would love to b able to have music playing when ppl visit my profile-- its cliche but it rocks. also, like ppl have said below: the ability to add more than 1 photo in a post. u tempt us yet force us into monk-like pensive states trying to figure out what singular photo gets chosen. it's a blessing & a curse
Feb 25, 2025
Related Recs
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no more perfectly curated #messy twenty-photo carousel dumps on instagram with captions designed to give off the perfect casual effortless vibe even tho u thought about the right emoji to use for at least ten minutes. bring back posting an individual photo as our forebears once did... give that photo room to breathe.. post more than once if your heart desires… take up space…
Jan 16, 2025
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you dont have to be the same person u were 10 mins ago. bonus points if others dont get notified
Feb 23, 2024
I love the constraints of PI.FYI — stirs creativity!
although tyler I don't get why the thumbnail image is going grayscale upon upload
Oct 18, 2024
Top Recs from @pleasersjunkie
Feb 25, 2025
"I want to be your vacuum cleaner, breathing in your dust /
I wanna be your Ford Cortina, I will never rust"
John Cooper Clarke made one of the most romantic songs I've ever heard during this month. Devoting rituals to a person, rubbing lotion into their skin, thinking of them in deep oceans... Our desires are strengthened by pressure, like a muscle. I think JCC exercised that. Being on someone's mind is the greatest form of intimacy between two lovers, true intimacy in wanting to be the chair they sit on, the pillow they sleep on, the dirty engine running their car-- a miasma of devotion. Throughout abstract lyrics, you can make out the faces of our lovers-- a secretive expression of joy on their faces, the posturing of their arms raised high, a divinely muted memory. God, I want to want as much as he does on this song. It's all about want, want, want.
You call the shots. I wanna be yours xx
Feb 25, 2025
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How fortunate am I, how unfortunate am I, that again I bathe under the sun. I derive no pleasures from my womanly pain, grief felt deepest, the steel boot on my hand. The ending sun continues boiling the pavement; It chews me up, rarely swallows.
No one makes me feel crazier than other women. No one spits on my fallen trough more than men. Constantly rejected by those who object me, those who ogle, those who take screenshots of my body like passing thoughts through their minds. The outsider .
I’m on flight F9396 and the sun burnt my hand raw.
Mar 17, 2025