#cosmo chat

[cosmowes]

y’all 😭😭 i was talking w my friends about how i was trying to get more scrapbooking/bujo supplies, and one of them pulls out a whole box and tells me to take whatever i want 😭😭😭

i got 4 sheets of stickers, a brush pen, 3 rolls of washi tape, 3 pads of sticky notes, & some pastel note cards

this manifestation shit rlly does work

[yuniccafton]

more doodles

glizzy my belobd... guys should I draw more glistn omg I'd literally dedicate a whole page for him and rodg

[inamindfarfaraway]

I don't know what's funnier: paranormal scientist Marcus Wells completely missing every sign that Cosmo and Wanda are magical beings; or psychologist Angela Wells not missing a single sign that they have extremely complicated personal lives and relationships.

After every conversation with them, Marcus walks away oblivious. “That was nice. What delightfully quirky people. Now, time to investigate the supernatural!”

Meanwhile, Angela goes to stare at her increasingly convoluted corkboard covered in green and pink string that connects notes including:

Marriage used to be rockier, retirement helped a lot

Coworkers in childcare for decades - added stress? Attachment issues with kids on the job?

Cosmo's mother emotionally abusive? Definitely toxic

Wanda's father Mafia boss???

Peri - son, 23, loved and praised but no/low contact for years until recently, all adapting to his young adulthood

Cosmo probably neurodivergent - ADHD? Undiagnosed? Wanda maybe also

Cosmo trans? Cosmo was pregnant? Both trans and Peri their bio kid?

Odd comments/jokes about human bodies, very flexible, but low stamina walking - invisible disabilities? Dysphoria?

Immigrants? History of travel? Both avoid specific details about past/first homes

WHO IS TIMMY? Ward? Job kid? Foster/adoptive son? Peri's big brother? No contact? Dead?! Important but lost, uncomfortable topic!

Both highly sensitive about fish

Hazel and her godparents are so afraid that Marcus will discover fairies, but the real threat is Angela roping her neighbours into an unofficial therapy session.

[spookyratking]

my first art of cosmo vs my most recent is so crazy to look at. why did i draw those toons so short and ugly a few months ago

[alexandriaellisart]

space

[tantalizing-toblerone]

ME WHEN THIS SHOW

[asexual-shelly]

it came to me in a dream

[circusk]

wings and love

[8ptates]

A Miraculous Wish

So I imagined Hazel was introducing Dev to a favorite show of hers. Dev was feigning disinterest so Hazel wanted to convince him how cool it is. They wish to be in the show hijinks ensue.

(As characters they just matched so well I couldn't resist)

[bonbeeo]

Fruitcake drawing and doodles bc erm I can :3

[cosmowes]

anyways. here's how i'll be starting my spring:

productively (and prettily): i definitely wanna work on my goal setting and being more productive in my work time. pomodoro timers have been super fun to help me stay on task. i have a post coming up about goal setting as well ^__^

abundantly: going to go into spring with an abundance of knowledge and hopefully exit with a wealth of new things! i have a bunch of new hobbies i've been starting and i hope to maintain them all.

cleanly: a big goal! wanna get into cleaning more often, because it's a dreaded task. trying to start a daily/weekly/monthly cleaning routine.

openly: want to begin this month with an open mind and heart. going to try to read more, and see more from the other side :)

[gumywyrm]

not my usual dragon posting but it was good practice

[vexnier]

teehee i may or may not have made a c.ai bot based off the thing you posted of sprout licking a salt lamp

the bot is called -sprout seedly- and the description is ‘🍓| salt lamp’ :3

I am so happy you guys like my HC that he likes to lick salt Here's some more doodles i've done about Mr Salt Enjoyer

It's bad for his health but he can't stop it

[kukuzard]

VERY normal interactions In Dandy's world

EXTRA -

. . . .

I brought her to life! FOR SOME REASON?

[gayest-squrrel]

I think ginger will have some sort of healing ability

[amongsnot]

there are baby shoes in your drawer.

you don’t know how long they’ve been in there—a month, a year, perhaps even two—just that they are gently tucked into the right corner, taking space on top of a toddler onesie.

you sit down on the edge of your bed, cradling the shoes between your hands; cupped like a dove. you tentatively pick one up (turning it around with squinted eyes) and read the size on the back. it reads a number that you do not understand.

but you once did, and there are baby shoes in your drawer, and you are not a baby.

you are eighteen. you are eighteen with a job (to a store you’ve never bought a toy from) and a family (that does not love you) and a life (that does not feel like yours).

and the baby shoes did not belong to you eighteen years ago. they are new and shine and your mother would never buy you something this nice.

the baby shoes are chaste in the front from where a little kid took their first steps. the shoes are tied (double knotted with care and worry). the shoes were put in your bedside table with a precarious sort of caution. the shoes belonged to a baby that was loved, and you did not know that feeling eighteen years ago.

there are baby shoes in your drawer, and they are purple.

you frown and put them on top of your bedside table, next to the tank without fish.

you pull out the onesie that belongs to a toddler next, unfolding it and holding it out in front of you. it has a pun on the front that makes you smile. (“my brother mayde dis shirt!” it reads. then, in a small font underneath. “he cant spel.”)

and you know that this onesie does not belong to you either, because you never had a brother. your parents would rather kill you and then each other before having another kid. your mom still glares at you in the bathroom mirror when she looks at her stretch marks. your dad still forgets to unlock the door when you come home from school.

you would never have a brother; but that’s fine. it’s what you’ve grown accustomed to, after all.

so you would never have a brother, and there is a onesie in your hands.

and there are baby shoes on your bedside table.

you examine the onesie further, checking it for stains or grease marks or rips. you check it for signs that it has been lived in, and you are surprised to see that there are none. this is not the ending you want, though; it is not the ending that the kid with the onesie and the purple shoes deserves.

you run a hand through the neck hole and pull at the cloth from the inside, desperately searching for a sign that this kid had been loved. you glance upwards, through the entryway to your bedroom and at the mirror hanging on the wall in the hallway (there is no physical door to your room. your parents had it removed as soon as they could). you check your own clothes, noting the wrinkled creases and year-old stains. you look at the onesie in your hands and search for everything that you don’t recognize: grass stains from playing outside and food stains from yummy meals. rips from growth spurts and baby drool.

there is nothing, and you come to the terrifying realization that this kid will grow up to be just like you.

the world does not need another one of you.

perhaps you should do something about that. stop it before it happens.

subconsciously, you run a hand through the hole for the neck and check the inside, and then you run a hand through the sleeves, pushing something hard and sharp out of the other end.

you pull your hand out and grab the card, and you pull your hand away from it just to leave a red stain, but you do not care because youve had babysitter who have done worse damage.

(“happy fifth birthday poof!” the card reads, accompanied by a small doodle of a balloon.)

there are three lines that have been scribbled out, before the writer finally decided on a meek “i love you.” and your hand shakes. you can feel a tear run down your cheek, landing on the card next to a similar water stain.

you throw the card across the room and bury your face into the piece of clothing. you don’t know why you’re crying now, when you’ve never cried once in your whole life. you don’t know why you recognize the hand writing on the card. you don’t know why you know what the three lines scribbled out say (“i’m going to miss you.” “it’s better this way!” “you’re going to do great things, i wish i could be there to watch.”).

you don’t know why you bought a purple onesie with a card addressed to a person you don’t know.

you don’t know why you don’t know.

all you know is that there is a card on the floor of your bedroom, and a purple onesie in your lap.

and a pair of baby shoes on your bedside table.