#i guess ??? just a blob with fuzz

[floofsqueak]

breaks my 9 month artblock with a sudden and visceral urge to draw the most indignant juvenile Tit i have ever witnessed (or some colour morph variation of a tit)

[la-gotica-fantasma]

Never Fast Enough

characters - Gally x Gn!Reader

word count - 600

contains - Hurt/Slight Comfort / Reader Death / Knife / Blood / Afterlife / Guns / "Lover" / Detailed Feelings of Death

authors notes - People of Kurtis Town, there is a new Kurtis video up. Thanks for letting me notify y'all. - First Gally fic !! I will do more with him soon, where we see WAYYYY more of his character and personality. I love Gally :}

My ears rang as my legs got closer to letting me collapse against the blood painted concrete. My blood ran cold, my arms felt like they were sticks glued to me, and my cheeks felt like the fuzz of a cotton ball. The further and further I ran, the faster and faster I hugged Death.

"Fucking run, [Name]!" someone shouted from in front of me, my vision blurring so hard I couldn't make anything out beside contrastless blobs. "Run!" they screamed.

I held the unsheathed knife in my hands, ready to sacrifice anything I had to to keep my friends safe.

My eyes could only make out Gally from the distance we were kept, standing behind a thick glass door. His eyebrows were lower than usual as his face showed nothing but preparation for grief. My eyes flashed with an apologetic gaze, a frown on my face. "I'm sorry" I mouthed to him, skidding to a stop and lifting the knife, turning slowly to face the guards that chased me.

If you hear the gunshot, I thought. You're not dead.

I heard no gunshot, I merely felt my throat clog and the taste of burnt metal storming my mouth.

White was all I could see. A bright but unfelt white.

I was clay in the hands of Gods. My soul was torn out of it's shell, being pulled down by a gravity only an outer force could create. And for just one moment, I could hear everything. I heard the marching of feet, and a ghastly yell that I could only guess who it belonged to.

Gally.

I felt gripped to this reality, not tied—but held in the fist of some deity I knew not of. It was as though someones hand was wrapped around me, holding me hostage to hear the screams and war that rattled the city.

In the vice I was placed, the white blurred in and out into sights. Colors and dots that moved around on a stage, open for my viewing. I watched as a dark green dot clambered down lines—what I imagined to be steps.

"Fuck me," Gally's voice groaned, and the green dot turned into a visual of Gally, staring into something I couldn't see. "Fuck me, I miss her." he said, his voice shaky as tears threatened to spill from his green eyes.

I went to speak, to scream. But nothing came out; I felt no lips, I felt nothing but a heartbreaking pain.

He held his hands together, leaning over his arms. "Did I ruin her?" he asked, lifting his head to the sky. "Did I?"

Huffing, he let his hands go, wiping his face exasperatedly and letting out a shaky sigh. He shook his head, trying to knock the grief out of himself.

The color faded, whisking together and turning into nothing other than a pale tan.

First, my hands appeared in front of my eyes, slowly integrating my body back together. I wasn't pale, I was see-through.

I could breathe, but it didn't reach my lungs.

Ground appeared below me, not letting me touch it. I spun my head around, reaching for Gally.

"Oh, my lover." I whispered.

The hairs on the back of his neck stuck up, and he shot his hand to his gun. "[Name]?" he asked gently, disbelief lacing his voice. "Is that you?"

"Yes,"

Squeezing his eyes shut, he swallowed harshly. "I'm going crazy,"

I somberly nodded, letting him walk away.

[charliegyrth]

Alex Gets Soft - Part 16

Who the Heck Is Charlie Gyrth?

Read Part 15 here.

The next day was a holiday, so we didn’t have to log into our computers. I let him sleep in while I jogged around the park. For the first time, I decided to go shirtless. I wanted to see what would happen.

With pop music filling my ears, I raced around the path, paying careful attention to the people I passed. Would they look at me? Would they ogle me like they used to ogle Alex?

Honestly, no. A few women glanced over. A gay couple stared. And an older woman (eating ice cream with her husband) smiled in my direction. But none of them seemed particularly turned on.

I guess I wasn’t surprised. My body wasn’t as muscular as Alex’s had been. I didn’t quite have abs yet. And I was much, much shorter, too. I think that had a lot to do with it.

In a way, I was relieved. So many things were changing in my life, and it was comforting to know that I was still my same, aggressively normal self. Cute but not hot. I finished my lap around the park, but I still had some energy to burn, so I decided to make another round. Maybe I could pick up some Indian fry bread for Alex on the way back.

The song blaring on my headphones faded away, replaced by a man’s steady, low-pitched voice. This was one of Alex’s hypnosis tracks. I must’ve been on his playlist by mistake. I was about to change it when I decided to give it a listen. Why not? I didn’t really believe in hypnosis anyway.

The track started off how I’d expected: “You’re hungry. You crave food.” Stuff like that. Then he got more detailed, describing how the listener’s body was going to change. He focused on growing a big, round belly. Wide shoulders. Beefy pecs.

He was basically describing Alex’s preferred body type. He even used his favorite word. “Solid.” He said that like ten times in the span of a few minutes.

I stopped running and just jogged in place as I looked through Spotify. Charlie Gyrth (the artist) had hundreds of these motivational tracks, though this was the only one that Alex had added to his playlist. The title was “Fat Motivation – Standard Bear,” which made me laugh at its bluntness.

Other tracks had titles like “Fat Motivation – Muscle Chub” and “Fat Motivation – Ex-Jock.” Charlie Gyrth, whoever he was, had basically recorded the same audio dozens of times, tailoring each track to a different body type. Some of them had less than a hundred downloads. Others had thousands. “Standard Bear” was one of the most popular.

How interesting. How weirdly specific.

I scanned through the titles to see if there were any that matched with what Alex was growing into. “Chub,” I guess. Maybe “Superchub.” Maybe “BHM 1” or “BHM 2.”

Then I found a title that made my crotch stir. “Fat Motivation – Double-Belly Blob.” The “double-belly” part made me think of Alex’s deepening crease across his stomach. And the “blob” part… Well, that was just ridiculously hot.

I was about to listen to it, but I noticed a familiar face heading over. I quickly added the track to Alex’s playlist and turned off my phone screen. “Rob! Hey!”

Rob jogged over, smiling brightly. Like me, he was pretty short, pretty normal-looking. He’d buzzed his hair off since the last time I’d seen him. “Jake! Looking good.”

“Back at ya. I like the new look.”

He slid his palm over the brown fuzz. “Out of necessity, I’m afraid. Terry noticed the beginning of a bald spot, so… I don’t know. I think it fits me.”

A bit. It definitely made him look more macho.

“Where’s Terry?”

“Oh, he’s at home with Braxton. I needed to get some fresh air. And I thought I’d bring Terry back some Indian fry bread.” He nodded toward the food stall off to the side.

“I was just gonna get some for Alex!” I said.

“I’m sure you were,” he said with a wink.

We headed over and I asked for three orders, all with different toppings.

Rob elbowed me in the side. “You two are still going strong, huh?”

“Yeah. We had a minor lapse in… confidence yesterday, but I think we’re good.”

I loved talking to someone who understood where I was coming from, even if our conversation was a bit coded. There was no doubt in my mind that Rob had a definite encourager streak, and since Terry would never allow himself to gain weight, he had to live vicariously through me.

“Must be nice,” he said wistfully.

With three to-go boxes in my arms, I said goodbye and left him. But while I was still in earshot, I heard Rob say the strangest thing to the seller. “I’d like the exact same order, please.”

Hmm.

Read Part 17 here. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 You can also read all 22 parts of Alex Gets Soft in one ebook (with a bonus story). You can find all my stories here.

[blairwritingscript]

Let me introduce you to-

WORD COUNT: 884

PAIRING: Avengers x Reader

SUMMARY: A new avenger was expected to come soon but the avengers never guessed who it was gonna be.

WARNINGS: None?

A/N: It's my first time writing that's why it's rather short and maybe a little bad. I'M LEARNING so pls don't sue me :)

♪:;;;:♪:;;;:♪:;;;:♪:;;;:♪:;;;:♪:;;;:♪:;;;:♪:;;;:♪:;;;:♪:;;;:♪:;;;:♪:;;;:♪:;;;:♪:;;;:♪:;;;:♪:;;;:♪:;:♪

Another boring yet busy day for the Avengers compound. All of them are in the m meeting room, listening to Steve as he just finished explaining what to do on one of the upcoming missions for the second time.

"So who understands how to get inside of the base now?" steve said. only Bucky, Nat and Clint raise their hands. "Honestly.." Steve mumbles under his breath as he turns back to the board ready to point everything out again.

"I don't see why we can't just knock them out, it would make things so much easier!" Thor exclaimed loudly.

Tony rubs the bridge of his nose, sighing. "To many guards. that plus we need to keep out of sight by any cameras that could give away our spot" Thor only hums at that.

"But what if we found another blind spot that only requires for some of us to enter? it would be easier instead of having to put all of us in the same spot where we could become vulnerable" Wanda thinks out lout as she casually listens to some music.

"She does have a point, maybe we should split up into two groups? team A goes in and team B stays outside and keep watch" Nat says to which Sam replies "Maybe team B could distract them."

At some point everyone was either just talking over eachother or not interested enough and talking to others, poor Steve gave up and sat down in his chair.

But then all of that stopped as a certain eyepatched killjoy entered the room, someone seemed to follow after him but they couldn't quite see them due to their smaller frame.

"Avengers" Fury greeted them with a firm nod. He continued "As you all know there was going to be a new avenger soon and that day is today." Nearly all of them sat now straight up in their chair.

Fury stepped aside "Let me introduce you to-"

"OH MY GOD!" Wanda basicly screamed, hitting peter's arm as the only reaction coming from him was a mouth wide open as he was gawking at you. You gave them a small wave.

It took a few of them some time to figure out who you were while others still had absolutely no clue why they were reaction so dramaticly.

"Care to share with the group who that is?" Bucky asked confused about all the fuzz going over one person.

"y/n l/n.." Peter spoke quietly as if he didn't believe it.

"what?" Bruce asked.

"IT'S Y/N FUCKING L/N!" Wanda yelled again. she stood up and made her way over to where you were slightly cowered away.

"You mean that singer that was on the news last month?!" Sam says excitedly also making his way over to you.

"As i was trying to say" Fury says annoyed "let me introduce you to y/n l/n, i think she will be of great use in the team with a skill set like hers"

"Hold up, what kind of skill set are we talking about?" Steve wonders, looking you up and down. "she is just a singer right?"

"i.. ehm" you hesitate for a moment, clearing your throat. "i can clone myself actually, i use it for my performances sometimes.." you look around the room. that's when you started to overthink everything. they were so quiet, why was no one saying anything? Was it wrong for me to come here? they must think i'm being ridiculous.

You closed your eyes tightly, not being able to stand the awkward silence surrounding you. You felt a sudden weight on your shoulder. slowly opening your eyes you realize Steve is standing in front of you with a gentle smile on his face.

"It would be great to have someone with such abilities on the team" he said reassuringly.

"How about a little demonstration huh?" Tony stood up too, crossing his arms and watching you with a slightly judgmental look in his eyes.

"Alright" without having to really do anything a sort of blob splits itself from your body onto the ground and quickly forming a perfect duplicate of yourself.

"That's amazing" Bruce puts on his glasses, apparently very interested by what you just did. "how?" he asks shortly after.

You shrug "i actually really don't know."

Peter had apparently come to his sense a while ago and had come to stand near you, still not saying much. it was kinda cute in a way, but you were already used to these kind of interactions with fans. Your also used to fans that are way to close like Wanda but honestly it's cool having hero's so close to you.

Tony was still looking a bit skeptical "Do you have limits?" He asked to which you shrug once again.

you thought for a moment "I never cloned more then 27" looking to your side the clone did the same thing. you decided that it was time to let it back inside, placing a hand on your replica it morphed back into you without a trace "I'm sure that i can do more then that though"

"I'm sure you can! maybe we can train with them" Thor said loudly with his booming voice. "Hey cap, maybe she can help us in that mission"

"Maybe it's better if we train her properly first before introducing her to any real action." Steve looked around the room. "Let's just take it easy and get to know eachother"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[blorbologist]

Cat’s Cradle - Chapter 2?

Guess this is a thing now!

Part 1

--

Tuna doesn’t work. 

It’s premium stuff - intended for Percy’s sandwich of the day, sacrificed instead on a paper plate and left ten feet from his crouched form. No amount of tsktsktsk or wafting the oils around seem to draw her attention - not in her usual feeding spot, or near any cranny Percy suspects she could wedge herself into. 

He spots her, briefly. An hour in, a second from standing and texting Vex that he was on his way back inside.

She’s a brown and white blob on the other side of the road, peering at him from a rickety fence. Percy’s heart sinks - drivers inbound from the highway usually breeze through the stop, here, with poor visibility thanks to some wild hedges. It’s a dangerous crossing for a little cat. 

Less so for him - he follows Curio as slowly as he dares, plate of tuna in hand. 

As soon as he steps off the sidewalk she’s gone, leaping into the yard. Percy watches the space for a moment, breathing in cold air through his nose. It stings. He puts down the offering near where she had perched before turning back.

He’s not quite ready to trespass just yet.

--

Vex, it turns out, is more than happy to trespass, though she laments it would likely be useless.

“We need a trap for her,” she sighs. The forge has allowed her to shed her flannel, leaving her in a white tanktop. 

It’s warm enough Percy can blame the redness of his cheeks on it as he sheds the chill moment by moment.

The kittens have begun to mewl. All five wiggle and wail - an improvement over how quiet they had been before, as far as Percy’s concerned.

He’s tried to avoid looking at them, truthfully. In glimpses he has seen them all to be dark-furred, but one that’s stark white. 

(Five has been, in his mind, a number meant for them. It’s one-Julius, two-Vesper, three-four-Whitney-Oliver, five-Ludwig. It’s every open space when he says he has a sister and Cass notes she has a brother.)

One of the kittens practically yowls. It sounds a little too close to a baby’s cry for comfort.

“Could we use them as bait?” he asks. “Don’t most mammals come running if their young raise a ruckus?”

Vex hums,  tilting her head. “Not a terrible idea - but we don’t have anything to catch her in. It’s too cold to keep them outside for that long,” she worries.

Movement from the slipper basket. Vex darts out just in time to catch one of the kittens, cresting the edge with another scream. “Got you!”

Wiggling to sit comfortably cross-legged, she brings it close to hold with both hands. Percy peers over her shoulder - it’s a dark blue-grey, the drying fuzz now sticking up in every direction. It can’t quite hold its head up, so much as shuffle it from side to side, sniffing. 

It then - 

“Is it trying to hiss at you?” Percy whispers. Indeed, the little mouth is open in a pink gape, puffing air at Vex’s hand.

Vex’s eyes flit to his. “So intimidating,” she whispers back. The kitten downright spits - the both snicker at the display.

“I know, dears,” she coos. “It’s so scary. It’s so very scary without your mom, huh?” 

It mrr’s back - a sort of rumbling whimper as it noses at her fingers and the fabric of her top. 

“What do we do?” Percy murmurs. “I could drive them to the shelter-”

“No,” Vex says sharply. She lowers her voice again. Percy is fairly sure kittens are deaf at this age - this one certainly did not react. “No - they don’t intake new animals on Sundays.”

Abruptly, a kitten is carefully slid into Percy’s lap. He blinks at it. He’s certain it would blink back if it were not blind. He directs the next few blinks at Vex, who is standing with the wince of one whose leg fell asleep. 

“I’ll get some formula for these guys,” she says. “At least to keep them fed overnight - I doubt we’ll catch their mother before they’re really hungry.”

“I could-”

“Darling, you just froze your ass off for over an hour trying to get her.” Vex winks, and Percy decides he agrees with her assessment. “You warm up with the babies.”

Percy sighs indulgently. The kitten in his hands does its best to burrow into his sweater - it’s not quite soft so much as fluffy. A curious distinction.

“I should have a hundred in my wallet,” he calls as Vex gathers her things. “You’re not paying for this mess.”

Vex, lacing up her boots, shoots him a look. “Percival, formula is ten, twenty bucks. At most.”

He snorts. “So grab anything that catches your attention with the remainder. I trust you to spend it better than I could. Least I can give you for dropping everything to help.”

The kitten’s begun to try suckling on his thumb, which is - he isn’t sure how to feel about it. He does know how to feel about the tiny claws beginning to knead his hand, though. Which - ow, how can something less than a day old hurt?

“You certainly know how to treat a girl,” Vex teases.

She lingers a moment at the door, fussing with her gloves and scarf. “For what it’s worth, I would have helped you - you and the little darlings - without bribery, darling.”

Percy smiles. “I know.”

The kitten pauses when he shifts, to catch the moment she leaves. It resumes, then, with  a little, little purr.

[mizufae]

@brofisting in makeup news, I have been splurging on some stuff and have some thoughts and conclusions!

I think that your conclusion from before, that everybody notices way less about skin texture than we do on ourselves, is totally true. But ALSO, that a lot of makeup, specifically foundation and adjacent, are intended to change the apparent texture of the skin. That looking like you are wearing makeup is, in fact, intentional. I think the conclusion is that skin is not in and of itself a desirable base for “looks” and it interferes with, yknow, capitalism. It seems like getting a true skin-but-better appearance is one of the hardest and most idiosyncratic things a makeup utilizing person can aim for.

Like, I have watched many videos and read many articles now on how to apply foundation when you have peach fuzz and stubble and that shit involves like, numerous layers of smooshing silicone all over and very fussy brush movements and presumably like, not moving your face until everything sets and then wtf I guess like, not moving for the rest of the day either??

I have also investigated how to apply foundation for older skin, skin with fine lines, skin with uneven base tones, etc. And a ton of it is either like, get those pores out of here, we can’t let them know we osmose! or like, now that you are a gaunt corpse with saggy fat lumps you have to rub this magic stone on your face every day for no reason I can explain!

So this all seems like bullshit and there is only one strain of advice I’ve come across that in any way seems legit for people who are not doing a 4K HD photoshoot in the next twenty minutes and/or a drag show, and that is: just don’t use foundation at all, because it creates a problem to be solved. Instead, use carefully chosen and applied concealer and tinted moisturizers in judiciously chosen zones, and focus on skin health. This seems to be the tack that k-beauty takes, or at least it used to, and it seems to be the best way for old people to look old and still have fun with makeup without looking like they forgot to put on half their face.

So like, things I’ve bought and have messed around with:

Fenty Beauty Eaze Drop Blurring Skin Tint - this shit is definitely top tier. Unlike other tinted moisturizers I’ve tried it doesn’t cake up in creases and really does seem to blur discoloration and spots. But it doesn’t interfere with skin texture and in areas where I have stubble or hair it doesn’t cling to it either. I was able to buff it out with my fingers without seeing prints, and I was able to layer on more for more coverage on a spot with a tiny cut and it didn’t get shiny.

Bare Minerals tinted moisturizer - this stuff cakes up on my dry skin BUT is a much higher coverage than the fenty stuff and is a better match for my weirdly neutral skin undertone, and it has spf. I think if I were oily it would be better. I like their powder products more but I’m not mad about this one because I can use it in combination with other products to cover stuff like a healing zit.

Bare minerals liquid concealer - definitely the best match for my skin tone. It’s ever so slightly lighter but doesn’t have any color correction and it doesn’t settle much into fine lines like other thicker concealers do. I can put some on the inner corner of my eyes, some on the redness around my nose and some on the corners of my mouth and trust that it won’t look like I have huge blobs of concealer dotted around but that it will cover any redness that I get over the day, and helps me control stuff like my resting bitch face through careful use of lipstick and eyeliner. I have also used a tiny bit as an eyeshadow base since it’s such a close match.

Elf camo concealer - damn this shit thicc. It is definitely lighter and more warm toned than my skin and mad opaque. I used way too much of it when I first tried it, not cuz I was doing guru triangles but because it just like glopped on there. If I take a teeny tiny brush and load it from the doe foot applicator, and then use it to kind of… outline my eye bags, and pop it on juuuuust a couple places where I have some dark spots, and then very very carefully bounce a damp sponge along those lines to feather it out, but not too much!! I can get some color correction and very subtle contouring (is it reverse contouring?? If it’s only highlight??) that is totally not gonna go anywhere until I wash it off. Putting it on UNDER tinted moisturizer seems to help, it’s like doing an overlay layer so it makes things more harmonious. Face, photoshop, what’s the difference honestly.

Neutrogena oil cleanser: oil cleansing is REAL. I have been doing this a few times a week for a few weeks now and my skin is way less flaky and my under eye puffiness is a bit less (I think cuz of the massage aspect, so just do lymphatic massage if you don’t want to do oil cleansing) and some of my hormonal zits went through their cycle MUCH faster. Also I seem to have less visibly oxidized sebaceous filaments on my nose and chin, hurrah! Like, they are still there, but they aren’t clogged or bumpy feeling. I tried a couple other oil cleansers and this one is cheap and not smelly and washes clean, like, it really does turn a milky texture when you get it wet and lifts off the skin easily, unlike a certain bee-themed brand which was sticky for like two days after.

Just straight up jojoba oil: I have been slapping this onto my dry flaky eczema patches and it doesn’t mitigate the itch but my skin is SO MUCH faster at being not horribly red and inflamed when I leave this on there. It absorbs really well and doesn’t leave residue and I assume if I am ever actually sufficiently moisturized that won’t be the case but as it is I appear to be a sponge for this. It is helping my chronically chapped lips! It doesn’t taste like ass like a lot of other intense moisturizers, and isn’t an exfoliant or anything, but it seems to be helping the wrinkly parts of my lips be less wrinkly. Which leads to better lipstick application and so-on.

I did indeed shave my face with one of those little face razors. I am now stubbly and the texture is NOT desirable. The moment I did it I played around with makeup and it was okay, but maybe not like… better than when I’d done it pre-shave. And like, later that night I had shadow, so… fuck that. I think I’m gonna mess around with sugaring my stache and chin hair, and definitely leaving my cheek fuzz to be free and flowing. I think that not using a foundation at ALL on areas where I have dark hair is actually better than trying to cover it up.

Let me know how your quest to be the hottest boy band boy is going!

[sera-cb]

Kaz thinks it’s weird that I almost always play as girls in my games to such an extent that I’ve dialed it back a bit and will actually Play My Gender™ for something like Outer Worlds or Elder Scrolls, except what I don’t tell her is that the real reason I don’t play as women in those anymore is because if you do suddenly men flirt with you in-game, and that’s only entertaining when it’s a real-ass person on the other side doing it that you can then proceed to fuck with guilt-free because you know this dweeb has absolutely chased actual women off the game you love by being a fucking creep and now he’s made the mistake of thinking you’re a target for his boner. It’s less fun when it’s just some rando NPC romance option, because frankly the last thing I want to experience is what a video game writer thinks male flirting is and/or should be like, it is a miserable experience and it comes with the threat of an actual honest-to-god sex scene or awkward post-cut-to-black cuddle conversation, none of which I have any interest in dealing with.

Anyway I still play as a girl in my dumbass space MMO and take great joy in dressing her up in various stupid assassin outfits ranging from legit to extremely loud to “ma’am you can’t go out in public like that” and nobody can stop me and I absolutely do not care if it leaves certain members of my guild guessing if I’m a man or woman or whatever for the rest of time, especially if the ones left guessing happen to overlap with the ol’ venn diagram of the ones who leave vaguely transphobic weeb jokes in the group Discord that I then react to absolutely straight-faced with wholesome positivity like some kind of passive-aggressive eldritch gender nightmare.

I am a stinky hairball who cannot be bothered to wear any outfit more complicated than “t-shirt and pants” in real life or even really sort his own laundry, and I shall thus live my fantasy of not being some gross fuzz blob and not being scared of wearing colors or exuding some manner of confidence in my nerd games where I and a couple million other people are all the Space Chosen One™, and nobody shall judge that it did in fact result in a brief obsession with shoes, because the shoes where also murder weapons and looked rad as hell. If you think heelies are cool then holy shit dog imagine lethal laser rollerblades and now you understand.

I’m not sure what I’m trying to say here except maybe “sorry honey I know you think it’s weird I play as a girl all the time but please understand that men are boring and I get to do that enough in real life, but also if a fake digital man flirts with me I will overhaul my entire save file into being a dude just to avoid that conversation with him.”

[delcat177]

Text in captions, if that won’t read on text to voice please let me know <3

This is a half-year old, but I only paid Blobs Magician to help me out once and I’m fresh out of delicately painted acorns and he gave me commission rights so I’ll be tipping him a ziploc bag of goldfish later

I feel awkward writing about all of this--there was a bit of jealousy when I got my hyst (not projecting, I was told flat by a trans friend), and I worry that I may be making other people feel alone, anxious, or less-than in their gender by talking about it.  If you feel that at all, please, stop right now.  Don’t look in the mirror, because mirrors are scary. Like, really scary, they have ghosts or stuff probably, but also in the genders sense, so instead, look in your head.   Look at your self.  It’s in there, because it is you.  What is happening to me now is a shell upgrade, a hermit crab moving domiciles.  I was a boy once, then a young man, then a oldman, and now I’m a oldman with a society man shell.  Never mistake the shell for the crab, go “hey crab, I like your shell, I hope you find the perfect shell, because you are the perfect inhabitant” and celebrate that crab.  Because we are all crabs, and we are all beautiful, and we all deserve the shells that reflect us as individuals, and anyone who says otherwise can fuck off into a spiny urchin bush and not have a shell.  Or.  Something.  Did I say I felt awkward?  I AM awkward.  But anyway, drive-in movie totals and such after cut, potential TMI, and protect yourself love yourself, you lovely crabs <333

 (with cut ‘cause longtext is looong)

(ORIGINAL POST)

Alt-text: I'm always the last one to know

so uh

I'm a blithe idiot and somehow never processed or dared to dream that this was possible

which makes the timeline look SPECTACULARLY dumb but I was going through SO MANY LIFESTYLE CHANGES

HYST DATE: SEPTEMBER 28, 2016

2017: Me: Man, living in the townhouse has really amped up my leg game, all that up and down stairs.

Me: I'm down ten pounds since the hyst! Megan: That's probably your natural weight. Me: That or getting there.  Not surprising, I'm not feeding the beast constantly.

Me: *punches Megan playfully in the arm* Megan: OW goddammit Del that hurt like SHIT! Me: oh my God I'm sorry I didn't mean to! Megan: It's okay, just be careful! Me: That's so weird I'm sorry D8

Me: man is it just me or am I good in bed lately? oh right I'm the only one here...I guess it's because I'm more confident?

Me: ghghjh my hair's thinning out at the temples, well been expecting that one for awhile, at least it waited for 30

2018:

Me: Holy shit, the stairs plus the shopping is paying off!  My thighs are HUGE!  I wonder if cracking a watermelon with these bad boys is hyperbole.  I bet I could though.  I BET.

Me: Down to 162 and holding, fuck you past doctors!  I just needed ENERGY goddammit!

Me: Wow, I've lost a lot of weight from my face especially.  That makes me super happy.  Anyway better pluck these stray hairs.  ...have I been yanking these more lately?  Getting old is weird.

Me: (struggling with shorts) Megan: Do you need a belt? Me: I'M WEARING A BELT (lifts shirt to reveal belt double wrapped around hips) Megan: Well then Me: I just need to buy new shorts, my ass is just GONE Megan: In the meantime maybe pay attention to what underwear you have on Me: yeah thank God for boxers

Me: My acne scars are heck of acting up.  I wish I hadn't picked at my face so much as a kid, I guess the pores are just kinda fucked, I've read about that happening.

2019:

Megan: New shorts look good Me: I am so bad at shopping Megan: At least you have them now Me: I'm an assless chap is all Megan: Go to bed Del Me: It's four in the afternoon

Me: My throat feels so *thick* lately.  I haven't been hitting the vape that often, why does it feel weird?  And why am I noticing my own voice more?  I NEVER notice my own voice, I make a point of it.  Am I subconsciously pitching it lower like I used to do talking on Skype because I'm more socially active?  What is my brain I'm so AWKWARD Me: UGH I'm falling back into derma habits, I haven't picked in my face in years, I think I need to change cleansers.  But...my face looks...good?  I guess I had this hiding under that baby fat all these years.  ...I guess? Me: Am I getting a hump from my bad computer posture?  Shit. Me: Oh no, it's not a hump, my shoulders are starting to put on muscle!  That's a relief.  That must be from the...laundry?  Carrying...laundry?

AUGUST 5, 2019: Me: (lying in bed) 2 + 2

Me: wait why am I putting on shoulder muscle now?  I've been doing laundry for years, and it's never done that.  And my legs didn't get this buff with a routine job where I was walking three hours a d--

Me:

AUGUST 14, 2019:

New Endocrinologist: We'll test your levels to make sure it isn't a pituitary gland issue or (some syndrome I've already forgotten the name of), and it could be because there's some small element of testosterone in the estrogen replacement, but the brain does produce androgens.  We can definitely look into switching you to T if you want, but if it's facial hair you're worried about...well, once the follicle is there, it's there.  These are irreversible changes.

Me: No on that then but irreversible,, like,, what I have now,, is forever,,,,,,,?

New Endocrinologist: Forever, and I would expect to continue to see muscle gains if you work out.

Me:

welcome to my second puberty please be aware it apparently involves as many mood swings as the first one but i'm tryin'

Since then, it’s been continuing confirm, confirm, confirm. 

My acne turned out to be little follicles growing in odd places--not fullblown hair, just enough to irritate the skin while it was developing. Tiny tufts of 1-3 entirely white, downy hairs have popped up in a few places on my breasts.  The real fuzz proliferation has been in the southern quarters--with all delicacy, there is no itch like the itch of hair beginning to grow anywhere sweat can proliferate, and I now understand why cis men scratch privates in public.  Having NOT gone through a unified social experience with a peer group accepting of such measures, I am sure there is footage on grocery store cams of someone with an agonized expression walking like he has a weasel down his pants and worrying that 30 is early for hemorrhoids.  Both have settled in for the most part, leaving me with a very fluffy, barely-there peach fuzz mustache that’s only noticeable in the right light, some spare hairs across my chin and neck that I keep in order, and a profound relief that I prefer boy shorts and swim trunks.

I went through a few weeks of being especially rank despite all the showering and was worried that was my new normal, but apparently T sweats be like that, and I’m back to smelling like...whatever I smell like, probably lavender with our fabric softener.  I experienced what I believed was a relapse a month later that turned out to be a false positive--specifically, our thermostat was slowly dying and frog-boiling us until it got hot enough that my sister also went “dear God it is a sauna in here”, leading to replacement of the faulty element and another notch in the “my life is dumb” bedpost.

My face bonebs, which I frankly expected the least out of (when I wasn’t expecting at all), have slowly but surely been rearranging, a visual effect doubled by the much faster redistribution of fat.  I honestly have no idea how this one works.  I know more about dead bonebs than live ones.  I would doubt it if I didn’t have pictures to back it up.  I would say it’s easier to look in the mirror now, but I already stated my opinion on mirrors, do it too much and a skeleton will pop out.  It WILL.  My brain tells me this and it is never wrong about fears and or phobias.  Don’t do it kids.

If there’s been a single most beautiful moment so far, it’s been getting back into Steven Universe after a long hiatus, opening my mouth to sing the opening like I did years ago, and realizing all at once that I was singing falsetto.  I ran it back, dropped a register, and the first names I sang became those who would believe in me most.  There were tears, and later, showing it off, there were fierce hugs.  (Yes, the first ep I watched once I realized was Stevonnie, and YES GARNET GOING “GO HAVE FUN” wah)

I can’t begin to express the validation--I am no gender essentialist’s data point, this is MY experience and no one else’s, but I keep going “my aunt had a hyst and didn’t transition and I had one and I am because my brain makes androgens my brain makes androgens MY BRAIN MAKES ANDROGENS IT HAS BEEN MAKING ANDROGENS ALL THIS TIME IT HAS BEEN TRYING” and living in that, living in “not even SCIENCE is against me”, which is a tremendous thing as a scientist.  (As a scientist, I would be a blithering dullard to claim this is the only thing that affects or proves my gender, and I do not.  Again, TERFs fuck off.  This is simply a very validating thing to me, personally, in my experience.  I’m not thrilled that I have to underline that this hard dammit internet.)

What lies ahead is...I don’t know!  I thought I was done changing, but the post I saw that nudged me to finally do this on here went “you may stop being able to cry for awhile” and this is Important because I have been trying to figure out if I have Sjogren’s but apparently I have androgens which is slightly easier to pronounce.  I’m not sure how I feel about that, because transitioning is a lot of “I’m not sure how I feel about this” and then things being okay.  I would definitely say that the more I learn, the easier it is to feel steady and normal, which is important because the mood swings have been REAL.  This is more than I asked for or bargained for, but I still only have one regret, and that’s that my hyst scars are just slightly asymmetrical and it Bothers Me, but even that is growing on me.

I don’t know how to end this post.  I love you all to death, and I hope if you’re seeking transition, you find it and twenty dollars, and if you’re not seeking transition, you still find twenty dollars.  Thank you so much for you and all you do and are.  Remember--you are great!

Unless you’re truscum.  Then this post isn’t for you (dammit Internet) and you can fall off a boardwalk onto a dead fish.  Have fun with that!

hekk

[pikkish-moved]

Best of Both Worlds ~ 10

In which a new creature is discovered

Chapter 10

In all honesty, Alph was more than happy to be going on today’s expedition with both Charlie and Olimar. Aside from Grandpa Drake, he had decided, they were just about the two people he had come to respect most in the world. Charlie was a war hero and an amazing captain, and Olimar, though not as galactically recognized, had more than proven himself to Alph through his repeated survival on the planet as well as his mechanical knowledge and excessive research on the planet’s biology.

Landing in the sand beside the Drake, Alph took a moment to appreciate the stunning beauty of the surroundings. Charlie and Brittany had described the place, and he had seen the images from the Drake’s scans, but nothing could quite compare to the actual sight, the wide stretch of white sand, the water as far as the eye could see, the enormous waves.

But, Alph reminded himself, shaking his head, they had work to do here, and not a whole lot of time for appreciating scenery.

As he turned back to Olimar and Charlie, he found they were already deep into consideration of their next move. “It’s a definite possibility,” Olimar was saying, “but I still think we ought to try the tidepools again. We have the time right now, and we can come to explore the grass forest when the tide is high and we don’t have access to the tidepools”

Charlie nodded sagely. “I guess it is true that Brittany and I could have missed the pikmin, if they were there. You have much more experience in locating them than we do, so it bears worth checking again.”

“And you’re right about the tides,” Alph jumped in. “We’ve only got around nine hours left before we wanted to be back!”

With that, it was decided, and they set off towards the tidepools.

Thanks to Alph actually landing the ship today rather than a crash landing, he was able to get them quite a bit closer to the tidepools than yesterday. However, at Charlie’s request, to minimize the likelihood of some form of attack, there was still some distance from both the tidepools and the grass forest, so they still had a little ways to walk. Unsurprisingly, as captain, Charlie took the lead, and Alph quickly fell in behind him.

“So, Captain,” Alph began, “what are the animals like in the tidepools?”

Charlie shot a mildly amused glance back at Alph. “You’ll be able to see soon enough for yourself.”

“Actually,” Olimar joined in, jogging a little to catch up to walk beside Alph, “a little preparation would be nice. As your designated xenobiologist, I wouldn’t mind a little more information on what I’m going to be dealing with. You didn’t really tell us a whole lot last night.”

Not looking back this time, Charlie just kind of gestured vaguely. “That’s because we didn’t really do a whole lot of investigating. We decided that since we didn’t have any pikmin with us, it would be smarter to avoid any conflict.”

Alph thought that seemed fair enough, and going by Olimar’s lack of a response, he thought so, too.

Presently, they arrived at the tidepools. On reaching the pools the size of large ponds or even small lakes, Alph paused.

The tidepools were stunning.

After another moment or two, he shuffled forward a bit, kneeling down to peer over the edge of the pool. There was a little school of puckering blinnow darting around above a waddlepus, and a couple sputtlefish chasing after wogpoles. And, kneeling next to Alph, Olimar pointed out towards the bottom of the pool a pearly clam clamp, commenting that he hadn’t seen one of them since the first time he had been on the planet.

“They’ve usually got a pearl inside, but getting it can be tricky. They’ll snap shut as soon as pikmin go for it, and any caught inside will be killed.”

Alph didn’t have to ask how Olimar knew the pikmin would die. The very nature of PNF-404 was more than enough evidence.

Still, Alph thought, it was impressive that Olimar could pick out the vaguely shiny shape, distorted by the water, and still know well enough what it was.

“So, what, they’re mollusks?” Alph asked.

“Yeah. Though, I don’t think the pearl is a real pearl. It’s too weak, and breaks too easily.”

Alph frowned thoughtfully, looking at the shape underwater. “Huh.”

Then Charlie was calling out to them. “Hey! We’re still on a time limit, here!”

Olimar nodded a little, standing up. “He’s right, we’ve still got to find the pikmin.” He offered a hand out to Alph.

Accepting Olimar’s help up, Alph nodded in agreement, and then they were off.

As they wandered between tidepools, avoiding the more wollywog populated areas, Charlie began, “Olimar, you’re the pikmin expert here. What exactly should we be looking for?”

“Well seeing as there’s so much water here, I’d expect that, if any, blue pikmin would be the ones we’d find here.” He paused a moment, peering into a pool as they walked by. “Though, in my experience, the onions are typically landed in relatively sheltered areas, and I don’t really see anywhere like that.”

Following Olimar’s gaze, Alph couldn’t help but agree. All the tidepools he’d seen so far were well populated with hungry animals, and the rocks they were walking on were hardly any safer, with yellow wollywogs in the immediate vicinity. The area off in the distance didn’t seem much better, either; Alph was able to spot a bulborb off a ways, thankfully sleeping, though a handful of dwarf bulborbs were close by, sniffing at what looked like a lump of seaweed. The other way, swooping snitchbug was flying around a tall rock peak- though, it swooped down once, and a peckish aristocrab darted out of a dark crack in the rock, snapped up the snitchbug in its claw, and disappeared back within its cavern.

Alph pointed to the rock in which the aristocrab must’ve now been enjoying its meal. “We should probably avoid that way for now.”

“Yeah,” Charlie agreed.

And they continued walking on.

Until, as they passed a pool, Alph saw in his peripheral vision a pinkish blob sliding out of the water, onto the rocks behind them.

Letting out a startled shout, Alph spun around, stumbling into Olimar as he backpedaled.

The creature was a large one, though not especially so by PNF-404 standards. It’s body was a bright pink, sluglike mass, though its head was lifted off the ground, and it sported a long, thin, tubelike snout no doubt used for sucking up food, two round, black eyes, and a pair of antennae covered in a fine, pink fuzz. And worst of all, the creature was coated in a thick slime, only its snout and antennae penetrating the gooey armor.

As Alph continued backing up against Olimar, who was, in turn, forcing Charlie to keep backing up, the creature continued forward, slowly sliding towards the trio.

“Olimar,” Charlie breathed, voice barely audible, “What is that?”

Olimar’s reply was short, quiet and contained just as much nervousness as Alph felt. “I have no idea.”

Alph’s heart leaped into his throat. This thing was completely new. Even Olimar didn’t know what it was, had never seen it before. They had no idea how to deal with it, and no pikmin to protect them.

And then, the creature stopped, looked at the three of them, and turned and glided away.

For a long, long moment, all three of them were still. Then, as Alph turned to look at his companions, Olimar let out a nervous chuckle. “Well, I guess it doesn’t want to eat us.”

“That,” Charlie replied, his brow furrowed, “or it just isn’t hungry right now.”

Alph cast a glance at the pool the thing had sunken into. “I don’t know about you guys, but whichever one of those it is, I think we shouldn’t be here to find out.”

“Agreed.” Charlie took a few steps forward, then suddenly slipped, apparently not having anticipated the gooey residue the creature had left behind on the rocks to be quite so slippery. It was only Olimar’s quick action, reaching out to grab Charlie’s life support pack, that prevented the Koppaiate captain from plunging headlong into the very same pool the creature had disappeared into.

“Now we really should get out of here,” Olimar said, helping Charlie regain his balance, “before anything else can happen.”

And making their way carefully across the slimy trail, they did just that.

PREVIOUS

PIKLOPEDIA: The Slippery Heiliug

NEXT

[taperwolf]

So I just spent some time building another "patch pal" — one of those little doodads supposed to sit inline with Eurorack cables and do something to the signal passing through. This one was supposed to be a distortion/fuzz circuit; I'm not sure where I got the schematic, but it runs the signal through a potentiometer which has clipping diodes on its ground, and then distorts further by powering an LED. I took the extra time to heat-shrink the exposed diode and resistor leads so nothing would short, and blobbed the whole thing with some hot glue to keep the jacks affixed to the pot.

Then I took it over to my rack to test it, where it didn't seem to apply any distortion at all. And then, when I was unplugging it, I fumbled it completely, and managed to throw it into an inaccessible pile of boxes, bags, and small parts.

So sometimes I have more productive days than others, I guess.

[noitsbecky127]

rebecca watches tos: day of the dove

alright here’s our cast for the episode! I wonder which one is gonna die :)

what the hell is that

damn rip settlement

and the klingons are here

and things are not going well

why are there so many life forms that are just weird blobs of light

“federation ships don’t specialize in sneak attacks” and klingons do?

and now he wants the enterprise

“go to the devil” bc he can’t say go to hell lmao

“who will be first” the redshirt obviously

“you killed my brother” chekov you don’t HAVE a brother

alright ig chekov is first

kirk pressed a thing on the communicator and ig it put on yellow alert

the light blobs are coming too ofc

the klingons are just chilling in the transporter limbo? that’s a thing?

ah more klingons

lady klingons! they exist!

“what proof do we need?” man it’s even gotten bones

man this thing is just spinning along

does NO ONE see it?

and now the ship’s gone mad

what, they’re just leaving the galaxy now?

that’s a lot of trapped crewmen

everything’s turning into swords???

terribly choreographed fight scene!!!!

jim I don’t think you should be holding your sword like that, seems like a good way to cut your hand

yeah if it were the klingons they wouldn’t have done it like that

sulu has a sword, best day of his life

alright so chekov actually doesn’t have a brother, it’s not just the show making things up on the fly

why does that sword have a pink pom pom

how does NO ONE see that thing

everything changed when the klingons attacked

ah, the thing has been detected

wait did the colony not exist either?

yeah bones would never talk like that, he’s not a fight-to-the-death kinda guy, he’s a doctor not a soldier

well then! that’s definitely not good

fuzz-faced? bc they all have stupid beards?

I’m pretty sure scotty just said fuck

can we go one episode without spock experiencing a microaggression

I think this is more than fascinating Spock

ah everything’s back

and the klingons didn’t do it

I guess the alien wants a war and it can’t get one if one side is dead, it wants an endless war

are they gonna fight the alien with swords

chekov stop

CHEKOV STOP

jim simply lifts chekov

the alien is healing them real fast so they can keep fighting

that thing is always just out of sight

THEY FINALLY SAW IT

so when it absorbs hatred it turns red?

klingon lady why are you trying to sabotage them

I don’t think she believes

she should probably believe

stardate armageddon???

kirk: i’ll kill your wife kang: whatevs

just gonna beam them through the ship

ah yeah, you should probably leave the sword jim

negotiating with kang is not gonna me easy

and here comes the cavalry!

kang please listen to kirk

and the battle is over

the thing has left!!!

that was definitely one of the episodes of star trek

[j-has-thoughts]

I have this weird fear....

I’m not like... afraid of the dark. It’s specifically masses of black. Black blob things and looking at them. Knowing they’re there is fine bur the moment I look at them I get scared shitless. I guess it was more when I was younger but even now some things I still can’t look at cuz I just freak out.

Examples:  - This one painting I saw in an art gallery once that was just two very large black circles on a canvas and dripping slightly.  - The sootsprites from Totoro used to scare me when I was smaller especially that one bit where they all moved together. (They’re kinda cute now but I still get a little nervous sometimes)  - If there is a room that’s pitch black and the door to it is open I can’t look into the door so sometimes I walk backwards into rooms.  - Some of those drawings of cats where it’s just black fuzz with two eyes. Bonus scare points if it’s animated.  - Anything that’s just one large black circle

Thing is that if there is even a tiny bit of light in the blackness that I can see then I don’t get it. It’s only if the thing is completely #000000 black black. I’m note sure if there’s a name for it or why I have this cuz apparently a child is only born with one fear and the rest are picked up. My fear of spiders makes sense because I probably touched a cobweb when I was small and it felt weird and I got scared (Also they’‘re leggy and move weird). But this doesn’t makes sence because I’m not afraid of the dark, just looking at it.

[chimpanzeemusic]

We wandered along the edge of the deepening canyon. With every step, the stream’s chill, clear waters cut ever more deeply into the volcanic basalt that formed the ground beneath our feet. Gusts of wind pulled on the storm-twisted shrubs and tawny shocks of long grasses, pausing to tug at our jackets before rushing down to join the water cascading steadily into a valley hazey with distance. We stopped and squinted again at the black and white map we’d printed off at a cafe and compared it with a picture we’d taken of a map on a sign the day before.  Somewhere in Colombia’s Los Nevados National Park, we guessed we were in the Valle de los Perdidos. What we didn’t have to guess was that we were lost.

As a side note: thank you, America, for having drinking fountains. On another note: thank you, Colombia, for having syrup chicken.

Some days prior we’d arrived in Bogotá on a Sunday, and on a holiday, Dia de la Virgen. Consequently, the city of eight million souls had felt almost deserted. We’d known immediately what we wanted to do in Colombia: we sought the p��ramo, the high-altitude tropical grasslands so characteristic of the Andes. We managed to find the National Parks office downtown and discovered when they opened (a day later) and when we returned that their own maps and information on their parks, well, sucked. National parks in America arebasically chock-full of maps, info and trail routes you can grab from a visitors’ center with as easily as you’d find a drinking fountain. As a side note: thank you, America, for having drinking fountains.On another note: thank you, Colombia, for having syrup chicken.

DCIM101GOPROGOPR5318.

There was enough information to figure out which parks were closest to us and Bogotá, and with the help of some outdated guidebooks we’d sniffed out in a secondhand bookshop we’d ultimately selected the promising slopes of Los Nevados National Park. The bus ride to the town nearest its base was a thrilling introduction to one of South America’s most beautiful and often shunned countries possessed of all the amenities a world traveler could ever desire. “Hey, Shawn, look, they have food here! There’s bananas! Also, rice!”

They even have those beefed-up weasel things!

Indeed, the casual charm of nearby Ecuador and the ever-Instagrammable llamas of Macchu Picchu—paired with Colombia’s decades of rebel insurgencies and drug wars— seems to have dissuaded many travelers from visiting Colombia. Things have been on a slow chill-out since 2012, though, and a final peace accord was ratified on November 29, 2016, like, at least a week and a half before we bothered to show up. Correspondingly tourists are a flockin’. Flockin’ tourists. All up in Colombia’s bizness.

Passing through the larger city of Ibague, we finished our bus ride in Armenia. Armenia, Colombia, is incredibly like Cotopaxi, Colorado and Cuba, New Mexico (both of which I’d seen in the weeks prior) in that it scarcely resembles its foreign namesake. Fascinating, I know. Somewhat more interestingly, According to a Wikipedia article without any sourcing, “it is believed that the name [of the city] was changed to Armenia after the country of the same name, in memory of the Armenian people murdered by the Turkish Ottomans in the Hamidian Massacres of 1894–97 and later the Armenian Genocide of 1915–23.”

The tourist office informed us hikes into the páramo could only be done with a local guide, and so they’d gotten rid of all local maps that showed us the way to go.

  We stopped at an hospedaje in Armenia and ferreted out some basic topographic maps of the national park with Google-fu. The next morning, we took a minivan uphill to the small town of Salento, which we walked around in search of additional information. The tourist office—according to old blogs, a good source of mountain intel—now informed us hikes into the páramo could only be done with a local guide, and so they’d gotten rid of all local maps that showed us the way to go. But if we wanted, they explained, they knew a guide who could take us where we wanted to go, for a reasonable price. We said thanks, said we’d keep them in mind, and marched off to the mercado, where we bought some bread and apples. Back in the main square of Salento we hopped aboard one of the many tourist jeeps that regularly ferried tourists uphill towards the famed Cocora Valley, an Instagram-famous land replete with wax palm trees whose lofty fronds once soared above the rainforest canopy and now stood vigil picturesquely above grassy, denuded slopes of grazing cattle.

We decided the Cocora Valley would best be enjoyed as the downhill section of a loop, and so we instead set off towards up the first bit of the loop, a side canyon leading to a placed boasting to be the Casa de los Colibris—the Hummingbird House.

As we advanced beneath lumbering packs, we attempted to avoid stepping in water and mud, which Shawn was able to do for a grand total of three seconds when a stream-embedded log capsized underfoot. We eventually made it to a hummingbird sanctuary which was full of, like, day-tripping Europeans drinking tea and stuff. As we sipped the warm, sweet cinnamon tea we’d purchased we happily discovered an old topographic map affixed to the wall. The caretakers told us the páramo was still several hours uphill. Unfamiliar with the path and just a couple hours from dusk, we decided to stay the night and resume our trek early in the morning. We paid them a couple of dollars and slept on the floor of a wooden building still under construction, doors left open to the mist that crept in as the sun set.

COATI TIME!!

Out on the trail the next morning, we passed two men folding a tarp in a trailside clearing in the early light. Dressed in knee-high rubber boots, shorts and t-shirts, one wore a white beanie, the other donned a bowler hat and carried juggling pins. Just then, a group of European trekkers descended in boots slathered with mud. Their Colombian guide seemed upset when he learned we were on our own. “You need a guide,” he said sternly, “the National Park guard at the park border won’t let you pass on your own.  Also, not only could you get lost in the fog, you could die.” We shrugged at his empty warning—we’d died inside long ago. The group then continued onward, the guide apparently forgetting to ask our Colombian companions where their guide was.

Alone again with our new Colombian friends, we learned their names and talked a little bit more. Somewhat dismissively, I decided they seemed friendly, buena onda chaps but people I’d likely never see again, being the expert hiker and Fast-Walker-Up-Things I so obviously was. We bid them good-luck and good-bye, and good-walked all up the trail at a good pace.

Before long, we came across the National Park office, inhabited by a kind human being and a raucous, tethered dog. We didn’t ask this kind sir if two Americans needed a guide, and neither did he. Instead, he gestured for us to sign our names on the trail register and he told us about a time when he’d spied the elusive Andean sun bear, a shy species that eats a nutritious variety of bromeliads, grubs, and Michael Bolton fans. He told us one of the greatest difficulties in managing the park was the presence of families who had been settled on the high plain a generation or two ago, and now they had always lived there, darnit, depending on cattle to eke out an existence. The cows pooped everywhere, he complained, and their manure tainted many of the streams and rivers the cities below depended on for water, including the brook that ran nearby. Cows, I concluded, are terrible people.

We’d packed some snazzy Gatorade-brand protein bars, a strange colloid of high-tech Rice Krispies and caramel whey stuff generously lacquered in chocolate-flavored palm oil coating.

Wheezing, hungry and sun bear sighting-less, we busted out our grub for lunch, consisting of the last of our bread and apples from the Salento mercado  and some snazzy Gatorade-brand protein bars, a strange colloid of high-tech Rice Krispies and caramel stuff generously lacquered in chocolate-flavored palm oil coating. “This is delicious,” remarked Shawn, and I agreed. We’d packed enough for the duration of our journey in the páramo, some three dozen 250-calorie packages of coagulated-whey America.

Whilst we feasted upon this chocolaty bounty, we were joined by Camilo and Andres, who apparently hadn’t been trailing too far behind us. After chatting for a bit. we started up the hill again, this time together. The trail was a downright slog, ofttimes covered wholesale by deep patches long blob areas of mud. Resistance was futile, and before long our shoes and legs had been assimilated by the mountain.

Weary hours passed as we made our way beneath the drab green cloud forest canopy, each tree trunk and branch covered in a profusion of feathered, silvery lichens, ruddy mosses, and bright fungi.

The 50% Great Worm

Abruptly, the thick forest gave way to amber sedges and tufted grass. Interspersed among the lower vegetation were curious plants, solitary stalks the width of a child’s wrist growing anywhere from several inches to several times the height of a deer in platform shoes. Topping these stalks were leaves covered in fuzz, a soft, green flannel. These curious plants, these frailejónes, indicated we had reached the páramo.

Camilo, Andres, Shawn and I rejoiced as we followed the trail up tawny ridges, marveling at the views and shivering as the alpine winds–no longer slowed by trees–tore at us and our belongings.

  DCIM102GOPROGOPR5601.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5608.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5598.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5612.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5615.

At length, the trail led us to a farmhouse and hospedaje, the first of two in the area. But we had a tent we’d lugged up the mountain, darnit, so we advanced on to the second hospedaje, leaving Camilo and Andres behind.

begone, peasant…

A European sort excoriated us when we told him we’d flown to Colombia and would be flying out. We took no offense, knowing without having to ask he’d walked slowly across the entire Atlantic seafloor from Western Europe to arrive.

The hospedaje was a bit further than it’d been made out to be. Even if we’d wanted, they didn’t have any available rooms with beds—a European tour group presently infested these—but they did have a toilet, and this sneaky fancy-person house feature nabbed us right in the comfort organ, pzang!  For a couple dollars we set up our tent in a room consisting of a concrete floor walled off from the wind. Our shoes were a mess from the day’s mud slog, so after a scrub in a tiny rivulet we hung them by their shoelaces on the eaves of the house, where they dripped and swung in the stiff nighttime wind. We talked a bit with the other guests; one guy who told us the national park was under threat of huge mining developments and another sort who excoriated us when we told him we’d flown to Colombia and would be flying out. We took no offense, knowing without having to ask he’d walked slowly across the entire Atlantic seafloor from Western Europe to arrive.

View from the hospedaje, and a distant valley to be explored some other day

We woke up before dawn and set out for some hot springs a number of miles away. The hike was visually nice and not too chilly. As we walked, we breakfasted on a protein bar each. We’d now eaten them for three straight meals, and they didn’t seem to be as good as we first remembered them.

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We dropped in elevation from our spot the night before, passing through frailejónes and emerging onto a flat, grassy plain. Uphill to our right, a 20 m waterfall slipped over orange-ish rocks, indicating geothermal activity. Ahead of us, the trail seemed to go through the center of the wide plain and through a herd of cows.

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We walked for a while, the trail petering out. We continued gamely, figuring it would re-appear as is often the case with less-used trails. It didn’t, but we headed anyways in the general direction we thought we were supposed to be following and walked along an chill river which deepened into a gully, then a gulch, then grew into a canyon.  We kept the canyon to our left side, still keeping a lookout for the trail. Ahead, the canyon could be seen descending far, far, below. It didn’t look impassable, but it also seemed… wrong.

The canyon begins to deepen

It was almost as if OKAY LOOK WE GOT LOST AND I THINK THIS HAS BEEN ESTABLISHED I HAVE RUN OUT OF FANCY FEAST DESCRIPTION POINTS FOR THIS OTTER MEMORY AND IF I KNEW HOW WE HAD GOTTEN LOST WE WOULDN’T HAVE DONE SO so anyways we finally halted when a steep ravine cut across our path from the right, and consulted what little information we had. A future version of ourselves would have a GPS-enabled smartphone with offline locating-powers to divine our location, but present-us had a small paper map, some grainy pictures and a desire to not lose any more of our hard-gained elevation. Maybe… eating would help us think. “Hey, do you want a protein bar?” I asked my brother, waggling one temptingly in front of his face. “Ugh,” he said in revilement, and rose to leave instead. “You might be lost,” he continued, “but I was just a little disoriented. The trail is up that way.” He pointed up the ravine towards Tolima above. “Good thing it’s not foggy.”

We climbed for a while, seeing nothing besides sweet fuzz-plants and weird moss.

Then, movement, up ahead. Two figures picked their way into the ravine—one with a beanie, the other with a bowler hat and juggling pins: Camilo and Andres.

Enthused but tired, we slithered up to meet them with the sudden enthusiasm of weasels that have just encountered a roadkilled ‘possum—astounded, thrilled.

Enthused but tired, we slithered up to meet them with the sudden enthusiasm of weasels that have just encountered a roadkilled ‘possum—astounded, thrilled. They seemed pleased, but not surprised to see us. They’d also lost the path for a bit, but had stayed closer to the mountain above and hadn’t gotten lost. As we chatted, I noticed what appeared to be a twisted piece of aluminum, two feet long, torn jaggedly at the edges and bearing many small rivets. Curious.

We left the ravine together, Shawn and I trudging from exhaustion. The trail would rise and fall several times and traverse some marshy, sulfurous areas before finally cresting a ridge somewhere around 13,500) feet elevation.

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We dropped and walked around a bend and beheld a green carpet of verdant grass far below us. A handful of small corrugated-roof buildings clustered alongside two small pools which steamed visibly. We had arrived at the hot springs. (12,795 ft elevation)

We sat in the warm waters of the pool and soaked as the the sun set. We’d hiked up the hill above the settlement fifty feet at a time before we’d collapse to the grass, breathing ragged with exhaustion. “Why… why are we so tired?” Shawn muttered querulously, “The elevation… maybe?” We were somewhere around 13,000 feet, so this was certainly part of it, but it didn’t seem complete. I was doing better, overall, and this gave me an idea. “Shawn, how many of those bars did you eat?” “Bars?” “The protein bars.” “Oh. Gross. Um, one in the morning, one later… two?” ‘You’ve eaten 500 calories today. I’ve eaten 750.  We should be eating maybe… 3,000 calories each up here. That’s why we can hardly move.” Indeed, though our bodies desperately needed food, our minds had concluded nauseously we they wanted nothing to do with our Gatorade-endorsed mainstay. Unfortunately, it was also all we had left. We weren’t in danger of running out,  but actually stomaching the things was becoming most unpleasant.

View above the hot springs, our green tent can be seen below. Note where grazing takes place.

The view from the top of the ridge had been tremendous, but the simmering waters of the springs were better. It was easy to forget we had been too weak to reach the very top of the hill, and more relaxing to consider the mysterious pictographs we’d seen on the rocks partway up the slope. The caretaker didn’t know how old they were, but by their faded condition it seemed people had been visiting this area for a very long time. What kind of world had it been, then? Did people live up here? How far had the cloud forests extended below? Had there been pizza? What about syrup chicken?

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The springs themselves had certainly been changed. The water was piped from slightly above the settlement to a series of two pools. The first was a sitting-depth pool the size of a large hot tub and very warm indeed, the water exited this pool and dropped about ten feet until it reached a larger, more tepid pool below, probably 20 feet/6 m across. The water here ranged from 3-6 ft deep, the floor a slick bedrock in places. The edges of the pool were made of long bands of riveted aluminum.  Investigating further, we noted these same pieces of metal could be found supporting various parts of the spring pool complex and its surroundings, including the walkway between the pool and the mud-daubed structure above it. Two shedlike areas were full of scrap metal, all made of the same riveted aluminum.

They were pieces of a wrecked airplane.

They were pieces of a wrecked airplane.

As I’ve written this overly long, boring account I’ve wondered about the identity of this plane. When did it crash? Who did it carry? Where were they headed? I tried to suss out its identity online, and followed many wrong leads before learning there had been many, many crashes in Colombia. Eventually, I found a site that explained there were had been 55 crashes in Colombia from 2000-2015, and 414 total crashes since 1920. This site helpfully mapped out the more recent crashes, and of these just one was anywhere near the hot springs, near La Venecia on the map below.

The site of the crash is less than a day’s walk from the springs.

This particular plane crash was flight FAC-1659, a Vietnam-survivor Douglas C-47 Skytrain apparently used in anti-rebel fighting.

Military plane—->leisure pool?

Further e-search into its demise begins to reveal conflicting information—supposedly crashed on an 11,200 ft tall mountain called Cerro Montezuma: actually a mostly-flat area 4,400 f/1350 m in elevation, but actually it crashed on its return to the airbase, and actually it crashed in either the Serrania de la Tatama or the Nevado del Tolima mountain areas, which are in completely opposite directions a hundred miles apart. Was this our mystery plane, carefully packed mile by mile in manageable pieces by horseback to the springs, or was it the remnants of some other hapless flying machine?

I have no idea. When I would try to find the caretaker the next morning to ask him where he’d come across the metal, I’d learn he’d gone into the hills.

We spent the evening hanging out with Camilo and Andres and discussed plans for the morning. “You guys staying tomorrow?” I asked. “Well,” Camilo said, “We thought there’d be more people here. We thought maybe we’d do a little juggling for the crowd to offset the cost of coming here. But it’s just us. And we still have to earn enough for our bus fare back home somewhere.” Indeed, it was just the four of us, besides the quiet, but enigmatic caretaker, who had told us at times there were dozens of people camping at the springs. “We’re just going to go back the way we came,” said Andres, “make it home by the evening. What about you?” “Our flight leaves in two days, so we’re taking off tomorrow as well.”

We spent the rest of the evening companionably. I choked down a Gatorade bar. Shawn demurred. “Maybe tomorrow,” he said.

The next morning dawned cold, clear and beautiful, with few clouds, illuminating a mountainside frailejónes in rosy morning light. I returned to the tent to find Shawn awake, but reluctant to leave his sleeping bag cocoon. “Is my swimsuit out there?” he asked. “Here,” I said, and handed him frozen swim trunks. Shawn glared at the fabric Frisbee and considered for a moment. Looking outside and seeing the coast was clear, he ran across frosted grass a short distance to the pool and jumped in, swimsuit in hand. “Thawed at last,” he said as he pulled it on.

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After the tent had dried in the sun, we reluctantly left the spring behind for the last time. As we packed up our stuff, we came across our protein bars. They weren’t bad, per se, they just needed to be eaten in reasonable quantities. I had an idea. “Hey, guys, would you guys be interested in trading for any protein bars?” “Sure,” Camilo and Andres responded. They didn’t really need the food, but now they were headed back down to the city they had more than they wanted. Trying a bar might be alright, though. I returned with four of our eight remaining bars, trying to be generous. After a minute they emerged from their tent with a massive bag of roasted, shelled peanuts, a couple pounds, maybe, and handed them over with a smile. This bag of legume loot even had candied toffee peanuts mixed in. It was a treasure, a thing most crunchy and sweet. We’d just traded for peanuts, and it was glorious.

We’d just traded for peanuts, and it was glorious.

******

After we’d said our goodbyes to our friends—for real, this time—we’d taken off to the south, leaving the high mountain plains behind and entering the cloud forest. Energized and enthused by our peanut bounty, we walked for hours.

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We reached the small town of El Salto (elevation 3376 m/11076 ft), and waited by what seemed to be some kind of hospedaje. After an hour or so, a lady returned and informed us the beds were $3 dollars each, or we both could stay in another room sans beds for $2.

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An oddity of traveling in another country is that regardless of the coin you bring, you quickly acclimate to whatever the going rate is for things. Dollars stretched reasonably far in Colombia, and so Shawn and I began to debate whether or not we had the money to pay for such a luxury as a bed. By the time we concluded that yes, in fact, the two extra dollars would not ruin us, six Colombian teenagers on a hiking trip (an energetic teen guiding them) had nabbed the beds and guaranteed our spot in a room with bags of potatoes and wet saddles and bridles hung out to dry, eau de shoe complimentary. The landlady informed us that a meal was just a few thousand Colombian pesos, a couple of dollars. It seemed expensive, but anxious for variety we decided just to go for it. As we warmed alongside the teenagers sitting on kitchen benches raised by the wood-burning stove, we marveled at just how good rice, red beans and a fried egg could be (we’d later learn we were charged more than our Colombian friends… oh well).

We awoke the next morning just in time to see the dawn’s light warmly suffusing the southern slopes of Volcan Tolima. Returning to our humid mud room, we concluded our evil plan to pitch and dry our tent by sleeping in it inside had failed. As we aired it out in the sun that soon crested the valley ridge, the teenagers arose, chattering excitedly about a waterfall they planned to visit that day. Their leader was particularly enthusiastic. The hike would be quick, he claimed, not more than an hour. Skeptical, we concluded even if the expedition went overtime we’d probably still have plenty of time to make the descent to Ibagué, our bus back to Bogotá, and our flight to Peru in the wee hours of the morning.

The descriptively named waterfall of El Salto (you guessed it, “waterfall”) lay just downstream of the town that bore its name. The ringleader/tour guide of the boys had previously visited, but as his flitting attention span, tremendous amounts of energy and scant patience took us several times through thick forest to the cliff’s edge near the head of the waterfall our confidence in his abilities began to wane. Nonetheless, the path to the falls’ base was at length discovered, and after a steep descent using mossy trees and rocks as handholds we arrived.

The damp clay soil banking the trail had the precise color and texture—tragically, not the flavor—of a rich, fudgy dark chocolate ganache.

Over two hours had passed by the time we returned to El Salto. Shouldering our packs, we passed a farmer digging a field by hand as we began to slog up the mountainside. The damp clay soil banking the trail had the precise color and texture—tragically, not the flavor—of a rich, fudgy dark chocolate ganache. The trail snaked back and forth across the slope, but for the most part carved straight up the mountainside. Foot traffic, cattle and water running along its length had slowly transformed it into a deep gash into which frustrated, motivated people had occasionally wedged timber in an effort to reduce the number of times plunging a foot into deep mud was a requisite, but cows, remember, are terrible people and had jacked up a lot of it.

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Muddied feet at last gained the pass at the ridgetop. Far beneath us, clouds obscured the view of distant Ibagué like dirty clothes hiding a dorm room floor—we’d see it eventually, but not without a day’s determined effort.

The hike from Ibagué had gained a reputation among online forums and blogs as an arduous, ugly descent but instead was one of the most beautiful hikes through cloud forest I’ve ever had.

Mountain descent to the famed city of Alternate Istanbul

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The other Istanbul

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At the base of El Secreto Preserva Natural

As we entered Combeima Canyon, cloud forest occasionally gave way to steep slopes of coffee. Waterfalls slipped into the river far below and we saw fields and houses perched precariously on the few flat areas.

As we descended the slopes from Tolima a strange copper-colored stream crossed the trail from our left, eventually disappearing into the forest. Did it harbor some fascinating microbe from geothermal activity, or were these mine tailings from the illegal gold mine we’d heard hid somewhere in the hills above Ibagué ? Shawn thought geothermal. I wasn’t so sure.

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After some time, we reached the outskirts of a town. Seeing a child playing among the barbed-wire clotheslines of a yard, we asked if we were headed in the direction of Ibagué. He responded, but with a heavy speech impediment we found difficult to understand. We continued to speak with him until his mother called him sharply from somewhere inside the house. Not long after, we came across another two children playing. Oddly enough, one of them also seemed to have some sort of mental or communicative disability. Their mother called them inside when she spotted us. I have no experience whatsoever in identifying developmental issues in children, but it seemed odd that two of three children we’d met had various conditions. I was reminded uncomfortably of the copper stream and the gold mine somewhere far above.

We spotted a man on the slope above us, who gave us directions at last. We confirmed them with a father and son busy at work planting a field that sloped steeply into the ravine below.

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Several more hours yielded the end of the trail. We caught a jeep in Juntas, the small town above Ibagué, riding past outdoor restaurants that looked to be a popular weekend spot for locals. Fun fact: A city just like Juntas was destroyed almost completely in 1985 when the eruption of Nevado del Ruiz (a volcano within sight of Tolima) unleashed a lahar of mud, ash and melted glacier.

One of the lahars virtually erased Armero; three-quarters of its 28,700 inhabitants were killed. Proceeding in three major waves, this lahar was 30 meters (100 ft) deep, moved at 12 meters per second (39 ft/s), and lasted ten to twenty minutes. Traveling at about 6 meters (20 ft) per second, the second lahar lasted thirty minutes and was followed by smaller pulses.

Over 23,000 people were killed, making it the fourth-deadliest volcanic disaster in recorded history and rendering the town of Armero a ghost town. Juntas, at the base of Combeima Canyon and the active Tolima, is at high risk of destruction. from Tolima. But anyways, here’s some recycled plastic art.

On the way to Ibague, we spoke to our fellow passengers, Colombians who had been doing a small modeling shoot in some abandoned buildings in the town where we’d joined them. We chatted amicably as we approached Ibagué . When we arrived, they gave us a general outline of the town and gave us a few suggestions of places they recommended and a few better left alone. We ate delicious food—reveling again in how little it tasted like Gatorade bars—until we remembered we had to catch our flight out of Bogotá later that night.

After a few frantic minutes locating a bus and purchasing tickets, we took turns showering in the public bathing rooms (maybe about 30 cents) of the bus terminal in an attempt to smell less like the mud and sweat of three days, using the small bar of soap to scrub some of the mud out of our clothes. After boarding the half-empty bus we made a beeline for the back and cracked open the windows, trying to set up our clothes and shoes in such a way that they might ride.

Though I’d like to pretend it is better, my memory is actually pretty bad, but I do remember this about our evening journey:

As the bus returned to Bogotá, the feel of the warm, humid wind drifting through the bus window and the rhythmic sounds of spinning tires on the wet highway wove a tapestry of sensation, wrapped us gently into sleep. Right. That’s beautiful prose and whatnot, but like much of the crap you read in travel blogs (some unintentionally here, hopefully mostly elsewhere)–overly romanticized, flowery and at least partly untrue. Luckily, oddly and surprisingly for us all I have a journal entry penned on this very bus, which in distressed letters scrawled thusly:

“The bus from Ibagué to Bogotá is stupid, smelly and shaky.”

An entry several hours from the plane from Bogotá to Lima elucidated.

“Remember the stupid smelly bus from Ibagué ? I couldn’t really get to sleep. A maniacal child boarded the bus and began to entertain himself by opening and closing the window, grabbing my hat while I was wearing it, and singing. Perhaps believing himself to be the next Colombian pop star, this [nascent Shakira] kindly treated us to his own renditions of mutated songs. [Alas], this lad’s caterwauling left something to be desired. His voice was the musical equivalent of placing thirty-eight gerbils in a centrifuge: intermittent garbled shrieks and a decided disregard for social norms.”

Shakira, Shakira.

Will Trade for Peanuts: Three Days in Los Nevados NP We wandered along the edge of the deepening canyon. With every step, the stream's chill, clear waters cut ever more deeply into the volcanic basalt that formed the ground beneath our feet.