All I Want To Do Is Talk To You

I see you there and all I want to do is message you. I mean I could but I can't. Even if I did it wouldn't be the messages and conversation I long for it would be this horrid thing that it became and I can't bring myself to message. The last few conversations made me break all over again, I'm afraid talking would hurt more than it would help.

All I want to do is share our interests, and laugh and support one another. I want to flirt, I want to feel like someone cares about me as much as I care about them. I want to encourage one another, and learn and share and adventure. I want our moments back. I want to feel that soul bond. How could I have interpreted that all wrong. Why did none of that matter to you.

All I want to do is talk to you in a different time and a different place and I can't.

The soul is lost, the body is tired. I'll do what needs to be done, but give me a break, cut me some slack, give me some grace. Don't make it more difficult than it already is. Please just synchronize.

Goori go

Ready sew

Life force energy threaded with needle to give you

Tapestry of life

This is el qabbalisto

According to the science

And the play-worms in the dungeon are all blinking red

I heard what I said

-

What I want is 3G

Compounded to make 11G

My neuralink transmits orgies on copper wire

Go go gadget copter

Hell hath no fury like sock puppets without a hand in them

And your very worst friend just left you on read

For the 11th time

*Oh no*

-

[Critique]

Some people need discipline

Others don't

Some trees have never been exposed to the concept of discipline

So discipline must be in the mind

What will be in VR-world

Indiscipline..?

But that means VR merges with a tree

You can't love a tree and dislike VR end of discussion....

You have reduced trees to indiscipline

That sucks

Credit where it's due

Please go outside and live in it, some day

Directed/Produced by: Tiny Brain

It’s a me problem, I understand it won’t always be like this but right now it sucks, and I want my thoughts of her permanently gone.

It’s all I can think about, it’s numbing without her. This in of itself defeats the purpose.

But hey, I’m just a chill guy 🤷‍♂️

I think I can make it now the pain is gone All of the bad feelings have disappeared Here is the rainbow 🌈 I have been praying for It's gonna be a bright sun shiny day

Michael Finsbury, in Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne's The Wrong Box (1889)

That's right, Gooners have collected outside of Pornhub HQ and are threatening to no longer goon in their goon caves until their conditions are met.

The organizer of the strike, Mark Hudson (Pornhub username: whothefuckareyou11) had this to say about the event:

"It's quite simple, really. There is a declining trust in our public institutions, and frankly, one that I think is warranted. We're at this strange juncture where GDP and the economy aren't really reflective of the struggles on the ground. Housing is out of reach, groceries are unaffordable, and yet we're told that our country has never been stronger. Why? Because companies with insane speculative evaluations, worlds away from actual profitability, are continuing to see stock prices rise?"

When asked what he was hoping to achieve with his goon strike--

"Awareness, really. First step is awareness. Acceptance. Getting away from denial. After that, small, measurable, actionable changes."

We asked him later if he had a favorite genre of pornography.

"(laughing) 'Favorite' is kind of a loaded word. I'm partial to gang-bang stuff. Spring break videos are cool. But nah (laughing), I--I try not to box myself into any one thing."

Mark can be seen with his fellow gooners on 5th street. They've elected not to bring signs, and have instead all chained themselves to the tallest, veiniest tree across the street from the porn juggernaut.

When reached for comment, Pornhub declined to provide a statement.

Look! Do you see it? I'm asking you personally about what you see. I want to know the answer. Tell me an answer and return. You are not permitted to read the rest of this without telling me what you see.

!I plugged my ears as you were speaking. We don't need to hear any of that nonsense, we were reading your lips sideways like HAL does in 2001 a space odyssey, you know, the movie. You said the following:!<

!I'm standing at the threshold, the two states of matter solid (all atoms in perfect order, indistinguishable from the others) and non-solid (every atom is isolated and irreducible). My fingertips heat and cool my environment. I wave my hand across a cloud and ice falls to the earth. I put my hand on the freshly fallen snow and it becomes a cloud. I put my finger on a trigger and I point the gun at the enemy, I pull the trigger. My enemy and pieces of his skull fall down into the snow and he has the same powers I have. His body hits the snow and a perfect cloud of vapor erupts and uncondenses from the points of impact, just enough that his comrades are invisible, and now I'm shot in the head too. The question is whether in aggregate the world has grown more solid or less solid. I learned right then and there that there's no heaven or hell only oblivion, that my first heartbeat is identical to my last except that the first one was much quieter, less blood to circulate after all or maybe before all.!<

!You coughed, cleared your throat, and then you said:!<

!I'm thirsty!<

!and then you said:!<

!I fired wildly into the air and the bullets killed the clouds, and the clouds fell down around me and the bullets too, perfectly clean and untarnished. Under the cloud I crawl in the dirt on my hands and my knees, I've got my spectacles on. I spy with my little eye little flecks of silver and gold, the casings and the bullets, I grab them with tweezers and return them to a tiny leather bag. Later far from the front lines in the safety of my own home with a roaring fire and holiday decorations all around us I empty the bag into the eager palms of my children. The metal touches their skin and turns into scalding hot vapor. They inhale it and it coats the inside of their lungs, these lungs are armor-plated now and they spit bullets when they speak, it's my gift to the future. In so doing, I dedicate myself absolutely to the goodwill of the children.!<

!And later you fell asleep. Your feet and your tail twitched. You made little noises that I couldn't read and then I fell asleep too. They jot something down in pencil. They underline something in red and I cease to understand!<

a sulfurwood a riverbed three dead bodies and their keeper

I bring great gnews of the J. Solid slippery slimy somebodies shift over the slavering slopes, slaloming seductively. Jlimothy jrinks a joad of Jin in a jlass fit for a djinn. He requests a game of jin-rummy to jecide the fate of the jerks jumbling around over there. Jlimothy also jizzed in my hand and now you must do the same, so we can then shake on it and seal the jeal. It’s a cultural custom, I can confidently assure you, my cing. Purely platonic and, pleasantly, without platitudes or poisonous presumptions. What say you?

They're not from here. But where is here anyhow? Us and them. Got me looking grim. Got that gatlin gun for defense. But from whom? She turns to me and says her name is Gabagool. And that she is here for school. Suddenly I am a basin for a waterfall. I guess I've always been succumbing to the human urge to seek renewal. She has succubus exorcisms. And I just ran dry. All I came here for was to chew bubble gum and traffic in interdimensional succubus exorcisms. If you are ready to begin, listen carefully, as our menu options have changed. If you would like to ask me if I'm alright, press 1 and say "are you alright?" If you would like to hear about my trans dimensional succubyonical ovaries, press 2. If you would like to go home, please 3 and state your location and stand near a window.

1. Don't fuck them if you can't hold a conversation
2. Call your mom often
3. If you want to do something then just do it
4. Don't regret stuff you can't change
5. Don't feel guilty for feeling emotion
6. Think about what your dad would do and be better

The film opens in a Macao slum, where James Bond, his skin the chestnut of a Sikh born in the Punjab, adjusts his turban, tightens his belt, and rests a hand on his traditional dagger as he walks into a Uyghur-run gambling den, eyes scanning for his target. MI6 has been clear: he is to eliminate his target, a rogue Russian oligarch who has stolen the codes to his country's nuclear ICBMs, with prejudice. As opposed to tolerance or acceptance.

Sometimes they do tell him to be nice when he kills.

He says a prayer to Allah and the Queen as he passes through a curtained doorway, the smell of makhorka and Abkhazian body odor reaching his nasal cavity. As a double-0 agent he has been genetically modified to have the sense of smell of a dog. In the room behind the curtain there is are three tables, one for craps, one for Go, one for Battleship.

Around the Battleship table there are a dozen or so very angry Chinese men speaking in the stressed-out tones of Mandarin. What else would they be speaking, Bond thinks? Cantonese or Manchurian. Uyghur. He doesn't know any language but English and Pussy but he assumes someone sunk something and they're all out of a lot of yuan.

That's when he smells it. The Moscow sewer system. Word is that his target escaped Moscow by taking the sewers to Domodedovo and stowing away on an Ilyushin bound for Hong Kong with his prize poodle and the ICBM codes. His goal, M had told Bond, was to bet the codes on the submarines; he's a new member of Pussy Riot. Unfortunately. Bond likes Pussy Riot because most of them are hot. He doesn't know they're feminists or what feminists even are.

"ACTUALLY THEYRE POST FEMINISTS"

that's what Bond hears before he's clocked in the head by a cricket bat. His turban does a full 360 around his head. Bond turns to face his assailant. It's Slavoj Zizek.

Bond spits out his vampire tooth and draws his dagger and commits seppuku.

Zizek shouts, "Dziekuje!"

The fun barrel appears. Blood drips down the screen.

Black Hole Sun is the Bond Song. Performed by Grimes.

After she does that thing ravers do with her hands, dropping glow sticks left and right, the song fades out and the film opens again on a fax machine printing a page that just says, "Wavell."

The audience leaves.

There are riots in every city the film shows in. So, every city in the world.

Finally. Zizek can sleep. Revolution.

Punjab just disappears.

It starts with a puddle in an empty depression
Evaporated sample from a pelagic population
Their source in the mountains, and higher still in the clouds
Avalanches and snowballs tumbling downhill to fill
The dam in your head you so hastily built

Each droplet a thoughtlet that might make a magnet paint true
Some plumb puzzle piece missing from the landscape in view
Though more realistically random draws pulled out of the atmospheric rivers of possibilities strewn
Heaven’s flood gate ripped open and it’s pouring on you

Near to the brink, this dam. Nascent, the laps; at arms, prepare! Centuries on the lip, the crest begging for wet? Walls foolhardy to its fluvial funeral? 

OVERFLOW, stacks of bricks brackish, a glass fully in need of emptying~ Undertow, backed up with nowhere to go but fall, no spillway de fault. Should’ve spent extra sand making the plan up to code.

But one remembers anew that was the plan—furthermore, water’s fine, come on in! Dip your feet deep in the turbulence, if you’re lucky you might just get swept away. It all makes sense now, do you see it? The process, predictable. No, probably not, perhaps you feel it. Can you hear it? Sound travels better through liquid; but caution: winter’s imminent.

And yet a-, un-, redundant pundits punting stunted. Hunted in these seas, a flotsam captain, evident only a sexton and Stetson. Each molecule a mule governing miles tunneled by moles, meandering through the maze of quantum foam. They clump together and act as one, a wave of ambivareality. But now it’s all overtly leveraged, the lenten levy leavened. 

Almost had it had the heavens not wept havoc. Fabric'd ontomatic static for a half-tipped addict adrift, raft ripped away with no hands on deck; a wreck tragic. Pity on the peasants downstream; better send FEMA to the scene to clean.

Pour bleach on our dreams, evacuate the counties counting crows obscene. Let whetted pain dry as the time flies. Melt your clocks for the mason, time to jar it up again.

Worry not wary villager, we've learned from our mistake; we'll ask Siri to set a reminder to maintain.

Lately I’ve been feeling like an exposed nerve ending. Like the kind where you see a little white string hanging out of your skin or unmentioned orifice and give it a tug and your body collapses in on itself.

Or maybe a burnt out match. Or maybe the snow blanketing the bush, the kind of snow where if you even brush against the branches it gives.

My head has been hurting for a while now

1. Dye your hair every other week.
2. If you can't bring yourself to kill the meat you're going to eat, don't eat meat.
3. Fuck rich guys. Fuck poor guys. Fall in love. Fuck girls too.
4. Make art all the time.
5. Kids are the best.

1. Never return a book unread and always return your books.
2. If someone takes you home and they don't have books, don't fuck them.
3. Always prejudge a book by its cover.
4. Always carry a book or two in your purse.
5. Pretend that life is a novel and you're the reliably narrating protagonist.
6. Be Moby Dick.
7. If you have a funny thought, write it down.
8. If you have an acerbic thought, write it down.
9. Steer clear of thoughts of unremarkable quality.
10. Act as though the world outside of literature has a narrative through line.
11. Glean, discern, equivocate, induce, decide.
12. Go in blind.
13. Learn to read.

I want you.

I want you. I want you all over me. I want your fingertips to gently touch my waist; I want your hands to grip me closer, harder.

I want you to kiss me unannounced, unprovoked, untamed. I want to squirm under your touch, burn under your eyes, my body rolling through waves of your heat.

I want pleasure to reach pointed toes, sucking your scent past my teeth, silent moans at the base of my throat.

I want to see stars, I want to feel heaven, I want to sing your hymn. I want to answer your every need and respond to your every whim.

I want you.

all which will ever be is in a constant state of flux
changing never changes
the you who started reading this sentence is not the same you who completed it
continually being reborn every second
already eventually becoming, never quite static
the mind is a parachute
it must be opened to be operatic
striking the last match anew, lighter in your pocket
life is like a box of never-ending chocolate

Leave no word unspoken

Gadzooks!

A erf of Skullduggery a pantomime tantamount pandemonium jack thuggery.

A sozzled paradigm with phantom bouts to flummox the singularity, with Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia contrarily.

Everywhen Atingled At the Cattywampus jubilee beneath a bumbershoot ruefully full of credulity and bibbled baboonery.

A hullabaloo zoo of bamboozled Tomfoolery.

This is no jabberwock so cuff the kerfuffle talk,

this ramshackled largiloquent lamprophony is not a mockery of flabbergasted Jabronis or to obnixely taradiddle lolligagers.

Nor is this jargon hold a titynope of verbose vaniloquence within its hodgepodge.

Those befuddled with pusillanimous colliewobbles heed the gardyloo and grab a dictaphone if you’re calling poppycock to record the rigamarole of mental bullocks in such a hairy situation, before you languish in your languid language.

Refuse to #poundtheOctothorpe Of normality nomenclature.

Good day

Hooooommmmm

Sweeeemmmmm

Brady Bunch (Season IX)

Twix

Twizzlers

Mendicant Puzzle King Solves YouTuber's Custom Riddle Box (Wins $100,000)

Moms Drink White Wine (Can Read Time in Old Latin)

You watch 10 ducks at play, disappearing into a sewer drain, emerging somehow atop a tree on the adjacent hill

Sky is black, no drop fall.
Box is void, hold it all.
Rain is gone, dust remain.
Gift is ash, sent in vain.

Word is lie, name is lost.
Feel is cold, heart is frost.
Hand no hold, path is bare.
Void is here, none to care.

World is break, time is pain.
Joy is fade, hurt remain.
Ask no more, gift is none.
Rain is end, all is done.

Box is crack, heart is fear.
Fill with loss, all is clear.
Road is dark, rain no shine.
Gift is grief, none is fine.

A man can't even have a cup of hot cocoa anymore while frying his brain chain-watching 15 second videos 6 inches from his face for 3 hours straight. Because of the big wigs and the movers/shakers and the technocrats. They're making marshmallows with hose water now. They're cutting the mallow batter with their own cum. They're taking my tax money and using it on karate lessons for their golden retrievers. They're drinking each other's pee for the health benefits. It makes you more productive at your computer job. Heard that on a podcast.

Randy Bachman on Writing "Takin' Care of Business"
Learn how the Bachman Turner Overdrive hit "Takin' Care of Business" came to life.

Didn't realize until just now how much i don't give a shit about that song.

Plenty of unhappy people in worse situations than you could ever imagine.

on the floor with me sit on the floor sighh
carpet is a hyperobject. i can't do this--
i don't know how it's made or made of what
or where or could make it myself
or how it got here or where it goes
i cannot comprehend the scale and speed
the magnitude the significance
of anything around me
that i am not licensed to count with my fingers
if i am an animal hyperobjects are probably bad

In the rise of the technocracy, cities were revitalized and the human genome vastly improved. Old, dilapidated structures, inefficient infrastructure, and uninteresting architectures were taken apart and rebuilt into their polar opposites. Humanity’s genome was engineered to be stronger, faster, more intelligent, more ALIVE. These two factors, besides increasing the quality of life TREMENDOUSLY, gave rise to a new international past time: City Running. The game: traverse the cities of the world and complete various objectives, from reaching beacons on the tops of far off mega skyscrapers to playing tag with fellow enhanced humans. Of course, technology like camouflage, night vision, and hovercraft were allowed, with restrictions. All of this was televised through advanced observation drones. Anywhere from large factions to individuals could enter. Also, the players were not allowed to disturb the general public, as much as possible. It became ceremonious, without the pomp and circumstance but with all the excitement of modern day entertainment. The prize? The pure exhilaration of competition for competitions sake, exhibitionism, and the joy of exercise. And o course, a bit of material compensation as well. Perhaps a seat on an interstellar spacecraft, access to privately owned areas and institutions, or the “in” to new social circles. Would you be a contestant? Or would you choose to remain anonymous among the rest of humanity?

I will eliminate buttholes.

That is all.

Butt seriously, don’t y’all think that buttholes are just gross? Genitalia I can understand, I mean, come on, but buttholes? Well, shit.

But I digest. Who else will put up with humanity’s monumental amount of bullshit?

So I say, thou shalt not eliminate buttholes, but thou shalt ENHANCE buttholes.