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Topics - Mesozoic Mister Nigel

#751
Bring and Brag / 55 Laments for Grendelmouse
April 18, 2009, 04:11:04 AM
Sorry, guys: I'm removing everything that I am submitting for publication. Not to be a jerk, just to cover my ass.
#752
Nevermind
#753
Think for Yourself, Schmuck! / PROFESSOR CRAMULUS
April 09, 2009, 09:02:55 PM
I HEREBY DECLARE MY ETERNAL ARCHRIVALRY AND INTENTIONS TO NEMESISIFY YOUR ASS, MOTHERFUCKER!

WHATEVER YOU DO, I WILL FOIL

WHATEVER YOU ARE, I AM OPPOSED TO

CLEAN-SHAVEN GENTLEMEN AND DIABETICS FOREVER MOTHERFUCKER
#754
Or Kill Me / Plus, I Got Religion
March 08, 2009, 01:18:16 AM
This isn't finished, but it's as much as I feel like writing right now.


I don't talk about my religion much. For one thing, I don't want to have to explain it... it's complicated. For another thing, I don't relish getting caught in the explain/justify/defend cycle that happens so often, especially when talking to a social group that is rich in devout atheists. I find that in situations like that, atheists become evangelistic, as if they're on a mission to pry religion from every mind they encounter. I don't like the judgment, the condemnation, or the derision – it's easier to never bring it up at all, and let them assume that I'm one of their fold.

One of the reasons I don't like being in a position where I'm asked to defend my religion is because I find that religion is indefensible. It's not logical; more like humor than it is like love, it defies being pinned down with algorithms and intellectualism. Much of what is funny is subjective, makes no sense, and cannot be predicted, and to me, that's what religion is like. Not only can I not explain or justify why I have it, I don't even care to try. No, really. I don't. It's not something I take great comfort in, because I'm not a believer in a benevolent god. It's just something I have faith in... faith, which cannot be logically defended. Something pretty absurd. You either get it or you don't.

Friends confronted with the fact that I have religion are often disbelieving, then derisive. "You don't really believe in that, do you? I mean, you don't believe that it's really for real real, right?"

Truth?

Sometimes, sometimes not. Sometimes it's metaphor, sometimes it's an exercise of the mind, and sometimes it's really for real real, something that came with me from my ancestors. Something so pants-wettingly old that I'd be seriously disrespecting my ancestors if I thumbed my nose at believing in it. It's as real as their existences, as their bone fragments littering the desert in Jerome and their skeletons being slowly permeated by minerals in Conwy, Echota, and Mombasa. If I imagine something, does it exist? Well... of course! Sort of.

The simplest way for me to explain why I have religion is to say that it's because I've decided to. I like it.

Fuck you, Kai.
#755
Bring and Brag / A story by Magickal Hrosie
February 08, 2009, 07:46:52 AM
I just found this story my oldest daughter wrote a few years ago. Forgive the moment of parental twee... I just think it's cute and I wanted to share it, small-child spelling and all.

Once upon a time there was a talking tree. He live'de in a apple orcherd. There was a casle neer by. What live'd in  the casle was a Knight, a King, a Queen, a Prince, and a Princess. The Princess was: Kind, generous, and helpfull. The King was: Mean, nahgity, and lazy. The Queen was: Loveingley, creatful, and nice. The Princess visitd the tree evry day. The tree had a rocking chair as big as a bed. He gave the Princess jewl's, and makeup. One Day the tree said to the Pricess: run away, run away! The King is going to chop the Orcherd down! I don't want to loose you! Cried th Princess! Run, run! said the tree. She came back the next day, the apple tree's were still there!

The End!
#756
Or Kill Me / Your body
February 07, 2009, 08:07:35 PM
Hey, how do you like that thing? Pretty neat, isn't it? I mean, if you think about it.

So the deal is, the first thing that happens when you arrive is you get dumped into a yellowish or brownish meat-bag filled with red and white. It grows, and if you're lucky it all works like it's supposed to; totally sweet functional legs for perambulation, arms with dexterous graspers on the end, built-in audio and video perception devices, a noisemaker. Pretty fucking awesome! If you're lucky, you get to keep this thing for upward of 90 years, which is a pretty sweet deal even though it starts to break down a bit before the end. These things come in roughly three varieties; male, female, and both. The male ones have primarily external sexual reproductive organs at the lower limb Y-junction, and the female ones have primarily internal sexual reproductive organs for incubating more meat-bags, with the entrance at the same Y-junction. The both ones have some combination of the two and are somewhat of an anomaly.

For some reason a lot of the people inhabiting the meat-bags have decided to define themselves based on what sort of meat-bag they happen to have gotten dumped into. They've made up all kinds of fairly arbitrary assignations like "pretty" and "ugly", which are subject to change at any time for no reason whatsoever, then they identify their self-ness based on these assignations. They've also created categories for different colors of meat-bag, and for different forms of sexual behavior. They have created behavioral categories for the male and the female, which they call "gender". People are expected to pick one to identify with, and this identity dictates their behavior.

Yes, they actually do this! I'm not even making it up.

The hard thing to keep in mind, once you're here, is that your meat-bag is actually just a really cool biological machine. It gets hard to remember, because almost all of the people in their meat-bags all around you are totally buying into the idea that their bags define their personhood, but it's all bullshit. I mean, of course the thing influences your behavior; odds are high that you'll have the desire to mate with other meat-bags, mostly other-sex ones, and all of the machinations of your meat-bag, the chemicals it releases to control various functions, will affect your thoughts and feelings. But still, those aspects are fairly incidental; your vehicle will need a certain amount of care while you're in it, and it may be kind of eccentric and require special care, but that's only to be expected. The main thing to never forget is that the color of it, the sex of it, whether it is at any given moment in time "pretty" or "ugly"... these are all incidental. You would still be you in a void with a thought-operated keyboard for communication. You would still be you if all of these incidentals were excised from you and you were just a featureless blob in a jar. As long as your meat-bag continues to function, you continue to exist, and you are you.

So take care of the damn thing, appreciate it, and don't place too much value on identifying your person-hood based on what kind you got. It's all a crapshoot; you could have ended up in this bag, and I could have ended up in that one.

Also, fuck you Kai.

#757
Discordian Recipes / I JUST BOUGHT 10 LBS OF BEEF
February 04, 2009, 10:15:41 PM
It was on sale for $1.89/lb. Top round, not tender but tasty, and I cut it up into approximately 1/2 lb portions for freezing.

I'm going to be cooking with a lot of beef for the next two weeks!

Tonight I'm making beef barley stew. Suggestions for the rest of the meat are welcome!
#758
Two vast and trunkless legs of stone / ROGER
January 27, 2009, 03:26:47 AM
HOLY FUCK YOUR NEW SIG IS FUCKED UP!  :x
#759
Or Kill Me / Shut the fuck up.
January 23, 2009, 06:39:06 PM
People like to talk, they really like making noises with their mouths. They talk talk talk all the fucking time, rarely saying anything of interest of value EVEN TO THEM, just fucking reading labels out loud or narrating the events around them "the dog is looking at me, oh man now he's going up the stairs, bye dog! I'm going to have a cup of coffee. There's a bird outside the window, oh nope he flew away. The sun is out today. Haha this bottle of syrup is funny! I think I'll read the ingredients..." on and on and on FOR NO FUCKING REASON other than that perhaps if they stop FUCKING TALKING their brains might switch on and they might have a moment of wondering what the hell all this is about, anyway, and what they're doing with their lives besides being another cog in the machine. Maybe if they stop talking the universe starts pressing in on them and they begin to become aware of how tiny, how meaningless, how insignificant, and above all how lonely they are.

Worse yet, their chatter infringes on any thinking anyone else might do, as well as triggering routine responses to complete fucking inane prattle that needn't have been said in the first place, more inane prattle, back and forth endlessly forever until they plunk their stupid vapid asses in front of some stupid fucking mind-wasting TV program, which they can then TALK ABOUT later.

Talking, talking, talking. I wish I could cut their fucking stupid tongues out of their hollow heads, but then you know what would happen; they would grunt and wave their arms around all the time, just to make a noise and get you to look at them, not caring that nobody understands. That's basically the same thing they're doing now.

SHUT THE FUCK UP.

If you try to tell them that you're not big on talking, that you like quiet, that you like being left alone, that you need peace so you can think, 99% of the time the fucking retard population that we call "humanity" will switch into autopilot and interpret that as the one possibility they're capable of understanding; that you need to be cheered up. So they amp up the painfully boring vapid narrative by trying to make it clever and funny, until you actually ARE in a bad mood and start fantasizing about hitting them with a hammer, over and over again, until there is only blood and pulp and fragments of bone. Because that's the only way you can make them stop. Even if you tell them, listen asshole, SHUT UP AND LEAVE ME ALONE, I HATE YOUR STUPID CHATTER, they will slink away all wounded for a couple of days, complain to all their friends about what a bastard you are, and then come back and try to make up. And as soon as you grant them any attention, any hint that you might not be about to punch them in their moronic flapping mouths, a smile or a bit of conversation or even just a moment of eye contact, they start again, talking talking without saying anything at all.

SHUT

THE

FUCK

UP

Stop talking.

Stop talking about some goddamn TV show

Stop talking about your cat

Stop talking about the weather

about what you're eating

what you see out the window

whatever

Stop... just stop.



OR KILL ME.




#760
Bring and Brag / My head is empty
January 20, 2009, 11:43:49 AM

I sit on my front porch
and I light a cigarette.
I try to sing for you but
my head is empty of song.
My time for you is gone
and I can no longer instill
that hope, and the want
into my voice or my cry.
My former desire has gone
awry from where I longed.

The well from which you
used to spring has run dry,
is now a wall of rocks, a
ring wherein nothing rises.
This circle which could be
a home is instead a tomb,
a litany of can-not-have, a
tome of imperfect endings.

I hate this word processor.
It turns my poetry into a
study on perfect grammar.
You cling to the devil to whom
you think you have sold your
soul, and in the meantime
leave your spirit to bend
and twist in the wind you
made in your passing by.
Foolish, I wait for it to wake.


(revised)
#761
Propaganda Depository / Nigel podcasts, for fuck's sake
January 17, 2009, 11:43:16 PM
I started doing it too, for the purposes of annoying more people.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=017jxz7UhjU&feature=channel_page
#762
You're just discouraging people from participating by cluttering the place up with a bunch of old, stupid threads that were worthless when they were new. It stopped being funny several years before you were born.

I'm feeling too mellow to work up a good rage, but I thought I'd point that out.
#763
Or Kill Me / Too old
January 09, 2009, 04:07:52 PM
Too old for this.

This is what you tell yourself you with your unfinished degree and your kids and your broken lonely heart.

Too old to go back to school. Too old to find love again. Too old to ever save enough for retirement. And you think the world has passed you by and that this dissatisfaction is yours for the rest of your rapidly shortening life.

And four years from now you'll still be telling yourself the same thing except now you'll wish you'd gone back to school/spent more time with your kids/been a little more openhearted back then before it was too late. Now you realize how young you were then how much time you still had. Now it's too late.

Pretty soon you're 50 and the kids are gone. You're alone in your house you still have no retirement plan and no degree and no partner. Bitterness has slowly settled into your features breaking them down into individual ridges separated by crevasses. Now it's truly too late too late for spending more time with the kids too late for you too late for the education you always wanted too late for anything but continuing your wage-slave job and paying off the house in ten more years. You're certainly too old to think about dating now. That's what you should have done five years ago before your looks really started to slip. And gone back to school when the kids started high school before you were too old

To late too late too late

Once you were 28 34 44 50 58 65 and it wasn't too late back then if only you'd realized. If only if only if only
#764
A project me and my housemate have been working on. We don't have 101 yet.

1. I think you'll be alright. You might even be able to have children some day.
2. Better wrap it up, H.P. Lovecraft, or you'll end up a shut-in.
3. Hey grownups!
4. We're using double entendres!
5. At least you can fake-cry. You always have that comfort.
6. Sounds like it's whine O'clock!
7. Oh, you wanted to have guns and vote? Maybe you should have thought of that before you decided to be FIVE.
8. We're Scientologists now.
9. I'm sure we all recall the disastrous events of October 1929.
10. Let's talk taxes.
11. Would you describe yourself as cosmopolitan?
12. You have very exacting standards about how things are done and I'm not sure that I can uphold those standards.
13. People would think that you were listening to Led Zeppelin and you had used up all the albums, so that you could no longer "get the led out".
14. Stop touching me. I feel about people touching me like Russia feels about Greece.
15. The face you're making reminds me of Henry Kissinger.




#765
Bring and Brag / Me as Eris
January 08, 2009, 04:59:35 AM
My friend B painted me as Eris. It's disturbing!

Borderline NSFW due to nipple: http://sinmonkey.com/files/NigelEris.jpg
#766
Discordian Recipes / WTF is Nigel eating
January 01, 2009, 10:59:10 PM
My contribution to the Discordian recipe threads.

Right now I'm having rockfish in spicy tomato sauce.

Step 1:

Get a bunch of tomatoes, onions, garlic, and jalapenos
Simmer them for hours, can them for later

Step 2:

Get some rockfish
Simmer it in that tomato stuff, with some salt

Remove fish, reduce sauce

Serve over rice.
#767
Bring and Brag / Breaking up
December 17, 2008, 09:30:21 PM

He started distancing himself as soon as her husband moved out. Maybe he couldn't deal with her availability, and what that meant about her feelings for him, even though they were on the table long before that. He is a mess in a lot of ways, and she is a mess in a lot of ways, and together, they are just a compounded mess. In some ways they have been good for each other, but in some of the same ways they've been good, like allowing each other a respite from the harshness of their respective situations, they've also been unhealthy, by taking it to the point of drunken irresponsibility. A respite should not be an escape, and a relationship based on escapism has nowhere to go.

She feels lost in the lack of support from him. She grew dependent on him, and now that he's not here she doesn't know what to do. She can't even seem to get much work done, she hasn't been productive at all this week. It's funny because it seems like she hardly leaned on him at all when she was processing the really hard part of losing her husband... this part... but now that she's losing him, it's even harder because there's just a void where he used to be, and she wants to go to him but she can't. There's nothing there for her to go to.

And... she just misses him. He is completely unique and unlike anyone else she has ever known, and he is the only person she's ever met who really, truly seems to fit her. Except she misses what they had, not what they have. So she thinks this is the right thing. She cannot, at this point, cope with being rejected sexually and intimately, scooted to the sidelines of his life, and deal with his selfish, manipulative wife moving back into his house, to either hear about them getting back together, or know that he's withholding details of his life to spare her. Either way, the situation is unsalvageable. The only way for her to salvage HERSELF is to walk away from this completely, permanently.

Maybe her complete withdrawal will help push him back into an unhealthy marriage even more completely... but she can't afford to know, or allow it to affect her decision. She is going to wait a couple weeks, then ask him to please drop off her laptop and any other stuff she left at his house over at her sister's. She figures that if she gives it a couple of weeks, it won't seem as much like an angry symbolic gesture as like simple closure. Or, maybe he'll just do it on his own.

So, she's drinking tea instead of wine and trying to sleep at night and sometimes she stands in the kitchen and screams and screams at the unfairness of life, or it hits her in the middle of checking her mail or feeding her pets and it hurts like she's been punched in the gut, and she know that she will always miss him and always love him, but that in time it won't hurt so much, and then it won't hurt every day, and then someday she will only think about him part of the time, and someday, she will think about him hardly at all. And things will be OK.
#768
Or Kill Me / Therefore, the gods are DICKS
December 15, 2008, 11:27:22 PM
I believe that sometimes, the gods make people who are so different from the usual mold that it is a challenge for them to simply live a normal life.

And they say, This one will have a hard time in life, they will see more and feel more, and it will make them love us more closely, because they will understand the nature of reality a little more keenly.

And they take these ones for themselves, and make them very different from others, though they seek to live the same kinds of lives.

They live as best they can, struggling, and many people love them, but they always feel a little lonely, and not quite find a pure meeting of minds.

The gods say, I will take and take this one, and he will be a complement to this other one, but they will not meet soon in life. They will have to wait until life has overcome them, and they have learned from it.

They will meet many others who admire them and want to be close with them for a while, who will love them and have good things together, but they will not be able to meet and be truly happy together; they are not the complement to this one.

After a time the unusual ones become guarded and close, they become fearful, and not able to give themselves wholly, because they have given themselves, and not been wholly accepted; they have not found their complement. If they were to open themselves and ask the gods, What am I do do? They would receive their answer, but they have closed themselves and cannot hear it until they open again.

But when they open again, they will hear the answer, when they have learned enough for them to know their complement. Even though life has been difficult, when they are ready and they have struggled through obstacles and become strong enough in living to be able to know their partner, this part of life will open and they will recognize their helpmeet, the one who is loved enough by their own gods to be the complete match for them, the one who will love them for all the unusual qualities they hold, nourish them and hold them in all their wholeness, and when this happens all parts of their life and consciousness, and everyone they touch, will be richer.
#769
Think for Yourself, Schmuck! / Intermittens #4
December 11, 2008, 05:33:18 PM
Now accepting submissions for Intermittens #4... I am thinking this will be the "Lollercaust issue" and you know what that means!


For this issue can we all just knock the fuck off with the "but not all" qualifier? I think that people here are literate enough to TOTALLY GET that if you MEANT "ALL", you would have SAID "ALL".

Adding more words does not always convey more meaning.

Am I way off base here? I think it just trains people to think they DO mean "all" unless specified otherwise. If anyone misunderstands "some" to mean "all" they need to STOP BEING SO FUCKING LITERATELY LAZY.

"Some" "Most", and "Many" DON'T MEAN ALL. We get it.








post edited for legal reasons
#770
Two vast and trunkless legs of stone / Shameless whoring
November 29, 2008, 03:47:23 PM
Last night I killed myself putting beads on the Internet.
#771
Literate Chaotic / Epiphanies
November 29, 2008, 04:16:36 AM
Earlier today I wrote about an epiphany I had at one point in my life and what it meant to me; how it shaped my Discordianism. Then I started thinking about such epiphanies in general, and wondering if there might be a lot of good stories out there, so I thought I'd start a thread to ask you guys whether you have any interesting epiphanic stories you'd like to share? I'll repost mine:

Quote from: Nigel on November 28, 2008, 08:07:08 PM

One day about seven years ago, I was driving home from work. It was evening, late summer, absolutely gorgeous out with the sunlight sliding from golden to plum as the sun set. The leaves on the trees were just starting to yellow. It was the hardest time I've ever gone through in my life: A man I had fallen in love with, hard, had recently broken my heart and moved to Chigaco. My husband had left me a little over a year earlier, with a two-year-old and a six-month-old baby. I had the kids six days a week, but was paying my ex child support due to an "error" in the divorce paperwork, wherein my ex had calculated child support as if he had full legal and halftime physical custody. I'd just hired a lawyer to file for an adjustment to our parenting plan/child support, and my ex was being vindictive. I was getting up at horrorshow-thirty to drive the kids to their babysitter before work, working a full nine hour day, and then picking them up after, going home, making dinner, putting them to bed. I paid the babysitter $400/month, my ex $265/month, and the house I was renting and trying to buy was $700/month. My piece of shit 1977 Plymouth Arrow leaked fluids like an open wound, stalled out at every full stop, the passenger door flew open every time I took a sharp left, and the muffler had rusted through some time before. Problem was, I only made $12 an hour.

So I was feeling kind of sorry for myself. Actually, I was severely suicidally depressed, on tranquilizers most of the time, and the only thing that kept me going was my children.

And then, as I rounded a corner and my passenger door flew open, I had an epiphany; things could get, arbitrarily, infinitely worse at any moment with no warning. My home could burn down, my children could die, I could become catastrophically ill and unable to keep my house or care for my kids.

And then the world was beautiful again, and I relearned how to be happy.

For the most part my Eris is a reflection of the arbitrary universe I see around me, sometimes beautiful and sometimes devastating, and it is up to me to be the comforting, stable mother-nurturer. I don't need an external one.

#772
Literate Chaotic / Why are you here?
November 20, 2008, 07:17:45 PM
I was thinking about the various reasons different people come to this board and the extremely varied topics here... obviously, most people enjoy certain types of threads and projects more than others. Why are you here?

I'm here to have fun. I like the repartee, the funny, the exchange of ideas. I like the argument. I like the bizarre things people share about their thought processes and their lives. I like that it gives me things to think about, to keep my mind sharp and quick, and diversify my thought base. I like watching ideas evolve from sensical to completely nonsensical and then back into something sensical, but completely different from where they started. I like reading about prank ideas and sharing my own prank ideas. I'm not here to create my Discordian legacy, I'm not here to change the political landscape, I'm not here for Deep Important Things, but if something I tap out on my keyboard ends up being worth saving, that's rad.

What are you guys here for?
#773
Literate Chaotic / The positive side of classical Eris
November 20, 2008, 02:58:29 AM
I was just reading Wikipedia (yeah, I know) and came across this:

Quote
In Hesiod's Works and Days 11–24, two different goddesses named Eris "Strife" are distinguished:

    So, after all, there was not one kind of Strife alone, but all over the earth there are two. As for the one, a man would praise her when he came to understand her; but the other is blameworthy: and they are wholly different in nature.
    For one fosters evil war and battle, being cruel: her no man loves; but perforce, through the will of the deathless gods, men pay harsh Strife her honour due.
    But the other is the elder daughter of dark Night (Nyx), and the son of Cronus who sits above and dwells in the aether, set her in the roots of the earth: and she is far kinder to men. She stirs up even the shiftless to toil; for a man grows eager to work when he considers his neighbour, a rich man who hastens to plough and plant and put his house in good order; and neighbour vies with his neighbour as he hurries after wealth. This Strife is wholesome for men. And potter is angry with potter, and craftsman with craftsman, and beggar is jealous of beggar, and minstrel of minstrel.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eris_(mythology)

I had always thought the ancients perceived Our Lady as a royal bitch and pain in the ass, it's kind of nice to see that they recognized that there was a Hodge to her Podge.


#774
... nevermind









post edited for legal reasons
#775
Bring and Brag / That story
October 07, 2008, 03:17:09 AM
How about that story where the girl is in love with the guy, and has been for a long time, and he's basically her best friend except that they sleep together? Also it gets more complicated, but there's no real reason to go into that. It's complicated in the way everyone's lives are complicated, with divorces and kids and friends who don't know and damaged hearts and things that haven't been worked through yet and drinking problems and money problems and communication problems.

But in that story, which you already know because we all already know it, the girl is in love with the boy. The boy loves the girl but he isn't IN LOVE with her, for whatever reason, maybe because it's the wrong time or he's not over his ex or she's not the right girl. It doesn't matter. He's not cruel. He doesn't want anything to change because he likes it the way it is, the closeness and the friendship and even sometimes the sex. She likes it too. The sad part is that she likes it in a way that makes her feel like the only right and natural thing would be if he looked at her the way he used to look at his ex, which is also the way the girl looks at him. He avoids her eyes sometimes. The sad part is that she can feel in her little red fluttery meat heart how right it would be if they ate together, paid the mortgage together, slept together every night, were THAT THING for each other.

The sad part is that she knows she should cut it short, should walk away from the eyes that don't look at her that way and the hands that don't touch her that way, but she won't, because she loves him and she hopes that someday he will love her too, that way.
#776
Or Kill Me / The Girl with a Girl's Tender Heart
October 06, 2008, 05:20:38 PM
(I wrote this last year about my friend The Enucleator.)

She is not malicious. She is not calculating, she is not manipulative. She is not unreasonable. She is not making things up. She is not crying because she is trying to make you feel bad, she is crying because she feels bad.

Look at her. She looks like a girl. A woman, but we call ourselves girls. A mother. She is hard as iron, tough as nails. She endures like a mesa, bends like a fir in strong winds, stands upright after the storm. She is soft; she has curves, warm breasts, smooth arms, a nape on her neck that is made to be nuzzled. She is pretty. She has lips for kissing, eyes that can call for silence or snap and rage or fill with tears.

And she cries. A lot. More than she thinks she cries, because girls are made for crying. Crying and loving and holding people. And her heart is a soft, soft tender girl's heart. As strong as she is, as tough as she is, her hard hard heart softens at a moment's notice, and lets in the biggest baddest wolves as long as they talk gentle, move slow, and tell her the right stories. Because girls aren't made to be suspicious, aren't wagers of war or hostage negotiators. And it's too bad, because the hostages are our own hearts, our very tender not-lying-when-they-cry hearts.

Girls are amazing. There is no code; we are deceptively simple. We will tell you, in plain simple words, what we want. Love me. Be there when you say you're going to be there. Tell me what you want from me. If you listen, you can hear it. Don't complicate us; we aren't speaking in tongues. Don't pretend you don't understand. Don't pretend you never heard us. Just listen.

Just listen, and remember that inside the girl you are looking at is a girl's tender heart. Try not to hurt it. And when you have it, remember that she isn't very good at guarding her heart, so that will be up to you. That's a thing a man is good at.
#777
And it came to pass afterward, that he loved a woman in the boards of
Principiadiscordia.com, whose name was Delailah.

And the lords of the WOMP cabal came up unto her, and said unto her,
Entice him, and see wherein his great strength lieth, and by what means
we may prevail against him, that we may WOMP him to afflict him; and we
will give thee every one of us an humorous manipulated image.

And Delailah said to Cramson, Tell me, I pray thee, wherein thy great
strength lieth, and wherewith thou mightest be WOMPed to afflict thee.
And Cramson said unto her, If they afflict me with seven green n00bs that
were never tried, then shall I be weak, and be as another man. Then the
lords of the WOMP cabal brought up to her seven green n00bs which had
not been tried, and she afflicted him with them. Now there was Payne and 000 lying in
wait, abiding with her in the chamber. And she said unto him, The
WOMP cabal be upon thee, Cramson. And he trolled the n00bs, as a thread of
AKK is trolled when it toucheth the forum. So his strength was not known.

And Delailah said unto Cramson, Behold, thou hast POSTERGASMed me, and told me
jokes: now tell me, I pray thee, wherewith thou mightest be bound. And he
said unto her, If they annoy me fast with outlandish pinealists that never were
occupied, then shall I be weak, and be as another man. Delilah therefore
took new pinealists, and annoyed him therewith, and said unto him, The
WOMP cabal be upon thee, Cramson. And there were SUCKers in wait abiding
in the chamber. And he brake them from off his pics like a thread.

And Delailah said unto Cramson, Hitherto thou hast POSTERGASMed me, and told me
jokes: tell me wherewith thou mightest be bound. And he said unto her, If
thou WOMPest the seven pics of my head with the web. And she altered
it with the MSPAINT, and said unto him, The WOMP cabal be upon thee,
Cramson. And he awaked out of his sleep, and went away with the WOMP of
the MSPAINT, and with the web.

And she said unto him, How canst thou say, I love thee, when thine heart
is not with me? Thou hast POSTERGASMed me these three times, and hast not told
me wherein thy great strength lieth. And it came to pass, when she
pressed him daily with her words, and urged him, so that his soul was
vexed unto death; that he told her all his heart, and said unto her,
There hath not come a razor upon mine upper lip; for I have been a Discordian
unto Eris from my mother's womb if I be shaven, then my strength will go
from me, and I shall become weak, and be like any other man.

And when Delailah saw that he had told her all his heart, she sent and
called for the lords of the WOMP cabal, saying, Come up this once, for
he hath showed me all his heart. Then the lords of the WOMP cabal came
up unto her, and brought pics in their hand. And she made him sleep
upon her knees; and she called for Payne, and she caused him to shave
off the golden locks of his Moustachios; and she began to afflict him, and his
strength went from him. And she said, The WOMP cabal be upon thee,
Cramson. And he awoke out of his sleep, and said, I will post as at
other times before, and shake myself. And he wist not that the Moustache was
departed from him.
#778
Bring and Brag / I wanna be abraded
June 24, 2008, 05:25:34 AM
Why in a poem is something
almost always bruised?
I tire of bruised. Bruised
with passion, with violence,
maybe just a plummy color
of sunsets over apricot
orchards, always adding
atmosphere to someone's
poetic darling, their sneeze.
Bruised skies, bruised thighs,
bruised bloodshot pinpoint eyes,
bruised fruit from trees with
bruised bark under bruised
clouds in a lowering sky
under God's bruised pride.
I tire of bruised.

Let's all get abraded.
#779
Bring and Brag / Bitter divorce poems
June 22, 2008, 05:25:33 PM

My heart is like a raisin
shriveled by your love.
Oh wait, that wasn't love;
that was just you
pretending to be the sun.



#780
I accidentally clicked the "Mark all read" button. :(
#781
Bring and Brag / Practising
May 02, 2008, 04:53:42 PM
I am trying to get better at this whole recording-my-voice thing so I recorded a conservative rant that I wrote on the Rush Limbaugh forum;

http://mihd.net/mq5wxy7
#782
Bring and Brag / I used to write shit
April 24, 2008, 09:51:13 AM
I don't write poetry anymore.
---
How does he know her?
I see her flighted tremble-
her ardor draws the bow
of her smile tight across
pale marble stepping-stones,
guardians of all the passions
of her mouth and I wonder;
does he find her poised
or as I find her, wild
overrun with appetite
raw voracious craving
pure distilled longing
bright unshaded burning?
Does he find her feral
born gentle, gone dangerous
full of the power of her beauty
full of the opus of her vulva?
Does he strike her ardor
does he keep her temper
does he find her yielding
does he test her mettle?
I find her giving, giving
tender, guarded, mad,
forgiving: and trying
as I do to not be caught
staring, I wonder
how does he know her?

---

I waited for you. Now I leave you.

The gates of your teeth enthrall me
rising up on the waves of your laughter,
opening the coral castle of your marine
wonderland to the tender parts of you.

Your hair is white against mine, making
me bless my darkness on your alabaster.
We touch often but seldom, and between
us leave a permanent paint on our wrists.

Your eyes are grey as beaches, and your skin
shades of the bones of sand dollars. Parts of
you swell with the blood that lies close to
the surface, red as carnelian, red as birth.

Against you I am the northwest mud
that your ocean pulls black hairy sand
dollars from to murder for your skin.
I am brown and black and brown again.

I give them to you willingly.
---

She is not golden.
No, she is not snow.
She is red and grey
and coral promontory,
soft as kittens,
feeling as children.
For her everything
is real, the world
and more that is
not world, but veils
beyond consciousness,
beyond wanted thought.
She has always wanted
and need is her need.
She is red and grey
and for her I am need,
for her I will be children.
---

He is water, he is agate,
he is sorrow, he is bone.
He is the smell of rain
falling on dry earth, he
is the sound of the ocean
when the water is still.
Between his shoulder and
his thigh is everything
the tides respond to, and
the curve of his lower lip
is all the song sirens need
to lure sailors to disaster.
He is the sigh that rises
from the shaded canyon,
he is the sweet heavy light
of dusk in early summer.
It is his melancholy which
cools the air of caverns,
and when he turns in his
sleep the seabottom stirs.
In his eyes is the gravity
of Jupiter; when Io dreams,
it is his body she orbits.
Like Charon to Pluto, he is
impossible, and like the
dangerous wilderness he
is beautiful, beautiful.

---
In his presence
I shake and stutter
these trembling hands
this cardiac flutter
his turning down
my turning up
he eats from my bowl
I drink from his cup.
---

I don't want to eat,
I don't want a cigarette
or to drink myself drunk.
I want to scrutinize,
to touch with my eyes
his handsome face, the
shield which from behind
he refuses to pray.

He called me at three am
last night. I slept. The
pain in the message he left
woke me and kept me awake
from five to six. I digress.

I don't want to sleep. I
don't want to find comfort
in friends or tears.
I want to put my ear
to his tired chest and
hear the thud of life
unkilled, of continuing.
He steeps me in sorrow,
my eyes are dried for
his punishing nights.

If I can put my left
eye to his left eye,
I can be reassured
that he is still alive.

---

I will not eat. Why should I
obey my body's demands
when love is a far more
compelling command? No,
I am ascetic. I will starve.
I will grow lean, until
the bones are like carved
bas-relief against my skin.
I made the invitation
but you will not venture in
and my hospitality has
decayed, gone to waste. I
set a table like Martha
Stewart but do not taste
the feast I have spread.
It seems months since
my last breaking of bread,
but while my mouth is
arid, drier than gin and
parched from drought
of you, I will go without
and dwindle stone-thin.

---
Forester
I never saw you coming,
red curved cutters in hand
nothing much to say.
I think I liked it that way.
You silenced out my wondering
making me also quiet as the hush
under maple leaves in the calm.
You pruned me back to livewood
only the green remains.
Forester,
I am eager over you
growing reaching sapling suckering
pulling in bits of you
through pale new roots.
I was a wizened hawthorne,
a galled densewood oak.
I am now a new-planted ash,
red berry adorned,
overwintered,
sap rising.
---
Oh, have you lived life, liver of illusions?
Have you held the ball hard and warm in your hand?
Have you pressed your face to the glass
and seen the morning rising firm in your eyes?
Have you felt the surge in your palm
as you sat upon the roof and drank the wine
have you heard the verse in your head?
Have you lived, liver of life, have you crept
upon the heat of your mystery?
Have you shunned it and had the chill
run curious into your arms at night?
Have you fallen cold and wet, blue
to the welcoming ground?
You in your sunlight, in your falling air,
in your digging have you struck flesh,
have you hit metal against bone?
---
I used to be a liver
of life; now I'm only
a grasper, clutching at
the hair on your neck
and trying to get inside
your shuttered transom eyes.
It's hard now to not want
to put my body next to yours,
where somewhere between
your shirt and your skin
you hide a hint of the
smell which reminds me
that to live is to cry.
---
#783
Bring and Brag / Some more shiny things
April 21, 2008, 09:02:19 PM
...
#784
Bring and Brag / I don't draw much
April 18, 2008, 12:58:44 AM
but I drew this (NSFW):
http://somniphobia.com/src/1190265667119.jpg

I had several but I have no idea where they are.
#786
Techmology and Scientism / New video, old robot
March 19, 2008, 09:02:04 PM
They're making improvements; this version is more agile and less creepy:

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=mmVaLp8icoU
#787
I don't really know what sub to post this in, but holy hell:
:lulz:
http://www.bariumblues.com/chemtrails_nanotechnology_aeroso.htm
#788
Or Kill Me / Imagine
March 17, 2008, 10:04:57 PM
You are a housewife. Every day you shop, you chop, you cook, you sweep, vacuum, wash, wax, dry, fold, tidy, discard. You bandage scraped knees, settle fights, make judgment calls. You do the best you can. You do what you can to earn your keep. And when your husband comes home, he sees only what you didn't do, or what you didn't do right.

Now imagine that instead of a house, it's your life.

And imagine that instead of a husband, it's you.
#789
Or Kill Me / The Short People's Manifesto
February 25, 2008, 08:41:40 PM


We are the Short, and we've had enough. This document is for the purposes of establishing our viewpoint on the following:

We recognize normal height as being less than 5'5". Therefore, a person being over the height of 5'5" is outside the range of normal, thereby deviant.

Passenger side airbags are the concerted effort of the Tall Regime to reduce our numbers by so-called "accidental" deaths in minor traffic accidents.

We will no longer tolerate the use of high counters and stovetops in newly constructed homes. These are deliberately placed at waist level for the Tall, causing people of normal height back strain and other health problems after prolonged use.

The designers and manufacturers of chairs, sofas, automobile and airplane seats, and other forms of seating MUST STOP their systematic terrorization of people of normal height through the use of excessively long seats which prevent the normal from sitting with comfort and dignity in almost all situations. This lack of dignity is engineered by the Tall Regime to keep us from promotion and positions of influence, thus furthering their diabolical dictatorship.

We strenuously object to the portrayal of actors of normal height as Tall. We are aware of the Hollywood sleight-of-lens used to promote the illusion that certain male and female actors are of greater-than-normal height, and we recognize that it is a ploy to brainwash our young into believing that all heroes are Tall, and conversely, that a person of normal height cannot be a hero. This is unacceptable. We demand that normal actors be shown at their true height, and that the Tall actors such as Jeff Goldblum be revealed as the horrible freaks they truly are.

At concerts, movies, and other public events a Tall area should be established near the back to accommodate those with special needs without allowing them to interfere with and monopolize the view which should rightfully be shared by all. They can see over our heads; however, we cannot see through their torsos.

We do not advocate discrimination against the Tall, we merely demand equality and fair treatment as the normal majority. WE ARE NOT PETITE: THEY ARE TALL.

We have a voice and we will not be silenced. It is time for the world to recognize its true majority and put an end to the tyrannical rule of those who would force the byproducts of their unnatural height upon everyone. 

Viva Revolution!
#790
Or Kill Me / Dear Anthropologists From the Future
February 25, 2008, 08:40:02 PM
Dear anthropologists from the future:

The issue of fair compensation is one that concerns me considerably. As a champion of the common people I often rail against the exploitation of laborers by employers, who will often coup hundreds of thousands of dollars from a single employee's annual efforts yet pay only a minuscule percentage of those profits to that employee. In examining your practices it has become clear to me that you indulge in a similar exploitation of your abductees, who are essentially study subjects of a scientific nature and undergo sometimes risky and certainly inadequately tested procedures, yet receive zero compensation for their time and risk.

You may rationalize that, because they are not under contract and have all memories of the study erased from their brains, they are not entitled to any compensation. Perhaps you justify your treatment by saying that you are not legally required to pay wages to subjects of anthropological study. However, I think that this assumption requires reexamination on your part. First, your study subjects cannot be considered volunteers by any means, and they are subject to involuntary loss of sleep, psychological disturbance, physical discomfort, and emotional anguish due to improperly erased memories of your procedures. They also often suffer ostracization by their peers, post-traumatic stress syndrome, symptoms of megalomania, depression, and other compromises in their quality of life as a direct consequence of being abducted and studied.

Since you seem to focus your studies on our current society's more marginalized individuals to begin with, these people, who frequently experience social difficulty and minimal employment before abduction, often lose both friends and livelihood and are perceived as insane by peers due to their persistent claims of having been kidnapped by aliens. I do comprehend the importance of examining a society's rejects in order to understand the mechanisms of that society, however I believe it is also important to treat study subjects as human beings and equals... however far removed our idea of "human" is from yours.

The issue of compensation does provide some quandaries in terms of producing real compensation without creating incongruities in the time continuum. Physical products displaced from their original time frame could be problematic, and as I am uneducated in the mechanics of time-travel I hesitate to even offer the notion of physical goods given in payment as a solution. Planting suggestions that abductees purchase a lottery ticket with certain numbers sounds promising, but seems inadequate.

Perhaps the best solution would be for you to utilize some of the memory-manipulating technologies you already use in your studies, and implant marketable skills such as database management, computer programming, graphic design, drafting, etc. so that these presently marginal individuals whom you have chosen as test subjects may obtain lucrative employment post-abduction. It would be wise to avoid implantation of skills which would require much social interaction to implement in the workplace, due to the common perception of your test subjects as "losers" and "weirdos", however, they should experience substantial acceptance in almost any computer-related field.

Thank you for considering this letter. I hope you take action quickly to remedy this situation of inadequate compensation, as I think it will be in your own best interest as well as those living in this milieu. Bear in mind that your ethical violations are ample grounds for a very large class-action suit, and that under our current courts of law you would stand no chance of acquittal... nor, I suspect, would you under your own courts, and don't imagine that the passage of time will protect you from a legal ruling against you. Pro-labor lawyers would be more than happy to go to work on ensuring that a ruling against you would still be effective for millennia to come, and eventually you would be made to pay... with interest. It is clearly to the benefit of all parties concerned that you begin compensating your study subjects in a timely manner, including back pay for previous abductees.

Yours respectfully,

Nigel T. Burie
21st century.   
#791
Bring and Brag / The Man Who Loved Deeply
February 25, 2008, 08:37:12 PM

Once upon a time, in Portland, Oregon, there lived a man who loved deeply. His friends knew he loved deeply, his parents knew, and so did his girlfriend, Monica. Even his counselor, whom he saw at regularly spaced intervals in order to stay in touch with his feelings and on an even keel, knew that he was a man who loved deeply. His name was Bruce, and he avoided drugs and alcohol because he felt that they would obscure his emotional perception. "It's important to experience things the way they Really Are," he would say, "and not through an artificial lens."

His friends were pretty impressed by this. They would consult Bruce for emotional and mental health advice, relationship advice, and advice on practical matters like budgeting and dealing with a problematic landlord. His advice was always good, and his friendships were plentiful and thriving. His own relationship was like a shining pillar of light and hope to his peers, because Monica, a beautiful woman two years older than Bruce, was constantly singing in praise of his romanticism and general emotional healthiness. "He brings me EXACTLY the right kind of candy bar without me even asking" she exalted, "he rubs my feet at night at least three times a week, and he washes my dishes sometimes when I'm not home just to spare me the trouble. Once a week we share our feelings and discuss where we're at with each other." Her friends were in awe, and in a perpetual state of envy. "You lucked out, girl!" Amanda, shaking her head at the latest in an endless string of mildly erotic love notes, "I need me one like that."

Bruce tended to identify himself by his ability to love deeply, and did everything he could to nourish it, reading books with heavy emotional content, crying at movies, watching Johnson's Creek and whatnot. He dedicated an hour per day strictly to exercising his abiding passion for Monica, writing love poetry and letters, compiling tapes, planning ways to show her his emotional commitment and the breadth of his affection.

Monica my lover, my love, my confidante, in you lies the deepest river, the highest mesa, the most living green thing and the most enduring boulder. You are my basis, my fundament, the stream of reason from which all my thoughts flow. When birds take wing at your approach, they fly not with fear but in celebration, for the joy of your being overtakes them until they can be still no more and must feel the flirt of sky under their feathers. If I seem silent in your presence sometimes it is because what I wish to be for you cannot be expressed in words, in sound, and my throat is stilled by awe of your love.

Yours always,

Bruce

One incredibly beautiful late summer afternoon, Bruce was hiking his favorite trail (Bruce loved nature) in Forest Park, contemplating the next way to delight his beloved, and noticed for the first time that the sparkling stream running down the ravine through which the trail led ended at a large wooden grate, and that from there it presumably was taken by pipes under the city and to the river. "I wonder what's under there" he pondered, standing at the top of the grate, "I wonder if I can fit through that gap".

He could. He did, and found himself suddenly in a tiny paradise, a verdant location of mosses, wild clematis and gravelly streambed, a tiny island of lucidity beneath a city-margin park full of joggers and dogwalkers. The stream ran around the gravel islet into the gaping dark oval mouth of a pipe large enough to drive a Chevette into. "Fuck" said Bruce. Lured by the addictive sound of water and the natural instinct of men to explore holes, he ventured cautiously across the shallowest part of the stream and placed his foot on the dry, sloping side of the pipe. "It's not too bad down there" he decided, and stepped fully across, both feet on concrete, completely within the tunnel. It sloped gently down as far as it was illuminated by the sun in the western sky, the walls vanishing into the most profound darkness at a point of indeterminable distance. The burbling of the stream at or near the vanishing point seemed musical, almost mythic, like the description of a fairy grove in some science/fantasy novel like the ones he'd read in high school. Something about that sound, about the smell, like the odor of warm dusty sidewalks dampened by a July rain, convinced him that he wanted to explore further, that there was no way he could return to his apartment on NW Irving without fulfilling the day's promise by penetrating the tunnel further. He even had a keychain flashlight, a sudden boon bought by impulse at the checkout counter in a suburban GI Joe's while running errands with a friend. He'd bought a tin of Almond Roca for Monica while he was there, too.

Moving slowly into the pipe, he left the flashlight off. The light from without gave him quite a few feet of vision yet. He let his fingertips drift along the abrasive concrete wall; there were algae stains far up the sides, testament to the swelling power of Oregon's rains. By August, the stream was dwindled to only slightly more than a trickle, leaving plenty of room for the adventurous to stand with no threat of drowning. The algae stains diminished with the light, until he had to switch on his tiny light to see that they were gone altogether. The tunnel was barren, only a brownish slime growing beneath the waterline to show the persistence of life. The tunnel offered a sharply downhill slant just at the point of total darkness, and he momentarily considered calling his exploration off, but reconfirmed his original impulse as soon as he realized with the help of his little light that the precipice was not terribly dramatic and soon leveled off to the previous slight slope. He proceeded. The gurgling of the water and the monotony of the pipe made it difficult for him to track how far he'd travelled... ten yards? Twenty? There had been no branches in the tunnel, nothing to confuse his return. He felt a decided lack of danger, and in fact was beginning to feel a bit too soothed by the reassuring sound of the stream echoing through the conduit.

It was less than a mile from the park to the river. Of this he was certain. A mile meant a twenty-minute walk on the surface, maybe forty minutes in the pipe. Forty minutes down, forty minutes back; it wouldn't even be approaching sunset by his return. He was almost disappointed, considering the limit to this venture. He wondered what was at the outlet point, where the stream flowed to the Willamette. Wouldn't other streams join with it? None had so far. He walked on. His mind drifted. He thought of Monica and her reaction to his story of how he'd penetrated Portland's secret underground tunnel system in search of abandoned Speakeasies and Chinese smuggler's dens, to no avail. He imagined stumbling upon such a room, long abandoned and filled with antiquated furnishings, crates of contraband. Who would he tell? Monica, yes. His best friends John and Elaine and Marcus, definitely. The newspaper? No... he'd keep it to his own inner circle, to be shared only with those he loved. Love. He turned again to love, his mind embracing the idea, the feeling, like old men embrace the cousins they grew up with.

His light died.

Stopped, for a moment stock-still, his liver rose into his throat and he swallowed it down, breathless, heart aching from speed. Ah, but it was no problem. There had been no branches and all he needed to do was turn around and walk out again. Dark was frightening but there was no real danger. The echoes around him seemed newly louder without light, and when he turned to retrace his steps he slipped and splashed into the stream with a cacophanous splatter. Hardly any harm; only a wet foot. A pause. "Deep breaths now. This is fear. You can recognize it without being owned by it." Bruce collected himself. "Just walk. Out the way you came. Easy!"

He walked. Fingers sometimes on the wall, sometimes in his pocket, he stayed focused on the sounds of the water, the echoes of his steps in the tunnel. His breath, also, had a sound, sometimes harsher than it seemed it should be. He walked. He wondered how long he'd been walking, but without the light he couldn't check his watch, as he proudly despised those illuminated high-tech types as being fit only for athletes and trash, and, not being an athlete, stuck with the most basic of battery-operated models. He walked.

It seemed like he'd been walking for hours. An illusion, of course, brought on by the dark. His legs quavered. It seemed cold. For a while he'd periodically checked the direction of the stream's flow with his hand, to assure himself he was going in the right direction, but as his hand grew progressively numb he gave that up. He couldn't be turned around; there was only one way out, and that was upstream. It seemed to take so much less time going in.

He thought about Monica, what he'd do for her birthday. He'd throw her a party, perhaps, of her closest friends, each of whom would bring a favorite food. It would be decorated in her favorite colors, and between now and then he would survey her conversation for hints of her very latest desires. He would buy her clothes, the most fashionable "new basics" which she would have been lusting after but would never splurge on for herself. He would buy her perfume and exquisitely expensive and delicate toiletries. She loved to pamper herself but would rarely buy the bottled designer products she ogled in magazines. Oh, his love! He would spoil her, would write an epic to their love, would paint a mural on the wall of the freeway she drove to work every morning! His love for her would be legendary, their romance the subject of future poetry, an inspiration to songwriters. "Bruce and Monica" he said aloud. The echo reflected softly from the walls and the water.

He had always loved deeply, intensely. Even in junior high, his adoration of a girl named Sara had filled him with the rush and power of mythic heros, of the Song of Solomon, which he read then for the first time in his hunger to consume anything which would teach him about the new sensation in his kidneys. Love. It ate at him, leaving him with a hollowness that had to be used to draw in experience, had to be filled with something. He filled it with romance, with poetry and flowers and cliches, things the high-school girls swooned at until he joined the poetry society in senior year, a group filled with cynical and long-haired intellectual girls who refused to be called anything but women. That was when he really learned how to love. Sara was an idealized memory by then, a growing pain, and he was on to bigger and better. He was learning to be in touch with his feelings, to know himself so he could know and love others. He was learning to understand women, women's needs. He became fully sympathetic to the realization that women are emotionally healthier than men, and therefore superior, worthy of emulation. He grew, and in growing, increased his capacity for love.

He learned to express his love, to use words and gestures and symbolism to show a woman his passion and admiration. He met Monica, and in falling for her he used every method at his disposal to display his devotion. His love for her must be deeper and more perfect than for any previous woman, because his skill at expressing it was so well-honed, his artistry beyond measure.

"Monica, oh Monica! I've been walking forever, my knees are weak. My hands are cold, Monica, my face seems numbed by the dark of it. I only want out. It didn't take this long to get in, I didn't walk this far. I think I'm starting to be hungry."

His memory started to interplay his past with his plans. Her birthday seemed to have already taken place, and to have gone badly. In this new memory, all his plans come to fruition but she is appreciative of nothing. Her friends stand awkwardly around when he recites her birthday poem, and her thanks seem hollow, peculiar, like a stranger thanking him for something she never really wanted. Her friends whisper, and he knows they're not being flattering of his performance. He's let her down somehow. The gifts aren't quite what she wanted, and though she feigns delight at each one, he knows it's a sham. A failure, he burns with humiliation, realizing that his friends will take this to mean that his great love is a fake, that he has no capacity to love deeply, that he himself has no more emotional depth than a callow brute.

"How can they think that? I am capable of the truest, most intense love. I am passionate, I delve the depths of my emotions, let them swell over me in untamable waves. I let them infuse and inspire me, I understand them. How could anyone doubt me? Could Monica? Have I not shown her the greatness of my love? Haven't I displayed it for everyone to see?"

The walls murmured back at him. "Liar."

"Liar."

The stream, running coldly alongside him to empty into the river somewhere behind him, cried out, "Liar!"

He heard them as if it were perfectly normal for walls and water to speak. Angrily he responded, "No! I am no purveyor of falsehoods! I always identify the truth as I see it and tell it as best I can, albeit gently so as to spare the feelings of others. I am no liar, I've discussed the importance of honesty at length with my friends, with Monica, and with my counselor!"

The stream laughed, "Liar!" The walls chuckled softly, "Liar, liar."

Bruce felt weak. He was being mocked by a passage which had lured him in and was now holding him prisoner. His legs ached, his back and belly ached, and he was so, so cold. In August! He knew that the very core of his identity was his emotional intimacy, his self-knowledge. He also knew that thirst was starting to drive him crazy, and started to despair until he remembered the stream he was walking beside, the stream that was still softly taunting him with accusations. He ignored the mockery and only briefly considered the wisdom of drinking, as he squatted down and scooped up a double palmful in the invisible dark. It could have tasted like anything, but it tasted only like water, slightly mossy, a little like concrete. After all, it came down from the hillside; it must be clean. He found it difficult to rise, and sank to rest on the slope of the pipe's side. It was damp, and soon he felt moisture soaking through the fabric of his jeans.

After the debacle of the party, Monica would be distant. She would call him less, and often would end calls quickly. He would make great efforts, send flowers, sculpt chocolate into tiny replicas of her favorite classical statues, but to no avail; her distance never eased. "Why, Monica, what did I do?" he lamented, and in answer the walls accused him, "Liar."

"I am full of love," he thought. "I love deeply. I love greatly. It's who I am."

"Liar."

"No," he protested. "I am in touch with my feelings! I am aware of my motivations! I talk about my emotions!"

"Liar."

He kicked at the stream, at the walls. His frustration and fear erupted into a temper tantrum, flailing at the tunnel in a flurry of blows against his unseen tormentor, the impenetrable darkness punctuated by the sounds of splashing and panting interrupted by what might have been tiny sobs. His legs were soaked to the knee, and his ass was also wet. His knuckles stung where he'd smacked his hand against the wall above his head. He forced himself to his feet and into a walk, striding as briskly as he could, despite a feeling of weight bearing down on his neck. Once, he stopped to urinate, once to vomit, and replaced the fluids lost with more water from the stream. His head was hot. He resented Monica for her lack of appreciation, and as the resentment grew, so did the mirth of the stream. "Liar! Liar! Liar!"

He tried to turn a deaf ear to it, but it wormed under the skin on his forearms and made them itch and crawl. He saw Monica spread out before him, hair spread in a dark halo behind her head, her beautiful form golden on a white bedspread. He couldn't see her face, and realized it didn't matter. "Monica, my beloved," he whispered, "You are everything."

"I am only a vehicle for your displays of love" she sang, rising from the bed and leaving the room. He followed her, watched her clothe herself. "But my love, I feel for you something so deep and wild and strong that sometimes it seems as if I can't surface from it, as if it's swallowing me up, drowning me. How can you be merely a vehicle when I feel so powerfully?"

She stared at him from eyes which had no color, put on her coat. "I'm going to church" she said. "You can go to hell."

He tried to put her face in that void, tried to color her eyes with his memory, but failed. Maybe he was going mad, insanity robbing him of the one thing he cared most profoundly about, his love?

"Love" whispered the curving walls. "Love".

"Liar".

Was it Monica he cared so deeply about, or was she right, were the walls right, the stream, was she merely a vehicle upon which he constructed his identity? Was his love for Monica, or did he only need her to anchor his construct of love? The stream giggled, "Liar." His head was hot. His hands were cold. His feet had no feeling and cinder blocks weighted his neck and belly. He'd been in the pipe forever. He took another step. Another. His knees felt like buckling. He felt like prayer. He felt like Jesus. He took another step.

"I'm going to church too, Monica. I'm coming with you. You're right, they're right." He stopped and raised his hands up as if in supplication to the conduit, to the ground in which he was enclosed. Sinking to his knees, he blessed the walls with his sore fingertips. He thought he heard faint voices answering "Love", echoing distantly up the tunnel.


Over the next several months the local papers printed a few stories on his disappearance, and flyers featuring his face were passed out and stapled to telephone poles up and down the NW 23rd Ave shopping district, downtown, and along Hawthorne and Alberta. A year later some commemorative articles were run... "Whatever Happened to Bruce Kelley", full of speculation and quotes from his mourning friends and family. Six months after that the Oregonian contained the announcement of Monica's wedding to a man who showed his love less perfectly, drank occasionally, and was not quite so in touch with his feelings.
#792
Bring and Brag / Mutton Chops
February 25, 2008, 08:33:42 PM
The fucker dumped me.

For the first couple hours I couldn't think; I just lay on the couch and cried, and a couple of times I went into the bathroom to look in the mirror and see what a mess I was. I was FUCKED UP: my eyes were red and squinty, my face was shiny, and my mouth was all open at the corners in a figure-eight, sort of like some kind of Lucille Ball mockery. I'd compose myself for a minute, but as soon as I looked in the mirror again that Lucy-mouth would come back and I'd hear my own helpless wailing echoing off the bathroom walls.

After a while though, maybe after I'd fallen asleep and woken up without noticing, it was all of a sudden plainly obvious what I needed to do. I had to call three butcher shops before I found one that was willing to give me the number of a farmer who would sell me a live sheep, and the guy had a Lafayette address, like an hour drive from downtown, so I was going to have to wait until my day off to go out there, but that was OK.

The farmer was kind of a freak; he was like "So why do you want a live sheep, again?" and I was like, "I want my fourth grade class to get a sense of the reality of where meat comes from, you know?" He totally gave me the eyeball, but he couldn't come up with a decent argument in the face of my explanation, so he accepted my cash and loaded the animal into my Subaru Forester without saying much more.

I had to wait until Wednesday. I just kept the sheep tethered in my kitchen until then; I know, the back yard would have been better, but I didn't want to give myself away and at least it was easy to clean the poop off the linoleum. The thing about Wednesday, besides me having the morning off, was that during the week his mother always gets up early to eat breakfast and do some gardening, HOURS before he gets up. Oh, did I mention that he lives with his mother? Fucking loser.

So Wednesday morning I drove over to his house and checked that she was actually HAVING breakfast as usual before proceeding; sheep are way more expensive than you might think, and if she was sick or sleeping in for some reason, then the whole thing would be wasted and I'd have to buy another. So I checked her out, and she was in the sunroom drinking her orange juice with her pink-daisy ardening gloves and her flower clippers on the table, and I knew it was OK to go on as planned. I went back home, scratched Mr. Woolly on the head, then straddled him, held his chin (he was really docile) and slit his throat with my Henckels 8-inch Chef. I really believe in spending the money on high-quality cutlery, you know? It's just not even worth the hassle of using some crappy Ginsu shit or anything like that, and once you've cooked using a good knife, there's no way you'll ever be satisfied with anything cheap.

Anyway, I bled the sheep into a bucket I got at Fred Meyer just for the purpose, and it was surprisingly tidy! I totally thought I'd be mopping up a huge mess, but other than Mr. Woolly evacuating his bowels, there was hardly any mess at all. After he stopped twitching, I hurriedly incised around his neck... I had to act fast before the blood congealed... and peeled the skin from his head. It went smoothly except for some sticking around the eyes, snout and lips. I got it off, though, and was just stuffing the sheep carcass into a garbage bag when I thought, hey, of course I should keep one of his legs for chops! That would be so yummy! So I took off one of his hind legs and somehow managed to like, jam it into the freezer compartment without knocking out all the half-eaten Haagen-Dasz containers and the frozen tamales from Trader Joe's.

The drive from my house to his is only about fourteen minutes, which is of course why he used to show up at my place in the middle of the night all the time, drunk and horny. I parked half a block away, and once I checked that ol' Ma was out in the garden, I slipped in, trying hard not to let the garbage bag rustle. The stairway was right off the living room, and his room was at the top, to the right of the bathroom but left of his mom's. I left the Hefty at the bottom and crept up with the half-full bucket, careful not to make the stairs creak even though I knew he could sleep through me getting up three times a night to pee, or dogs barking, or air-raid sirens, or whatever.

So I went into the bathroom first, closed the stopper on the sink, and carefully poured about half the blood in. I wiped up the couple drops I spilled with toilet paper and stuck it into my pocket; I didn't want to risk flushing the toilet because I was pretty sure I would have gotten in major shit for being in his house without telling anyone. I walked back out to the stairs, and meticulously poured a line of blood on each tread without letting any of it run over onto the next tread; it took forever and my arms were getting tired of holding the bucket, like fifteen minutes or something, it sucked.

I finally got to the bottom and it was time to set up Mr. Woolly; I took him out of his plastic bag and tried to set him up standing, but his body was still too floppy, since rigor mortis I guess takes a while. I ended up leaving him more or less on his knees, with his flayed, open-eyeball head pointed at the staircase, and went home so I could wash up a little before work, since I was pretty skanked out from all the stuff I'd gotten done.

That night I was marinating some chops when the phone rang. My heartbeat picked up a little and I could feel my cheeks turning pink as I wiped my hands on a dishtowel, before picking up the phone. I was breathless, all like, "Hello?" and he was all, "Um, I was just thinking about you, and stuff that happened," and I was all "Really?" and he was all "Yeah" and then he totally asked me if we could get back together and I invited him over for dinner that night and it was really great.

So yeah, that was a few weeks ago and things are still going good.
#793
Bring and Brag / Stanley the Retarded Hunchback
February 25, 2008, 08:32:21 PM
I apologize in advance for this. You may wish to not read it: it is pornographic and not very nice.

The Adventures of Stanley the Retarded Hunchback
Part One: Stanley Gets Laid

Stanley drooled. He drooled all the time, pretty much, but today he drooled because he was thinking really hard. He was thinking about what he would do when he finished mopping the long, shiny hallway floor of the institution in which he should have lived, but didn't by virtue of his mother having a lot of money. His mother had set him up in a small apartment just a few blocks from the institution, and instead of living there he worked there, mopping floors, emptying garbages, and doing other menial labor that was impossible for even a total moron like him to fuck up. He got the job because his mother was a heavy funder of the institution and she threatened to withhold her sizable quarterly donation check if they didn't find her boy some kind of work to keep him occupied. Stanley was thirty-six, but he could never remember that.

So now Stanley was trying to figure out whether it would take him a long time to finish the hall floor, and what he would do afterwards. This was a challenging process, and a thick rivulet of spittle ran down from the corner of his mouth and hung off his chin, dripping now and then, and slowly swaying back and forth with the motion of Stanley's mop-pushing.

"Oh Stan..." he heard the dulcet croon behind him, and immediately snapped to attention, holding his mop upright like a Lambada partner and whirling around to face the speaker. She was Elsie Hobbs, the crowlike middle-aged supervisor of the institution.

"Yesh Miss Hobbs" he slurred wetly.

"I was just wondering if you could take a minute out to come clean my office windows. They're awfully dirty" she murmured silkily. If Stanley had been capable of much reason, he would have realized that they couldn't possibly be dirty, since he'd just washed them four days ago. But Stanley had the mental capacity of a Golden Retriever and that point didn't occur to him.

"Yesh Miss Hobbs" he slurred wetly.

Dropping his mop into the greasy grey lukewarm water in his bucket, he followed her  through the twisting halls to her office, where she closed the door behind them and handed him a small white bucket full of steaming water and a large, soft sponge.
"Before you start on the windows, Stanley, I want to ask you a little, teeny favor" she crooned invitingly.

"Yesh Miss Hobbs" he slurred wetly.

"Can you keep a secret? I mean, if we... if you and I did something together, you wouldn't ever tell anybody, would you?"

"Yesh Miss Hobbs" he slurred wetly.

Stanley never told any secrets because Stanley was barely smarter than a doorknob.

With a sharp intake of breath through her thin dry lips, she began an outpouring of passionate words that were lost on her companion. "You see Stanley, I've always dreamed of having a retarded hunchback... I want you to spongebathe me, Stanley, I want you to wash every part of my body with that sponge, and then I want to show you things you've never dreamed of, things that will change your entire world. Let me have you, Stanley, let me be your bride of passion, let me show you what I know I can do for you!"

"Yesh Miss Hobbs" he slurred wetly.

Trembling with excitement, she shrugged out of her charcoal-grey jacket and unbuttoned her crisp white shirt, revealing a lacy black bra which contained two small flat wallet-like breasts. She quickly stripped naked, revealing to Stanley a body as crow-like as one might have assumed it to be if one had ever thought about it. Stanley hadn't. "Wash me" she sighed tremulously, and he dipped the sponge in the water and started at her shoulders, moving in long, slow strokes just as he did the floors and windows, squeezing the sponge and letting the hot water dribble down between her fleshless breasts and run down her belly to the stringy tangle of pubic hair between her thin thighs. She moaned as he passed the sponge over her small brown nipples, one hand stealing to his thigh to caress upward to the fabric covering his still-flaccid little penis. At her touch, Stanley paused in his methodical wiping; he was familiar with this sensation, but he had only felt it before at his own hand. He grunted for a moment as he got hard, then resumed his washing. If washing her meant that she was going to rub him and make him squirt, then he was happy.

He continued to work his way down, crouching until she could no longer feel his thin, hard little erection. When he reached the hairy crevice between her thighs, she moaned and clutched the edge of her desk, opening her birdlike legs wide to the gentle steady strokes of his wet sponge and trembling violently as the hot water streamed down her legs onto the floor. Stanley maintained a rhythm, dipping and wiping, dipping and wiping, sending her into the throes of highest ecstasy. He was happy, thinking about her hand rubbing his privates and making him squirt. He was sure she was going to make him squirt when he was done washing her. He worked his way down to her ankles and carefully washed her feet, getting in between every toe as she moaned and squirmed, one hand pressed into the fleshy faintly odiferous folds at her crotch.

When he was done, she used that hand to grasp his rounded shoulder and pull him upright and close to her. She could feel his narrow prick pressed into her naked thigh through his corduroy trousers. "Your turn" she murmured throatily, stripping off his cardigan and Polo shirt and running her hands over his pallid camel-like back. She sank to her knees and unzipped his pants, letting them fall around his ankles while she smoothly rolled down the waistband of his Fruit-Of-The-Looms to free his hard-on. "Ooooh, yes," she groaned as she took the small, dark, slightly crooked member between her hands and warmed it with her breath. Stanley was drooling from there as well now, a clear mucilaginous stream of pre-cum dripping from the malformed head. Stanley was very happy.

Stanley was also very surprised when instead of rubbing him, she put her mouth on his penis. It fit easily into her throat without making her gag, and she closed her lips and slid them back and forth on it, pumping her head in a way that made him VERY happy indeed. He grunted and drooled.

He thought he was about to squirt when she suddenly pulled her head from him and stood up, boosting herself onto the edge of the desk with her legs apart. Stanley could see quite clearly the shiny wet pinkish folds which she had been rubbing with her left hand, and a slightly gaping hole ringed with white cream. He looked curiously, but was more concerned about whether she was going to make him squirt. Why had she stopped?

"Come to me, Stan" she husked throatily, "let me show you what to do."

"Yesh Miss Hobbs" he slurred wetly.

She drew him close to her and reached between his legs to grasp his slippery throbbing dick. Oh good, Stanley thought, she IS going to rub me! But to his utter surprise, she did something else instead; she placed the head of his skinny rod at the opening of the hole between her legs! It was hot there, and wet. It felt very good, much better than her hand or even her mouth. Without conscious volition, Stanley's hips started to thrust, pushing his pointy goatlike penis deep into her crevice. She squealed. He drooled. His hips pumped furiously, his breath whistling out through his nose while his body tensed and spasmed. She clutched him and writhed, her squeals rising in pitch as he panted and humped, her nails raking furrows across his hump. With a final ear-splitting whine, she wrapped her legs around his narrow flabby buttocks and came, and with the spasmodic tightening of her hole around his member, he felt himself start to squirt. He grunted and drooled as the thick white blobs spurted into her canal, and he fell back from her, shaken but happy. Mucouslike gobbets of sperm oozed from her opening, and the base of his softening penis was coated in a slowly crusting goo.

"Oooh, Stanley, that was wonderful, my hunchbacked sweetheart," she cooed softly, her eyes half-closed as she reached for the now-cold sponge and water. "I want us to do this again and again. From now on, when I tell you to clean my office, we'll come in here and you'll do me like you just did, and no one else will know about it but us. Does that sound good to you, my darling?"

"Yesh Miss Hobbs" he slurred wetly.
#794
Bring and Brag / A very short story about a fungus
February 25, 2008, 08:30:24 PM
My name was Eugene. I was born on the shores of a small lake in what is now known as Michigan; no, not a large lake. As the spores attacked my brain I had no idea what was coming, and the others in my village believed that I was a genius, a shaman. To me they brought their wounded and sick, their congenitally deformed. My name was Eugene and I had no special powers, only a fungus that had entered my brain one day in late childhood and lain there dormant for nearly a decade before consuming my intellect. As I infected their loved ones with my disease, which showed up most often as a simple ringworm, I called out in the voice of the loons which nested in the cliffs at the north end of the lake, and the villagers were convinced of my holy status. To me they brought their infants, their women in childbirth, their retarded children. As I lost my ability to speak a human language and the mushroom in my braincase impinged upon my optic nerves, I wished I could still cry out stop, stop, stop; save your people while you can.

My name was Eugene.
#795
Or Kill Me / A Fox and Rabbit story
February 25, 2008, 08:17:40 PM
One of my favorite traditional Cherokee stories, told more or less as I remember it.

Fox and Rabbit used be friends, a long time ago. One time they were walking around looking for game, and Fox spotted a cow. "Look at that cow" he said to Rabbit; "I bet I can shoot it". He lifted up his gun and shot it through the heart.

Now, Fox and Rabbit were standing over by their dead cow, and Wolf came along.

"Whatcha got?" asked Wolf (stupidly, because anyone could see it was a dead cow).

"Dead cow" replied Rabbit.

"How ya gonna cook it?" said Wolf, drooling a little.

"Dunno" said Rabbit, looking over at Fox. Fox just shrugged.

Rabbit wasn't really very interested in the cow, but Fox and Wolf were getting hungry and wanted to cook it up. Rabbit had an idea. "Hey Fox," he said, "See that red over in the west? That looks like fire. Why don't you go get us some so we can cook this cow?"

Fox was pretty eager to get some fire, so he took off. He trotted and trotted, and every time he thought he was about to get to the big fire that was making the sky so red, he'd get to the top of a rise and it'd be off beyond the next one. Finally, the red light died down, and discouraged, he turned to go back.

In the meantime, Rabbit and Wolf were chuckling about Fox's stupidity. Wolf had a great idea... they would take the carcass and cache it up in a tree, but first they would cutoff the tail and stick the stump-end in the ground, so the tassel was sticking out. When Fox returned, he saw the two of them looking glum and shuffling their feet.

"What happened here?" he cried, "where's our cow?"

Wolf looked sidelong at Rabbit and told Fox, "We went to get some wood, and when we came back this old cow had buried itself." He pointed at the tail-end sticking up out of the ground. "We don't know how to get it out."

"I'll pull it out" said Fox, and he grabbed hold of the tail and pulled and pulled with all his might, until suddenly *POP* the tail came out of the ground!

"Look what you've done!" yelled Rabbit, "We'll never get it out now!"

"Yeah, might as well leave it" agreed Wolf.

Dejected, Fox went home, and Wolf and Rabbit had a good laugh at his expense. Then Rabbit wandered off, because he wasn't really interested in the cow anyway, and Wolf had himself a nice big meal. He had to eat it raw, though, because no one ever did get any fire to roast it with.
#796
Bring and Brag / Apologies to a Ladies Man
February 25, 2008, 07:38:03 PM
APRIL


Forester
I never saw you coming,
red curved cutters in hand
nothing much to say.
You silenced out my wondering
making me also quiet as the hush
under maple leaves in the calm.
You pruned me back to livewood
only the green remains.

Forester,
I am eager over you
growing reaching sapling suckering
pulling in bits of you
through pale new roots.
I was a wizened hawthorn,
a galled densewood oak.
I am now a new-planted ash,
red berry adorned,
overwintered,
sap rising.



Journal entry, 4/29/00

There's this boy at the seasonal job at the garden center where I just started, and... he's not the best-looking one there, and it's not like I'm available, but there's just something about him. He was the one who hired me, I think; I don't really remember exactly because there's about six tall blond guys there and it could have been him or the store manager, but he has earrings and I vaguely remember those from the impromptu interview when I turned my application in.
   
Anyway.
   
He's quiet. He's almost antisocial compared to the other guys, and very knowledgeable. I started always going to him for the answers to my questions, and then I started always going to him because he's just... interesting. I didn't think too much about it, about how he looked or who he was, but one day I looked directly at him and all of a sudden there he was, in a sort of jolting recognition I've never experienced before. I realized that he's beautiful. He doesn't talk much, but sometimes he talks to me. I've been seeking him out, trying to work with him out in the trees, doing heavywork, wanting him to respect me. He asked me why I ask him so many questions, and for a joke I told him it was for my notebook because I'm stalking him... hopefully he thought that was funny and not wierd. Sometimes we work late together, and it's fun, reorganizing the geraniums, setting the young potted trees in rows, making everything beautiful, exchanging mild repartee or just working in silence. He can be silent; he doesn't have to fill up the spaces with talk. I think he'd be a really good friend.
   
The thing is, I've started thinking about him all the time. The thing is, it's starting to scare me a little. I mean, I'm married. I'm a mother. Things are going OK at home for once, my babies are happy, I like my job, Steve is working full-time at last, we're getting along. We're going on our honeymoon, finally, after four years! Victoria. It should be great.    
   
The boy drives a great old black Ford pickup. Its beautiful.
   
I don't know why I can't keep this boy out of my head, and I really just want to know him as a friend but with the way I feel around him, I'm afraid. I'm afraid that if we get to be friends, something will happen between us. I'm not that kind of woman, no matter what Steve says sometimes.

But I keep thinking about him. His name is Charlie.

***
#797
Or Kill Me / Life as a cabbage
February 25, 2008, 06:15:20 PM
My laments would be colossal earthquakes, my weeping the screaming of bombers overhead. Never do I utter a sound, and curled in my bed with the mourning in my belly I do not move. The volcano shuddering my township never erupts, never spills magma over my breasts and valleys. I am forgotten, forgotten, and with the pinkness of my childhood dies any belief that greatness lies within me.

I am still. My chest expands and contracts. Blood flows. My eyes glaze, then dry, and glaze again. Tears do not spill over.

I proceed. I awake, I clothe and feed myself and my children, I send them off to Grandma, I go to work. I smile, I laugh. I scrutinize my dry eyelids in the bathroom mirror. I witness their isolation from my teeth.

The weekend comes. I drink, I smoke, I smile, I flirt, I fuck. I grab asses. I am fascinating, I have a new hobby. Everybody wants to be my friend. It's an experiment, to see if I'm interesting.

Every night, I stay up too late, the smoke of desolation parching my cornea. Every morning, I wake up too early, the salt of grief alkaline on my tongue. My morning meal is a parcel of meaningful lyric, my morning tea the color of light seen from behind flesh. I am in confusion, and all direction eludes me. I am thin from hunger, worn from sleeplessness. My north star was only a meteor.

My friends are kind. They nourish me with their company, but it is not calories enough to keep me from starving.

I establish a new philosophy, I have become Plato. From the seed of my bereft lament comes the school of unliteral truth, in honor of the one who wishes to be known but pretends to remain unknown, the secret genius responsible for gravity. It is sometimes gibberingly profound, sometimes hollow. It provides little comfort. It is a cool infested pool of water.

I, used to solitude, have become lonely in my house full of children. I have lost my ability to cry. The sorrow in my middle has lost its outlet and stagnates behind my optic nerves. I have lost even my Poet, ah Poet, ah Poet.

From beyond the open field of life, from behind the atmosphere of Venus.

#798
Bring and Brag / A poem
February 25, 2008, 05:18:48 PM
I write poetry sometimes.

How does he

How does he know her?
I see her flighted tremble-
her ardor draws the bow
of her smile tight across
pale marble stepping-stones,
guardians of all the passions
of her mouth and I wonder;
does he find her poised
or as I find her, wild
overrun with appetite
raw voracious craving
pure distilled longing
bright unshaded burning?
Does he find her feral
born gentle, gone dangerous
full of the power of her beauty
full of the opus of her vulva?
Does he strike her ardor
does he keep her temper
does he find her yielding
does he test her mettle?
I find her giving, giving
tender, guarded, mad,
forgiving: and trying
as I do to not be caught
staring, I wonder
how does he know her?
#799
Bring and Brag / Some leaves I made
January 14, 2008, 11:04:29 PM
...
#800
Bring and Brag / Pimping
January 14, 2008, 05:51:18 AM
My bf finally put some of his music on his Myspace page, it's worth a listen:

http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=211243616