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TESTEMONAIL:  Right and Discordianism allows room for personal interpretation. You have your theories and I have mine. Unlike Christianity, Discordia allows room for ideas and opinions, and mine is well-informed and based on ancient philosophy and theology, so, my neo-Discordian friends, open your minds to my interpretation and I will open my mind to yours. That's fair enough, right? Just claiming to be discordian should mean that your mind is open and willing to learn and share ideas. You guys are fucking bashing me and your laughing at my theologies and my friends know what's up and are laughing at you and honestly this is my last shot at putting a label on my belief structure and your making me lose all hope of ever finding a ideological group I can relate to because you don't even know what the fuck I'm talking about and everything I have said is based on the founding principals of real Discordianism. Expand your mind.

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PI with Malice Aforethought: DOUR

Started by LMNO, October 31, 2013, 03:39:58 PM

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LMNO

They say he hides on the other side of the wall.  But it's not like you could take a sledgehammer and try to get to him.  All you get is lathe, drywall scraps, and a new door to the bedroom.  He waits on the other side, you see. 

He likes waiting.  Really, it's his favorite part.  The anticipation, thinking about what he's going to do to you.  The eager hunch of his shoulders, waiting.  Almost there.  The frustration, even – it increases his rage tenfold, knowing he's so close to you, but not yet.  Not yet.

So he waits, on the other side.  He grinds his teeth, he clenches his fists, and he stares, under a furrowed brow.  Leaning slightly forward.  Staring at you.  Watching you.  Waiting.  A solitary vein, arcing from temple to brow, pulses with a steady, unstoppable beat.  Staring at you, through the wall.  To the other side.  Where you are.

You can feel him staring, when conversation drops off, or in the uncomfortably long pauses between songs on your MP3 player, as if the device itself is hesitating.  You can feel his stare at night, abruptly waking you from unconsciousness.  His stare is like a weight, like a searing heat, like an inevitability.  You don't want to, but you can hear his breathing, shallow and hoarse.  Or is that your own?  Is that sound, wheezing, panicked, actually coming from your own lungs?  He knows.  He watches.  He waits.

He's always there, on the other side.  When you're at work.  At the corner bar.  At the peep shows you go to, trying to distract yourself from the weight of his stare.  It doesn't work.  The girls now openly laugh at you.  Do they know?  Can they feel him, waiting?  Watching?  His body, tense with anger, on the verge of coming in, almost, any day now...

When he does come through, when he arrives, there's no point in running.  Because he will be coming over, not anywhere you are, but everywhere you are.  He will be the entirety of your vision, his stare will become your world.  And then, he will reach out.  He will grab you.  And he will show you.  He will show you things.

And then, finally, he will laugh.  It will be the last sound you ever hear, that terrible, horrible laugh.

The Good Reverend Roger

Shit yeah.

:lulz:

I do a lot of waiting.  And one day, I'll stop waiting. 
" It's just that Depeche Mode were a bunch of optimistic loveburgers."
- TGRR, shaming himself forever, 7/8/2017

"Billy, when I say that ethics is our number one priority and safety is also our number one priority, you should take that to mean exactly what I said. Also quality. That's our number one priority as well. Don't look at me that way, you're in the corporate world now and this is how it works."
- TGRR, raising the bar at work.

Q. G. Pennyworth

PD: high octane nightmare fuel since 1898