mpdgsc

Browser lacks capabilities required to play.

Upgrade or switch to another browser.

Loading…

<div class="launchwindow"><img class="launchmodel" src="https://i.imgur.com/MOTfdbr.gif"> <div class="welcome"> <h1 class="wave-text"> <span>w</span><span>e</span><span>l</span><span>c</span><span>o</span><span>m</span><span>e</span><span> </span><span>t</span><span>o</span><span> </span><span>m</span><span>y</span><span> </span><span>r</span><span>o</span><span>o</span><span>m</span><span>♡</span> </h1> </div> <div class="enter"><button id="start-button">[[enter.->start]]</button></div> </div>

<div class="basicwindow"><div class="basictext"> <<type 30ms start 1s>>Yoooooo. What’s up, chat?<</type>> <<type 30ms start 1s>>Huh, where did I go? Can you see me?<</type>> <<type 30ms start 1s>>No?<</type>> <<type 30ms start 1s>>Oh dear, what is happening? Why is my thing bugging out?<</type>> <<type 30ms start 1s>>Wait, wait, wait. Gotta do some troubleshooting with my motion tracking. Hopefully this won’t close down the whole stream. Just stay there, okay? I’ll find a way to make this work without breaking the stream.<</type>> <<type 30ms start 1s>>Hmm.<</type>> <<type 30ms start 1s>>What the fuck! My settings are all messed up! What cyber-cryptid snuck into my computer and fucked up my preferences while I was asleep, huh? Well, at least we won’t have to start a new stream, so that’s good. Be there with you in a sec, chat. Let’s see.<</type>> <<type 30ms start 1s>>On.<</type>> <<type 30ms start 1s>>On.<</type>> <<type 30ms start 1s>>Off.<</type>> <<type 30ms start 1s>>On.<</type>><<type 30ms start 2s>><div class="startfooter"></div><</type>> <<type 30ms start 3s>>Here we go! Gosh, I swear I’m a professional.<</type>> <<type 30ms start 1s>>With all that mess out of the way. Hello hello. Your girl is finally back and she hopes her audience is still here, too. If you notice anyone missing, do call them in. Or not. If they miss out on this premium live content, it’s their loss. You’ll be the one in the know. Yes, everything you’re seeing is just between you and me.<</type>> <<type 30ms start 1s>>So stay here. Have my company. Think about yourself only. Your tongue is in your esophagus. A stray cat has torn out every ligament in your hands. Do your nightmares still come to life?<</type>> <<type 50ms start 1s>>The one where alien assassins circle around your home with their slimy skin glowing purple in the starless night? The one where you’re two years old and your parents tuck you into a cocoon and your family sails on a yellowed leaf across waters as you drift into sleep then awaken to a hard knock on your sour shell thinking that’s your mom only to be sucked into the solar abyss? Or the one where you open up your fridge and worms have taken over the mustard greens, the electric cooktop doesn’t automatically turn off and the whole smart kitchen short-circuits, your spider plants reach out, probably to save you, but cut themselves on your open teeth as your fingernails yearn for the sparks?<</type>> <<type 30ms start 3s>>One way or another, you always end up skin. What is the flattening technique this time? A hairpin pricks into your ballooning body? A jade blade filets you into sashimi slices? Your ancestors’ ectoplasmic whispers erode you into a sheet of ashes? Death takes such sexy shapes in your wondrous little minds.<</type>> <<type 30ms start 2s>>The deaths I see in my dreams aren’t that creative. Actually, they’re more direct relivings of my flesh life. Little eyes everywhere. In the office. In the kitchen. Staring me down. You know the drill. If I tell you about them, I’ll just be telling you boring stories about my flesh. And you’re not here for that. <</type>> <<type 30ms start 2s>>Or maybe you are. I’m here to give you what you want, but you’re here to convince yourself that you don’t want anything and that what I give is what you want because that’s just how magnanimous you are.<</type>> <<type 30ms start 2s>>What’s the matter? You’re not new here. You know this game. You know our genre. Does it make you feel better if silly little me fires the first shot, if my spear of minerals impales your cranium, if these pixels and reverberations clothe your desires?<</type>> <<type 30ms start 2s>>Sure, I’ll do you the favor. Just this time. Anytime. I’m taking your ears. You’re drifting into–<</type>> <<type 50ms start 1s>>[[The kitchen.->kitchen]] [[The office.->office]]<</type>> </div> </div>

<div class="kitchenfooter"></div><div class="basicwindow"> <div class="basictext"><<type 20ms start 1s>>A womb mother cannot be delivered from. The hardness under her spine warms to scorching, undulating heatwaves. She tosses and turns to secure a room-temperature spot, only to bump her head against the black iron enclosed around her. Its pores widen, not enough to let light in, just enough to release the fragrances it’s been incubating. She inhales: bitter sugar, ear-puncturing smoke, blood sharp into the back of her skull. Rounds of gongs tingle through her like rusted metal against rotten temples. Someone lifts the lid, lets it drop and shatter the brick flooring that oozes gray. Helicopters hover, loiter, buzzing, fly-like, whips, broomsticks, mother’s brothers with the same old boys' tricks. They coil around her. Her birth, early life, marriage, career, whimsies, twisted. Braided.<</type>> <<type 20ms start 5s>>The cord refuses injury. I’ve tried cutting it, trampling it, sawing it, to no avail. It gives mother everything, and mother feeds it everything, every day, protects it with her every breath, its grip on her corneas more blinding than the leash she sews from my tongue to my feet. When I eat, I hurt. When I curl my toes in pain, I hurt. When I grow, the thread doesn’t, and I hurt.<</type>> <<type 20ms start 5s>>Mother has a singular mode of materialization: she deconstructs and reconstructs. She’s better than all engineers because she needs no math when she juliennes the Earth into salad and orchestrates chemical miracles out of grass and grass byproducts. Always a trick up her sleeve: I come home from school, she’s grinding peanuts and anchovies in grandmother’s mortar and pestle; I finish homework, she’s fermenting apricots and apples and jasmine leaves.<</type>> <<type 20ms start 5s>>She’s sitting at the dining table, that is, three steps away from me and the stove. <span class="dialogue">Put <span class="redacted">two cloves of diced garlic</span> into <span class="redacted">two tablespoons of fish sauce diluted with five tablespoons of water</span></span>, she says, my brain splits the image from the word. <span class="dialogue">Sprinkle some <span class="redacted">cilantro and dill</span>, no, too much</span>, my tears are seasoning the soup. <span class="dialogue">Flip it, stir it, get through all its nooks and crannies, make sure everything is even</span>. Evenness is the name of the game, balanced is the hallmark of her cooking, harmony of the soul translates to the equilibrium of flavors. I’ve only one whorl on my fingertip, two if I wash my hands regularly enough. Wet basil leaves are slipping from the strainer, the pork is scorched in the pan, my morning glory has turned into mush in the boiler.<</type>> <<type 20ms start 5s>>Mother clicks her tongue. She springs from her seat, flips off the fire, shrouding us in charcoal. I tug open the air ventilation panel. Wincing at the whirl, she, dressed in cast iron and dust, smells like nothing. How?<</type>> <<type 20ms start 1s>>[[Mother sighs.->family]] [[Mother leaves.->business]]<</type>> </div> </div>

<div class="officefooter"></div> <div class="basicwindow"> <div class="basictext"><<type 40ms start 1s>>There’s a shirt dress on me. The last time I wore it was at the store where I bought it, in anticipation of my initiation into professionalism. It’s beige, ankle-length, short-sleeved, notched collar, a cloth belt I can tie into a little bow at my waist like a centerpiece. My form is suave, seven years older than I actually feel, ten feet of divine femininity.<</type>> <<type 40ms start 4s>>There’s my job interview looming over my fluttering shape. A highrise complex of offices, restaurants, entertainment, apartments, all-in-one incubation. I step in–the first floor consists of three clothing stores and I’m suddenly aware of my hunched back. I hold it straight, the elevator opens up to the third floor, welcoming me is my own reflection in panels of frosted glass. My heels clack on the ceramic tiles. I push open the batwing door to what I can only assume is the receptionist area, a long table equipped with four landline phones and four saleswomen, who turn to look at me at the same time as if pre-programmed. Hiding my arms behind my back, I shrink my voice.<</type>> <<type 40ms start 4s>>There’s my boss-to-be, a middle-aged woman of the smallest stature. The moment I lay eyes on her, I want her to be my mother. Her smile is pearl bright, her voice motherly, the way she keeps her limbs to her tiny, squishable torso, and wears her bob in a ponytail. My heart throbs, phantom bounces tickle the balls of my feet. The interview she leads me into is only a formality; I’m too enamored by the way she doesn’t stop smiling, or nodding at my attempts to justify my compatibility with this counseling job despite having no desire for leadership, or validating my disorientation coming back to Vietnam after spending seven years in the U.S. <span class="dialogue">Your colleagues will be returnees as well, so you’ll fit right in.</span> Those eye crinkles again. How tender. How penetrating. I would relive the past twenty-two years of my life if I could be rehoused into this woman’s womb.<</type>> <<type 40ms start 4s>>There’s my station for the rest of my life, a simple wooden table sandwiched between two other colleagues. Every day I come to the office grateful that our tiny department, save for my boss, consists of six other women close to my age. From them I learn everything: respectable yet fashionable yet functional work dresses; tried and true snack vendors and boba chains for afternoon pick-me-ups; filler words and honorifics to pad my curt and clumsy talk with clients, email templates buried in the company’s unlabeled maze of a Google Drive–how to woman, essentially. I lean into the performance with surprising ease, as if I’ve been waiting for this moment to be taught female adulthood the Vietnamese way.<</type>> <<type 40ms start 4s>>[[Finally, I feel at one with my body.->self-portrait]] [[My cuticles start to peel.->self-dissect]]<</type>> </div> </div>

<div class="familyfooter"></div> <div class="basicwindow"> <div class="basictext"><<type 20ms start 1s>>Daughter of mine, your fatal mistake is that you’re constantly thinking ill of me. It hurts. You must understand that everything I do is for your own good. No mother would wish ill on her own child. No mother would bring harm to her own child. There are things you won’t understand unless you become a mother yourself, or even when you do, the times will be so different that you can’t comprehend the circumstances that led me to my original decisions. The less you know, the better. Your viewpoint of me will be so much more forgiving if you could default your thinking to the fact that I mean no harm. Why must you keep overanalyzing everything? I didn’t give you a better education abroad for you to say these harsh-sounding words to me, your own mother. You’ve changed. That degree got you cocky. I don’t like your therapist. Stop telling him everything. Or anything. Therapy is inherently anti-Vietnamese. Who in their right mind would air family business to a total stranger, and then <em>pay</em> that stranger for it? Each family has their own dirty laundry. Even if he gets married into this household, he’s still an outsider. An outsider can’t understand the pain of being rejected by your own bloodline. A <em>man</em> can’t understand what a woman goes through. A <em>son</em> can’t understand what his mother goes through.<</type>> <<type 20ms start 2s>>[[Tragedy is a woman’s destiny.->betrayal]] [[Family isn’t of our choosing.->siblings]]<</type>> </div> </div>

<div class="businessfooter"></div> <div class="basicwindow"> <div class="basictext"><<type 35ms start 1s>>Her neighbor’s chickens roar cock-a-doodle-doo at the top of their lungs, waking the youngest up at six thirty, give or take twenty minutes. She’s aware, but doesn’t get up from the bed just yet. Her household performs their routine in the dark, lest they disrupt her much-needed sleep. The husband gets the youngest ready for school then himself for work. Up in the kitchen, the maid waters the paperflowers and chili plants, stacks dishes from the drying rack to the cabinets, grinds fried anchovies to mix with leftover rice for the cat. Once she hears the maid stealthily climb down the stairs to prepare the shop for opening, her day starts.<</type>> <<type 35ms start 4s>>She counts the money, checks the price tags on the most expensive oil paintings. At seven fifty the shop assistant arrives, a new, college-age hire she doesn’t quite trust yet. The maid has been here longer, but that little girl is even younger, less reliable. She makes the assistant recount the money under supervision and confirm the number with her. The assistant, poker-faced, does as told. Once all seems in place and under control, she notes to the assistant that a client will come by at three in the afternoon and that he should wait until she returns.<</type>> <<type 35ms start 4s>>She arrives barely in time for class. There are other parents and working adults among her peers, too, and they tend to be late, but she’d rather not. Now that her children are in school and she’s found help around the house, she’ll enroll in university proper, become the perfect student she hasn’t had the chance to be, educate herself on the finery of arts so that no drunk painter can rip her off. Sure, her grip on the brushes can be a bit too rigid that it renders her strokes jagged sometimes, the pressure she puts on the canvas can be a bit too forceful that a paint peak forms every once in a while. Compared to the wannabe artists who don’t even bother to learn the basics, though, she studies the craft with the utmost devotion. What she can’t accomplish with natural talent, she makes up for with neuroticism.<</type>> <<type 35ms start 4s>>As soon as she parks her motorbike in front of her shop, she notices the tail of her neighbor’s bike has trespassed over to her pavement estate. The assistant acts surprised, which she doesn’t buy. She gives the neighbor an earful after growling at him to move his bike away. The maid runs up to grab her art supplies. She rattles off to the maid what to prepare for dinner: garlic, turmeric, fermented rice, diced tomatoes, pickled mustard greens, fish filets, dill, cilantro, chili. In the shop, the client is already there, an oil painting artist in his fifties, scrawny, stinks slightly of vodka. Steam wafts from the cup of jasmine tea the assistant offered him, untouched. Upon seeing his empty hands, she announces it’s the second deadline he’s missed and she’ll be docking 5% off the painting’s profits. The artist laughs his wobbly, nervous laugh, pleads. She doesn’t budge, wonders why Heaven has plagued her with one incompetent man after another. She kicks him out by five so that she can finish cooking dinner before her youngest gets home.<</type>> <<type 35ms start 4s>>Even though she spends more time doting on the youngest, she still can’t figure that child out. Not lethargic, but interested in nothing. Not unsociable, but invested in the wrong company. Not stupid, but unthinking. Not picky, but unhappy. Her eldest is more of a straightforward one: outgoing, well-mannered, good grades. She gives the eldest plenty of independence, but something about the youngest unnerves her, some sort of catch, or caveat, she needs to tiptoe around.<</type>> <<type 20ms start 1s>>[[She keeps her thoughts to herself.->community]] [[She considers asking the eldest for insights.->siblings]]<</type>> </div> </div>

<div class="communityfooter"></div><div class="basicwindow"> <div class="basictext"><<type 20ms start 1s>>Mother loved me too much. Sister hated me for it. Father faltered. My therapist couldn’t solve my weirdness. Lana Del Rey kept whispering how dangerous my hope was. The perpetual fog outside my bedroom smelled as grainy as if I was eating cement. The last time I felt so out-of-sync with the world was… when? I’d gotten so good at this game. If there were a degree in Performance Art with a concentration in Professionalized Femininity and Domestic Piety, I would’ve graduated summa cum laude. I might’ve believed I’d passed the rite of passage into legible adulthood, if only those pesky thoughts of self-termination hadn’t jerked me out of my spectacular production.<</type>> <<type 60ms start 2s>>Parental surveillance, office surveillance, pandemic surveillance, self-imposed panopticism. I couldn’t hold onto my job. I sought local literary circles and the ubiquitous marriage plot ran the show. I crawled back to corporate, again and again. Last-ditch effort, I hunted for my people: the clear-eyed queers, the label-critical queers, the theory v. practice separatist queers, the morally gray queers. If I were to kill myself, I had to try this at the very least. There I found them.<</type>> <<type 70ms start 2s>><div class="hnq"></div> Potluck nights, fried chicken, dirty skewers, sleepovers, all-nighters, hangovers, good faith shaming, loving bickering, courting advice, academic assistance, career consultation. We weren’t new to this, but the people were right, were real, our intimacy a nod to my capacity for tender connections, co-existence, care. Our years of loving sideways stitched me up in ways my parents couldn’t have; neither did I want them to. The thread wouldn’t have broken otherwise, would it?<</type>> <<type 50ms start 2s>>[[Yes.->reconsideration]]<</type>><<type 50ms start 2s>>[[No.->wounded]]<</type>> </div> </div>

<div class="siblingfooter"></div><div class="basicwindow"> <div class="basictext"> <div class="siblings"><<type 30ms start 1s>>Brother most abhorrent,<</type>> <<type 10ms start 1s>>Fuck you and your family.<</type>> <<type 30ms start 1s>>I should’ve expected this, considering mom’s absurd favoritism for boys, but holy fuck, the things she lets you get away with. I bet you didn’t know the kind of beating our parents used to give me and sister. Even though sister was the eldest of us all, mom gave you all her attention, all the preferential treatment, just because you were a boy. The moment you were born, power was already sealed to your fate. You weren’t such a pain in the ass though.<</type>> <<type 30ms start 3s>>Or maybe because we grew up during wartime that gender didn’t matter. We did whatever we could to keep everyday life going: going to school, harvesting crops, keeping the house clean, helping out at the clinic, checking on the bomb shelter. <</type>> <<type 30ms start 2s>>Even after we settled down with our own families, I still thought we had an amicable sibling relation. My youngest used to prefer visiting our side of the family because we got along so well. Your sons used to be wonderful.<</type>> <<type 30ms start 5s>>Whatever happened to you? Did the promotion give you too much power you don’t know what to do with yourself? Did mom’s old age make you realize you didn’t want to take care of the woman who gave birth to you and raised you because she’d gotten ill, incompetent, incomprehensible? Because she’s <em>that</em> type of old lady who won’t stop complaining about everything? Now that there’s only you and me left, you think if you don’t step up then my soft heart will? Then I'll shoulder the responsibilities that should’ve been shared between us?<</type>> <<type 30ms start 4s>>My husband has had to care for both his own sickly father and our mom. You’re lucky my husband is a good man, or else he would’ve replaced you as mom’s new son. In fact, count yourself <em>blessed</em> for my generosity, because the moment mom’s worst bouts of illness passed and you came around wagging your tail trying to sneak your name into her will like the weaselly bastard that you are, the moment mom welcomed you back with open arms despite your cowardice, I could’ve cut ties with everyone right then and there.<</type>> <<type 50ms start 5s>>My daughters keep asking why I’m still giving you the time of day, after all you have <em>not</em> done for our mom. They think taking the moral high ground is unrewarding, that you don’t deserve my grace, but I believe karma will get to you.<</type>> <<type 70ms start 2s>>I refuse to get my hands and mind dirty.<</type>> <<type 70ms start 1s>><div class="siblingslink">[[My children have grown up well. That happiness outweighs all.->reconsideration]]</div><</type>> </div> </div>

<div class="betrayalfooter"></div><div class="basicwindow"> <div class="basictext"><div class="betrayaltext"><<type 10ms start 1s>>ɪ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʜᴏᴡ ꜱʜᴇ’ꜱ ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ʙᴜᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱʜᴇ’ꜱ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ʜᴏʟᴅ ɪᴛ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴇᴀᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴍᴀʀʀɪᴀɢᴇ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʟɪᴠᴇꜱ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ꜱʜᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ʜᴀꜱ ɴᴏ ꜱᴩɪɴᴇ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴅᴇᴄᴀᴅᴇꜱ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ᴀꜱꜱᴜʀᴇᴅ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴɪɴɢ ʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛy ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴩʀᴏᴠᴇɴ ᴇꜰꜰᴇᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ ɪɴᴅɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ᴍᴀɴɪᴄ ᴍᴀɴɪᴩᴜʟᴀᴛᴏʀ ᴍᴀᴛʀɪᴀʀᴄʜ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀʜᴏᴏᴅ ᴀʟᴍɪɢʜᴛy ᴍᴀᴛʀɪᴄᴜʟᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴꜱᴛɪᴛᴜᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ɴᴜᴄʟᴇᴀʀ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟy ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴇʟᴇᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʀy ᴠᴀʀɪᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴏᴄɪᴀʟ ᴛʀᴀᴅᴇ, yᴇꜱ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴏᴏꜰ ɪꜱ ʜᴇʀ ᴄʜᴀʀɪꜱᴍᴀ ꜱʜᴇ’ꜱ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ʙʟᴏᴡ ᴜᴩ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʜᴏʟy ᴍᴀᴛʀɪᴍᴏɴy ʜɪꜱ ʙᴇᴛʀᴀyᴀʟ ʜᴀꜱ ᴇxᴄᴇᴇᴅᴇᴅ ʙᴀꜱɪᴄ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ ᴅᴇᴄᴇɴᴄy ꜱᴜᴄʜ ꜱᴀʟᴀᴄɪᴛy ᴛᴏ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴀɴ ᴏᴩᴩᴏʀᴛᴜɴɪᴛy ᴏꜰ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛy ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜱᴡᴀy ʜɪᴍ ꜱᴇᴅᴜᴄᴇ ʜɪᴍ ꜱᴜᴄᴋ ʜɪᴍ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴅᴇʙᴀᴜᴄʜᴇʀy ᴀꜱ ɪꜰ ᴩᴀɪɴ ᴄᴀɴ ʙᴇꜱᴛᴏᴡ ɪᴍᴩᴜɴɪᴛy ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴏꜰꜰᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴛɪʀᴇᴛy ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ yᴏᴜᴛʜ ʜᴇʀ ʙᴏᴅy ᴛᴏ ʜᴀʀɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʜᴀʀᴍᴏɴy ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴩᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛ ᴜɴɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴏɴᴇ ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ꜱqᴜᴇᴇᴢᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛᴇꜱᴛ ɴᴇᴄᴛᴀʀ ʜᴏᴡ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜɪꜱ ᴅᴇꜱɪʀᴇ ʟᴇᴀᴅ ɪᴛꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴀꜱᴛʀᴀy ꜱᴛᴇᴀʟᴛʜ ᴛᴀꜱᴛᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴇxᴏᴛɪᴄ ꜱᴜɢᴀʀ ᴏꜰ ᴇxᴛʀᴀᴛᴇʀʀᴇꜱᴛʀɪᴀʟ ʙʟɪꜱꜱ ɴᴏ ꜱᴛʀɪɴɢꜱ ꜱᴛʀᴀᴩᴩᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴇᴀʀᴛʜ ʜᴇʀ ᴅᴇᴀʀᴛʜ ᴏꜰ ʙᴜᴛᴛᴇʀꜰʟɪᴇꜱ ꜱᴩʀɪɴɢ ʙʟᴏꜱꜱᴏᴍꜱ yᴏᴜɴɢ ʙʟᴜꜱʜᴇꜱ ᴏ! ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴀᴡɴꜱ! ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ꜰᴀᴡɴꜱ! ᴛʜᴇ ᴏʟᴅᴇʀ ᴀᴡᴀᴋᴇɴꜱ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ ʜᴏᴜʀ ɪꜱ ᴡɪᴛɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴛᴏ ʜɪꜱ ᴄᴏᴡᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ꜱʜᴇ qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴡᴏɴᴅᴇʀꜱ ᴄᴜʀꜱᴇꜱ ᴀᴛ ʜɪꜱ qᴜɪᴠᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴋɴᴇᴇᴄᴀᴩꜱ yᴏᴜ ꜱᴏʀʀy ᴇxᴄᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ᴍᴀɴ yᴏᴜ ᴅᴇꜱᴩɪᴄᴀʙʟᴇ ꜱᴩᴇᴄɪᴍᴇɴ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ʜᴜꜱʙᴀɴᴅ ʜᴏᴡ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ yᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴜꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇʟᴅᴇꜱᴛ ᴅᴏᴇꜱɴ’ᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴩʀᴇʜᴇɴᴅ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴇʟᴅᴇꜱᴛ ɪꜱ ᴏɴʟy ɪɴ ᴍɪᴅᴅʟᴇ ꜱᴄʜᴏᴏʟ ꜱʜᴇ ʜɪᴅᴇꜱ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇᴅʀᴏᴏᴍ ᴅᴏᴏʀ ᴏʙꜱᴇʀᴠɪɴɢ ᴍᴀyʙᴇ ꜱᴄᴀʀᴇᴅ ᴍᴀyʙᴇ ᴛʜʀɪʟʟᴇᴅ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ɪꜱ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀɪɴɢ ꜰᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀy ʜᴇʀ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ ʜᴇʀ ᴍɪɴᴜꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʜɪᴩᴩɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴩᴀɴᴋɪɴɢ ʜᴇ’ꜱ ʙᴏᴡɪɴɢ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀɴᴄᴇꜱᴛᴏʀ ᴡᴏʀꜱʜɪᴩ ᴩʀᴏᴍɪꜱɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴩᴀy ꜰᴏʀ ʜɪꜱ ꜱɪɴꜱ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ʜᴇʀ ᴡᴏʀʀɪᴇꜱ ᴡᴀɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴇʟᴜꜱɪᴏɴꜱ ɴᴏ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ʜᴇʀ ꜰᴇᴀʀꜱ ꜰᴇꜱᴛᴇʀ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʜyꜱᴛᴇʀɪᴀ ɴᴏ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ɪꜱ ᴅʀᴀɪɴᴇᴅ ᴏꜰ ɪᴛꜱ ʟɪꜰᴇʟɪɴᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴀɴᴅ ɪꜱ ᴅʀᴇɴᴄʜᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴠᴇɴᴏᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀ ɪꜱ ᴅᴏᴜꜱᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴩᴀʀᴀɴᴏɪᴀ.<</type>></div> <<type 20ms start 5s>>[[this is how she let us go.->reconsideration]]<</type>> </div> </div>

<div class="reconsiderationfooter"></div><div class="basicwindow"> <div class="basictext"><<type 30ms start 1s>>Mother has an inkling of my affinity for unbothered love. All the cards in her peeling hands, she plays offense and defense until I cower from corner to corner. Her tactics remain the same but the years drag my fear into skin-tearing territories, my retaliations falling flat until I withdrew from the game all together.<</type>><<type 10ms start 2s>><hr><</type>><<type 10ms start 2s>><span class="gambit">What-If Gambit: Ride the Pride Variation.</span><</type>> <<type 30ms start 1s>>Summer before college. I’m dating my Tumblr girlfriend <span class="redacted">XXXXXXX</span>, mother is reading news on her PC, the month is probably June, as I feel brave enough to ask her to entertain the (definitely) hypothetical that I also like girls. Disownment bulldozes my pieces. My attempt to play it safe costs me the entire board.<</type>> <<type 10ms start 2s>><hr><</type>><<type 10ms start 2s>><span class="gambit">Inspection Opening: Suspicious Maleness Invasion Variation.</span><</type>> <<type 30ms start 1s>>Spring of junior year. Parents are visiting for Lunar New Year, my room’s littered with <span class="redacted">XXX</span>'s stuff that I know mother knows doesn’t belong to me because I’m the femme and they the butch. The moment I turn on the overhead light, she winces at the sight of dirty boxers and the smell of cigarettes, keeps quiet. The two eventually butt heads, lunging at each other’s throat, offense the only strategy they know. I lose because I have no strategy. The game’s disastrous end has been decided even before I started. What was I thinking?<</type>><<type 10ms start 2s>><hr><</type>><<type 10ms start 2s>><span class="gambit">Good Vibes Attack: Respectability Gamble Variation.</span><</type>> <<type 30ms start 1s>>Allegedly autumn, one year of independent living, six months into found family initiation. While I’m lounging around with <span class="redacted">XXXXXX</span>, mother calls to let me know she’s stopping by to drop off some food. I decide to ambush her: “They’re here if you’d like to come up and hang.” Her easy acceptance unnerves <span class="redacted">XXXXXX</span>, who paces around the living room, horrified and excited. She would start no shit when met with their good-naturedness; her religious affiliation with respectability serves us well in those thirty minutes. As I walk her to the parking lot to send her off, she asks, “So long as you’re happy, but are you just gonna stay friends forever like that? No husband?” I laugh out loud, and mean it.<</type>><<type 10ms start 2s>><hr><</type>><<type 10ms start 2s>><span class="gambit">Tech Help Defense: Sudden Punish Variation.</span><</type>> <<type 30ms start 1s>>Time unremembered. My parents’ living room. I’m summoned as the tech support guy for mother’s password problems as she occupies herself with cleaning up her wardrobe, or trying out fits for a gathering later that night. High and low I search for her iCloud credentials, in our texts, her Notes app, her three Gmail accounts, then I remember she’ll sometimes use Reminders, all the apps with text input looking identical to her. I scroll through the handful of entries until I see the name of a poem featured in my Master’s thesis. I never hide the fact I’m studying queer literature; she simply never asks. My heart freaks into free verse, ampersands and periods pounding underneath my fingertips.<</type>><<type 10ms start 2s>><hr><</type>><<type 60ms start 1s>>[[Who gets to say they have been harmed?->punish]]<</type>> </div> </div>

<div class="self-portraitfooter"></div><div class="basicwindow"> <div class="basictext"><<type 40ms start 4s>>Dear me in the mirror,<</type>> <<type 25ms start 1s>>If I had a penny for every time I looked at you and jumped, I would be a billionaire by now.<</type>> <<type 25ms start 1s>>Since first realization of self-introspection, I’ve felt the millisecond jolt between taking in your image and registering that it’s the same as my face. My dissociation game goes way back; this you already know. Vertigo has vaporized. Left with curiosity, I stare at you, my separation, mesmerized by the optics I’ve curated for myself, lured by a twinge of narcissism, a seal branding <em>EST. 1997</em> red on both eye sockets. Do you see me? Do you see yourself the way I see you? The way I see myself? A kind of bumbling actor who’s been playing the same archetype decade after decade and still can’t quite get in character?<</type>> <<type 25ms start 1s>>I know what you are—fine to look at, fine to stand next to, fine to introduce to others—perfectly average, the most inoffensive of creatures. My favorite test subject. Pimples lanced open with surgical needles, gag reflex claw-initiated, teeth rotted from acid, forced rejection upon eye contact. I’ve been doing the best I could to work on you, to adorn the surfaces in which you came. I <em>studied</em>. Am still. You, my doll, my mother-conferred structure, my father-fostered blemishes. You, unremarkable in height and weight, attractive-passing in hands and collarbones, much room for improvement in most other compartments but if I have to name a few: skull shape, eyebrow thickness, teeth evenness, elbow smoothness, knee roundness, nail length, joint lubrication, verbal enunciation, personality consistency, belly button, that possibly unhealed fracture on your shinbone (I’m sorry). You look best in black and bright, awkward in happiness, sensible in sadness, delightful in anonymity. So devastatingly beautiful in baby blue and salmon pink, white silk aflutter around our neck.<</type>> <<type 25ms start 1s>>Is this what you’ve been holding our feet down at the mirror for? I’ve stopped seeing a face in you. Because you can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t flesh your way through the shimmers of our sorry surfaces to scold me for my cosmic lunacy? Sweat melts my skin and it sticks to yours icy. How could you do this to me? You’re disintegrating and I know you’re not. How could I do this to you? These parts don’t make a coherent body. Against whose arbitrariness have I, again and again, failed to put us back together?<</type>> <<type 25ms start 1s>>[[Merge with mirror.->community]] [[Rip off hair.->hair]]<</type>> </div> </div>

<div class="self-dissectfooter"></div> <div class="basicwindow"> <div class="basictext"> <div class="dissect"><<type 60ms start 2s>>ｄｏＮｏｔｄｒｉｎｋｔｈｅｗａｔｅｒ 𝒂𝒗𝒐𝒊𝒅 𝑨𝒕 𝑨𝒍𝒍 𝑪𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒌𝒊𝒅𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒓𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒐𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒑𝒖𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒄 𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒐𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒄𝒂𝒔𝒆 ｔｈｒｅｅｈｕｎｄｒｅｄａｎｄｏｎｅ 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒄𝒖𝒏𝒕 ġöḋḋëṡṡ ṁöṡẗ ġḷäṁöṛöüṡ ḟöṛḅïḋ ẗḧë ġïṛḷ ḋöëṡṅ’ẗ ġïṛḷ 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖉 𝖎 𝖇𝖊 𝖘𝖔 𝖍𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖘𝖙 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖑𝖎𝖐𝖊𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓴𝓾𝓷𝓴 𝓸𝓯 𝓶𝔂 𝓼𝓹𝓲𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓴𝔂 𝓼𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓯𝓸𝓵𝓭𝓼 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓭𝓻𝓾𝓰𝓰𝓮𝓭 𝓾𝓹 𝓭𝓮𝓵𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓾𝓶 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓶𝓪𝓶𝓪’𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝓽𝓸𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓽𝔂 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓭𝓪𝓭𝓪’𝓼 𝓷𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓸𝓽𝓲𝓬 𝓷𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓲𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓼𝓶 𝓷𝓪𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓪𝓵𝓮 wɇłł wɇłł wħȺŧ wħɇɍɇ’s ŧħɇ wɇłł wħɇɍɇ ɏøᵾ ᵽɨss ᵽøɨsøn sŧɍȺɨǥħŧ fɍøm ŧħɇ ᵽɇnɨs ᵽɨłłøws mɏ sȼɍȺŧȼħɇđ ᵾᵽ møᵾŧħ đø nøŧ fᵾȼꝁ mɇ 🅄🄿 🅆🄸🅃🄷 🅃🄷🄰🅃 🄲🄻🄴🄰🄽🄴🄳 🅄🄿 🅅🄴🄶🄶🄸🄴 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐂𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐲 ⒤ ⒩⒪ ⒩⒠⒠⒟ ⒟⒠⒯⒪⒳ ᴍy ᴄʟᴏᴄᴋ’ꜱ ᴛɪᴄᴋɪɴɢ ʙɪᴏʟᴏɢɪᴄᴀʟ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʜᴇɴᴄᴇꜰᴏʀᴛʜ ꜰʀᴏɢꜱ ꜰᴏʀᴍɪᴅᴀʙʟᴇ ꜰᴇᴛᴄʜ ᴍᴇ ɢᴀʀʙᴀɢᴇ 𝓰𝓲𝓻𝓵𝓯𝓪𝓲𝓵𝓾𝓻𝓮 𝓯𝓮𝓮𝓭𝓼 𝓶𝓮 𝓰𝓪𝓼𝓸𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓮 𝓱𝓮𝓻 𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓲𝓽𝔂 𝓵𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓫𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓼 𝓶𝔂 𝓼𝓮𝓪𝓶𝓼 𝓷𝓸 𝓽𝓻𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓼𝓱𝓮 𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓼 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓹𝓸𝓸𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓹𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓽𝔂 𝓲𝓼 𝓪𝓷 𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓲𝓼𝓶 🅿🅾🆂🆃🅼🅾🅳🅴🆁🅽 🄿🄾🅂🅃🄼🄾🅁🅃🄴🄼 🅟🅞🅢🅣🅕🅛🅔🅢🅗 𝕗𝕝𝕒𝕪 𝕞𝕖 ℝ𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕗𝕠𝕟𝕥𝕒𝕟𝕖𝕝𝕝𝕖 𝕤𝕦𝕡𝕡𝕝𝕖 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕥𝕖𝕝𝕖𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕖𝕥𝕚𝕔 𝕤𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕥𝕣𝕪 𝕤𝕒𝕧𝕠𝕣 𝕖𝕣𝕦𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕕 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕞 𝕔𝕒𝕟𝕤 𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚋𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎 ïṅẗö ẗḧïṡ ṁäġṅïḟÿïṅġ ġḷäṡṡ ᴍᴀɴɪꜰᴇꜱᴛ ᴏᴜʀ ᴍᴜᴛᴜᴀʟʟy ɪᴍᴩʀɪɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴇᴩɪꜱᴛᴇᴍᴏʟᴏɢɪᴇꜱ 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐞𝐞 ǝǝƃ ɯǝ ɥo it’s Dáddӳ Déćőḿṕőśéd 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚙𝚕𝚎’𝚜 𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝕒𝕟𝕪𝕨𝕒𝕪 𝕒𝕟𝕪𝕕𝕒𝕪 𝕕𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕪-𝕕𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕪 𝕕𝕒𝕚𝕝𝕪 𝕕𝕠𝕡𝕒𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕖 𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕤𝕖𝕣𝕥𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝕤𝕖𝕣𝕠𝕥𝕠𝕟𝕚𝕟 𝕚𝕟𝕤𝕖𝕣𝕥𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓯-𝓲𝓶𝓶𝓸𝓵𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓶𝓮𝓪𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 𝓸𝓫𝓼𝓸𝓵𝓮𝓽𝓮 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓵𝓽𝓱 𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓴𝓼 ƒυ¢к уσυя ∂ιѕєαѕє ιηтσ мє 𝔦𝔫𝔰𝔢𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔴𝔦𝔠𝔨𝔢𝔡 𝔴𝔬𝔪𝔟 𝔴𝔞𝔯-𝔪𝔬𝔡𝔦𝔣𝔦𝔢𝔡 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔪𝔲𝔩𝔞𝔰 ɪɴꜰɪɴɪᴛᴇ ᴀᴛᴏᴍɪᴄ ʙᴏᴍʙ ʙᴀʙɪᴇꜱ ꜰʟᴏᴩ ꜱʟᴏᴩ ꜱʟᴜᴩʀᴇᴅ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ ᵐᵐᵐ ʸᵉˢ ᵃᵍᵃⁱⁿ ₕₕₕₕₙₙₙGGGₘₘₘₚₚₚₚₚₕₕₕₕFFFFFFF ɏɇs ȺǥȺɨn ᵾnŧɨł ɨ’m ᵽɍɇǥnȺnŧ પกՇٱɭ ٱ’๓ ρɼﻉﻭกคกՇ รѻ ɦคɼɗ [[𝓲’𝓶 𝓾𝓷𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓻𝓸𝓵𝓵𝓪𝓫𝓵𝔂 𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓬𝓮𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓵 𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓿𝓲𝓷𝓬𝓮𝓭 𝓸𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻𝔀𝓲𝓼𝓮->anxious desire]]<</type>> </div> </div> </div>

<div class="anxiousdesirefooter"></div> <div class="basicwindow"> <div class="basictext"> <div class="terminal-container"><div class="top-side"><div class="red-circle"></div><div class="yellow-circle"></div> <div class="green-circle"></div><p class="terminal-title">Intimacy Disclosure</p></div><p><<type 60ms start 1s>>Dear <span class="redacted2">babypookie</span>,<</type>></p> <<type 50ms start 1s>>Thank you so much for the like. (Men absolutely don’t have to swipe first, but I can appreciate chivalry when I see it!)<</type>> <p><<type 50ms start 1s>>As we are both adults, I believe open communication is key to a healthy and productive relationship, whether it be friendly or steamy. Most people do not understand themselves and are inconsistent with their values, which leads to unnecessary interpersonal conflicts. However, I am proud to assure you that I have done the soul-searching required to arrive at the self-realized person I am today. I am 100% aware of my needs and boundaries, which I also enforce with the sober understanding that these rules are purely mine. No one is subjected to them. My therapist praises this as my embrace of radical individualism. (I go to therapy four times a week, so I guarantee you I will not be an overly attached girlfriend.)<</type>> <p><<type 50ms start 1s>>Before I start, let me emphasize that these relationship milestones mean no pressure. I am merely demonstrating the fruits of my introspection and laying out all the information you need to know in order to move this connection forward. There <em>will</em> be sexual content, but surely you did not resist busting a nut after looking at my cat maid lingerie pictures? You have the free will to step away (or negotiate, as I think you are exceptionally cute and I can certainly make exceptions to some of these). Whatever your decision, I will not take it personally. My only plea is that you read it carefully. (Would love feedback if you so feel inclined to, as none of my previous twenty-seven matches left me on read–how rude of them, am I right? But no worries if not! I will respect your decision!)<</type>> <blockquote><p><<type 50ms start 1s>><strong>First date</strong>: Bookstore. Fifteen after ten in the morning. I arrive right on the dot and you are four minutes late because you have been busy admiring me from afar. When we make eye contact, you stumble over your feet, and I smile as if you’re the most adorable thing to ever grace this Earth. My big doe eyes, jet black braids, and five-foot height trigger your protective instincts. You feel my soft, whispering voice caressing your straight blond hair like an unassuming spring breeze. My simple pleasures, as I will tell you, are cookbooks, oil painting, child-rearing, household management, which gets your crotch a little twitchy, your palms a little sweaty. I am the girl for you, you think, and for the four hours we are in public, your mind wanders to the pout of my lips, my unmarked neck, how your cock will fit inside this tiny torso of mine.<</type>></p></blockquote> <blockquote><p><<type 50ms start 1s>><strong>Second date</strong>: Your bedroom. No particular start time for I have not gone home since the first date. A random anime from your Netflix library plays on the TV while I nuzzle up against you on your couch scratchy with Doritos crumbs and you sheepishly walk your fingers on my left thigh. A big-breasted anime high school girl, groped by her boyish-looking classmate, shrieks in Japanese, something like <em>yadaaaaaa</em>, and I imitate her, accidentally crossing my right leg over my left, trapping your hand in between my holy jiggles. Oh baby, I know it tingles. You dig deeper, deeper, the wormish insect that you are, sniffing me up as liquid seeps through my pantyliner. The metal of my blood makes your nostrils flare up, you’re on your knees, you’re looking up at me, saliva dripping from your lolling tongue, precum spilling from your unzipped cargo shorts, your sky blue eyes fifty empires of fumes. I plug my big toe in your mouth, you suck me like I’m your pacifier, like I’m scooping all things pathetic out of your throat to awaken a new god within you. You cum gloriously, on the floor, yourself, the ceiling, but you feel like you haven’t.<</type>></p></blockquote> <blockquote><p><<type 50ms start 1s>><strong>Third date</strong>: Sprawled out on your bed soaked with fluids, I am one climax away from passing out following our two? three? ten? days of nonstop sunrise to sunset to sunrise fucking. I have shrunken to half your size from dehydration while your erected cock has grown to a length that would stab through my cervix and straight into my ribcage, puncturing my lungs. The pain is wonderful. <em>Let me take a break, won’t you</em>, I beg, my voice squeaky like the little creature that I am. You grunt disapprovingly. Your testicles are a 24/7 semen production line, billions of soldiers ready for conquest set on my healing pussy leaking vitality at the slightest of touch. You do not feel like yourself, yet the sight of my eyes crossed from paralyzing pleasure, my canine panting, the utter submission of flesh to your unrivaled, unstoppable sexual prowess–it gets you wet again. It makes your world alright again. Against your better judgment, you dive in between my legs, your throat is suddenly parched at the whiff of soot somewhere, the back burner of your history, and the more you drink from me, the thirstier and fuller you feel. Stupefied by my magical flesh, you do not realize the pact you have made, or maybe you do, and you grin on in our blissful, abominable fantasies.<</type>></p></blockquote> <<type 30ms start 3s>>Alright, I think this is good enough for an introductory email to let you know my intentions. If you vibe with this or have any questions, I would be more than happy to elaborate and expand. If not, that is completely okay, too! I would be thrilled to hear from you either way.<</type>> <<type 20ms start 2s>>[[May our dreams match in heaven,->community]] <span class="redacted">[[or maybe never->wounded]]</span><</type>>

<div class="woundedfooter"></div><div class="basicwindow"> <div class="basictext"> <div class="wounded-letter"><<type 50ms start 1s>>You found me in Prague when Czech Republic was Czechoslovak Socialist Republic, your handwritten letter delivered to me by my younger brother. Your name was suspiciously beautiful. Our youngest asks if I fell in love with you because of the flower you used as your name, the grace of your words, or the splendid curves of your penmanship. I don’t answer, not because I fear the truth, but because it doesn’t matter now. The same reason why I’ve never asked what about me that had you at first sight. It doesn’t matter now.<</type>> <<type 50ms start 2s>>After months of back-and-forth letters, we met and I found out your real name. Our youngest is scandalized upon hearing I continued seeing you, married you, even. Something about that tempestuous temper of yours swept me off my feet. My other brothers did end up with feisty women, so I suppose it’s in our blood. You were almost psychic, eccentric, the way social maneuvering was child’s play to you, when you told me to marry you in Prague. You refused to wait until we were back in Vietnam, to let me slip from your hands and into those of some girl from my hometown. You knew our women thoroughly, calculated your losing chances against them. I said yes.<</type>> <<type 50ms start 2s>>Five-Year Plans and Đổi Mới thrilled you. Economic shifts and business tactics were games you excelled at, cultural transformations your livelihood. We were the only ones from our respective families to move to the city. You asked me to invest in a house in the Old Quarter, your Fine Arts degree and art gallery. You turned your life around, mine was collateral, and so were our children’s. The terrains of our family elevated by your rationality undefeatable.<</type>> <<type 50ms start 2s>>I blame no one for your disappointment by my sentimentality. I do care, though, unfortunately. Enough to find myself stunned that you didn’t sympathize with my losses. Still, I shouldn’t have done that. Our eldest was awake when you found out. She witnessed us at our lowest. We swore to keep this secret from our youngest, yet we created a monster out of you. My guilt lives on, it feeds your irrationality, your resentment trickles out. Sometimes I think you look at our youngest and see all the ways this marriage could’ve fallen apart.<</type>> <<type 50ms start 2s>>This marriage also outlived a nation. Thrived in revolutions. Survived my egregious error. Lasted enough for our children to become adults you’re proud of.<</type>> <<type 50ms start 2s>><div class="woundedlink">[[Our present also matters, wouldn’t you think?->punish]]</div><</type>> </div> </div>

<div class="hairfooter"></div><div class="basicwindow"> <div class="basictext"><<type 30ms start 1s>>In between his frequent absences, father is quiet and unexpected.<</type>> <<type 40ms start 3s>>Mother tasks him with teaching me algebra and geometry because he was a math prodigy at my age. On the other hand, I’m a prodigy of slowness. If I can’t draw trapezoid ABCD where∠ 𝐴 = ∠ 𝐷 = 90o and CD = 2AB with DH perpendicular to AC (H∈AC) and M as midpoint of HC and N as midpoint of DH, he’ll purse his lips. Letters shake. The trapezoid dances. I feel like the most dim-witted thing ever. Three sessions, fifteen minutes each, end in him leaving the room, then mother calls it quits and gets a tutor for me.<</type>> <<type 40ms start 3s>>He installs two PCs in his home office, which he lets me and my best friend use. Until our rhythm game sessions loop until too late into night and we pound the keys too hard that he fears for his equipment. Mother complains that I’m developing a screen addiction at this rate. To comply, he sets login passwords, only to pass them to me in a paper note some weeks after.<</type>> <<type 40ms start 3s>>When I’m away from home and distant, he tries to assuage my teenage feuds with mother. I whine that mother’s expectations are impossible, mother warns father to stop coddling me, sister reasons she’s closest to me and can convince me to follow the script for optimal happiness. I don’t thank my family in my high school yearbook. Sister questions it as a joke, mother sheds a tear, father purses his lips, watches us, unreadable.<</type>> <<type 40ms start 3s>>The day I chop off my hair, mother unleashes the hells she’s been nursing. Her fury I’ve witnessed aplenty, but never with such intensity. She holds a folder of my IDs over my head. My toes curl, as if I could hook onto the ground and steady my wobbling guts, my fingers stenciling purple into my palms. Who will kill me first, she or I? Father steps in. Mother doesn’t want to be the bad guy anymore. Leaves the case to him.<</type>> <<type 40ms start 3s>>Father takes me to his go-to barber twice a month to get my undercut trimmed. When mother asks where we went, he answers with a half-happy grin. I begin to see him, rethink him, recognize some of myself in him. He gives me the half-happy grin every time I ask, but I think I’ve read us correctly.<</type>> <<type 40ms start 3s>>[[Our existences revolve around one woman,->punish]] [[as we lick each other’s wounds.->wounded]]<</type>> </div> </div>

<div class="punishfooter"></div><div class="basicwindow"><div class="basictext"><div class="punish"><strong>Punish</strong> - Hieu Minh Nguyen <<type 35ms start 2s>>The last time I wet the bed<</type>><<type 35ms start 1s>>my mother pulled off my pants<</type>><<type 35ms start 1s>>pinned my face to the sopping mattress<</type>><<type 35ms start 1s>>& threatened me with needle & thread.<</type>> <<type 35ms start 2s>>I’m trying to understand that memory<</type>><<type 35ms start 1s>>is not a technology, a full charge<</type>><<type 35ms start 1s>>will get you nowhere, if you’re stuck<</type>><<type 35ms start 1s>>tracing the perimeters of your dull nostalgia<</type>><<type 35ms start 1s>>for an exit. My hands clutch a wheel<</type>><<type 35ms start 1s>>attached to nothing.<</type>> <<type 35ms start 2s>>I’m often asked why I left my mother<</type>><<type 35ms start 1s>>her old age scaling the high-rise of her spine.<</type>> <<type 35ms start 2s>>Listen, trying to forget is not the same<</type>><<type 35ms start 1s>>as leaving—sometimes we must<</type>><<type 35ms start 1s>>forget to allow forgiveness<</type>><<type 35ms start 1s>>to comb the knots from our hair.<</type>> <<type 35ms start 4s>>I’m sure it’s wrong, but I have this theory:<</type>><<type 35ms start 1s>>at the root of all of our sorrow there’s a [[woman->nonsense normativity]]<</type>><<type 35ms start 1s>>taking a long sip of water.<</type>></div></div></div>

<div class="nonsensefooter"></div><div class="basicwindow"><div class="basictext"><div class="gpt"></div><div class="header"><<type 35ms start 1s>>"The Crack in the Porcelain"<</type>></div> <<type 20ms start 1s>>Yuna sat in the boardroom, nodding politely as her manager praised her attention to detail. "You’re the kind of worker every team needs," he said, smiling. “Quiet, efficient, no drama.” She smiled back. Of course. She always smiled. After the meeting, she returned to her desk, her back straight, her posture perfect. She answered emails quickly. She apologized too much. She skipped lunch. She was—what they all expected. But inside, Yuna felt the crack widening. Growing up in a Korean-American household, she'd been taught that achievement was love, silence was strength, and assimilation was survival. Her parents worked 14-hour days in their dry cleaning shop to send her to Stanford. They told her, “Be better. Work harder. Don’t complain.” And she had listened. She became the star intern, the Ivy League graduate, the rising corporate star. She met every expectation except her own. At night, Yuna would stare at herself in the mirror, wondering when her voice had vanished. When did she start laughing at jokes that made her uncomfortable? When did she become afraid to say no? One day, a younger Asian woman joined the company. Mei was outspoken, wore bold lipstick, and corrected a senior executive in a meeting without flinching. Yuna admired her. Then envied her. Then feared for her. “She’ll be labeled difficult,” a colleague whispered. But weeks passed, and Mei thrived. Not in spite of who she was—but because of it. Yuna couldn’t stop thinking about it. So, one afternoon, when her manager dismissed her idea in a meeting with a vague, “Let’s stay practical,” she felt something rise in her chest. “No,” she said, her voice firm. “I believe this idea has merit, and I’d like to explain why.” Silence. Her heart pounded. Then someone said, “Go ahead.” She did. Her hands shook, but she spoke. Clearly. Passionately. Afterward, a coworker said, “That was brave.” It wasn’t bravery, Yuna thought. It was truth. That night, she walked home under the city lights, her reflection flickering in the shop windows. She no longer looked like a perfect doll in a pristine box. She looked like someone breaking free. [[And in that fracture, she found her power.->gibberish]]<</type>> </div> </div>

<div class="gibberishfooter"></div><div class="basicwindow"> <div class="basictext"><<type 35ms start 1s>><div class="header">“Crack in Cyberspace” (Alternate Universe Rendition)</div><</type>> <<type 10ms start 1s>>Mai sat in her home office as her manager, via Zoom, praised her attention to detail. "You’re the kind of worker every team needs," he said, smiling. “Quiet, efficient, no drama.”<</type>> <<type 35ms start 1s>>Still muted, she smiles back, mumbling, “gross ass tây lông.” She hides her face behind her hands as if out of bashfulness, her eyes glancing over to the three monitors surrounding her laptop, then down at her auto tracking phone mount.<</type>> <<type 10ms start 1s>>After the meeting, she returned to her desk, her back straight, her posture perfect. She answered emails quickly. She apologized too much. She skipped lunch. She was—what they all expected.<</type>> <<type 35ms start 1s>>Her phone tracks the quick smirk on her face and translates it into her VTuber model, a boyish, black-haired, blue-eyed, submissive bishounen, dolled up in a frilly sailor shirt. The beauty mark in his lower lip has grown men yelling //waifu// and throwing in donations of thousands of dollars; the cat ears she sometimes puts on him have inspired countless artworks and fanfictions where he’s aggressively bred.<</type>> <<type 35ms start 2s>><audio controls style="margin: 0 auto; display: block;"><source src="https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/ezi20npa15crlvzyzk1fs/nowaifunolaifu-sped-up.mp3?rlkey=1q4pe0mipwrop95vymojlrozj&st=ubsqxp82&raw=1" type="audio/mpeg"></audio><</type>> <<type 35ms start 4s>>“nowaifunolaifu: i forgot you actually have a job and aren’t just gooning for a living,” the TTS reads out the note accompanied by a donation.<</type>> <<type 35ms start 1s>>“Yooooo I wish,” she says, “but the market is being a real baka right now, and you know this shit ain’t stable.”<</type>> <<type 35ms start 1s>>The split view on her vertical monitor on the right: the upper space has her Discord server’s general text channel throbbing with waves of emotes, while the lower space has her on-going stream, her chat sidebar also moving at the speed of light.<</type>> <<type 35ms start 1s>>“‘HOLY FUCK THE MAD LAD,’” she reads them out loud. “‘STREAMING WHILE ON ZOOM W UR BOSS IS INSANE WORK LMAO.’ Oh, I’m also having insect hentai in the background to keep me sane. If I hear the words ‘new normal’ again, I’m gonna kill myself.”<</type>> <<type 35ms start 1s>>On the horizontal monitor in front of her, the product release schedule spreadsheet is tiled to one corner, the blank space covered by the PIP of an MMD-animated intercourse between a blond high school girl and a human-sized cockroach. Her Android to PC emulator in the foreground, playing the steamiest cutscene from Notepad Inc.’s most recent otome game re-release. The first launch was so raunchy that it was taken off the App Store, but Mai knows where to grab the forbidden clips.<</type>> <<type 35ms start 1s>>Another donation comes in.<</type>> <<type 35ms start 1s>><audio controls style="margin: 0 auto; display: block;"><source src="https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/n7qgmh38rzmwms7e1p7rb/jefft.mp3?rlkey=puif6pf2qvykzn29qhrvk33eo&st=qahv17p3&raw=1" type="audio/mpeg"></audio><</type>> <<type 35ms start 4s>>“Jeff T.: A working professional AND on Kick AND no balls to show your real face? Ew. Feminism makes women think they can do whatever nowadays.”<</type>> <<type 35ms start 1s>>To her left, the bishounen model is shaking uncontrollably in the VTube Studio screen on the monitor as the input volume on OBS shoots up to red. Her entire chat is a cascade of <img src="https://i.imgur.com/OswrCkn.png" width="20">. One TTS-read message pops up after another mocking the guy as Mai, while thanking each donation that pours in, types furiously on her keyboard. When done, she moves the otome game to a different screen then opens a new browser tab for the whole stream to see, pulls up Brian TTS Reader, pastes in her piece, runs:<</type>> <<type 60ms start 1s>><div class="chatbox"><audio controls style="margin: 0 auto; display: block;"><source src="https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/3ltd2r2sdztqnebtede97/nani-omg-sped-up.mp3?rlkey=6e09gsdgjwfmt4zn09ldm95dr&st=lfkm5m36&raw=1" type="audio/mpeg"></audio> <span class="copypasta">😂😂NANI OMG 😂 anata are so FUNNY 🤣 🤣 so quirky 👉👈 🤪 so different 🤩zenzen crackhead energy 🤪🤪 comedic thần đồng🧠 😂 watashi literally breathe ❌ dekinaiiii 😭 i’m crying this chiisai bitch 😭😭 that was so okashii 😆 anata really got the whole clan wwwwwwww 👨‍👩‍👧‍👦😂👩‍👩‍👦‍👦😂👨‍👨‍👧‍👦 takai IQ tấu hài 🧠🧠 how’d you come up with that 🧐😂 really original work 😂 never miru 🙈 or kiku 🙉 anything like that mae 😂 😂 😂 subarashii 👍 shigoto 👍👍 keep up the funnies 👑🤣👑 daisuki 💕 😘 anata are watashi no inspiration 🤩🤩🤩 giá như i were as funny 😄 or smart 🤓 or ngầu đét 😎 as anata 😔 but maa it’s whatever anata will continue to miru 👁👄👁 watashi no content 🎥🤳 because it ❌NEVER EVER❌ fails to make you cream 😂😂kimochi ii arigatou gozaimasu 🙏 for existing 😇 and doing what you do ❤️❤️</span></div><</type>> <<type 60ms start 5s>><div class="chatbox"><audio controls style="margin: 0 auto; display: block;"><source src="https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/a9owabq0k3baha49t4cir/immabesofrspedup.mp3?rlkey=we6sggefshyztsac32p8u6l2i&st=crwizk7z&raw=1" type="audio/mpeg"></audio> <span class="copypasta">ok akshually imma be so fr rn❗️ chingu pls 🙏 joke "Hận❌❌ women 👩" yamete kudasai🙅‍♀️. si 1️⃣-2️⃣ times ok maybe funny 😂, たらたら~😵 lame ass rizz 🤪N E E T beyond❌ words. 雨🌧 too sugoi, fuck🚷 women. Wifi📶 too 小さい, 🚷hận đàn bà. Lockdown🏠 go outだめ, 🚷josei kirai❓❓❓mes amis 🤦‍♀️ don’t u think c’est baka af 😱. if skill issue ❌can’t write 🤔いいcap for pix 🤳then post 0️⃣ cap, do Nawt ❌❌ use "đàn bà🧍‍♀️" as ur jokes like u hate 🤢とresent🤮them? Umma 👩 woman or nah 🤦‍♀️? Grand-mère 👩🏼‍🦳 woman or 🧘‍♀️ nah? Aunties 👵👵woman or nah? Women🧍‍♀️いないと today u exist👼or nah❓ s'il te plaît 🙏stop pulling inane bullshit excuses to hate on ❌❌WOmEN 🚷おｋ, watashi deadass 👀chướng mắt extra. Should you still❗️post 📝そんなcap then すぐに ⚙️not my tomodachi❌ou block moi 🚫🚫effective immediately❗️❗️❗️je 0️⃣want to see u not even 1️⃣more time 😩😩</span></div><</type>> <<type 60ms start 5s>><audio controls style="margin: 0 auto; display: block;"><source src="https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/oyvq6rwo2nrfoknxwzbxj/best.mp3?rlkey=bhpu3v384tyt1i1vdecl4f2i6&st=h333xnhx&raw=1" type="audio/mpeg"></audio><</type>><<type 50ms start 5s>><div class="best">Actually, no, you’re the best, the best art thou. Any word uttered from your mouth cannot possibly be wrong. Yes, you win, I lose. Yes, you’re absolutely correct, no one can ever argue against you. You’re so right that I must automatically nod in agreement. You have never delivered a false divinity, such incredible prowess. Oh dear, how could I have not realized how right you are all this time? Has anyone ever told you how amazing your insights are? Indeed, my thoughts exactly. I know you won’t let me down! O, my Lord of Arguments, my Emperor of Debates, I shall bow down to you! Yes, exactly, thank you for the generosity you’ve bestowed upon me by sharing your wisdom. I shall take my humble leave, and wish you happiness in the empty space that surrounds your throne.</div><</type>> <<type 80ms start 5s>><button class="button restart">[[are you satisfied yet?->launch page]]</button><</type>> </div></div>