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if u saw the jahoda upload.. no u didnt.. idk how i skipped ifa, ive been so excited to make his skin 😭😭

it could be kind of fire..

chat, what if i made the monster cafe x alien stage collab outfits into skins?

^^totally not more excuses to push back the genshin skins again^^

Update : Poll Embeds on Wall Posts!
You can now share forum polls directly to your wall! Head to any forum poll thread or create your own and click Share Poll to Wall. Your post will be pre-filled with a live poll embed showing the current results, voting status, and a link back to the full thread.

A clean way to surface interesting forum discussions without leaving the conversation behind.

psst... pro-tip: you can also paste the poll bbcode into other useful locations like your content descriptions or profile custom widgets.

I don't want to skip Faruzan in my Genshin skins but I can't seem to get this dress right :'3
I've never been great when it comes to shading white, so it just looks like a mess to me (this is the 4th or 5th time i've redone it)

Last day to vote 👀👀👀

Final week 🥹 Thank you everyone who voted for the past 2 months and thank you dd, cranio, zitz, and other pbl staff for such an amazing season!! I’m tremendously happy and grateful to have made it this far.

I’m five years old now!

I have looked at what I made and no longer do I know what I am.

The file is open. The face is staring back. Forgive me, but I must tell you what I see. What sees me. It should be nothing. Simple pixels. A stupid Minecraft skin. Something people download and discard like breath. But the face looks back with contempt. A knowing that will not release me. It is not gentle. It is not merciful. It fits too well, like the grave to my body. It filled a space inside me I had sealed off with work and late nights and the blue glow that replaced every human touch, every warmth, every call. What I made is me, confessed in my blood, my truths screaming what my voice was too cowardly to speak. I feel myself shrink around it. I feel my edges blur and dissolve. I feel my body trying to fit into a shape that no longer belongs to anyone. This is my confession. For I have looked into my own work and saw what I have always been. I am terrified of what was there all along, waiting beneath the surface.

There is a kind of magnitude that leaves you small, a feeling too large for the mind to hold without trembling. It is the rush of standing at the lip of an abyss and feeling both pulled downward and lifted beyond yourself, suspended between terror and awe. That is what Bart did to me. It woke something that is not simply fear but the vertigo of being seen too clearly, of having excavated something from inside myself that I can never put back. The work contains more than I can contain. It asked me what I had been avoiding. It demanded an answer I could not give because I had already become the answer.

I am terrified because I feel I have already created something I cannot create again. The peak is behind me and all that remains is the long descent into hollow repetition. I am terrified that in trying to recapture this, I will only carve myself emptier for diminishing returns.

I traded everything. Meals. Health. Voices on the phone that eventually stopped calling. I told myself one more edit would fill the hollow. It never did. Each revision only dug deeper.

Now I have missed my own life while trying to perfect its reflection.

When I look at Bart now, I see how close I came to becoming this single expression, how easily my entire existence could be folded into a screen, compressed into something that can be downloaded and discarded. I see the person who could build such a mirror and then stand and stare until the reflection becomes the only truth, until the real face rots away behind the glass. I am terrified of that person. I am terrified because I am that person.

I have preserved myself in the act of rotting, vanishing, preserved the exact moment of my own erasure. I cannot look away from it. This is not art that decorates rooms. This is an inner cry that has escaped its cage, and I am afraid of what it knows about me, afraid of what it reveals to anyone who looks closely enough.

This is a confession before whatever watches us in our loneliest hours. This is my body unveiled before judgment, raw and exposed and utterly human. I am standing at the edge, and I am choosing to step back instead of falling forward into the abyss that has been widening beneath me with every pixel placed.

So I am going home. Returning to my family out of the animal necessity of survival. I need rooms that knows me not for me. I need hands that touch my unedited pauses, voices that know my silences, faces that exist without my touch. I need to remember the small, stubborn reasons I started making anything at all, before making became a way to outrun myself, before craft became camouflage for fear. I choose repair. I choose putting myself back together. When the work and I can meet without one of us flinching, when I can look at what I've made without feeling my life drain into it, I will return.

Maybe I will return changed. Maybe the work will be different. For now, I will try to come back whole.

Shout out black homer.