writing about whatever tf i want here ;-)

just call me anna ♋︎☾ other names aren't worth listing on /anna ♕ 20⚥ she/he/it genderfluid boygirl. androgynous as fuck; i do what i want. bisexual bcoz that's just how it is. esfp 8w9 so/sp 872 vfel s/C/|U|en. choleric-phlegmatic and chaotic neutral. not mentioning my list of diagnoses here; my brain is a 10,000-piece puzzle missing the box lid and half the edge pieces. good luck figuring that out. #mentallywell and #thriving unlike most of you on this site who are screaming crying throwing up on the daily. asymptotic victim syndrome or whatever they call it these days. moving on~

medicated but not therapymaxxing because therapists are for people who haven't already cracked their own psyche open like a glowstick. who needs a professional when you can diy your own cbt exposure therapy through sheer force of will and questionable life choices. works like a charm if you ignore the side effects. speaking of life choices, i run on weed and dexies and an unshakeable conviction that i'm right about everything. triple cancer, if that explains anything to you astrology nerds who actually gaf. sub who's mistaken for a dom approximately 99% of the time because i don't act like a doormat and apparently having boundaries and an actual personality is a dom-only feature now. the d/s sphere is full of people who confuse deference with having zero opinions and then get shocked when the sub they picked up turned out to be a whole person and not a wifi-enabled yes machine. who knew. anyway, i'm not your stereotype, and i'm not your manic pixie anything, so don't try to categorize me into a box that fits your little worldview. i break boxes for fun and then watch people scramble to build new ones that still don't fit. it's a hobby.

leftist, but hedonistic and materialistic in ways that would make theoretical marxists clutch their pearls and reach for their little theory pdfs. i don't care. materialism is not a moral failing; it's just honesty about what actually makes life bearable under capitalism. i'm not going to pretend i don't want nice things because some grad student with a trust fund and four shelves of unread zizek and lenin wants to lecture me about false consciousness while they sip their eight-dollar oat milk latte. the revolution is not going to be austeritypilled, and it's certainly not going to be led by people who think desire itself is bourgeois. i'll take my commodities and my contradictions and wear them openly like armor, thanks. at least i'm honest about mine instead of dressing them up in ascetic drag and calling it praxis.

declared "problematic" by at least three communities i used to frequent, which i wear as a badge of honor because if you haven't been excommunicated from at least one discord server by the age of twenty, you haven't lived. the reasons are exactly what you'd expect: had opinions, expressed them, refused to perform the florid apology tour that everyone seems to expect when you've committed the unforgivable crime of disagreeing with the group chat's consensus on something nobody will remember in six days. the boundary between principled disagreement and heresy is apparently razor-thin and drawn by whoever has the most time to type paragraphs in #general. hilarious how the loudest voices in those spaces always belong to people whose real offline personalities are roughly as interesting as unflavored oatmeal. no offense to oatmeal. at least oatmeal has optional brown sugar. these people have nothing going on except verifying each other's serotonin levels through incremental validation loops and calling it community. anyway, i trimmed that dead weight a long time ago, and frankly my mood improved by approximately 400% the moment i stopped logging into places where the entrance fee is undergoing a digital struggle session every time someone misreads your tone or decides your vibe is "off" today. imagine structuring your entire social life around a venue where one bad-faith screenshot can undo months of proximity-based intimacy. couldn't be me. i'll keep my small circle of people who actually know me over a sea of contacts who only know the curated version they assembled from out-of-context fragments and secondhand information collected by someone with an axe to grind and the attention span of a fruit fly in particular. genuine connection doesn't require ideological purity tests or constant background checks into whether your reaction to every moderately complex issue aligns perfectly with whichever interpretive framework happened to trend that week. my people know where i stand and they stay anyway, which is more than anyone in a gated discord with a vetting questionnaire and a twelve-page social contract can honestly say about their friendships. most of those relationships are conditional laptops-and-wifi arrangements that dissolve the second the power goes out or the algorithm stops serving them the same interpretive lens for reality. not bonds. subscription plans with a cancellation clause hidden in the fine print of someone else's comfort zone. i've watched entire friend groups evaporate overnight because one person decided another person's take on a nothing controversy was procedurally incorrect and rallied the rest into a zealous flattening of history. poof, gone. n e wayz~

i hate that i even have to say all this upfront like it's a warning label, as if existing honestly in a world built on performance is some kind of ambush i'm springing on people. like, sorry for having enough self-awareness to know who i am and enough spine to refuse dimming it so strangers can feel comfortable around me. if that's genuinely threatening to you, then the problem isn't me; it's the attachment to a social model where everyone faints on cue, and nobody says anything unless it's been run through three layers of consensus checking and a vibes assessment. i'd rather be exhausting than exhausted, which is what you become when you spend all your energy calibrating every word you say to meet the impossible shared standard of people who also secretly resent the standard but are too afraid of becoming the next target to admit it. so yeah, that's the preamble nobody asked for but everybody needs before they decide to clam up or perform shocked or do the little gaslighting thing where you act like i'm the unreasonable one for setting boundaries publicly. i know the playbook. you proxy-detach, eyebrow-raise, let the silence do the heavy lifting, maybe toss in a "yikes" or a "this is a lot" like vagueness is a personality trait, and then wait for me to scramble to clarify or soften or reassure you that i didn't mean it the way it sounded. except i did mean it exactly the way it sounded, and the only reason i'm expected to correct or retract anything is that someone decided their discomfort outranks my honesty, and the rest of the room agreed by default because that's easier than having a spine. i'm not interested in making that trade. take me as i am, or don't take me at all.

there's the meat and potatoes of my manifesto. written while high at 1am! so if it's disjointed or repetitive or circles back to the same point three times with increasing venom, that's the cannabinoid corollary, and i'm not apologizing for it. i never do. anyway. you can probably tell that i'm not a people-pleaser, and i despise the entire concept of "making yourself palatable," especially when the end goal is to be consumed by people who wouldn't blink if you disappeared tomorrow. palatability is just erosion with better marketing. you sand yourself down, file off every edge that might catch on someone's fragile sensibilities, and what's left is this smooth, unremarkable nothing that fits nowhere and belongs to no one.

unabashedly proship and profic, if you couldn't already tell. i don't care about discourse of any stripe; in fact, i think most discourse is just disguised social anxiety weaponized into group policy. fiction is fiction. fiction is a safe space precisely because it isn't real, and the moment you start policing what fiction is allowed to explore, you've fundamentally misunderstood what fiction is for. i'm not interested in debating this. the lines people draw around fiction are always moving targets, conveniently redrawn to whatever serves whoever's currently leading the moral charge. yesterday's unacceptable is today's grudgingly tolerated is tomorrow's oppressively soft reaction video essay topic. the goalposts don't just move; they crab-walk sideways while someone retroactively edits the rules to exempt whatever their favorite creator happened to get caught doing last tuesday. and i'm supposed to take that seriously as an ethical framework? no. the whole system runs on selective enforcement dressed up as principle, and i'm supposed to genuflect because someone slaps a content warning on their hostility and calls it accountability. accountability to whom? accountability to a consensus that wouldn't survive ten minutes of actual scrutiny; that's who.

this may be long; however, it's superior to any other extended rentry page i've seen, that's for damn sure. at least mine has the decency to be honest about being self-indulgent instead of pretending it's a curation of curated things curated for curatorial purposes, like half the internet isn't just an endless feedback loop of people rearranging the same five aesthetics in slightly different fonts and calling it personality. at least i'm building something recognizable, even if it's abrasive, even if it scratches. i'm not a goddamn "yandere dorodere angelthing tvtropes whatever-the-fuck buzzword salad that technically technically TEKNIKLY qualifies as a bio." that's labelslop designed to communicate personality through noun clusters so dense nobody can actually picture you as a person anymore. i'm a pissed-off human being with actual opinions and a functioning amygdala and a concerning backlog of tabs i'll never close, and if you need a tier list of trauma-as-identity signifiers taped to a webpage before you can conceptualize me, we're already operating on incompatible firmware. so no, i won't be providing a spreadsheet of my mental health diagnoses cross-referenced with my media consumption habits so you can calibrate the appropriate amount of sympathy before you decide whether to follow/befriend/whatever me. none of that is your business anyway, and the fact that it's become standard social currency online tells me everything i need to know about how thoroughly people have conflated vulnerability with entertainment. you rentrycord people wouldn't know sincerity if it walked up and bit you in the liver. i mean it.

most people on this hellsite embrace being MeNtAlLy UnWeLl and BrOkEn as an aesthetic, which is absolutely fucking pathetic. it's a costume they put on when it's convenient and take off when it stops being profitable. everyone's got a checklist of buzzwords they taped to their foreheads like a fucking meme flavor, and somehow that passes for depth now. it doesn't. it passes for effort. very low effort. and i'm supposed to act like that's fine, like i'm the asshole for noticing the stitching showing on the costume? the second someone identifies harder with their diagnosis than their actual name, i'm supposed to nod along like that's healthy. it's not. it's an abdication. you're handing the narrative of your entire existence to a clinical document and calling it self-awareness. you're outsourcing your identity to a DSM entry and then demanding applause for reading the label aloud. that's not recovery. that's not even coping. that's just banking on the social economy of pity while pretending it's something nobler. and the worst part is it works. it works because everyone else is playing the same game, measuring their "brokenness" against each other like it's a competitive sport with bonus points for citing the most obscure acronyms nobody outside a support group has ever heard of. congratulations, you memorized the alphabet soup of your own dysfunction. here's your trophy. meanwhile, the people with actual problems are too busy surviving them to format a developmental trauma recap for their socials every saturday afternoon. fuck that whole performance.

the average rentry user bio reads like an intake form designed by someone who flunked out of psychology school and overcompensated by playing clinical dress-up in markdown. disorders listed out like a chemistry equation nobody asked anyone to balance. name, age, pronouns, then straight into the psychiatric rap sheet like you're handing a referral packet to a stranger who clicked your link out of mild curiosity at 2 am themed around a .png of an anime character you found on pinterest and cropped badly so it would fit the header dimensions. then come the buzzwords like "dere types" and "tv tropes" and "fictive" and "kin" all jammed together into a label salad so comprehensively over-seasoned you can't taste anything underneath it anymore. it's identity-as-word-search, punch in the right combination of vowels and consonants and maybe the reader gets a vague psychic .jpeg of a personality back, briefly, before the whole thing blurs into the same static as every other carbon-copy aesthetic-abuse survivor circlejerk. excellent, personality solved, brilliant work, everyone.

and heaven forbid you point any of this out without someone immediately deciding you're "invalidating" them, which is the magic shutdown word that converts any observation they don't like into an act of violence. you said identity-as-word-search out loud? abuse. exclusion. triggered. congratulations, you've now lost the argument by default because someone made zero effort to understand what you actually said and maximum effort to make themselves the victim of it. the country club shuts down every dock in town; someone masturbates in the wrong bathroom or whatever. discussion over. nuance is dead because someone's hyperpersonalized substitute for a personality can't survive being examined under anything brighter than a participation trophy glow. that's the trick of it, isn't it? you build your entire self-concept out of materials expressly designed to be beyond critique, wrap yourself in clinical terminology like kevlar, and then any photon of honesty that gets through is somehow reframed as a weapon wielded by someone who simply hates disabled people, or queer people, or neurodivergent people, or whichever demographic happens to be convenient at that particular moment.

dissociative identity disorder is largely a social contagion, especially on parts of the internet like rentry and carrd where being a system is treated less like a serious clinical condition and more like a character creation screen where you get to design an ensemble cast of fictional people and then insist everyone around you participate in the bit. that's not a hot take; that's just what happens when you remove every gatekeeping mechanism and replace it with an honor system run entirely on good faith in spaces notoriously devoid of it. surprise, when you tell a fourteen-year-old who's bored and lonely and looking for a sense of belonging that they can have as many people living inside their head as they want and nobody is allowed to question it, a non-trivial percentage of them are going to take you up on that offer. and then the rest of us are expected to participate in the uncritical validation feedback loop or get branded as some kind of bigot for declining to roleplay along with someone's improvisational psychodrama. the therapeutic response to declining to believe someone has fourteen alters, including three fictional characters and a pyramid scheme of in-system relationships is, apparently, to accuse you of causing irreparable psychological harm, as though the simple act of not believing is itself a traumatic event on par with actual abuse. the entitlement of that framing is staggering, honestly.

rentry is full of chronically online, jobless losers who refer to themselves as "hikikomoris" and "himejos" and "whatever-the-hell-dere/gire." fucking weebs borrowing japanese words they learned from a tumblr infographic and wearing them like kryptonite against ever having to develop a real trait. you don't have a job or hobbies or a single friendship that exists outside a discord server, but you've got seventeen labels stacked on your rentry that collectively communicate less meaning than a moody teenager's private journal entry from 2007. the credentialization of uselessness, motherfucker. look at me, i've got a laundry list of conditions nobody can verify and a homepage full of pastel text boxes declaring exactly which fictional men i'm allowed to stroke it to and which ones are off-limits for others to claim as their own, as though fictional characters are finite natural resources that need to be rationed out by some self-appointed council of jealous teenagers operating entirely on the understanding that having "claimed" a 2D man on your carrd grants you some kind of sovereign territorial authority over his likeness. give me a fucking break. go outside and get a job, you addle-brained motherfuckers.

dumbfuck teenagers calling themselves "pervs" and "neets" and "deres" and whatever other autopersonality cartridges they've slid into the slot this week, reconstructing themselves from the ground up every three to six months whenever the old set stops generating enough attention. it's subscription-model identity. you don't decide who you are and then live accordingly; you pick a tier, hit subscribe, and your personality gets provisioned automatically until the billing cycle runs out or someone in your circle comes out with a better version and you have to migrate. none of these words mean anything anymore. "neurodivergent" used to refer to people with actual diagnosed conditions, and now it's a bath bomb you toss into your bio to dissolve whatever residual responsibility you might have had for your own behavior. because apparently "neurodivergent" now means "i sometimes lose focus when i'm not sufficiently entertained" or "i don't like loud noises" or "i find small talk vaguely tedious," which, congratulations, describes every human being who has ever existed, but somehow the rest of us managed to get through our lives without converting every mildly inconvenient cognitive quirk into a diagnosable identity category that excuses us from basic social obligations. we just coped. we went to work, we minded our business, we learned to deal with the fact that sometimes existing is slightly uncomfortable without handmade patch notes and a support server full of enablers telling us our failure to enjoy fluorescent lighting is a protected disability. sometimes the bright lights are too bright, and the noises are too loud, and the conversation is too pointless and you sit there and endure it because c'est la vie, you absolute pedestal-built casework of metric-fucked emotional masonry that would shatter into powder at the first hint of unkind friction from the real world.