confetti-planet

Latest Posts by confetti-planet

i need to know everything about surreal numbers

Said it a year ago and I’ll say it again.

Pirate all your favorite shows, movies and games while you still have the chance.

Oh, and never stop supporting physical media.

how it feels liking and reblogging posts

"How To Be Anon" (Deluxe Paint IV + Frames from Hito Steyerl's "How Not to Be Seen: A Fucking Didactic Educational .MOV File)

"Gaza now has the largest population of child amputees in the world." [@/abrahammatar on X. June 5th, 2024.]

and tthe only essential oil these days is the one in our cars run on , this says something

how can you not be angry

Vivian's theme - Paper Mario: The Thousand Years Door (Remake)

Recently I decided to go to my local fighting game tournament.

Here's how it went.

I had been getting pretty good at Guilty Gear over the past few weeks, to the point where I was getting the input correctly for the Potemkin Buster 1 out of every 4 or 5 times I tried it. So I thought "I might not be the best yet, but, surely good enough for my local" -- and I decided to go.

It took place at a the comic & games store in the town center. The venue was full of people 10-15 years younger than me and even more drastically cooler. They all turned to glare at me as I walked through the door, but as I stood completely motionless like a gazelle hoping to blend into the grassland, their gazes slowly returned to each other and they continued to banter friendlily.

I sat down next to me first opponent, and reached out to shake their hand. They looked down at my hand, and then up at my eyes slowly.

"You're supposed to do that at the end of the match."

"Oh, s-sorry"

I got perfected twice and lost the match. At the end, I reached out again to shake their hand, but they just stood up and walked away.

Because I lost, I got moved down to the loser's bracket, which was literally below the main tournament because it took place in the basement of the comic shop. I could hear footsteps, cheering, and happy conversation in the floor above. Here in the loser's bracket though, the mood was a lot more somber.

My next opponent reminded me a little bit of me. They were equally nervous and disheveled looking. They said "Um, h-hello" and reached out their hand for a handshake as they saw me approaching. I said "you're s-supposed to do that at the end of the match." But as a look of deep sadness came over their face and they slowly put down their hand, I pulled them in for a hug.

I'm not sure why I did that.

I think that some part of me knew that, in this dark, dank, alien place, illuminated only by a single failing ceiling light and the neon glow of a few arcade machines, I had at last found a friend -- someone I understood, and who might understand me too.

They hugged back.

I lost that match by a very narrow margin, and as they jumped up and began dancing around and cheering ecstatically, I began to hate them. This was no friend of mine. A friend would not do this to me. After they were done dancing, they reached out to shake my hand. After a few seconds of pause, I stuck out my hand too, but didn't look at them and refused to close it around theirs as they grasped it. They shook my karate chop.

I thought that at that point, since I had lost and then lost in loser's bracket, I was free to go home. But one of the tournament organizers approached me and informed me that I was going down to sub-loser's bracket in the sub-basement of the store, and pointed me towards a descending staircase.

The people there were fewer, and it was darker. I could faintly hear sobbing in one of the corners, but as I went to investigate, another participant put his hand on my shoulder. He furrowed his brow in a look of pain and shook his head slowly.

"You can't do anything for them."

In sub-loser's bracket I went up against a man in a suit whose face was cloaked in shadow. He spammed May's dolphin move. I lost.

As I went to go back upstairs, one of the tournament organizers held out her palm to stop me, and pointed towards a staircase leading further down instead.

Going down through the levels, I lost to many interesting participants. One player played exclusively by bashing the controller against his face. One player was a mushroom with a few circuit cables clipped onto it, that I later learned was able to play because its bioelectrical signals got sent to a machine that interpreted them as fighting game inputs. One player didn't touch their controller at all, but instead just told me their life story, which was so tragic that I picked up their controller and won for them.

Finally, at the very bottom floor, where construction standards were long abandoned and the stairs and walls were just messily carved out of the earth's stone, I faced my final player. It was a small bit of metal framework, with a controller nestled in it. On it was a tiny piston that just pressed the jab button exactly once every second. I lost.

I hung my head for a moment, then said "close game" and stuck my hand out for a handshake, before remembering that I had played against a metal framework cube with a piston in it and retracting my hand slowly. Then I heard a slow clapping from the darkness.

"No neutral. No footsies."

Out of the darkness slowly walked a woman about my age, clad in a decorative poofy dress that looked more expensive than my entire life savings. She smiled at me warmly, continuing to clap slowly, but there was a hint of mischief in her eyes.

"No meter management. No mixups. No spacing. No learning. No strategy…

…You're perfect."

"Wh-what?"

"You're perfect. I absolutely must have you."

"Have me for…um…for what…"

(Her eyes went wide as her smile grew more manic.)

"WHY, MY MORON FAILSON HAREM OF COURSE."

"Um, I-I"

"Tell me, what do you do for a living? Let me guess, you work at a fast food restaurant? Or, retail?"

"No, I'm a--I'm a comic artist."

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! Oh my god, you are PERFECT. What will it take to get you."

"To-to ge--"

"You would be well taken care of, of course. 3 Michelin star dining for every meal. Only the finest, softest sweatpants and sweatshirts, pre-stained with whatever flavor of Takis your little heart desires. You would have access to the entire mansion except for the main foyer when I'm in business calls, and you could make all the comics and play all the fighting games you want."

"I'm uh--"

I knew that I had to think fast here.

"I'm already i-in a moron failson harem."

"Oh, DARN IT!! TELL ME, WHO IS IT??? WHO GOT YOU??"

"I-I think I'm not allowed to s-sa--"

She stomped her foot petulantly, her shoe clacking against the stone floor.

"WAS IT SHUXUAN?? IT'S ALWAYS SHUXUAN HOGGING ALL OF THE GOOD ONES."

"I-I'm sorry," I blurted out, shuffling along the wall to make a wide radius around her and then running up the staircase.

As I got home and began making my standard dinner of Trader Joe's microwave falafel, I thought about her offer. Maybe I should have taken her up on it after all. A 3 Michelin star meal right now wouldn't be so bad.

Then I hopped on Guilty Gear and lost 22 matches in a row.

Au fucking revoir Mister Prince

pros: it would most likely vastly improve my life in a multitude of ways

cons: might get scared

modern au laios

Lyrics from I’m Your Man, Mitski I thought fit Homura and Madoka

columbia's highest office for disciplinary affairs can be reached at 212-854-6872. say you're an alum, say you're going to withhold donations if they choose to retaliate against student protestors, anything to send them into damage control; they won't have time to check

this is what healing looks like for her she shines so bright ever since she has let her vulnerability come through and allow herself to be protected by her trusted loved ones

A bunch of Asirpa doodles!!!

One reblog=one new huge, oiled-up, muscular guy for her to feed

The Wild Plots cosplaying as Cooking Manga trio

hi. did you know australia has a fairywren species called the superb fairywren

and another species called the splendid fairywren

...and one called the lovely fairywren

i love when guys come in and order samwiches like "oh this ones not for me its for the WIFE haha such a weird order i know but its not for me its for my wife. i wouldnt usually order this but its for my wife" like alright mister whatever you say 🤨 heres your sissy lil faggy homosexual samwich! for YOU!

elon musk had a third child with grimes that he kept secret until the release of his biography. he named it techno mechanicus

Mommy needs to be honest kitten. You're not a kitten, you're a puppy, I know. Actually, that's exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. You've let this whole puppygirl thing completely take over our sex life and to be honest it's not really clear to me that you really enjoy it anymore. You really seem stuck in a short-term hedonic spiral from posting about it on tumblr and getting likes. And I know it's hard to get out of that kind of thing but it's really been getting out of control. You said "we're trying for puppies" to my best friend of 15 years. Seriously? How the fuck am I supposed to live that down? No one was laughing. The room was dead silent and I wanted to sink into the floor. And this was days after I was crying my eyes out over the infertility stuff. So you came across as kind of an asshole on top of it. Yeah, I know you didn't mean it like that but you can only point to "bourgeois morality" so many times before it starts to feel like you're just saying "I'm sorry you got offended" you know? Like every time I try to express that some basic social decorum is necessary to preserve relationships I care about you start misquoting Bakunin. And like look you have a lot of positive qualities but I don't think this is working anymore. We both know it hasn't been good for a long time.

psychologist: how is your husband? subject: is this the test now? psychologist: not yet, no. but tell me, how is your husband? subject: he is fine, sir psychologist: and your wife? subject: also fine psychologist: still attending mass? in a manner of speaking of course subject: i don't understand. psychologist: only a joke. your file says you've described your self as a huge muscled catholic subject: w– oh that. right. that is correct sir. psychologist: very well. the test begins now. psychologist, holding up a drawing of an anthropomorphic animal character's face, the eyes are stylized with lines spiraling into heart shaped pupils: i want you to tell me what you see. your first impression, don't over think it subject: a bugs bunny psychologist: and the state of your penis? subject: still soft

Artist "Stev'nn Hall"

The straight woman is unsatisfied with straight studio porn. She wants to get off to something in which the actors actually emote and show passion beyond canned moans from the women and, at best, vacant grunts from the men. She turns to gay porn. She knows it's not "for her," but neither was the straight porn, and at least the actors look like they're enjoying themselves. And for a short while she is satiated by Sean Cody et al, but she runs into the same problems she had to begin with. She was not looking at sex but a simulacrum of sex, trapped in Plato's cave. Unsatisfied, she turned to vintage gay porn, harkening to a time when most gay bars still had darkrooms and reliably smelled of piss and Amyl Nitrite. Here was the real thing, in all its animalistic passion. But she still couldn't immerse herself in the fantasy. She wanted the media to engage with her own imagination and meet her half-way, rather than having it spoonfed to her onscreen. She turned to yaoi, with its elongated figures reminiscent of mannerist portraiture, then bara, including hardcore BDSM scenes. But the tactile sensations depicted in the pages didn't do justice to their real life counterparts. She turned deeper into her own imagination, this time reading erotica. No, not the poolside paperbacks sold at Barnes and Noble. The good shit. Why then, was she still not satisfied? She dug deeper, searching for the true meaning of eroticism. She studied the psychoanalysis of Freud, the cultural criticism of Susan Sontag, the feminist poetry of Audre Lorde. She took vacation time and flew to Europe, starting at the caves of Lascaux to explore the human urge to create, then traversed the Camino de Santiago on foot, along the way meeting a 56 year old carpenter from Burgos named Andrés, with whom she had an explosive affair. They both knew it couldn't last, which made them cherish each other's touch all the more. Upon flying home, she gave up. If her search for true eroticism never bore fruit this whole time, why would it now? It would take years before she stumbled upon the answer by pure happenstance: dubstep.