Why I think posting finished commissions is weird

 So here’s where I’m at with it — if I ever do a commission and it turns out amazing, yeah I might have that temptation to show it off. Like that little ego spark that’s like damn I snapped, the world needs to see this. And honestly, I get why artists post their commission work. It’s their art, it’s their skill, and there’s pride in that.

But at the same time… someone paid for that. Like actually paid real money for their OC, their character, their concept. Half the time, the subject of the commission isn’t even something the artist owns — it belongs to the person who requested it. So posting it feels a little off to me, like sharing something that was meant to be personal. It’s technically yours because you created it, but also they invested in it. There’s a weird dual ownership that I don’t think people talk about enough.

And then there’s the internet — the messy part. People steal everything. You can watermark, you can say “don’t repost,” you can scream it in all caps, and still someone will crop it, recolor it, AI-trace it, slap it on Pinterest, or make it their profile picture like they birthed the character themselves. It happens all the time. And imagine being the person who paid $50, $70, $100+ for a fully colored, full-body piece of your OC, only to see it floating around as some random person’s icon. That would make my skin crawl.

Yeah, artists deal with art theft even on non-commission pieces — that’s nothing new. But it hits different when money, trust, and someone’s personal creation is involved. It’s not just art anymore, it’s sentimental + financial value tied together.

I’m not bashing anyone who posts their commissions. Post your work, build your portfolio, get your exposure — you’re allowed. It’s your craft and your right. But my personal stance is just that some commissions feel like they should stay private, kept between the artist and the commissioner like a little sealed envelope. Sometimes art is special because not everyone sees it.

And that’s okay.

-404

Blushes Don’t Mean Crushes

 Being bi (or pan, whatever label feels less wrong that day) is… complicated. Not in the “who do I like?” way, because I know who I like. I love my boyfriend, and I don’t want anyone else. That part’s simple. The complicated part is how my body reacts to literally everything, even when my mind and heart are completely set.

Like—I’ll be loyal, happy, completely secure, not thinking about anyone but him. And then someone says or does something small and suddenly I’m flustered for no reason. It’s not a crush, it’s not feelings, it’s just this dumb reaction I can’t control.

Here’s the thing: I made a new friend recently. She’s dating one of my old friends (both of them are awesome). We’ve only hung out maybe three times and texted less than twenty messages. Brand new friendship. Then one day, she ends a reply with “love you.” Just casual, not romantic, just how some people talk. And I blushed. My face was hot, I was stuttering, and in my head I’m like—why am I like this?? I don’t like her like that, I don’t want her, but my body still acted like it was caught off guard.

And this kind of thing happens a lot. A certain song plays around me, someone stares too long, someone brushes my arm, or says something kind, and it hits me. My chest does this little jump, my stomach flips. I don’t catch feelings. I don’t develop crushes. But still—it happens.

It’s frustrating because it feels like it makes no sense. Like my brain and my body are on two completely different channels. My brain: “I’m in love, I’m loyal, I’m good.” My body: “haha blush machine go brrrr.”

And then there’s labels. If I say I’m bi, people think I want everyone. If I say I’m pan, people still assume the same thing. If I say “I only want my boyfriend,” people are quick to slap “straight” on me. But none of those fit. I do find women attractive. I do feel that pull toward people sometimes. But when it comes down to it, I don’t want anyone but him. Period.

So I guess that’s where I’m at. Blushes don’t mean crushes. They don’t mean attraction, they don’t mean anything’s missing in my relationship. They’re just these random, dumb sparks that don’t match what’s really going on inside me.

At the end of the day, I only want him. Everything else is just noise my body hasn’t learned to ignore yet.

Anyways see you later, alligators! -404DirtBag

Perfume Can’t Hold You at Night

 Saw a TikTok earlier.

A woman said, “Men’s perfumes are better than men themselves.”

At first glance? It’s meant to be a joke. A harmless post.

But the more I sat with it, the more off it felt.

Because I know that if a man said something like, “Makeup is better than women,” the internet would break. People would tear into him. And not just him—every guy would suddenly feel like they had to explain themselves or pick a side.

And I’m tired of that.

This constant cycle of “Men are trash,” “Women are liars,” “All men cheat,” “All women use you,” “Stay single forever,” is just… sad. Tired. Like we forgot we’re all human. Like we don’t all bleed, cry, screw up, heal.

I get it—some of these posts come from hurt.

Real hurt.

I’ve had trauma from both genders.

I’ve been lied to, used, molested, abused, manipulated—by people. Not just men. Not just women. People.

And I’m not trying to “both sides” this to be neutral. I’m saying stop generalizing.

Stop turning your pain into a grenade you throw into a crowd of strangers who had nothing to do with it.

Like… think about the 12-year-old boy scrolling TikTok.

He sees a post that says “Men are disgusting” or “Men deserve nothing.”

He’s still trying to figure himself out.

Still laughs too hard at dumb jokes.

Still learning how to treat people.

Still too scared to raise his hand in class.

He’s never even held someone’s hand yet, but already feels like he’s done something wrong just by being born a boy.

He sees these posts and doesn’t fully get why they hurt, but he feels it.

Feels the shame building in his chest.

Feels like maybe he has to make up for something he never did.

Feels like he has to say sorry just for existing.

Not because he’s fragile. Not because he can’t take a joke.

But because no one deserves to grow up thinking they’re the villain in someone else’s story before they even get to write their own.

Now think about the 12-year-old girl reading those same posts.

She’s not angry—she’s scared.

Scared of men she doesn’t know.

Scared of her own dad sometimes, even if he’s never raised his voice at her.

Scared of her big brother, even if he’s the sweetest person in the world.

She goes to bed nervous in her own house. Lays awake wondering if she’s really safe.

She wonders how her parents even ended up together.

How she was born.

Was it by force? Was her mom okay? Is her mom still okay?

She carries fear that was planted in her by strangers on the internet.

People who never met her, never met her family.

Fear that doesn’t match her life, but feels real anyway.

And her brother?

He’s probably lying in the next room, scrolling through TikTok, feeling like he’s broken.

Feeling like he’s hated just for being a boy.

Both of them hurting for different reasons—and neither of them knowing why.

That’s how the cycle continues.

We talk about protecting girls—and we should.

But don’t forget that boys are human too.

They cry when no one’s looking.

They’re abused too.

They’re manipulated too.

And when all they see is hate aimed at people who look like them, they shut down.

They give up on trying to be soft.

They start thinking “Why care if people hate me anyway?”

You don’t have to love men. You don’t even have to forgive the ones who hurt you.

But if you’re gonna talk about pain—be specific.

Don’t throw the whole gender in the fire just because a few of them tried to burn you.

You can talk about your trauma. You can call out the people who hurt you. You can throw those people in a metaphorical bag and chuck them in a lake.

Just don’t drag every stranger down with them.

We need each other.

Even if the internet tries to convince you otherwise.

Even if you’ve been burned.

Even if you’re scared to say it out loud.

Perfume smells nice.

But it can’t listen to you cry.

It can’t apologize.

It can’t hold your hand.

It can’t grow.

People can.

If we let them.

“Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everyone.

If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.”

—Romans 12:17–18

Cya soon, 404dirtbag out. :)

Mother, Mask, Media

 Okay, so I am not a big writer. I have a few problems when I write, like typing too fast, misclicking letters, just not knowing how to spell due to being dyslexic, but I still wanted to make a blog post. Shit post?? I don't know what to call this, but welcome to my blog, where I will talk about everything and maybe nothing simultaneously. On my blog, I will be raw and maybe brutally honest, so here we go. This is my first blog called Mother, Mask, and Media. I will be ranting about my day and how my thoughts take over once again. You can call me 404dirtbag. So today is 05/20/2025, aka March 25th, it's Tuesday, 12:57 pm as I write this. Okay, let's get to the point. Growing up was different for me than it was for others, obviously that's how it is, but I truly struggled 80% of my life, money-wise, food-wise, mentally/emotionally, and physically. No one taught me a lot of things, no offense to my mother. I know she tried, but my memory is fuzzy when it comes to the teaching part. It could have been my fault? I also struggled in school since elementary school. I will say though some of those teachers really picked favorites and it was very irritating some of them saw me as helpless and maybe even retarded at times. It was like that for my whole 12 years of school, and somehow I didn't have to redo any grade; maybe they just wanted to push me along so they didn't have to deal with me. But like I was saying, I didn't know a lot of things, whether it was how to cook, how to do math, how to take care of myself and etc. I just didn't know what to do or what I was doing, not emotionally, not physically, not mentally. My mother took care of herself sometimes, that is for sure, she knew how to dress in her way, how to do her makeup, how to stand when they wanted her to fall, but I guess those things never really got passed down to me. But what child back then would care about all that? But then again, it gets to a point where you aren't a kid anymore and you have the will to watch tutorials and look nice, and not even just that, just be nice, keep your room clean, and not be messy. Now my mother wasn't cruel, necessarily; it could have been worse, of course. I have to give her props, though. It was all our first times living and surviving. She didn't have the time to teach me those things because she was doing the right thing, which was working to put food on the table with little to no help. Now me? I didn't really have the motivation. Depression played a big part in it all. We didn't have the money for nice clothes or skincare routines or even to experiment with what "style" could be. So I stopped caring. What was the point?

Now I live with my in-laws, and they always look good. They are put together, stylish, and confident. And being around them makes me kinda insecure and self-conscious. I start to worry: do I look like a bum next to them? My other always said I looked like a bum when I was going to school or something. I had a hoodie on 90% of the time with so much dog hair on it and jeans with shoes ripping because she would buy us clothes once a year for school, and it would probably be 5 things like 2 shirts, a pair of jeans, if you're lucky, shoes, and socks. Christmas was nice, I guess, because we would also get clothes, but why do I have to get clothes on Christmas when I know I'll be in my bed sulking, not wearing them till school comes around, but then again, it was an excuse to not get clothes for school. Now, don't take what I say about my mother wrong, there is always more than just the parts I talk about here in this blog. I love my mother, I just wish she or maybe we did things differently. Now, back to the in-laws, I worry when I'm near, not only do I look like a bum, but when I try, do I look like I'm doing too much or trying too hard? Like I'm wearing a costume that doesn't quite fit?

The truth is, I still don't know what my style is. I don't think I've had the chance to figure that out yet. If I had the money, maybe I could play around more, try different things, find myself in the process. But the internet makes it all look so easy, like people saying "just thrift" are often the ones who've never had to worry about money in their lives. It's annoying. Tone-deaf. Unrelatable. 

So when it comes time to go somewhere, like the library with my in laws today I end up doom-scrolling on tik tok and pinterest for outfit ideas, knowing damn well I don't own anything like what i'm seeing. It messes with my head. Why am I depending on social media to tell me who I am? Why can't I just... know?

Why have we normalized looking outward instead of inward to find ourselves?

I don't know. Maybe I'm weird for giving in to it. Maybe this is all part of the process. But it's frustrating. I'm trying to unlearn shame and figure out who I am outside of poverty, a scary word, poverty. Some have it worse than I, and I'm sorry you do, because I feel like I had it pretty rough. Not just outside of poverty, but outside of depression, outside of not having a foundation to start with.

Thank you for reading this. if you're someone whos struggling like I am, trying to figure out who you are, how to take care of yourself or how to feel like you belong, I see you. i wish you luck, patience, and peace as you figure it out, Were not alone, even if it feels like it sometimes. See you in the next post, 404dirtbag out.