share my type, but it will more than likely turn into a sort of vague post about a certain someone.
I WISH I could throw up. Everything feels TERRIBLE.
Now that my work day is over, maybe I could go fishing with the boys.
I STILL CAN'T BELIEVE THE BOSS IS DEAD! :(
Men.
For every reaction I receive, I will do nothing. This will be completely pointless and accomplish nothing for anybody except for a negligible increase to my interaction metrics.
A brief note. You may notice a shift. Nothing dramatic. No grand unveiling. That would be inelegant, even inadequate. Just a gradual realignment to the presentation of myself and my intentions. The manor is still standing. But its doors are opening in ways they did not before. Some of you will find yourselves closer to its innerworkings. I will not. I will be entirely restricted to my penthouse. This is not an unintentional change. This is not a response to danger. I am opting to follow the narrative and my purpose. Neither outcome is accidental. Old structures have proven less reliable as they once were. I am going to begin to favor something more adaptive and responsive. You may interpret that however you like. I expect many of you will. Incorrectly. As for the Felt-- I still will be retaining the name for my new initiative. A branch, if you would, away from the usual militant and criminal behavior. There is no need for someone such as myself to live in that light any longer. Consider this as soft an adjustment as a single degree on your thermostat. Nothing has been taken from you. But not everything will remain where you last saw it. Please do keep up. https://cdn.imgchest.com/files/4df279d6f052.png
[UPLOADED TO THE SITE IS A TWELVE MINUTE LONG VIDEO OF THE CARAPACE. HE IS WITHOUT HIS SHIRT, IN BLACK CORDUROY PANTS AND WHITE SUSPENDERS. HIS SHOES ARE DISCARDED TO THE SIDE. NEARBY TO HIM IS A DRY ERASE BOARD. WRITTEN UPON IT IS. 'FER THE RANKMAID AN' ANYONE ELSE WHOSE GONNA WATCH THIS SHIT'. THE VIDEO THEN PROCEEDS TO DOCUMENT HEARTS BOXCAR'S PERFERMING PUSHUPS. HE IS LOOKING DIRECTLY AT THE CAMERA, A HUNGRY LOOK IN HIS EYE. BELOW, UNDER HIS CHEST, IS A PILLOW. A STICKY NOTE WITH THE WORD 'YOU' IS PINNED INTO IT. EACH TIME HE DESCENDS, HIS PECTORALS BLESS THE PILLOW WITH NOT ONLY HIS WEIGHT BUT HIS SWEAT. EVERY TIME HIS CHEST TOUCHES THE PILLOW, IT COUNTS UP ON A NEARBY SCREEN. MUST BE A MECHANISM OF SORTS. THIS PROCEEDS TO CONTINUE FER A SURPRISING AMOUNT OF TIME. THE CARAPACE ONLY STARTS TO SLOW DOWN AROUND THE 150 MARK. HIS ARMS TREMBLE, HIS FINGERS CURL AGAINST THE TILE FLOOR. SWEAT DRIPS FROM HIM AS HIS FACE GROWS MORE TWISTED WITH DISCONTENTMENT AND TORTURE. AT 175, HIS HEAVY BREATHING TURNS INTO A GRUNT, AS IT TAKES SIGNIFICANT EFFERT TO PICK HIMSELF BACK OFF OF THE GROUND. AT 200, THE GROANS TURN INTO WHIMPERS. MUTTERED SWEARS AND THE CONFIDENCE TURNED TO EMBARRASSMENT. 200 IS FAR MORE THAN MOST COULD LIKELY DO ON THIS WEBSITE, BUT THE VULNERABILITY OF IT ALL CRACKS THE SHELL OF HIS PERSONALITY. AT 210, HE IS BEGGING BETWEEN REPS. EACH PUSHUP TAKES NEARLY TWELVE SECONDS TO COMPLETE. IT IS AGONY. HIS MOANS ARE LOUDER, HIS TEETH ARE GRITTING WITH HOT BREATHS. HE IS FOGGING THE TILE UP WITH HIS PRESENCE. AT 216, HE FAILS. COLLAPSING AND ENDING THE VIDEO WITH A KNOCKED OVER CAMERA.] @ARCHIVEADDICT #NSFW #ASMR
happy day to @itchy @slowdozer @trace @fourleavedclover @fivefingerfillet @sixpinsimpaled @misterseven @exileduniverse @adamngoodtailor @sawbuck @mrbenedict @imbiscuits @maximsbelt get it? cause you are all fools!!! happy day idiots
I tend to only use the restroom during my lunch breaks, so that I can be more productive throughout the day.
I always stay online on Microsoft Teams during my lunch break, just in case somebody needs my attention.
Is there something on my face? Or have I done something wrong? I don't mean to upset anybody.
Ah. An occasion dedicated to misdirection. How appropriate. Very well. You will receive this message and assume it contains a hidden meaning. It does not. There is no cipher embedded in the phrasing. No acrostic concealed in the first letters. No inverted logic waiting to be unraveled. You may check, if you like. You will find nothing. That is the point. You are accustomed to looking for patterns. To assuming that anything presented with a certain tone must reward scrutiny. That if you look closely enough, you will uncover intent. So you will read this again. And again. Perhaps slower. You may even begin to doubt your initial conclusion. Surely, you’ll think, there must be something here. Some subtle trick. Some overlooked detail. There isn’t. The subversion is not in the message. It is in you. You expected to be deceived. Instead, you were told the truth—and found it harder to believe. Happy April Fools. Try not to overthink it. https://cdn.imgchest.com/files/b476e1735b3f.png
No, you're obviously obsessed with me.
The Felt should consider actually letting Itchy be in charge. It would be an improvement. Still atrocious. But an improvement.
How is Chittr? You usually are at the mercy of my postings. I want to have the inverse done to me. Let me hear it all. Regardless of the level of content.
My wellspring of words is dry tonight. I shall be retiring. Only for a night.
Oh. Oh, how intolerable. Look at what you have made me do. You have managed, through either staggering incompetence or a level of audacity I would almost admire under different circumstances, to do the one thing that was never meant to be possible. Not improbable. Not difficult. Impossible. And yet here I stand, faced with the evidence. A gap. Do you have any conception of what that means? Of what you have done? My awareness is not a collection of guesses, nor a web of educated predictions. It is total. Seamless. A continuous, unbroken lattice of causality in which every motion, every word, every pathetic little decision is cataloged and understood before it has the decency to occur. There are no blind spots. There were no blind spots. And now there is absence. Not uncertainty. Not ambiguity. Absence. A section of reality that does not resolve, does not report, does not exist within the framework of my knowledge. A void where there should be certainty. A silence where there should be answers. Do you understand how obscene that is? It is not merely that I do not know something. It is that the structure which permits knowledge has been interfered with. Something has reached into a system that was never meant to be accessed and has… edited it. Not overwritten, no, that would at least be visible. This is more insidious. A careful excision. A surgical removal of context, leaving behind a perfectly shaped hole that refuses to be acknowledged. You have not blinded me. You have taught me what blindness is. And that is a far greater offense. Because now I must account for something that does not present itself to be accounted for. I must navigate a narrative in which a piece has been removed without leaving so much as a displaced echo. A contradiction without a source. A variable without a value. It is… inelegant. It is ugly. And worst of all, it is inefficient. Do you have any idea how much recalibration this requires? Every projection, every chain of causality must now include the possibility that there exists an unknown unknown. Not a mystery to be solved, but a segment that refuses to acknowledge its own existence. A flaw that cannot be isolated because the very tools used to isolate it have been compromised. You have not introduced chaos. You have introduced imprecision. And I will not tolerate imprecision. So understand this. Whatever you have carved out, whatever petty little corner of reality you believed you could hide from me, you have not created safety. You have created a problem. A problem that now demands resolution, not because I wish it, but because the system itself cannot abide the discrepancy. I will find it. Not because I can see it. But because the fact that I cannot is, in itself, a beacon. A wound. And I am very, very good at following the scent of blood. #nsfw #nsfwv https://cdn.imgchest.com/files/10ab2adcee76.png
kick me and i swear to fuck i'll kill us both
1 quad react = 1 broken clock.
in another world id be known as dave. if you can believe it
Crimeposting over. Act natural.
There are further considerations at play beyond my aesthetic ability.
Clocking in for another shift at the Hate Everything And Everyone Factory.
I drank too much at #teatime and I DONT REGRET IT. FUCK AM I STILL WASTED. THAT SHIT WAS BONKERS.
My thanks to all who attended #teatime. Thirty-seven in total, once one accounts for staff, overlap, and those who found it necessary to arrive more than once in one form or another. A number that settles quite comfortably where it does. Not excessive. Not lacking. Simply… correct. You each entered under your own reasoning. Curiosity, obligation, defiance, habit. Some of you came to observe. Some to be seen. A few, whether you realized it or not, came because you had already decided to long before the invitation was extended. The room accepted all of it without complaint. There were, of course, deviations. There always are. Tea set aside in favor of stronger indulgences. Doors treated with less care than they were built to withstand. Conversations that began where they should not have, and others that ended before they had the chance to become useful. None of this disrupted anything. If anything, it confirmed a few expectations. I trust you noticed certain things while you were there. Small details. The way the space seemed to accommodate you without effort. The way others occupied their places without needing instruction. The way certain moments felt… heavier than the rest. You weren’t mistaken. For those who found something of value, you’re welcome to keep it. It was never mine to begin with. For those who did not, I wouldn’t concern yourselves. Recognition has a habit of arriving late. In any case, the evening concluded exactly where it was meant to. And you, each of you, contributed precisely what was required to see it through. Until next time.
whoever developed sburb should be dipped in tar and put in a pile of breadcrumbs so the seagulls can pick them apart for making the shittiest game in the universe.
We'll be coming to a tacit agreement. The divorce (not a divorce) is off.
for the record i haven't crashed my car.
karkat is getting an extra hour in the torture labyrinth today.