look into my sacred spaces

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my creative workspace isn't always pretty; it's a sloppy explosion of omg. phyllis surveys the scene from a throne amidst a mountain of my rockstar black cans.  crystals hum with chaotic energy, clinging to every surface like a sparkly dust web. this isn't just my studio; it's my sanctuary, my temple of creative madness… where piggy wiggles are done on the regular.  it's where i transform existential dread into weed-inspired, caffeine-fueled, gem-encrusted vampire relics from my heart.

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Tarot: Wheel of Fortune

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tarot card: the wheel of fortune -- cycles, change, acceptance. phyl’s “bunniversary” (not “gotcha day,” which i hate) is new year’s eve. i celebrate it because it’s special to us. her mullet haircut from summer has grown back. she’ll need another one soon. we’ve accepted the cycle.  i’ll snip slow and uneven again. she won’t care. punk rock girls don’t give a fuck. she’s got a mullet. she can see. life goes on. spritzing on my high-quality perfumes, especially lush, which gets good reactions. jessica’s anxiety is hitting hard, and i can feel the emotional weight it puts on her. not that i can fix it, buuutttttt i notice. tramp from lush… i miss it. smells like bitter herbs, and a forest floor -- tis a perfect distraction.
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💾 the dirty qwerty, #006: suit up, slut up, slur up, then shut up.

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💾 the dirty qwerty, #006 suit up, slut up, slur up, then shut up. 🩸 “slut” → “suit” “slur” → “suit” “shit” → “suit” 🧠 keyboard logic: • l → u: side-eyeable neighbors • u → u: no notes • t → i → r: we’re getting loose, but we’ve seen worse • h → u: ok but WHY • r → i: this one feels personal • i → i: thx guy • s → s: yasssss look. it’s being auto-puritan. you’re mid-text, dropping a “what a dumb slur,” or “she was slutty and proud,” or just plain old “shit,” and suddenly autocorrect says: “dearie… don’t you mean suit?” and listen: i’m not shaming suits. i own one. but i am shaming the part of the code that keeps hijacking the language of pain, power, and poop… and redressing it in department store politeness. slut-shaming? slur-erasing? shit-washing yeah. it’s all the same glitch. m’phone is trying to censor my mess. but mess is where truth lives. this episode was brought to you by the letter S — for slut, slur, shit, motherfuckin snakes on a motherfucking plane, but not suit today. ...
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Assblasting Festival

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From the Franiverse Wiki, the sacred source of lore and gastric terror. The Assblasting Festival is a core Franiverse blood orgy -- an official holiday. Celebrated annually by mortals, vampires, and Sims-based lifeforms, it is a metaphysical shitshow of digestive depravity. As one of the highest holy blood orgies, it’s a sacred, cursed, and utterly pooptacular event rooted in mass trauma and a metric fuckton of emotional gluten. Think Thanksgiving, but everyone’s dead, and the turkey is alive. The festival originated when Thorne accidentally served a cursed casserole laced with tainted plasma fruit. This infamous dish -- Gelatinous Soul Ambrosia Casserole -- was crafted from expired Makkabakka meats, ghost tears, and litterbox scraps. The result? Mass toilet casualties, soul docking (don’t let the casserole dock souls), and explosive bathroom Jackson Pollocks -- but not smelling like one. 🔪 The Grand Meal (The Last Slaughter) Participants consume spoiled or cursed food, triggerin...
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the big bad wolf’s growl…

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moonmoon fanfic 😂 his growl wasn't just sound; it was a primal language resonating with presence, connection, and a raw, undeniable desire. she felt it instantly – a supernatural vibration that bypassed her impenetrable mind and spoke directly to her body. it was seductive, possessive, a silken assertion of his claim: i am here. i see you. i want you. he buried his face in her neck, inhaling the intoxicating blend of vanilla and jasmine clinging to her skin. the growl deepened, a low tremor that vibrated through her. the heat of his body pulsed against hers, his muscles rippling subtly under the soft fabric beneath her fingertips as she drew her arms around him. safety and desire melted into a delicious pool of fire within her, leaving her breathless… gasping for more… never enough. his exploration was animalistic in its intensity… a thorough, sensual investigation. he savored her scent, the feel of her skin, the very essence of her being. her ethereal sighs mingled with his...
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