the man, the moth, the legend

⛧ eliot ⛧ he/they ⛧ genderfluid ⛧ asexual ⛧

hello! i'm your resident beaftblogger, purveyor of antiquities and general bad takes. hope you're doing well today.

art blog

interests: art, literature, collage, vampires, faeries, haunted dolls, vulture culture, folk music, dream sequences, medieval bestiaries and monster marginalia, weird bugs, vintage children’s book illustrations, fungi, body horror, queer-coded villains, unsympathetic female characters, men who look good covered in blood, unreliable narrators, trickster archetypes, doppelgangers, martyrs and maximalism

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contemplating joing bluesky but the beaft handle is already taken.. i guess it just wasn't meant to be(aft)

my good friend tried to use speech to text to do today's dnd session writeup but he was interrupted halfway through by his cat and this is what he sent

unexpected joy division at the pub got me tearing up

not to be all "i'm a creep i'm a weirdo" but my whole life i have always had this sense that i kind of disappear from people's heads as soon as i leave the room, like i'm only 50% of a person, and whenever anything happens that proves that's not the case it always feels both lovely and vaguely surreal

i'm moving cities and let my life drawing group know that this week would be my last class, and they all clubbed together to surprise me with a going-away present (fancy oil pastels and a sketchbook) and baked me three (3!!!!) different cakes and someone brought in a big pot of homemade hummus and someone else gave me some tiny succulent plants that she had propagated from her big succulent plant and i am feeling, Some Kind of Way about it,