May is proceeding beautifully here in East Tennessee. Hard to recall such a pleasant one as this one. Temps are not too hot, no crazy flooding rains, no tornado outbreaks, or early mosquito wars. The wild edging green still closes in with its usual grim intent, but at a slower pace. Not so bad. May is a month of deep violent weirdness for me, so if it passes in relative smoothness, I feel graced in some way. Privileged, even. The horrors of May remembrance are still there, but submerged, muted, tolerable. For now.
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was working outside today, down at one far end of the building, and I overheard some dudes talking about how good this corner was, and how the police never bother them. There's actually a police station up a block. Then they crossed the street and one guy took money from a couple and then a third dude came walking down the sidewalk, pretended to greet them as if they were long lost friends, and performed an ever not so sly hand off. Drug dealers are fucking morons.
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There are dipshits discussing how to be Lovecraftian while dissing Lovecraft's actual writing ability even now as we speak. Please, lord of Lords, never let me descend to that level of pretentious douchebaggery. I don't even like Lovecraft. Is this what asswipes in the digital publishing world actually do for 20, 50, bucks a story? If I'm going to be an asswipe it's going to be on my own terms.
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The writers for 'Revenge' are some pretty entertaining 'audience sluts'. They get who they're fucking with and appeasing at the same time, and yet manage to keep a straight face on an ever contorting plotline. Madeleine Stowe is a genius actress portraying Victoria Grayson, usurping even Susan Lucci's soap world drama queen extraordinaire, Erica Cane. I both hate this show and love it at the same time. The show is way too protracted and shoddy for its own good, kind of like 'Lost', but never pretends to be anything more than a prime time Soap Opera in the tradition of 'Dallas' or 'Alias'. It really is the bastard child of those two shows..
rusty brown rocks
The Darkest Way Yet
Let me tell you a real story of suicide. My mother stabbed herself 144 times in 2003. Want the ME report? I'll show you, if you want. If you want to utterly destroy the lives of the people who love you, go ahead. She took 2 knives and and slowly progressed from abdomen to her neck area, with about 75% of the wounds hesitation, testing, until she finally went deep enough and furiously enough to bleed to death. 144 total knife wounds. She was 50 when she did it, distraught addict, thief and close to homelessness. I have the same disease she had. Grow up.
ideas for the giallo type thing.. maybe a short story that is a miniature giallo.. black glove, series of murders connected to our Newton fella... Newton is haunted by gunfire, but that never becomes a focus in story. Also his mother was either murdered or suicided in the past. May be relevant to current series of Ms. Girl interest--SOLARES-- at the homeless shelter. She's homeless;;;; employees not supposed to get involved with clients. Everyone around him, fellow employees, the homeless, his family, either ignore him or treat him poorly. Newton is a sad sack. Cellphones and cameras have to be taken into account.. this is modern day. but still want a 70s giallo feel. A brooding older cop--LANGERLIN-- hassles him, thinks he's a suspect. Chased down alleys by hoodlums. Invites Solares to his apartment for dinner.. she sets him up for a robbery. Beat up in alley. He passes a playground and children make fun of him with his bruised, swollen face...
it's weird how sometimes words hide in stuffy old broomclosets deep inside your brain
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novel premise: based loosely on Benton family/Jennifer Wix disappearance. She's alive and in the background, raising her daughter, refuses to let anyone know she's alive. A PI is on to her trail, but becomes captivated with her mysterious dropping out. She's content to let her family think she's dead and that the Bentons killed her. The two families rip each other apart, and she still remains in the background, occasionally checking in.
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fuckin' dreams... storms again, flooding on the second floor, rain-soaked computer working perfectly, mosquitoes turning into mind controlled baby dragons, then the dragons become obsessed with their human masters....
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Already sobering up this afternoon... time to revitalize this buzz, get my troll face on, get my shit right, get right with the forces of fate, dust off my tap shoes, pet my pretty mama as if it were the last time, grease the monkey, free the monkey, shock the monkey, find out who my friends really are, dig deep, dig shallow, put mascara on your shadow, till the earth with my finger puppets, find a way to make it mean more than the math suggests, crucify last lizard thoughts, jump out of my skin and dance around the fire a blood nude tornado...
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ou think Facebook is bad with its knee jerk censorship and bot bans, try using reddit and getting constantly slashed into non existence by their auto-moderators. LOL Eventually being a 'troll' will be a crime. The act of 'trolling' can be so broadly defined by those with censorship power, the word will be akin to 'pot smoker' or 'drug dealer' or 'sex trafficker'-- it's a little frightening. I seriously think in ten to twenty years, calling the wrong person an 'idiot' will get you jail time. Or at least, some mandatory brain chemistry alterations. Judge: '2 years in jail, or 6 months of e-infused anti-psychosis drugs and mood stabilizers?'
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This thread for lazy motherfuckers like me. How can I properly motivate myself to do anything anymore? I just don't have the energy. Maybe I should start smoking crystal meth again. I don't know. It's very exhausting, this fat assed gravity, this paralysis of mid life depression, cynicism and failure. You wouldn't think doing nothing could be exhausting but it can be. The mountain is too high to climb, the oxygen tank is filled with equal parts laughing gas and carbon monoxide, there are taliban militants hiding behind every crag, snow cornice and cave, george mallory's bones are laughing at me, and that 1000 meter free fall to instant oblivion is looking more and more enticing with each passing day. So, what motivates you? Where do you get your confidence to write? Just who do you think you are anyway, Hemingway?
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Morality isn't the biggest wave of your life so you can pretend you're the coolest bravest Patrick Swayze impersonator. That wave will crush you like a minor avalanche on a Swiss town of impotent dicks. There are no special tickets to a wonderland beyond your dreams for supreme calmness or reckless sweating for Jesus. No one pays a year's salary for a fortnight of comatose ecstasy and lives to tell the real truth about their past lives. No one eats nightshade and seeks a yoga instructor for the weekend.
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pretty brilliant: "The world is complex, nuanced, zero-sum in many places, and without clear answers or clear winners. In the real world, some people get screwed. In the real world, there isn't enough for everyone. In the real world, we have sociopaths and power-mongers. In the real world, people are violent towards each other. In the real world, we have people who do the right thing because they feel it is right and will die to make it happen, and people who do the opposite, among many others along the spectrum of behavior and ethics. These anarchist and libertarian systems don't have room for the real world. They don't have plans for sociopaths and oligarchs. They don't value convention. They don't understand that the state neither created violence nor enhanced it. Quite the opposite, aside from wars, which have been diminishing. And when it is pointed out that it is precisely the parts of the world where the rule of law is not respected and a central state either doesn't exist or has limited power there is the greatest violence, the anarchist dodges, or claims that the concept of the state is somehow still responsible for this violence. A heavily corrupted state with no respect for life or ethics is a dangerous thing, but the violence comes in controlled waves affecting a few. This can be mitigated. The anarchist society is always at war with itself, always in turmoil. The violence touches everyone all the time. History shows this to be true. The modern period shows this to be true. The greatest bringer of peace and justice, horrible though it still be, has been the republic, the rule of law, the respect for the institution and the conventions of a well-ordered society, and the solidarity that comes along with it. The future is not anarchy, never has been, never will be. The anarchists have always been around, and they have always been failing, miserably, every single time. They don't win because anarchist systems don't work."
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peeling away the layers of life, down through the stratum basale, to a raw vestigial pain beyond remembering, to childhood gatherings of bone and bits of exposed nerve tissue, to muscle not fully developed, wrapping tightly around the shadow first cause of absolute meaning and dripping wax of phony parental absolution... go deep, receiver of nothing, conqueror of paper thin end zones. But how good does it feel to be so deep inside, inside, inside, and you're never coming back out?
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The Greatest Magic Trick.. a magician goes from town to town really sawing women in half.
I swear if God decided to suddenly make his presence known right now and shower the world with psychedelic sparkly shit and reanimated dead relatives, there'd still be some snarky asshole making some crypto-hip sarcastic comment and God would be totally justified in annihilating the entire human race in a flick of a cosmic flyswatter.
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William Peter Blatty's last wish is to puke on Linda Blair's corpse.
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I love the pained expressions on managers' faces when I asked them to actually train me properly on something. Just the small scale sadist in me. I get home office is shaking up management with whole scale changes, one best way, 'restructuring', however you want to call it, but if you want actual less stress, show me how to do shit right and certainly, you sad fucking overpaid dopes.
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Walked my dog today, close to sunset.. was a fairly pleasant temperature for early September. Watched this young couple pass me and walk down the path towards the river, a young couple in love, smiling, laughing, bodies close together like you'd expect... each lover quite entranced with their cell phones, tapping away independently, blissfully unaware of their surroundings.. I had to sidestep away from them so they wouldn't blunder right into me and my dog... (yeah straight out of a Louie episode), and I saw them finally stop down by the riverbank and look up at each other for a split second and laugh, one of those privately knowing intimate laughs of young lovers, then another split second regard the river view and stunning September horizon, then right back to the cell phones, tapping, tapping, tapping away.
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Women are utterly 100% lesser people than men. They can't play games as well, can't run companies as well, can't do literally anything better than men. Even sports without the obvious physical superiority, like billiards, they are still light years worse. Chess players, men are dominant. Period. Your brains aren't as amazing or prolific. I'm a proud misogynist. Women writers suck. Women scientists are lame. I'd rather have a drunk male average surgeon doing a life saving operation on me than the 'world's best' female surgeon. Women are inferior. You all suck. Pussies naturally stink, men can wash their balls.
---the moral superiority is astounding.. not only did the cop lie about Ozuna choking her, she's also guilty of DV herself. The bodycam video is sketchy at best. There were rumors she came at him with a knife before the cops showed up, and given her track record, I completely believe it. And another cop basically lied about how much he was speeding. And he passed the field sobriety test. Notice how no one is condemning the cop for basically pretending Ozuna was going 90 mph in a 45 zone. He definitely wasn't. And now the DUI charges will be dropped. But the scapegoat will be Ozuna anyway, and the falsifying cops get passes. Cop apologists, liberal kneejerk moralists and Georgia Trumptard voters all win. Because they're all equally stupid af.
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so you've come to this red door begging?
you are dead without your witches, your
hopeless spine children, filthing up the streets
and saucing the sewers, praising you like a
dog on command. you sponge of magic,
sopping sod of deceit... where will you go
next? whose door will you defile? so, I'm just
supposed to let you pass, because you seek
the sick green light beyond my door? your
witches scattered years ago, and now there's
nothing more... lassitudinaal and broken
libertine, you haven't the energy now to scoop
them up, but I shall let you pass. you sick
dog of dogs, vomit of jesus won't save you,
but approach and pass this last red door.
I shall reproach you no more. your children are
dead and the sewers run with gore. come my
sweet sick dog, hook your spine no more.
---kneeling on my burnt flag of discontent and feeling patriotic, slightly Mishima-ish, nationalistic, but realistic, anthropogenic and fantastic, ready to take on the short sun day with landfill flowers and fireworks, logic lava and volcano erections...
---I've murdered so many people in my dreams, I'm starting to get confused if I haven't done so in some reality.. lol Dream/story idea.
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So this song reminds me of the best and also dumbest side of my younger self. Life was crazy, macabre, weirdly serial, and un-online. Nothing centralized or monetized tried to tabulate your petty fuck ups for some ass clown random to preach upon your immoral soul, and actually have followers. 1990s was driving fast and drunk, high as a motherfucking PCP laced kite without a care, taxi service for the damned and contemporary degenerates, roaming pool hall to bar to night club, seeking whatever sweet dark nectar could be sucked out for the vampire populace...
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this comment of yours incites hate against a random group of unnamed people that you 'deem' bad or damaging. 'All the liars.." Well who specifically. (Besides Alex Jones..) Why aren't his minions who actually harassed the Sandy Hook family members being held to punitive fines? If I say Mrs. Goat was a witch-- when everyone knows she wasn't a witch, because witches aren't real-- and a thousand people who take my thought literally go out and harass Mrs. Goat, why aren't they more guilty than I? Am I really responsible for what the lunatic public does with my random whacky pronouncements? For which I specifically deem entertainment and not literal truth? Pass that on, Pam.
--book title, Southern Dervishes
---- 2014, Nov Dead quiet here, not many showed up at the first night of the Winter Shelter.. cold enough, but the Salvation Army is open too.. they're not going to do that all winter long though. They have cots and coffee, we have thin prison mats and enormous candied and caramel apples, donated by Lake Winnie people. You literally have to eat through a three inch layer of caramel to get to apple. It's the apple and caramel mixing that is supposed to be the point, not the insanity of never-ending caramel nightmare. Too much jaw torture involved.
---book title, The County of My Birth, The County of My Death
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Last night in the dark there was a man who came up to us at the desk and said calmly, "Need to go to the hospital." We asked him what was wrong and all he said was, "my hydrocele busted." We're like, wtf... Then he came into the light a bit and we noticed his pants covered in blood. Lots of fucking blood too. I thought immediately he had been stabbed. He kept repeating his hydrocele, his hydrocele broke. Didn't know what the fuck that was. Turns out it's an abscess inside the scrotum. His was particularly severe. His balls were like three times the normal size, and apparently one had ruptured. An ambulance took him away, but two hours later he came back. Said they stitched him up and sent him packing. He being a homeless dude and broke, had to walked the three miles from the hospital back to the night shelter with a patched up exploded ball. That's a tough walk. Should have given him my number, had I known the hospital was going to do that, I would have driven to pick him up.
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She held her giddy, frantic thoughts inside for nearly a month, but you could see how she was different from the get go. Those long vacations in the women's bathroom, sometimes falling asleep in there, the way she separated herself from the rest, taciturn, fragile but still somehow complete. Murmured speech, fast, young movements, the occasional ballerina spin-- still a girl wrapped inside there, hanging on to the cocoon past natural time. But as time went on she began to crack little by little, strange outbursts, giggling at odd moments, talking to herself more and more. About what only she or her maker knows. If even them. Still always reading that fucking Bible-- like it's a cure for anything. An antidote to the poison feeding her brain from the inside. Her brain is creating its own poison, to destroy itself, to change itself. Slowly rotting thought, sending it into random miasmas, and still those eyes feeding on the Word like it's a substitute for a mother. And where the fuck is Mother? What caused that separation so early in her adulthood? Strange, strange. And yet, she had family trying to find her after all. She's gone now, snatched up either by the loony-tune professionals or the sex industry ones. There were rumors to both possibilities. I kept wanting to devour and father her at the same time. Such is my own silent desperation and sickness. I wonder if she'll ever come back?
Don't 100% agree but this is a very well thought out, well-written argument. While it does bother me at times the viciousness the trans-community can dish out toward their detractors-- yes, ''cancel culture' is not some right wing figment of our imaginations, it's very real-- I'm fine with referring to real deal trans folk as fluid or 'changing' genders. But the transperson has every right to determine whether they are 'real deal', not society at large. These examples such as the one you posted are very much a minority. I think the damage to the trans community's well being outweighs the anger, and damage they can sometimes inflict. The transwoman friend of Dave Chapelle is a real life example of someone being abused by the twitter trans brigade. And she later killed herself. However I'm perfectly cool with a committed transwoman, an adult, feeling to her core she's a woman, despite genitalia. I don't think the truly committed trans are motivated primarily by sexual fantasies, if at all. There really is a difference between gender and biological sex. My main point I guess is the decades/centuries of transwomen being murdered, harassed and generally kicked out of society far outweighs the occasional discomfort someone might feel in a public bathroom. Social Media and mob justice( or injustice) through various means is another animal altogether, and the 'woke left' and the 'sleeping right' are both guilty of these extreme tactics.
StayRose2345!
The fixture room at Walmart is a sign of a truly psychotic, chaotic, whirlwind mind, a massive, pustulated metastatic, demigod of the universe's biggest black hole. Disorganization on top of disorganization. Nothing makes sense. Enter at your own peril!
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gues it boils down to this... I havent personally seen one, and nothing ive seen as far as evidence presented by third parties has convinced me enough to give it even the slightest credence. Seems like a comparable phenomenon in meteorology circles exists called wishcasting, but with ghosts it has a massive popular appeal and taps into the human 'need' for concrete answers to universal problems-- people just cant handle chaos, mystery, insolubility, therefore they cling to these easy fascinations. Still something akin to the phenomena of ghosts is possible, although probably not likely. The Entity chick in real life was by all accounts mentally ill and an alcoholic. Not that that rules out anything in itself, but definitely taints the story without rigorous scientific proof.
On why I love to use the word, 'retard': so if I call my dog a 'retard' in a playful manner, I'm an asshole who is making this world worse off with my presence in it? No matter how I really treat people with mental handicaps.. that part doesn't matter, it's the fact I use a word in a somewhat childish manner in contexts not remotely or directly insulting to people who have learning disabilities, or whatever is the officially sanctioned non-triggering, utterly antiseptic term for them this particular day. Which may change tomorrow at the whim of some other ultra-sensitive person who goes through moral outrages like a junkie goes through arm veins.
"there are hostages in the ceiling, my grandfather's up there too.. if you hear gunfire put your head down because we are at war. Listen, there are also two nuclear scientists up there, and it's all about Afghanistan..." Crazy girl babble from the hallway. She really, really needs to be in a hospital. This is the same schizophrenic chick from the other night. Apparently I'm a mental health nurse as well.
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Feral cat trapped in a room. Skinny, black, stinking of bad booze and cheap deodorant that wears too thin. She just has to step out for another smoke. Her life depends on it, the world is against her if she can't go out for one more fucking smoke. She's trapped. Back and forth, back and forth, pacing up and down the hallway like a mangy anorexic jaguar. But she's not angry, she just smiles a cool dangerous smile, packed with street hardness and never coming out on top. Then she just coolly walks out, fading into the night glow of 11th street, another part of the wind. This is her idea of success.
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There really is very little difference between women obsessed with jewelry and men obsessed with guns.
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Of course they do-- any creature with a rudimentary nervous system 'feels' some kind of pain or reaction to negative stimuli. Also, you can indirectly participate in animal cruelty, like calling out the bug exterminator, or eating any meat you didn't yourself kill because you're unconciously sanctioning whatever methods were used to kill your food. We have to scale what's important in life, and I refuse to equate a worm's pain with a cat's or a human's. They're not the same physiologically, and they're not the same metaphysically. We need to make proper distinctions about cruelty, not just say 'cruelty is always bad because animals have nervous systems'. Seems like it only leads to a blurring of the definition of cruelty anyway.
Esmarelda smelda salmon and BO, but I still loved her, so.
I've had 'mostly' functional clinical depression since I was 8 or 9. I'm 54. I've learned to live with it. Although I've been to points in my life where I was so close to ending it, it's scary. And for those doubting, my mother killed herself at 50, my great grandmother had full blown schizophrenia, and there is history of addiction/alcoholism on both sides. My genetics is a train wreck. I just live to live. Not to say I haven't had pure moments of ecstasy though, mostly through drinking, doing drugs and music. Maybe sex too. Not that I enjoy that anymore either. Been 6 years...
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isn't ironic how censorship of a joke about being violent ACTUALLY makes you feel a little bit violent prone in reality? Weird how that works. Utterly pointless and stupidly applied censorship makes people angry. Imagine that. Note, this is simply an abstract and hypothetical psychological observation and shouldn't be taken too seriously. Especially by idiots in control of even more idiotic censorship AI software.
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Had a dream last night Cherry Torn and Rip Torn were father and daughter and sold meat fritters during minor league baseball games. I tried to get everyone in the stands to stop eating them, pointing out they were all going to die of e coli poisoning, but apparently they were so delicious and intoxicating that I became the laughing stock of the 7th inning stretch. At the end of the game I was hung up by the flagpole and covered in fritter mash while Cherry and Rip had sex before a writhing crowd of nude baseball fans lathering one another in shit-stinking fritter filler. I don't recall which team won the game.
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My little almost four year old niece was asking me all about blood yesterday, if the dog had blood, if I had blood, if the trees had blood (I said yes) and I explained to her how the circulatory system works. Turns out she's pretty obsessed with it. Then I started to tell her the story of Elizabeth Bathory and she got immediately bored and went back to watching Oscar the lizard cartoons.
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transhumanism is djent without a moral compass. unexpected obtuse angles just to spice things up.
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May is proceeding beautifully here in East Tennessee. Hard to recall such a pleasant one as this one. Temps are not too hot, no crazy flooding rains, no tornado outbreaks, or early mosquito wars. The wild edging green still closes in with its usual grim intent, but at a slower pace. Not so bad. May is a month of deep violent weirdness for me, so if it passes in relative smoothness, I feel graced in some way. Privileged, even. The horrors of May remembrance are still there, but submerged, muted, tolerable. For now.
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a night of weird slutty dreams... a massage parlor for anuses, a mental hospital hidden deep inside a suburban house, two naked sisters writhing and pleading for my attention... well, enough detail.
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Yesterday's highlights: saw a smashed turtle, thought of zoos, and turtle soup, got hungry, thought of A Night at The Opera, found a dead cigar, thought of roadkill cults, worshiping of dead directors, bought some dark beer, how dark beer and cigars and turpentine and serial killers intersect in weird savage ways with the memories of ex-girlfriends, and undercurrents of failure. Thought of manger milk, and sideways signs.
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You're all washed out, out of tune. A beach without a whale. A summons to winds that reversed their course across the Antarctic ages ago. Wisdom is your lacking teeth, from back to front, gaining entry to the spotlight. Celebrity taxidermy, fresh from your middle name, ornithopter copter, breaking middle ground, flying into peaceful clouds, nameless swirls without names. Gathering dust and dark and mirth from chapters and choppers without game. The men run across the plains searching for their daughters without names. It never ends. The retreating glaciers eat them up. Higher ground, moral cesspools, gluttonous wimp stools, all the same. You don't need a name.
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