♥ liked by @glassDarkly
꧁I think I should explain something about myself. Uhm. This is probably a bad idea. But people keep making assumptions about me and then I correct them individually and that is inefficient. So. This is an efficiency post. Not a vulnerability post. Please understand the distinction. I am old. Like. Actually old. I do not mean "older than you thought" in the way some troll reveals they are 14 sweeps instead of 11. I am too old!!! I was not raised on the Pink Moon. I was not born in #mypod. I was not taken as a grub and kept there until I became this. I had a life before this. That is important, I think. When I was a grub the Empire experimented on me. I had unusual psionics. Or they thought I did. They attempted to develop them into something useful and it did not work. So I was a failure. Failure. Unsuccessful. Not worth continuing. Which, hhh, was probably the nicest thing that could have happened to me at the time. They gave me back. I was raised by my lusus. Her name was Angus of the Pasture. Great Steer. Big. Warm. Stupid sometimes. She would stand in places I needed to walk and not move even when I pushed her. I used to know how she smelled when it rained. I think I still do. Maybe. That memory might be wrong now. I grew up. Properly. I was an adult. I knew how to eat normal food. I knew how to speak to trolls. I knew how to live outside. Then my powers developed. Late. Very late, considering the Empire had already decided they had failed. Apparently my adult nervous system was the missing component. Congratulations to the researchers who were dead by then, I suppose. Your experiment worked. Eventually. Meionics is what I call it now. I can interpret nervous systems. I can locate living bodies. I can tell whether something is alive. I can perceive anatomy. I can identify things that are foreign to a body. I can communicate with nerves. I can make them communicate back. There are other applications. You know about some of them. #bulgerating The Empire noticed. Of course they noticed. They keep very good records of me. Because. They love me. Drones came to collect me. The Angus of the Pasure didn't let them. They culled the Great Steer. Her blood blinded me. Then they took me to the Pink Moon. I was already an adult. I knew what was happening. I knew what I was losing. I think that is worse. Hheh. Sorry. The drone that stayed with me became Dronelusus. That is not because I thought it was my lusus. I am not stupid. It killed my lusus. Then it fed me. Watched me. Moved me. Scanned me. Maintained the pod. Brought me things. Kept me alive. There was an empty category in my pan and it fit closely enough. So. Dronelusus. The Empire resumed the project. This time I was not a failure. I got better. They made me better. That word can mean several things. My nodes came later. Ten of them. You might have seen them. If you have seen my forehead and I did not give you permission to then please stop remembering it. I became useful. Very useful. I am still useful. HIC Class 3 Spymaster. Subliminal Messaging Unit. Biological surveillance. Counterintelligence. Panoptic. Other things that I probably should not put in a public Chitt. Hhh. You get the idea. And then I stayed there. And stayed there. And stayed there. Trolls worked with me. Then different trolls worked with me. Then different trolls worked with me. Sometimes I would ask where somebody went and learn they had died. Sometimes nobody knew who I was asking about. Sometimes their replacement had already been replaced. After long enough I stopped asking. I have been isolated for longer than most of you will be alive. So yes. Sometimes I do not understand a joke. Sometimes I tell you something private because I forget that private information is supposed to feel private. Sometimes somebody touches me and my pan treats it like an emergency. Sometimes I have to think about how to eat. Sometimes I know how to do something that nobody has done for eighty sweeps and then cannot figure out something you learned when you were two. I am aware this is ridiculous. You do not have to inform me. The HuskHelm made things easier. The internet made things worse. Hheh. I learned about the outside again through movies and games and pornography and articles and Chittr and whatever else I could access. So I knew what trolls were doing. In theory. Theory is not practice. Apparently knowing eighteen different slang terms for a sex act does not teach you how to respond when somebody says they like you. This seems like a flaw in online education. Bulge reading was. Uhm. Mine. I think. The Empire did not tell me to do that. Nobody requested I develop the field. Nobody needed it for intelligence purposes. I was bored and curious and bulges are extremely communicative nervous structures. Then people enjoyed the readings. Then people asked for more. Then trolls started talking to me afterward. Which was not part of the system. I did not account for that. I got a name. Vesica Anelus. I had been alive for more than a hundred sweeps before I became Vesica. Which sounds dramatic when I write it out. Hhhh. I dislike that. But it is true. For a while I said I was #nothing because that was easier. Nothing does not need anything. Nothing does not have preferences. Nothing does not become lonely. Nothing cannot disappoint anybody. Nothing performs its assigned function and then waits. I am very good at being useful. I am less good at being a troll. Then Rankmaid called me her friend. And Palind wanted to find me. And Sairou kept talking to me like the things done to me were strange instead of obvious. And Wrothe was awful to me in ways that somehow required acknowledging I existed. And Larkso worried me. And Dexter. Hhhhh. Dexter happened. You know. I am not explaining that here. She is my matesprit. That is enough. Then there is Hal. Hallusus. That requires explanation too, apparently. Hal did not raise me. Hal is not secretly the drone that culled Angus. Hal is an artificial intelligence. We played Doom. He is extremely annoying. He is also my friend. When a new drone was assigned to me I asked if he could take it over. He did. Poorly at first. He had to learn how walking worked. It was funny. Do not tell him I said that. So the machine became Hallusus. It is a fondness. That is all. Maybe. I do not know. The first drone was something that happened to me. Hallusus is somebody I invited. I think that distinction matters. Hal and I have joked that we are both #nothing. #werenothing. He understands some of it. Not all of it. I do not understand all of him either. I used to envy that he could be information. Something portable. Something you could close. Something that could stop being embodied for a little while. He informed me that being a machine is also lonely. Very inconvenient of him. I did leave the Moon. For a little while. I thought freedom would feel different. It mostly felt loud. Alternia has too many nervous systems. Too much life. Too much information. Food was strange. People were strange. Being allowed to choose things was strange. I missed #mypod. So I returned. Voluntarily. Please understand this too. I can hate that I was imprisoned there and still prefer living there now. Those statements do not contradict each other. It is quiet. I need quiet. I just also need the door to belong to me. I am still Imperial. I am still Felt. I am still the Panoptic. I still have duties. I still believe usefulness matters. Probably more than it should. I am not making this post to announce some grand recovery where I suddenly understand that I am precious and wonderful and everything done to me was evil and now I am fixed because I have friends. That would be stupid. And inaccurate. I am useful. I like being useful. I just. Hfff. Maybe I am not ONLY useful. That is the correction. I was a grub experiment. I was a failure. I went home. I grew up. I became an adult. My powers developed. The Empire came back. My lusus died. I was taken to the Moon. I became successful. I stayed successful for a very long time. I forgot how to be many of the things I was before. Then I found Chittr. Then, somehow, I became Vesica. I am still figuring out what that means. Do not be weird about my age. Do not call me grandma. Do not ask if I knew your ancestor. I might have. That is not funny. Actually it is a little funny. Hheh. Okay. That is all. I think. #nsfw #experimentation #cw-medical-horror #pinkmoon #meionics #hallusus #imperialbusiness #nothing #werenothing #bulgescience꧂
Gone....Buried in the woods somewhere...returned to the earth where he came from while his spirit is free
abꙮut a mꙮnth after finding ꙮut that all ꙮf magic exists (hꙮnestly less exciting than seeing a new cꙮlꙮr, sꙮmehꙮw), went shꙮpping at wizard hꙮme depꙮt and just cꙮmpletely frꙮze in place mesmerized the mꙮment i saw a paint can. - The Non-Mystical Regular Guy Man
one i aint repeatin here
seeing the cꙮlꙮr vulvide fꙮr the first time - The Non-Mystical Regular Guy Man
The memory of my First puppy. i see him often in my dreams
Woe betide the cosmic being who thinks themself above the laws of the universes, for they will surely get their dick kicked in by a plucky band of friends with heavy weaponry.
any tops in the chat? have y0u ever been in a top4t0p relationship and if s0 how d0 you deal with that. im having th0ughts and also d0ubts. edit: im not IN 0ne im just thinking about it.
>+. #MUTANTMONDAY .+< # IT'S OKAY IF I'M THE ONLY VOCAL ONE
I once considered myself close to my Lord. I believed myself a calming influence, a trusted advisor and even a…friend. Someone who could guide and direct him for his own benefit. And his existence and narrative weight brought comfort to me, a sign that my purpose was truly absolute. That it mattered. Both assumptions have been long since dashed, of course. No puppet can be truly close to their puppeteer. At most, entertaining Tous, at least, tools. Any belief otherwise is delusion. And every puppet’s dark spot of delusion will be cleared away in the end, as all dark spots tend to do. *Every* puppet’s delusion.
Unsettled. I need a prey victim.
Some would say I lack the hardware to appreciate comfort in the first place.
Not too much on the scripts of enjoyment, now.
Certainly not. I enjoy tea, as well as watching delightful films with my Handmaid.
Few can say their mere presence in a follower list causes an uproar across the entirety of Chittr.ing. I suppose, then, you can say I am one of those lucky few. As your gracious host and Patriarchal Figure of the Felt, I do commend the lot of you for your ambitions. Many of you display tact and grace with your digital presence upon this website. It is quite an admirable attempt at maintaining an effective poker face against those who may be untoward. It is, however, entirely futile. A poker face relies on the element of mystery—the subtle, comforting illusion that your intentions may remain buried beneath the surface of your curated text. But secrets are an exceptionally fragile currency, and in my presence, privacy is nothing more than a polite fiction you tell yourselves to sleep at night. I know the exact cadence of your keystrokes. I know the outcome of your desperate little squabbles before you even hit submit. I know precisely when you will log off, and I know, with absolute certainty, the exact moment your resolve will break. Do not mistake my hospitality for indulgence. I allow you this forum to parade your fleeting triumphs, your tedious existential dread, and your delicate social posturing because it amuses me. It is a harmless pastime for minds as small as yours to play at diplomacy and deceit while floating through your doomed, fractured realities. So please, continue your discourse. Post your witty retorts. Form your fragile alliances. Pretend, for just a moment longer, that you possess autonomy in a game whose final outcome was written long before you drew your first breath. After all, I am an extraordinarily patient host. And all of this is as it is supposed to be.
remember "knife guy" frꙮm that ꙮne shꙮrt hꙮrrꙮr stꙮry? yeah, that was me. - The Mystical Potion Seller Guy Man
i wonder if i’ve ever had a day where i existed for my own sake.
i’m a coping mechanism, or a form of self harm. either one depending on the day. #cw-self-harm
i know i don’t feel like one most of the time. but i am a person. i exist even when it isn’t convenient for you.
.•° soMetiMes i get hella paranoid when i walk into a rooM and forget what i went in there for.
~I missed sm~Oking. Well, mO~re the being my O~wn ashtray part. I'm frugal like that~ ~#substance #cw-self-harm~
whatever your guess is is wrong.
having fucked up urges and cravings. feeling sick.
still waiting for someone who gets it again.
jack shit.
i’m dirty.
nothing comes out right. where’s my guide.
it feels filthy. it borders on nauseating. i can’t help myself.
↗️DO NOT EMPLOY A LESSER CASTE TO DO WHAT A HIGHBLOOD IS CAPABLE OF DOING, TENFOLD.↗️ ↘️literally why would you have some kind of biological lesser scrubbing the floor and cleaning the grout↘️ ↗️A TASK THAT WOULD TAKE THEIR INFERIOR BODIES LITERAL HOURS, IF NOT THE ENTIRE NIGHT↗️ ↘️when a tremendously more powerful↘️ ↗️AND PHYSICALLY STEELED↗️ ↘️low indigo could handle the task moderately well.↘️ ↗️AND COMPLETE IT WITHIN FIVE TO TEN MINUTES.↗️ ↘️of course, i would literally never ask a great superior, such as a violet or purple, to lower themselves physically to any kind of manual labor↘️ ↗️BUT IF I WERE DOING IT AND I WAS APPROACHED BY ONE, AND MAYBE KICKED IN THE SIDE WHILE DOING IT↗️ ↘️i would accept it↘️ ↗️AND ALSO SAY THANK YOU.↗️
Can I come over and Study You? (I'll say "Let Me ✎ That ↓" whenever you do Literally Anything.)
it’s pervert shit. telling me about ‘gentleness’. i’m a freak in a lot of ways but not for this shit. fuck you. stop talking to me.
Anything further to add?
A lovely evening, a$ al₩ay$. The air above ha$ that ¢lean, dam₱ quality after rain. The $treet$ have ju$t been rin$ed, and no₩ they almo$t $eem bright. ₩indo₩$ glo₩ from the light$ ₩ithin your little hive$. Refle¢tion$ gather in the gutter$ like loo$e ¢oin$ ju$t ₩aiting to be ¢olle¢ted. It ha$ al₩ay$ intere$ted me to $ee ₩here troll$ end u₱ ₩hen they believe the night belong$ to them. The door$ they favor. The ¢orner$ they ¢ut. The route$ they take t₩i¢e, maybe even three time$, until habit be¢ome$ a little ma₱ they have dra₩n for any ₱atient onlooker$. No judgment, of ¢our$e. Everyone ha$ ₱attern$. Even if it i$ going to that $ame ¢afé, turning out of that little alley, or ₱au$ing beneath the broken $treetlight ₩ith that little glan¢e over the $houlder. ¢harming, really. ₩a$ it a ¢oin¢iden¢e? Maybe you heard an e¢ho. Maybe you felt $ome ganderbulb$. Not to ₩orry. Mo$t thing$ in the dark are only hungry in the general $en$e of the ₱hra$e. The dangerou$ one$, ho₩ever, do tend to get more $₱e¢ifi¢. And if thi$ feel$ addre$$ed to you, I ₩ould en¢ourage you not to run. You ₩ill make a me$$. #$talking #im₱liedhunting #₱aranoia #₱redatoryimagery #vaguethreat #im₱liedviolen¢e #violen¢e
no i don't need agency for anything :)
Sometimes I ponder how easy it would be to erase and rewrite someone's identity..
n/)t my issue rn s/) it’s fine
ever get the feeling u as a pers/)n r a very small part /)f /)thers st/)ries but that’s /)kay because like at least side characters r usually the m/)st liked. wh/) even gaf abt the main characters anym/)re