I Got Dared To Draw This

A snake story, based on an experience I had while I was in Florida.

woke up today and realized that tumblr entirely killed fuck ya life bing bong so here ya go again

i need to draw more for the host au. nothing says superhero like letting a god haunt you and use you as a living vessel to fight another god. whee

Alien Blues by Vundabar

ATTENTION

If you see this you are OBLIGATED to reblog w/ the song currently stuck in your head :)

Brittle Doughie Masterlist Checkpoint (Lists 1 - 10)

This post is a compilation of @brittle-doughie’s masterlists organized by month and years. This checkpoint features lists 1 through 10.

2022

List 1 (Late 2022)

List 2 (Jellywalkers)

2023

List 3 (Early 2023)

List 4 (Mid 2023)

List 5 (Late 2023)

2024

List 6 (Early 2024)

List 7 (Spring 2024)

List 8 (Summer 2024)

List 9 (Fall 2024)

List 10 (Holiday Season 2024)

🥳

I'M GOING TO DIE CELEBRATING MY BIRTHDAY?! That's not so bad.

your 12th emoji is how you'll die

☕️

•☽────✧˖°˖ GOODNIGHT HAWAII ˖°˖✧────☾•

(COMMISSION)

★ Summary: A Compilation of Headcanons Featuring Salesperson ENA X Reader Who Suffers With Dissociative Episodes

★ Commissioner: Wishes To Remain Anonymous

★ Character(s): Salesperson ENA (ENA: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ She writes your name on her arm in marker. It was after the third time you forgot where you were, or worse—who she was. ENA had been in the middle of a passionate tirade against “the modern marketing mythos” when your eyes glazed over like glass, and you blinked yourself into some distant fragment of unreality. You said, “Who are you?” She didn’t yell. She didn’t even twitch. Instead, she pulled a marker from her cap like a magician might, uncapped it with her teeth, and scrawled your name across her forearm in an all-caps blocky font. “THIS IS YOURS,” she said proudly, holding it out like a trophy. It didn’t fix anything. But it felt like it could.

☆ Salesperson ENA tries flashcards. You open your eyes in her room one evening and don’t recognize a single thing. Not the bed. Not the ceiling fan that’s spinning in stilted, fractured time. Not even her. “Oh! You’re awake! Hang tight—commencing memory recovery protocol.” She whips out a little stack of index cards with hand-drawn doodles: A triangle. A cracked megaphone. A stick figure labeled “YOU.” Another labeled “ME.” She flips them one by one with such speed and enthusiasm that it makes your head spin. You forget your name again by the fourth card, but you remember her laugh. It’s enough.

☆ Meanie ENA yells at your dissociation like it’s an enemy. The first time you zoned out mid-conversation and didn’t respond for several minutes, she snapped. “HEY! HELLO?! EARTH TO MEMORY GLITCH! WHAT KIND OF SCAM IS THIS?!” You flinched—like she’d caught you doing something shameful. But then she quieted. “…I wasn’t yelling at you. I was yelling at the thing that stole you.” She sat beside you in awkward silence, gripping your sleeve like she could anchor you to now. “You’re not allowed to go on solo missions anymore,” she mumbled. “Take me with you next time, idiot.”

☆ Her business metaphors get painfully heartfelt. When you get overwhelmed and feel yourself slipping, Salesperson ENA will rattle off a strange pitch, like: “You’re an asset under temporary recession, but your emotional capital remains intact!” “I’m projecting a 12% rebound in your cognitive presence, just give it time.” It’s ridiculous. It’s corporate nonsense. But it’s her nonsense. And the sincerity behind the words is so fierce it almost hurts.

☆ She starts narrating your life when you go nonverbal. When your words vanish like fog at sunrise, ENA’s voice fills the silence. “Today, our protagonist finds themselves amidst an internal coup, the memory department on strike again. Will they recover their agency? Or will the villainous void claim another victory?” Sometimes she makes you a hero. Sometimes she makes you a fish. One time you were an onion with a tragic backstory. But always, always, she ends with: “And yet, against all odds, they persist.” You mouth “thank you” through the static in your brain.

☆ Meanie keeps a logbook—just in case. She never admits it out loud, but tucked under her pillow is a tattered notebook full of messy scribbles. Things you’ve told her. Things you’ve forgotten. Things she wants you to remember, but knows you might not. There are entries like: “They laughed today. I don’t know why. But it made me feel less gross inside.” “Tried to yell when they forgot my name. Didn’t help. Will try quieter next time.” You found it once. She slapped it out of your hands. “HEY! THAT’S NOT FOR YOU YET!!”

☆ She builds you a ‘reality anchor’ box. One day she arrives with a cardboard box full of the most useless junk. A cracked plastic clock. A plush that vaguely resembles her. A page torn from a magazine with your name spelled wrong. “I call it the HERE AND NOW box!” she beams, adjusting her hat proudly. You stare at her. “…That’s just a spoon.” “It’s a symbolic spoon, okay? Grounding! Therapy stuff! I researched it on the shady side of the internet.” You touch the spoon when your mind feels foggy. It’s warm from her hands. It’s not a cure. But it’s a reminder.

☆ Meanie learns to stop blaming you. At first, every memory slip made her feel like you were betraying her on purpose. “Why do you always disappear when it matters?! I’m not nothing to you!” But one day, when you forgot her name entirely and said it in tears—“I don’t want to forget you”—something shifted. She just sat down. Quiet. “You’re not doing this to me, huh?” She apologized. Clumsily. “S-sorry for acting like your symptoms had intent. That was…dumb.” You said, “It’s okay.” She said, “No. It’s you. That’s why I care.”

☆ Salesperson ENA leaves you voice memos. She installs a strange little recorder on your jacket collar that plays whenever it senses you spacing out. “Ping! You’re still here! You’re doing amazing! I know you’re scared, but your brain is not broken—it’s just… buffering!” Another message is her reading you a poem about ducks. The next is her explaining quantum physics very, very wrong. You never know what’s coming. But her voice, bouncing in your ear like a lifeline, always pulls you back.

☆ Both sides learn that being earnest matters more than being perfect. They try so hard. And most of the time, they get it wrong. Salesperson ENA overwhelms you with charts and graphs about recovery rates. Meanie ENA tells dissociation to “go punch itself.” But they never leave. They never act like you’re a burden. And when you finally say, “Thank you for trying,” ENA looks stunned. “Of course,” she says, softer than usual. “You’re the only investment I’d never divest from.” Even Meanie turns red. “Ugh. You’re lucky I’m sentimental now.”