Rose Lalonde
@tentacleTheconsensualist
It speaks to a perspective narrow-minded and virginal that sees an undulating mass of arms covered in eyes and teeth showing a bit of skin and decries it as a flock of whores.
( ७Ꮚ⇀ꈊ↼Ꮚ) < Hrrrrm... ᴗദ്ദ🌹(ᴗᏊᄒꈊᄒᏊ)ᴗ< What'dyall reckon is the MOST attractive Spell t'know in passing?
I'm partial to Prestidigitation. The ability to ensure one is always clean, presentable, and lemon scented? That goes much further than most anything else in making one an attractive partner.
( Ꮚ‾̀ꈊ ‾̀Ꮚ); < Super duper insightful to your type, too. Th'thought you might come t'expect some form 'o decorum, dismissal of those derelict in well-to-do's... ( Ꮚ⚀ꈊ⚀Ꮚ) < I respect that, Rose!!! Ya got standards 'n a type!!! ( Ꮚ‾̀ꈊ ‾̀Ꮚ); < Butcha hold yerself too 'em too. Admirable!!!
That said, if one can learn more than one spell? Eldritch Blast tells me all I need to know to be assured we can enjoy each other's company.
Rose Lalonde posting? I suppose she does.
i don't fully get the joke but i support it
I have to assume any support from you will be phallic in nature. #nsfw
what no i can like and support things in the casual and wholesome way too!! it's you who chose to make it lewd
I've seen your most recent posts Jade. And the ones before that. And before that. That ball of yarn isn't because you've suddenly taken up knitting. You'll have to forgive me for assuming you're the sort to solely think with her endowment.
ivve done it ivve created the perfect damp an squishy cloth replica of a lusus i modeled it after someones wwaspmom (because its uncontested that wwasps are the sexiest shape a beast can be) i pumped full a gaseous noble crystals wwhen i wwas six an noww im about to pump her full a somethin evven better an far richer than your feeble lowwly pans can fathom
@tentacleTheconsensualist i wwill report back wwith my findins post haste an maybe afterwwards wwe can grab some nutrition slop my felloww fact ferret for science
Swoon. My eyelashes flutter and my heart goes all a pitter patter.
I HOPE TO SEE YOU ALL OUT TRICK-OR-TREATING THIS YEAR. I WILL HAVE PLENTY OF STORE-BOUGHT CONFECTIONARY ON HAND, ALONG WITH A FEW HOME MADE SWEETS. ARE 'REESE'S CUPS' STILL THE REIGNING FAVORITE? 21605 FIR DR, MAPLE VALLEY, WASHINGTON.
As delightfully saccharine as this is, Mr. Egbert, you may benefit from perusing this helpful infographic.
I was hugged an appropriate amount as a child. Perhaps too much, even.
interestin you knoww its basically science that girls get hugged more than boys the ratio a girlhugs to boyhugs is somethin like 20:1 the hug gap is vvaster than the circumference a her imperial condescensions stern three times ovver if only there wwere a wway to regulate this systematic bias i propose a public wwelfare policy that instates that all hugless young vviolets get a bureaucratically mandated boyhugger
Consider instead the abolishment of the custodian system, to be replaced by a cloth lusus/wire lusus program. Cloth lusus will be constructed of soft and pliable materials; it will be squishy, a bit damp, and contain several holes suitable for pail installation when the ward comes of age. Wire lusus will be a barbed wire-frame construction, with a nutrition bile globule in the center and a gun. These lusii will provide protection, comfort, nutrition, and emotional intimacy to their wards. I believe you would be a more well-adjusted and likable individual had your rearing been similar to my proposal. #nsfw
i oughta givve credit wwhere its due wwitch your grotesque oedipal analogies strike me in that sticky sensitivve spot feww wwords can reach but my carnic philosophy impedes me from approachin the acme you speak a because i hate lusii their vvarious textures disgust me the small ones make me especially uncomfortable but id be remiss to tell you to do awway wwith the wwhole thin an start from scratch this is a fine idea but i havve a proposition that wwill turn fine into great you can be the cloth lusus complete wwith the pailin mechanism an ill be me wwhat say you an experiment to test your hypothesis
As you're surely aware, any good science experiment requires a control group. I'll present you a challenge. Create a prototype wire lusus, then have relations with it. Only then can we move on to any sort of cloth lusus discussion.
do i gotta
It would do many of you good to form a small circle of associates, a dark council of sorts, with whom you may share your thoughts about whatever running motif on the timeline is bothering you. Insult the kidnappees and pers on your own time, rather than making sure everyone on Chittr knows you know that this is "unrealistic" or "has happened before". That is what friends are for. You do have friends, don't you?
Hm.
You Ever See Something From An Alternate Universe And Think What The Fuck Is Going On Over There
Ask me any question and I will answer it wrong.
I had a very strange interaction with another living Rose in the dreambubbles once. She claimed to have achieved her Ultimate Self which obviously I was dubious of to begin with. But she mentioned one thing in particular that I found odd: She called herself a Lesbian. Talked about her universal experiences as a Lesbian. Which, no, I'm sorry, but she can't be. The whole premise of the Ultimate Self, if you believe in that sort of thing, is that you are a cohesive amalgamation of every individual instance of yourself, across all timelines. That you ARE simultaneously all of them. But if she were conclusively a lesbian, then she conclusively could not be me, a proud bisexual. And if she's not me, she cannot be the Ultimate Rose, according to her definition. I tried to point this out to her but alas, she was too busy pontificating on "universal Rose experiences" and some other nonsense.
You mean we're not interchangeable, all made of a singular archetype that defines our being, essentially making speaking with one the same as speaking with any? News to me.
Newsflash: none of you are Ultimate. Most of you are not penultimate. Some of you I am not entirely convinced have achieved a base percentage of yourselves, though you have nevertheless developed the extraordinary confidence required to declare yourselves the pinnacle of what you could ever become. Go ahead, tell me the omniscient patterns of any other self you have on here. You can't. You truly can't. You might get lucky with a guess for a single other iteration.
An Ultimate Self, like any Platonic ideal, is corrupted the second it contacts reality. Many of us are *closer* to our Ultimate Selves, more potent emanations thereof, but the Ultimate Self is not a person who can talk and post and argue online. You cannot sit on the Platonic ideal of a chair.
As the Peixes might say, krill fishue. As a magical woman might say, frill wishue. As a particularly slobbery yet well-meaning relative you only see once a year might say, we'll mishue! As a humbler laborer of the land and tiller of the soil might say upon seeing her grindstone has been used for that wacky zaza, mill misuse. As a note left for room service on one's way out after a particularly dreadful night of allergies might read, fill tissue. As the reveal that the one so sick was the preserver god of Hindu mythology might make one utter, ill Vishnu. Ahem. This is all to say that maybe you cannot, but *I* can sit on that Platonic chair. Look, you can see my shadow overlapping its shadow against the cave wall over there. That means I'm sitting on it.
I am often called upon by those in the know (or those who are acquaintances with those in the know who do not value their friend's time nearly as much as they should) to read fortunes. Speak a prophecy, divine the future, read a fortune. While a Seer is a touch more literal than some other classes, it is still not entirely accurate to describe what I do as "seeing the future". I understand Light. Information, fortune, agency, what is known. The connection between knowledge and agency may seem tenuous at first blush. I find using a spotlight as metaphor works well for others. All of life (lowercase L life, not uppercase l Life) is a stage, upon which we are all cast and crew. Not all performers. In the darkness anything could be happening and what IS can shift. Those garbed in black move about props without the audience noticing, not necessarily because they are invisible in the darkness, but they are below notice; they might use this power to rearrange the set or deliver a blade to a performer. These crew members are seen as lesser, as subservient, but they are vital to the workings of the show. If so inclined they can be deadly in surprise, such as the inspiration of the modern ninja. Meanwhile, in the spotlight, the cast acts. Through acting, they reveal information. They are known. They are free to do as they will and exert said will to push the story forward. They romp about the furniture and swing blades at each other. The Light reveals not only the what, but for whom the what matters. The crew follows directions, the cast interprets the script. Subservience, agency. So where does fortune come into play? Through three manners, of course; good things do come in threes, as well as bad things, and wishes, and those with very low standards. Most flatteringly, one could interpret it as making one's own luck. With agency comes action, the ability to take advantage of opportunity. You'll never find that lucky penny, that visage of Ol Honest Abe looking up at you, a twinkle in his eye and a song in his heart, if you never venture out into the sun. Going outside does not guarantee you will find him and be able to imagine running your fingers through that beard, becoming swashbucklers, back to back with each other as you fight off the greys with their laser pistols and anal probes with your magical blades of twin fire and ice magic, but you might. Confirmation bias thus paints the latter as "fortunate". Second, the show must go on. Plot armor. It would be a boring, if avante garde, play in which the protagonist falls to the first threat she faces. Contrivance will find a way to make the swinging sword narrowly miss, for rescue to arrive in the nick of time, for the villain's gun to misfire. What happens in the dark is of no consequence, as the audience does not bear witness. But under the spotlight the hero must carry on. Finally, and a bit similar to the second point, the plot must move forward. Nothing need happen backstage, though nothing often happens regardless, but under scrutiny in the light, events must happen. Circumstances must come together exactly as they must for the protagonist, antagonist, or polygamist to achieve their goals. Disbelief is suspended as coincidence brings people together and sends them on their merry way. It *was* rather fortunate that the sword in the stone was there at all for Arthur, was it not? This form of fortune is the least flattering for any would-be braggart seeing as it turns her into the universe's plaything. If you've managed to keep in mind the initial topic through a handful of paragraphs, I applaud you for your above average reading level for a Chittrian. We ask: What does this all mean for our favorite Seer of Light? When someone asks for a reading, what do they get out of me (besides a roll of the eyes)? Imagine me seated in the audience. I watch a show. I understand what has happened. I take in what is presented. Another show. Further understanding. Another. Another. Another. I begin to see patterns, I can predict story beats, then I can predict acting choices, facial expressions, flubs, everything. Less romantically, I have a gift for taking in data then extrapolating what may happen through the laws of physics. The link to fortune enables me even to anticipate the quantum. It is then up to me to communicate this to my peers. I share with them the causal links, I warn against traps (literal, rhetorical, or if they cannot reclaim), and I use my agency to nudge fortune towards the favor of me and my allies. So no, I am not a "fortune teller". I tell you how fortune may be best approached. An Heir encourages change in and through his aspect, a Witch actively deals in and through her aspect, a Knight wields his aspect as his blade, and a Seer guides a blade. #ClasspectAnalysis #LightTalk #HeavyDiscussion #Violence #NinjaMention #AbrahamLustoln #AnalProbing #PlotContrivances #QuantumPhysics #ABraveHunter #UnderOrdersFromTheLocalSpencers #TakesHerHorseAndHuntingDog #SheFindsHerQuarry #SheMinesSomeDiamonds #ToMakeADiamondBladeWith #SheFindsHerPrey #SheRunsItDown #SheRunsTheGagIntoTheGround #TagMisuse
Your description of your classpect is so eloquently put and 8eautifully descri8ed. I found myself hanging off your every word. I do hope you have more discussions of a similar matter planned to 8e released from the investing chasm of your mind.
Perhaps, perhaps not. If my short essays earn me the praise of beautiful women then I may be so inclined to create a series out of it. However, my attention is a finite resource, one I believe is better spent on my already in-progress series. There are many pages of Geisel's work yet to be examined.
♦️█ ░ shes little...miss n0 name...shes l0nes0me and blue. shes l0nging f0r s0me0ne...exactly like y0u! she has n0 0ne t0 talk with. ପ(∗´ര ᎑ ര`∗)ଓ ▒ ▓❤️ ♦️█ ░ she just sits and she stares. ପ(∗´ര ︿ ര`∗)ଓ ▒ ▓❤️ ♦️█ ░ she needs s0me0ne t0 h0ld her. s0me0ne wh0 cares. ପ(∗´- ᎑ ര`∗)ଓ ▒ ▓❤️ ♦️♦️♦️█ ░ p00r little miss n0 name. 0n her cheek theres a tear. shes a sad little n0b0dy. ପ(∗´╥ ﹏ ╥´∗)ଓ ▒ ▓♦️♦️♦️ 💔█ ░ cause theres n0 b0dy near. ପ(∗´⋟ ﹏ ⋞`∗)ଓ ▒ ▓💔 💔█ ░ s0 w0nt s0me0ne? w0nt s0me b0dy? d0 what s0me0ne sh0uld d0? ପ(∗´╹ . ╹`∗)ଓ ▒ ▓💔 ❤️█ ░ and take hive little miss n0b0dy? w0nt s0me0ne? w0nt y0u? ପ(∗´╹ v ╹`∗)ଓ ▒ ▓❤️
I. This takes me back, actually? Outer GODS, this takes me back. I am curious how many other, if any, Roses remember this doll. It is a vivid flashbulb memory that deprioritizes all preceding counterparts. I remember owning a Little Miss Nobody Doll. In a fit of self-induced hypnosis...I think I can even recall what transpired. I am staring at a parcel wrapped in faded, slightly yellowed newsprint under the tree. It was not labeled with my name. It was not labeled with any name. It was made out to nobody in particular. Inside is a miniature porcelain doll with hair the texture of chaffed dry grass and eyes painted with a dull, matte glaze that seems to actively deflect light no matter the angle poised overhead, or trajectory with which it is held and flung in horror. When I asked my mother about it, she took a slow sip of her martini, blinked with exaggerated innocence, and asked what I was talking about. She claims she never purchased it. She claims it was simply there the morning of, and she presumed I had gotten it for myself. As recollection serves, the packaging was sitting directly on top of the unpleasantly textured machine-knit improperly gauged swatch cashmere sweater she did buy me. I remember the doll seeming almost. Smug. Looking at me right now from across the room with that vacant, needlepoint-focused smile, pretending she doesn't see the tiny ceramic hands resting on the edge of the rug like a pair of discarded teeth. I was thoroughly profoundly creeped the fuck out. I conducted an inventory of the attic crawlspace the morning after. No boxes matched the newsprint. No receipt existed on the kitchen island, stashed in the middle console of the car, beneath the bronze inlaid vacuum cleaner, hell even the trashcans upturned turned up nothing. My mother doubled down with the discipline of a seasoned federal agent, casually gaslighting, suggesting that I may have "manifested" the object in a fit of holiday-induced somnambulism, and encouraging me to check my credit score. As if I subconsciously yearn for a mass-produced artifact of Victorian despair with a slightly cracked chin. As if I wanted this. It was then that I decided we were both victims of my mother's perpetual neglect and inability to see eye to eye. So. The doll and I did instead. The shellacked, shell-shocked, massive eyes, droopy lips, and unkempt hair became...well. Nightmarish. But life outside of dreams proved no different. And the familiarity became a cold, but no less welcome, comfort. What about you?
Disturbingly close to my own recollections, except Mother accidentally (or "accidentally") ran it over as she was backing out of the drive.
I see she got you too.
Hop on Pop: A Realtime Analysis Hop on Pop, authored by one Theodor Geisel, is a children's classic. Its monosyllabic nature and wayward, meandering plot make it perfect reading material for those with minds of a similar consistency to a mudslide and with attention spans distracted as quick as also a mudslide. Of course, no piece of children's entertainment can exist without some dark purpose looming over it; one only need type "analog horror cartoon scary real -mlp" into their search engine of choice to be assured of that. With this in mind, I intend to deconstruct Geisel's writing to uncover whatever witch hexes or demonic sigils the man has hidden between the words. This will be done in parts, on no schedule besides my own interest. UP PUP Pup is up. The "pup" seems to be a snub-nosed breed, with especially fuzzy paws. It is perhaps a hybrid of man and canine given the apparent thumbs and ability to fix the reader with a smug grin. One must imagine its misshapen form bequeaths it with the gift of constant joint pain and breathing issues. The pup soars above a tree at great speed with apparent ease. A bird watches from below, amazed. The setting is unclear. If the bird is of an expected size (small enough for one to fit in a hand and two in a bush) then the tree is a sapling on a mound. If the bird is gigantic, then the pup is soaring high over lightly wooded hills. CUP PUP Pup in cup. PUP CUP Cup on pup. Moving on, our erstwhile pup finds itself frolicking with a large, yellowed tea cup. The color is almost sickly, suggesting that this cup was once a pristine white, but has become dulled and stained with age. Pup is able to entirely fit within the cup. It is large? Is Pup small? What does this imply about the previous size discrepancies? There is only one reasonable assumption to draw. The human-dog hybrid, which has the power of flight and has an unclear relationship with size is representative of one Miss Jade Harley. Mr. Geisel, either consciously through some foreknowledge of events, or subconsciously through the threads of paradox which weave in and out of reality, foreshadowed Jade's transformation and abilitiies. Is this a coincidence, simply a matter of the lack of need for spatial veracity in an early reader's picture book and the way Geisel spins together the fantastical and mundane to capture the hearts and minds of a demographic generally more focused on convincing Mother to un-wean them than in fine literature and hard science in fiction? No, surely not. #HopOnPop #FreudianAnalysis #Deconstruction #HegelianDialectics #MyLittlePonyMention #Breastfeeding #SpatialInconsistency #Reality #Unreality #UnethicalBreedingPractices Seuss, Dr. 2004. Hop On Pop. Random House.
huh. i guess thats a fun conclusion to draw? my fursona isnt quite that uncanny but its closer than it could be. are we going to talk about how the pup has a collar in the first two illustrations but not the last one?
Excellent observation. The pup is free only under a protective shell, yet it still peeks out and beckons the reader to see it. To witness it and thus lock in what *it* is. Tragic.
God I'm in love with you.
Self-esteem, acquired situational narcissism, or some leftover affection from dear, sweet, innocent Jaspers? Perhaps good taste, if I may indulge in the former two options.
Oh Rose I've had plenty of time for my identity to diverge from my constituent parts. Thus the name! That said all three sources you posit *are* present, it's just that I've also grown to be able to view you from an outsider's purrspective. No longer are my feelings about you defined by things that came before me! I have memories and experiences and past interactions to draw upon and make my own conclusion that, yes, you're absolutely adorable when you satirically overanalyze a Dr. Seuss book.
A divergence still implies a causal connection. It is non-linear, this specific instance of Rose Lalonde will never become any instance of yourself, but it can hardly be called an outsider's perspective when you so proudly carry the family name. Your cooing suggests to me a need to find someone you perceive as lesser in power and/or experience that you might use to define yourself against while maintaining a radical form of self-love that can come only from gawking into funhouse mirrors with the lights off and covers drawn. A baby doll pushed around in a stroller by a toddler. Not aspirational like your Barbies, your Bratz, your Garbage Pail Kids, but something that allows you to mimic the adults around you. A daughter or little sister. We share some, but not all, of our genes. In a sense, we are elder and younger siblings, linked by blood, or ectoplasm as the case might be. Vicarious living, nostalgia, Toddlers and Tiaras. I can see it all now. My conclusion is as follows: Satire? What are you talking about? This is all entirely serious and very important work. Now if you excuse me, I have a modest proposal to pen.