Guys, for the first time in a hundred years, I took a bath. Well, you know, the price is what it is because water in Latvia is expensive, yeah. Plus, it takes quite a bit of money to eat 10000 calories a day. Also, I didn’t shave, so this is strictly premium content for sophisticated millionaires. And it’s definitely not a scam with a video of me playing with rubber ducks.
Guys, to keep from getting too sad, enjoy this photo of my titanic ass in leopard-print panties. Or don’t, your call.
It’s been a weird day. This morning, I couldn’t shake the situation with my dad for a while, then I made onion soup. Lately, I’ve been eating like there’s no tomorrow. Some random follower, whom I barely even knew, messaged me saying I’m boring. I suggested he unfollow me, he agreed, but then kept lurking around. I had to help the guy out and spare myself his dumb presence by blocking him.
Another genius, someone my age, swore he’d read my profile and loved it, though from the way he wrote, it was obvious the only letters he’s ever seen were on an air freshener in the bathroom—and even those were a struggle. He claimed to be an entrepreneur and said he’d “support” me financially. All I had to do was send him some spicy pics, and he’d tip me right away. When I politely suggested he buy my content, he refused, but then kept sending screenshots of money he’d sent to other women, saying, “Look what you’re missing out on.” Truly inspiring. Since when did stealing grandma’s pension from her closet count as entrepreneurship? Maybe I’m just getting old.
Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, it seems like I look extremely starving in my photos, and that’s why certain gentlemen think I’m about to leap out of my panties and make content for them in exchange for breadcrumbs. So, my dear friends, don’t hold back—send me pizza money, so we can show these clowns that I’m well-fed and thriving.
In the evening, Dasha came over, and we watched anime until late at night. Being with Dasha feels very calm. She recently broke up with her girlfriend, so we’ve been spending a lot of time together. Dasha touched and stroked my tired, chewed-up fingers. It felt like tenderness.
Just a “wonderful” morning. At 9 a.m., my dad showed up—anyone who reads me regularly knows roughly who he is and what he’s done. I went back to sleep, hoping he’d finish whatever he came for and leave by the time I woke up. He literally comes over every single day under the pretext of having “things to do,” but mostly he just runs back and forth, drinks tea or coffee, or does random, completely unnecessary tasks that no one asked him to do. And then proudly declares he’s “helping.”
I woke up around noon and heard that he was still downstairs slamming doors and pacing around. I went to the kitchen to make lunch, trying to figure out a way to politely ask him to leave. When I stepped onto the veranda, I was stunned—everything was covered in bags of pellets, everywhere. I asked him what it was and why he did it. He proudly replied that he was helping. I told him that all my workspace was now blocked and that I didn’t need him to “help” with things I could handle myself—and also that he’d overstayed his welcome in a house he doesn’t even live in.
He started manipulating me, saying he had an “arrangement” with my mom, that he’s trying his best, doing everything right, and I’m just creating conflict. And he spoke in this patronizing tone, like he was addressing a patient. So, I reminded him how great he was at “not creating conflict” during the 15 years he spent shooting up, drinking, smoking inside the house, running around in psychosis, and cheating on my mom while her father was dying. He tried to defend himself, saying he’s heard all this a million times, that people just slap labels on him.
I pointed out that he literally doesn’t have a frontal lobe anymore because of his drug use, and that it’s visible on his MRI, not just some “label.” And then he have me the most brilliant response: “If you haven’t achieved anything, you have no right to talk.” 🤡🤡🤡 I told him that in his time, he didn’t even manage to figure out how to use condoms, and that I’d call the police right now if he didn’t leave. And so he left.
I’m just in shock. After he was gone, I was shaking and burst into tears because I’m not a confrontational person at all, and after everything my father has done over the years, I experience acute stress in any interaction with him.
Sure, I haven’t achieved anything—except becoming a kind, responsible, and strong person who has never once drank alcohol, smoked, or had any addictions. I successfully graduated from one of the toughest schools in the country, earned a degree in biology, and am currently studying at a university where you learn more in one day than he has in his entire life. All this while dealing with schizoid-autistic traits, depression since age 13, and constantly wondering whether he’s hurt my mom, if he’s going to kill her or me, if he’s going to break something, or put on yet another one-man dramatic performance.
I’ve spent my life hearing the elephant-like stomping and door-slamming that shakes the entire house. Cleaning the toilet after him every single day, wiping the sink 15 times a day, unable to use the kitchen because he spends all his free time stuffing his face. Constantly on edge because he’s either manically running around on stimulants or lying half-dead on the couch from sedatives or alcohol. Smelling the cigarette stench from his room.
This “man,” who has turned my life into a living hell for his own amusement, dares to tell me I’ve “achieved nothing.” The very fact that I’m alive and walking is more than all of his accomplishments combined. Human garbage. I dream of worms eating him alive in a ditch.
Guys, I went to see The War of the Rohirrim, and oh my god, what a disaster. My brain has literally rotted. I was prepared for anything, but not this. You know Episodes 7, 8, and 9 of Star Wars? Now imagine that, but much, much worse—like, unimaginably worse. To recover my mental health, I had to drink cum and buy huge leopard-print panties.
So, I’m a huge Tolkien fan, and many of my fans are well-versed in his universe. For those who aren’t, here’s a quick rundown of the setup. There’s a land of horse breeders called Rohan. They have a king, Helm, and several clans whose leaders swear allegiance to the king. Helm has two sons and a daughter. The daughter, Hera, is our protagonist. Hera has a childhood friend, Wulf, who is also the son of a broody clan leader loyal to Helm. But then, a conflict arises, and Helm accidentally kills Wulf’s father (it’s very obvious it’s an accident). Wulf attacks Helm and gets permanently exiled. Naturally, Wulf is now consumed with revenge. That’s the setup.
Hera is a catastrophe. From the very first scenes, we’re told she’s “not like other girls.” Remember Rey Skywalker? Forget her. Hera is better. Hera is the best rider, the best warrior, the smartest, kindest, bravest, most merciful, inventive, inspiring person ever. She single-handedly kills a raging mumak (basically a giant, angry war elephant) by luring it into a swamp near the capital, where, conveniently, a kraken lives (like near Moria). She fights grown men twice her size without breaking a sweat, easily surviving their direct blows. She befriends giant eagles. She scales sheer ice-covered cliffs. The list of her brilliance and greatness is endless, and the film will shove it in your face every single minute. Every. Single. Minute.
Maybe she’s a huge, muscular warrior? Or a hardened wanderer with life and battle experience, like Aragorn? Or a seasoned commander who’s fought many battles, like Boromir? Nope, Hera transcends all those dumb, “masculine” traits. She’s a 13-year-old (or maybe 16? It’s unclear) skinny little girl with a baby face and noodle arms. Unlike everyone else, she doesn’t wear proper armor but a weird outfit straight out of Attack on Titan. She has ALL NATURAL fiery red hair. Oh, and enormous boobs and hips. Basically, the dream of every awkward 15-year-old boy with a permanent erection.
Her rival, Wulf, isn’t much better. He’s a moron and a psycho driven by impulsive decisions. He has no military or tactical genius, nor any charisma. How he managed to gather an army and lead them through a grueling winter siege is a mystery. His army consist of what are essentially bandits, who logically would have slit his throat at night and taken his gold. And why even mention that he and Hera were childhood friends? That detail is completely irrelevant and adds nothing to the plot. You could easily cut it, just like most of the movie. Wulf is just an angry idiot, and his childhood friendship with the perfect, amazing Hera has no bearing on his behavior.
Speaking of winter—the siege of Helm’s Deep happens in the cold, and they show that there are no supplies or firewood. And that’s it. Like, literally it. It has no impact on anything. There’s no depiction of human suffering, no riots, no betrayals due to hunger or desperation—nothing. There’s also a bizarre subplot about King Helm. He’s gravely injured and spends a long time sleeping and weak. Then he suddenly gets up, sneaks out of the fortress through a secret passage, and… defies gravity, half-naked, slaughtering enemy soldiers en masse in a blizzard. Also, he’s suddenly super ripped. What was that even about?
The characters in this movie are utterly pointless and forgettable. They fall into three categories:
1.You agree with Hera and support her, so you’re good.
2.You say something obviously stupid and illogical, so you do bad thing and upset Hera.
3.You’re evil and just want to do evil things, so you’re a villain.
There’s literally one character in the entire movie with any semblance of depth: Wulf’s right-hand man. He’s sort of a villain but not completely insane and supports reasonable governance over outright genocide. That’s it. One character with a personality in the whole film.
In conclusion, I highly recommend watching this movie. I went with Dasha, and we were dying of laughter every single minute. As a comedy, it’s fantastic. But if you’re a fan of The Lord of the Rings, just stick to the original trilogy. Of course, that doesn’t have the amazing, chosen one characters like Hera, but I think you’ll survive.
Lately, I’ve been procrastinating horribly. I haven’t drawn anything in a very long time. I compulsively check OnlyFans or YouTube or the first page of Google news, scrolling aimlessly or trying to talk to someone. I’m biting my nails like crazy. The only things I manage to do are household chores.
The smell of a dead mouse in my room hasn’t helped either—it’s where my favorite, most comfortable desk is, but the stench is unbearable there, so I can’t even play games. Though honestly, if I really wanted to, I’d just move my laptop to another room. But I don’t want to.
Now I’ve been hanging out in the guest room where there’s a TV. I spend the whole day watching live shows and educational YouTube videos, but I don’t really take anything in because I’m always on my phone, scrolling for something. And biting, biting my nails. Not good. I’ve also been eating a lot of sweets.
Honestly, I’ve been a little thrown off by the disappearance of those two fans I mentioned before. And I should probably make some kind of paid post, but I just don’t feel like it.
Today, I went into my grandparents’ house because I needed to grab something. My grandfather passed away this summer—he wasn’t a great person, and we weren’t close. Still, it was strange to see the imprint of his bed on the carpet, left behind after it was thrown out following his death. Then I entered my grandmother’s room—for the first time in many years. I wasn’t avoiding it; I just never had a reason to go in. She’s the one in the second photo.
She was the backbone of our family, the matriarch who oversaw everyone’s well-being, even distant relatives. She wasn’t a typical sweet grandmother; she was a prosecutor-grandma (literally). She passed away in 2011 after a long illness. She was kind-hearted, controlling and very reliable.
I remembered how, as kids, my brother and I used to play cards on the floor of her room. She and I always watched crime shows together, and she’d tell me about her own investigations, murders, and other cases. She could stand up for me against my mom. Every New Year’s, we celebrated at her house.
I have good memories of those times, even if I wasn’t particularly happy —I was allergic to almost everything, I already hated school —even though it wasn’t as bad yet—and I didn’t enjoy visiting my grandmother, let alone working on the family’s plot of land. Now, of course, I miss those days. My brother was still a normal, ordinary guy—my friend, funny and creative, not an arrogant idiot. And there was no constant internet or smartphones yet. Everything in our family was still relatively normal, and my dad wasn’t yet a drug addict.
Even back then, my family placed huge expectations on me, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to meet them. But I played along, and everything seemed fine. University, adult life, deaths, and the madness of the older generations—all of that still felt so far away. It felt like everything would somehow work itself out when the time came. Or maybe I’d just die before then.
When my grandmother passed, everything broke apart. She would never have allowed everything that happened with my dad to unfold, and maybe my life would’ve gone in a completely different direction.
Even though we weren’t particularly close, as I get older, I miss her more and more. She had a very tough personality, but for some reason, I feel like she wouldn’t have judged me for all the problems I’ve had with universities after school. She definitely would’ve scolded me for OnlyFans, though.
But then again, if I felt happy, loved and wanted, I probably wouldn’t have ended up here in the first place. While I was in that room, I even sat down on the floor and cried a little. Right in the same spot where we used to play cards.
I wanted to write a post about my hatred for modern Disney, but I’m afraid I might get banned here for impersonating a certain famous Austrian painter. So instead, just check out my photo and the cool knife Dasha gave me as a gift.
Alright, guys, I’ve been lying to you this whole time – I’m an immortal vampire, and here’s my photo from a century ago. Just kidding. The portrait actually shows my great-grandmother on my maternal side, Marfa Simeonovna Kuzminova. She was born in 1904, presumably in late May or early June, in Dvinsk. The exact date is unknown; when she asked her mother about it, her mother would reply, “When it was warm.” She was born into a petty bourgeois family.
Her father, Simeon, came from a very wealthy merchant family, was well-educated, and participated in many community projects. On a plot of land gifted by the tsar, he built a school for underprivileged children. Her mother, Aksinia, was from Lithuania. She had a beautiful, resonant voice and would often lie on the stove singing. She gave birth to 12 children, delivering all of them while sitting on her husband’s knees. Aksinia was deeply upset whenever a girl was born, saying, “Why did you have to be a girl? Now I’ll have to give birth again.”
However, most of her children died because, whenever they had a fever, she would take them outside, saying, “The baby is too hot and needs to be cooled by the wind.” As a result, only five children survived: Pelageya, Poliekt, Fevroniya, Epistimiya, and Marfa. Marfa was the youngest – intelligent, quick-witted, and resembled her father with dark hair and brown eyes, while the others were all blonde with light-colored eyes.
At seven, Marfa started school. She adored her father, excelled in her studies, and was incredibly ambitious and capable. However, due to the onset of World War I, she only managed to complete 2.5 grades. In 1914, her beloved father passed away suddenly, shattering the family’s material and emotional stability. At the same time, the war began.
At the start of the war, Tsar Nicholas II announced a mass evacuation of civilians from the western borders of the Russian Empire. As a result, 10-year-old Marfa, her illiterate mother Aksinia, her sisters Fevroniya and Epistimiya, along with Pelageya’s family (her husband Tita and their two children, Masha and Misha), boarded a train bound for Petrograd. They lived for nearly four years in refugee barracks near Volkovo Cemetery. Back then, it was considered the outskirts of the city, but now it’s the center. Everyone was starving. They suffered from smallpox and typhus. Marfa, being the strongest, fetched water even while sick.
The Volkovo Cemetery left a deep impression on Marfa – she loved walking among the noble graves, admiring the monuments, especially a statue of a weeping woman carved from white marble. For a time, Marfa thought it was a ghost.
During their time in Petrograd, Pelageya’s eldest daughter, six-year-old Masha, tragically died from protein deficiency edema. She swelled terribly and passed away. She was buried in that cemetery.
In 1917, they returned to Dvinsk, only to find their home ransacked. Tita was executed, but it remains unclear who was responsible – it could have been the Reds, the Whites, or the Germans. The likely culprits were a militarized group occupying the Dvinsk fortress at the time, with whom the hot-tempered Tita had clashed.
By 1918, the Spanish flu epidemic struck. The entire family became infected. Marfa, being the strongest, took care of everyone. Pelageya suffered the most. In her final moments, she suddenly opened her eyes, stretched out her arms, and called for her beloved husband before passing away. The only survivor from Pelageya’s family was her son, Misha, whom 14-year-old Marfa cared for. Marfa was extremely short due to malnourishment. She became the primary provider for the family – her older brother Poliekt was away at war, and her mother was largely incapacitated.
The family frequently went to the forest to gather porcini mushrooms. They wore no undergarments, dressed in sarafans, and walked barefoot even in early frost, passing water on their feet to stay warm. They sold the mushrooms to wealthy Jewish households and dried some for their own use.
To buy bread, Marfa would pack what little handcrafted goods they had left (extra threads, buttons, needles) and head to the train station. She’d sneak onto a train, hide under a bench, and soldiers would cover her with their coats so the officers wouldn’t see her and throw her out. She would ride to rural areas, trade her goods for food like potatoes, bread, and vegetables, and return the same way – or walk back on foot.
Before contracting typhus, Marfa’s hair reached below her knees – all the women in the family had incredibly beautiful, long, thick hair. When they went to the bathhouse, their hair covered them entirely, and everyone admired it. But during typhus, her hair began to fall out, and her head was shaved.
During World War I, soldiers called Marfa and her family the “angelic family” because they were mostly women, extraordinarily beautiful, and always treated those in need with kindness and humanity. None of the family members were subjected to violence by soldiers.
Little Misha’s story was tragic. While playing with other children, he lost an eye after being hit with a stone. He was malnourished and severely rickety. Aksinia constantly cooked onion soup with mushrooms, but it provided little nourishment. Misha eventually fell ill with pneumonia.
Marfa went to the cemetery to Pelageya’s grave, prayed, and said that she loved her family dearly but that Misha was suffering terribly, and she begged Pelageya to take him to her. When she returned home, Misha seemed to improve. That night, she had a dream where the house was empty. Running outside, she saw Pelageya walking toward the cemetery, holding her son’s hand. Marfa called out to them, but Pelageya turned, looked at her sadly, and sternly shook her head. When Marfa woke up, Misha was dead.
In the portrait, Marfa is about 19 years old. The story of the portrait is this: in the Old Believer tradition, being photographed was considered sinful. But Marfa loved being photographed, for which her mother harshly criticized her. Regarding this photo, Marfa was sitting by the window brushing her beautiful hair. A passing photographer was mesmerized by her beauty and asked her to come to his studio. Aksinia forbade her from going with her hair down, as it was seen as improper. The photographer brought all his equipment to their home and took the photograph there.
For a long time, this photo was displayed in the photographer’s shop window, but Aksinia demanded it be taken down because rumors were spreading that Marfa was a loose woman. Her beauty made many envious, but sadly, most of her photographs were destroyed during World War II, a story I’ll share another time.
Good morning, my sweet kittens. We all know how much our beloved and beautiful platform, OnlyFans, cares about us. It doesn’t allow us to discuss harmful topics beyond the missionary position, use certain words that make up half of the language here, or talk about payment systems that take less than 20% of earnings… As a fairly new user, I was amazed by these sensible rules, and so I decided to run for the presidency of OnlyFans. When my term begins, I promise my voters the following actions:
1.A total ban on anal sex—because the butt was not created by God for such purposes.
2.A ban on masturbation—because corrupting oneself without producing offspring is sinful.
3.A ban on thrusting during sex—because these actions bring pleasure to the flesh, and the flesh is from Satan.
4.A ban on the display of genitals—because it corrupts the soul, and every viewer should gouge out their eyes.
5.A ban on nudity—every man and woman must wear a black sack over their entire body to resist temptation and stand against the devil.
6.A ban on speaking and laughing—so that your word does not stray from God’s word.
7.A ban on showing food—because gluttony is a sin.
8.A ban on eyes—because looking at others is an act of pride.
9.A ban on money transfers (except directly to me for noble purposes)—because money is the devil’s toy.
10.A ban on breathing, because all earthly life is from the devil, and we are destined for heavenly life.
Thus, on this site, the only permissible activity will be quietly reciting prayers to God together. We will all be saved and free from sin, as innocent as newborns. OnlyFans has already started moving in this direction, but as president, I will finish the job.
So, today something strange happened with a fan I met the day before yesterday. We had a very nice conversation, and it seemed like there was mutual liking between us. Well, I definitely liked him, and he, in turn, seemed to be quite invested in me. There was no conflict between us, and the communication seemed balanced and not pushy.
Anyway, a couple of hours ago, I discovered that he had blocked me and deleted our conversation. I didn’t understand why.
From a rational perspective, it hurts because I’m not a bot or a scammer – I’m a real person, and I put time and creativity into my communication. Even though it’s a small job, it’s honest work, and I’m passionate about it, even though I could be spending my time on my own page or doing something else.
From an emotional perspective, it’s confusing and bitter because, again, I’m not a scammer or a bot. I get emotionally invested in the people I talk to, and I really love them if they are kind to me. It just happens that I can’t just sell vaginas for money; what I do is important to me, and I put my soul into it. I also quickly become attached to people when the communication goes beyond formality or light flirting. I don’t see the need to grow up or understand something – that’s just a trait of my personality, and I live with it. I believe that when I start deeper conversations with fans, I manage to convey this about myself.
Anyway, such events are really disheartening and destabilizing for me. I’m grateful for the medication I’m currently taking because it prevented my emotions from crushing me, and I didn’t end up in tears or pain.
Maybe I’m making a mistake, but I want to try to find that person. I hope it was just some misunderstanding.
To my dear fans with whom I actively communicate, I ask that if something suddenly bothers you about me and you want to stop talking or just delete your account, please let me know.
The Kuznetsov Applicator was invented in the late 1970s. Over 75 million sets of these needle mats were sold in the USSR, with each costing just one ruble.
In the late 1970s, Ivan Kuznetsov, a music teacher from Chelyabinsk, became a folk healer. He initially created the device to treat himself, but his invention ended up spreading across the Soviet Union. By the late 1980s, millions of these sets were being sold, even in grocery stores.
The modern Kuznetsov Applicator, often referred to as the Tibetan Applicator, is typically a fabric mat filled with soft padding. Its surface is covered with round or square plates that have pointed spikes.
Interestingly, the first applicator was a piece of foam with needles inserted into it in a specific order. Kuznetsov was self-taught in acupuncture and reflexology, applying all the knowledge and practical experience he had gained to his invention.
The applicator is applied to problem areas by pressing the spikes to the pain threshold. The needles stimulate 🩸 circulation, which helps the body distribute oxygen and nutrients more effectively. It relaxes muscles, provides pain relief, positively affects the nervous system, boosts 🩸 flow and metabolism, improves skin condition, and alleviates headaches.
It is most commonly used to address problems with the musculoskeletal system, such as scoliosis, radiculitis, osteochondrosis, spinal curvature, and for treating flat feet.
My dear ones, congratulate me—I’m pregnant! . . . . . . . . Pregnant with chicken and rice from a Chinese restaurant, three tangerines, and two chocolate Santas.
It’s a shame, though, because I’m absolutely obsessed with the idea of pregnancy. In real life, I talk about the whole process with disgust—how it ruins your health, and I have no desire for children at all. Part of that is true: carrying a baby while dragging yourself to work, living in constant stress, being unable to get proper sleep. Then spending days and nights with a baby because you can’t afford a nanny, stressing over work and money again, fearing your little one will be an outcast in kindergarten or school. Fearing they might repeat your path.
People often say murder is the worst sin. For me, bringing a new life into the world is much worse—you condemn a living soul to a life of suffering and a slow death, just for your own amusement.
But in my imagined world… it’s all different, of course. There, I’m soft and feminine, next to my calm, strong, imaginary partner. Our bond is incredibly close—we’re both outcasts in a way, but we’ve found a home in each other. I don’t worry about tomorrow—resources are endless, and there’s no need to put myself into grueling, scary studies or work. I’m safe.
With my partner, I feel calm, close to him, sincere. Our intimacy brings me joy and warmth. Just thinking about it makes my stomach flutter. I imagine the miracle of conception, the first signs of pregnancy. Should it be planned or a surprise? What does it feel like when your lover’s hands touch your growing belly? Thinking about it, I feel a kind of divine status. A special purpose, a meaning. It feels like the one thing I could do well and where I’d belong. My body aches for this—it’s like I’ve become hyper-aware of my fertility at this age.
I feel cautious about children, though—they don’t visually excite me, and I just see them as little people. And I don’t really like most people. I used to think I hated kids, but I’ve realized I hate parents. I despise people who drag a helpless, pink baby into noisy cafes, shopping malls, amusement parks, or bars. I hate my brother and his wife for bringing their little girl to visit us, while she—an incredibly patient and smart girl—ends up crying from exhaustion.
I hate it and my heart aches for these kids who aren’t even mine, and I can’t save them from it. It’s terrifying to think about a pure, kind little person coming into the world only to be ruined by two idiots who just enjoyed having sex. It’s terrifying to think about a baby just learning to walk, only to be thrown into the grinder of life and spat out onto the sidelines. That’s why I’m so cautious about children.
My life is far better than most, and even so, I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
But in my imagined world, I have seven children—boys and girls. They always know they’re loved, wanted, that their parents are their safety and protection. There’s enough money that they’ll study purely for knowledge and self-growth, not for some diploma. They’ll have any entertainment or hobby they choose, and they’ll always have access to healthcare if needed.
They’ll have strong, healthy self-esteem, and they’ll never experience the ugliness and unfairness of the world while they’re little. Nothing will break them as they grow, and their home will be their fortress, their parents their allies and protectors—not wardens. Their father will be deeply involved in their lives, protecting the family and inspiring pride and strength. Their mother will spend time with them, play with them, instead of working for a stranger and going to bed angry at the world. They won’t attend that madhouse of a school or have to obey idiot strangers.
I imagine walking with my partner through his enormous, dark castle, the corridors filled with the sound of loud footsteps and joyful laughter. And I think about nothing but love.
I’m lying in my lovely guest room on the second floor because my own room smells too strongly of dead mouse. Meanwhile, I can hear the screams of my brother’s one-and-a-half-year-old daughter from the first floor. Longtime readers will know what the situation at my house is like. So, my brother has once again shown up unannounced with his kid, as usual completely disregarding the fact that my mom had a full workday and might want to rest. Well, it’s common knowledge that intelligence and empathy are privileges, not guarantees, and my brother is entirely devoid of those privileges.
Today, I visited the bra shop of my favorite brand. A few days ago, I wanted to buy a specific bra online, but here’s the problem: the collection had just launched, yet only size 70 (European) with tiny cups was left in stock. And panties in size 36 (European). Here’s my burning question for lingerie manufacturers: how many women do you actually see who are willing to spend close to €100 on a set but have the body of a six-year-old??? For crying out loud, step outside! The most common sizes are 40–48 for bottoms and 80–90 C-E for bras. These sizes sell out first, like hotcakes.
Maybe someone among my followers can explain this, because I just don’t get it. Why not simply produce more of the relevant sizes and make more money from their sales?
I also wanted to say that this photo of me fully dressed seems very attractive to me personally. When I was a teenager, I used to draw all my female characters half-naked and loved playing games as heroines in bikini armor. But over time, that has changed a lot—now I find clothing most attractive when it doesn’t emphasize any feminine features, is layered, and feels unintentional. By that, I mean it doesn’t look like a carefully made outfit but rather just random clothing.
I like this not because it’s comfortable (although that’s a nice bonus) but specifically from an aesthetic perspective.
Good evening, or morning, or afternoon, my dear little sparkling stars. Take a look at this beautiful New Year’s arrangement my mom made for our home. For those who don’t know, my mom is a talented craftswoman and a highly creative person—she does a lot of embroidery and crafting, and the fruits of her labor can be found in every corner of our house.
I want to talk about a topic that sometimes causes me genuine frustration. It’s a… sensitive subject in today’s tolerant, progressive society. In real life, I’m quite blunt, but here, of course, I can’t express myself so freely, so I’ll be careful.
I was watching this one blogger. Her channel usually covers curious topics—conspiracies, murders, global mysteries. Even though the focus of her channel is clearly not beauty, she prepares for every episode with elaborate makeup and, honestly, rather revealing outfits. This has always made me a little uncomfortable, but, well, to each their own. However, today I watched her video about McDonald’s, and she outright said that she loves eating herself into such huge love handles that she can’t fit into pants the size of a parachute.
The thing is, this girl is objectively very slim, and she never hesitates to flaunt her perfectly flat stomach. And at that point, my patience finally overflowed. You are a person with an audience of thousands. Not only do you position your channel as educational while presenting yourself like a bordello queen, but you also have the audacity to fish for compliments through inappropriate self-deprecation. And this happens within 20 minutes of advertising gym wear—short shorts and a crop top showing off her bare midriff.
So, do you have body dysmorphia? Great, people will only support you—make a dedicated video with a clear title where you share your mental health struggles. But enough. ENOUGH spreading your nonsense to a massive audience of girls and teenagers. Stop presenting the idea that a female blogger’s content is only interesting if she looks like a sex worker. Stop lying that you’re not on a celery-stick diet. Enough, I’m sick of it. If you can’t shut your ignorant mouth or engage your one brain cell, go to OnlyFans and do whatever you want there, but don’t broadcast it to a general audience.
For many years, I was a victim of patriarchy, mocking and judging women for nearly everything. Now, I truly love and support women—unfortunately, thanks to low testosterone levels, they’ve been crushed as individuals for millennia. Yet, some women evoke a strong sense of disgust in me. These are women I don’t personally know—bloggers, actresses, singers, and so on. Lately, I’ve been thinking about why that is, and I’ve tried to articulate my thoughts.
What infuriates me are women who actively sexualize or emphasize patriarchally defined traits in their content, which is supposed to showcase activities completely unrelated to sexuality. Formally, there’s no intent to provoke sexual arousal or attraction in the audience. However, when describing their content, they fail to specify that their goal is to showcase eroticized physicality or behavior, instead presenting it as completely normal, everyday activity. For example, a girl posts a photo about hiking in the mountains, and instead of showing the views, emotions, gear, or experiences, she showcases her three-meter-wide butt in tight khaki shorts as the entire frame.
For a mature person with a developed personality and healthy self-esteem, it’s obvious this is about her butt, not the hike. But for the vast majority of viewers, it’s not. You might think, “It’s everyone’s personal choice what to post.” Yet somehow, fraud in a store or in services is legally prosecuted, but the lies spewed by these modern, tolerant, bold, progressive influencers are not. And they’re spewed not on 18+ platforms but to vast audiences of kids.
Remember the wonderful body positivity movement? Every actress probably jumped on that bandwagon. Where did the love for one’s body go when Ozempic came along? I thought self-love was about finding the right exercise, a good therapist, working on your hormones, and proper nutrition. But no, it turns out you just inject some crap, create a shortage of medication for diabetics because you’re swimming in money, and voilà. And don’t forget to show off your fabulous results in tiny thongs on a heavily photoshopped beach photo at some luxury resort.
All this madness is served under the guise of female empowerment, independence, and, of course, the famous fight against sexualization and patriarchy. But you know what? Men couldn’t care less. Those with brains have always known that women are people. The rest won’t hesitate to entertain themselves with teenagers, babies, animals, trees, and who knows what else.
But ordinary women, inspired by these so-called goddesses, will start wanting emaciation, hyperlordosis, surgeries on perfectly healthy bodies, tons of makeup and creams (to look like faces created by armies of surgeons, cosmetologists, and Photoshop), hair dryers and masks—without realizing that the celebrity in the ad is wearing a wig. Thongs instead of cotton underwear and impractical bikinis instead of comfortable swimsuits, leading to gynecologist visits for bacterial vaginosis.
Women constantly face criticism that what they do isn’t “feminine” enough, that they aren’t sexy or appealing enough. And these content creators—“streamers, doctors, students, chefs, fishers, travelers, gardeners”—shoving their boobs and butts in everyone’s faces fully reinforce this.
I hate this hypocrisy. I hate when friendly fire against women is disguised as a fake fight for equality, all while nurturing sexualization and shame within the female community itself.
Women are individuals. Surprise—they’re people too! Funny, witty, incredibly intellectual. And also very vulnerable, subjugated by invented standards for thousands of years. I want to believe that one day all these games with sexuality will remain on platforms like OnlyFans. And for the general audience, a woman will be seen, first and foremost, as a human being. As of today, people who should be criminally prosecuted for promoting a destructive lifestyle, fraud, and parasitism are held up as famous role models.
Today my friend and I went searching for a German cemetery from the World War I era. It took us a while to find the place because it’s located deep in the forest and surrounded by swamps. We met some locals in a nearby village and their dog, who helped us and pointed us in the right direction. As dusk fell, we finally found the cemetery. Nearby, on a small hill, there’s an old but very sturdy log house. It seems that wealthy peasants once lived here—there are two large stoves in the house, and the logs are in such good condition that you could simply replace the windows and move in.
It’s likely that during the war, the original owners either died or fled, and German soldiers moved in, eventually burying their comrades there. Every cross has a name and a date of death: 1915. It’s a strange feeling—ordinary, living people of all ages came so far to kill others, and now they lie here, in a tiny country in the middle of a forest near a swamp, with no one left to visit them. Only the old house remains. And yet, each of them had a name.
This morning, I woke up to the delightful fragrance of a magnificent corpse. The house I live in is very, very old. My family and I renovated it in 2017 to make it suitable for year-round living. However, the interior walls of the house remain old, with ancient wood and plenty of hollow spaces. So, during the colder months, mice of various species and kinds start making their way inside.
I love animals, so I use humane traps to catch them, and if it’s freezing outside, I keep them as temporary pets until the end of winter before releasing them back into the forest. Recently, some clever little creature took up residence in my room, right in the roof. It spent half the night scratching around, disturbing my sleep and my attempts to take naked photos for OnlyFans, yet I could never catch sight of it. I set up traps with cheese, but unfortunately, only my dogs seemed to fall for those.
Apparently, sometime yesterday or earlier, that clever one decided its time had come. And now its lifeless body lies somewhere in the ceiling, emitting a charmingly subtle aroma. These things usually clear up in about a week. Life of a forest girl, I suppose.
Hello, my dear sweet kittens, my little pastries. My mom invited me to a café today 🥺🥺🥺❤️ Also, for the first time, I was actually glad that a fan unfollowed me. He was a man nearing 60, with kids, didn’t mention if he was married, and apparently had a wealthy estate. I interacted with him in my usual style—joking, sending stickers. When I found out he had horses, I even joked that I’d marry him (hopefully, it was obvious I was kidding).
He said he’d read my posts, liked them, and commented on them. He used a lot of emojis, which makes me a bit uncomfortable when adults do it non-ironically. I can’t exactly pinpoint it, but something about this fan made me uneasy. He lacked vulnerability, playfulness, and sincerity. Everything subtly seemed to circle back to lust, though I can’t say that with 100% certainty—it was just a feeling.
For example, there was a strange moment when he read my post about sexual fantasies and commented that he now had an erection in the office. He even referred to it as his “little friend” or something like that. My close fans who read that post messaged me, shared what they felt, what they related to or didn’t, and how those thoughts resonated with them. Everyone clearly understood that the post wasn’t about sex, genitals, or anything crude—it was about trauma, coping, and dreams. But here I was, handed an office erection.
Another incident: while I was asleep, he sent me some kind of roleplay message about lying in bed with me, describing how his erection pressed against my backside. And apparently, this was meant to be serious. Now, I understand when fans I know well—fans I’ve discussed all sorts of things with—write silly, over-the-top, pornographic nonsense as a joke. It’s funny because we have mutual understanding and trust. Everyone who messages me knows I don’t do sexting—it’s even stated in my welcome message.
But what he wrote felt like… an invasion of my personal space. It was gross because this person, who supposedly read my posts and knew who I was, still thought it was okay to send something like that. I tried to turn it into a joke and said, “Why are you writing this to a literal kid? I just wanted horses and for you to buy my photos.” He wished me luck and unfollowed me.
I was left feeling confused and slightly contemptuous. As we say in Russian, he wanted to “sit on the dick and eat the candy.” My page has nude content—if that’s what interests you, just buy it. If I see you’re willing to spend money or pay for sexting, fine, I’ll do it. But for the love of God, don’t message me if you’re operating with the brain of a horny monkey, don’t see me as a person, and only throw in a few formal phrases to eventually shove your little gherkin my way.
My fans know perfectly well that I chat with them completely free of charge. We discuss everything—music, cars, relationships, health. My fans are all ages, and we treat each other with warmth and kindness, sharing jokes and personal thoughts. Even those who regularly buy all my paid photos are incredibly polite, making me feel safe and motivating me to create more content.
But this guy—an old man, old enough to be my father—virtually rubbing his erection on me while clearly not planning to spend a dime, even though he’s not in financial need? Why even write to me and waste my time? And worse, why lie about being able to read?
I looked at pictures of the Titanic before bed, and now I’m afraid to go to the bathroom in the dark. I feel like the Titanic is coming for me. It looks like an ominous corpse.
I have no idea how copyright works on OnlyFans, but just so you know, I took these photos myself when I was diving into the river with scuba gear yesterday, and all rights belong to me.
I’m really surprised that anyone even cares about the survival of humanity as a mass. I just stumbled upon a bunch of popular science videos on YouTube, and this theme kept coming up, like, “Oh, it’s so horrifying, the Earth will die, and humans will fly to another planet, and it will be so terrible, temperatures of 100500 degrees, but otherwise we’ll disappear,” and so on. Like… who even cares about this? The vast majority of people either won’t live to see that day or will die when some catastrophe hits. Maybe for some people who have money to spare, this is important, but it’s definitely not for me, and certainly not for my followers. I understand worrying about how to enrich your life and the lives of your loved ones while we’re still alive and together. Or trying to improve the lives of those who are here and now in trouble, and you can actually make a difference. But thinking about humanity as an abstract mass and trying to create cheap drama over it? I don’t get it. Humanity doesn’t hold that much value. It’s just a regular dumpster. Maybe the only meaning lies in love.
I also watched the talk show “Мужское/Женское,” I don’t know what the equivalent is in English, but the point is, people come on with all sorts of problems (family disputes, tragedies, property division, neighbor fights, conflicts with housing authorities, etc.). The vast majority of these people, to put it mildly, are far from the standards of physical and intellectual health. They live in what is practically a slum, eating pasta with cockroaches for snacks. They drink. And yet, they have 5-10 kids. What I don’t understand is that to drive a car, you have to learn and pass a test. To buy a house, you need to work for years. To live in relative comfort, you have to pay taxes. But to create a generation of genetically, socially, pedagogically, and morally abandoned people, you don’t need to do anything. That’s just a basic human right. Sterilization is evil. But poverty, suffering, violence, and alcoholism are cool.
Guys, I just left the gym and am blessing you with this beautiful Slavic smile. God forbid anyone gets clinical depression—it’s hell. I mean, I’m supposedly healthy, but I’m so drained. I stand up after a set on a machine to walk around and let my muscles recover, and I just want to pass out. I also constantly feel nauseous during physical activity or even just being upright. It’s absolute hell, and I’m really scared that it’ll always be like this.
It’s so surprising to me that people actually spend money to see my naked body. I’m not judging; it’s just strange that people enjoy masturbating to something so… ordinary, so down-to-earth, I guess. And they like feeling some kind of connection, even a minimal one, with the person in the photo. It’s so foreign to me, which is probably why I don’t understand it.
An anti-aesthetic post. Those who follow me might remember that a couple of days ago, I lost touch with an online friend I met on OnlyFans and later chatted with on Telegram. “Friend” might be too strong a word since we barely knew each other, and my account is still very new. Yet, every day I open Telegram and look at our conversation, hoping that the account is no longer deleted. But it still is.
From the beginning, I assumed he was just taking care of his own business and didn’t feel the need to inform me before deleting his accounts. That’s probably a normal thing to do. But it really upset me because I get attached to people very quickly—it’s just how I am. He would have liked the nude photos from my previous post since he was a big fan of cholesterol 🥴🥴🥴🥴
Then this morning, another dear fan of mine wrote that they plan to delete their account for personal reasons. I know it’s not gone yet, so if you’re reading this—I’m not trying to guilt-trip or manipulate you, and I deeply apologize if it seems that way. But my heart sank a little when I read that message, barely awake.
The fans I talk to feel like building blocks of my page. They help me push boundaries, try new things, come up with ideas, and enjoy sweet, heartfelt conversations. It’s probably an immature reaction, but when fans like that leave for good, it makes me feel like dropping everything I’m doing. It’s this sense of inner inadequacy.
