Better Boofing, Ltd.

 

3/3/24

Single (for a reason) mother believes her and her baby deserve the best! A man more manipulable to self-sacrifice. Praying mantis vibes, not all good, however evolutionarily viable. Historically, people with domestic problems would seek clement advice from the Church - the opium dens of the masses as they come to be regarded. These days many seek secular therapy from therapists too cautious of their livelihood to be honest with anyone let alone themselves.

Better Boofing, Ltd. - psychedelic suppositories.

Drunk, dreaming of writing, playing with my pen, nothing coming out. It’s the middle of the night and I’m wide awake farting. I took a weed gummy and some magnesium to chill out. My penis is no longer an option. Give me the knife. I cut away to an ex-wife brandishing it, owning me. Going back to possessiveness and how it feels to be owned in a bad marriage. She tells me to “do as I say.” I comply like a man out of options. She feels like she owns the place, which isn’t true, technically, but we’ve already belabored that point. Arguing against a mindset is shouting at a wailing wall. Except that little twitch buffaloes like a mouse to an elephant a’reel in my mind. If my memory serves me, I own the transcripts. Meticulous documentation is a success strategy. Succeed with others, not despite others. Why am I saying this? What else is there to say? If my ego is completely a’lea, who am I? Self? Not Will. That’s some other guy I’ve heard about, but never looked into, you’re welcome.

A baker’s dozen of chocolate ecstasy butt-plugs that effectively release MDMA as if melts (and you get fucked) from B.B., Ltd. Sold to all the sex cults popping up in my region. Once you’re in there, why not? Stir it around a bit and make it nice and consistent. Consistency is another key to success, a marketable strategy. People love to see it on paper. It’s a big word most people remember and feel smart about knowing. I’m remarkably consistent, anyway, not to brag, but I’m always on time, even when I’m late. It’s a skill obtained from wearing a watch that lets people know I know. “I know, I know, sorry,” is not something I want to have to say to someone I feel sorry about for forcing me into that position. It’s not like we ever agreed that it wasn’t all a game. Oscar the bulldog wags his sorry head with his eyes closed in admonition before his teeth latch, jaws clench, and jowls drool slobber all over a fresh forearm, snapping the right radius nearly in half.

Write more, but remain concise. What a paradox! Hole me up in a box here and now! Straight to the grave with an epitaph teenagers have uncensored sex upon; a headstone that read “Fuck Niggers” She happened to be ‘black’ (with a chocolate buttplug) before the ‘happening’ when ‘black people’ became ‘people’ all of a sudden, even if many handfuls of supreme justices don’t see it that way (in the old South). I know perfectly free people that demand incarceration! The attitude of these people! GIVE THE BLACKS WAKANDA! I mean, if they could do it for Israel, and we all see how well that decision is going (eyeroll). It’s interesting to witness oppressed people oppress with all the cares of the world. “Worldly cares,” to a monk off his sausage. Practicing farts at every conceivable angle. Proud of his anal symphony, “I think I’ve got it really tight,” like a butthole to a workaholic.

“This shit’s ass.”

“No, the ass shits, the shit doesn’t ass,” to an English teacher a’boof, “Technically.”

We contain multitudes, but my nigger just lost his right arm. “Ow!” he howls!

“Well I guess ass does smell like shit since one comes from the other, and it does smell like a particular ass we know we can both identify,” the teacher finally concedes, "In fact your colloquialism conveys the message more succinctly," observing Django, disarmed.

“Bargaining for consent is an utter waste of time,” reasons an efficient rapist in a limey British accent. “If I can get them to line up in droves for something they don’t need we will have achieved total psychic control, domination, and consent by proxy,” Bill Gates, the rich freak in a illuminati mask practicing hack cockney. There is one person in the world who cannot honestly say “that’s rich,” without making another person’s lifetime earnings soar through the roof as a boardroom full of executives imagines a line on a graph ad infinitum. “Apparently philanthropy is popular and makes you look like a good guy even with 125 skeletons in 124 closets. Let’s expand the marketing budget to include an advertising campaign designed to convince the viewing public that it remains in their best interests to support our well-oiled machine of progress. And add another party-planning bureau and call it some derivative of ‘education’ as a tax write off and to underwrite political entities open to writing exceptions for our particular industry into legislation in the name of charity!”

“Hail, Spray Tan! SPF 52” Ad read. “The cult following is large enough to require mass broadcasting to reach individuals in need of purposeful messaging,” back in the boardroom, Gates not usurping himself quite yet, sips a dirty chai.

I need an answer only a doctor can prescribe and a pharmacist can fill, but the answer itself lies within one’s heart, however hypertensive. The nicotine in my blood is commanding its possession over my spirit. “We’re going to have to cut him open, aren’t we?” says not a nurse to a surgeon, but a schizophrenic to herself and her imaginary butcher boyfriend. The military training she received, little as it was, was enough to inform her mentality about the value of human life to a carpenter ant crawling over dead eyes. On the jungle floor, a skull still covered in flesh appears staring into the abyss. This represents a clean kill to a wealthy investor on a safari with the deadliest catch, Ice-T in one hand, sidearm in the other. “Stay here,” he tells the cameraman, “I want to be doing jumping jacks when I get shot,” bang! Goes the report and poor-compared-to Bill Gates Ice-T keels down. “It’s over for me. I’m out of here. Sayonara,” as he exits life stage left. The last life stage is the final frontier of longevity.

3/11/24

So I tell my doctor, “I think I’m dying and I want to live longer.”

He says, “Don’t we all?!”

I’m vomiting blood. Having a bad time. The bad doctor messes with his stethoscope and acts busily like he knows what he’s doing. Everybody’s scared and feels sorry for me and that’s the way I like it.

“No drive, no desire, no pain, no gain,” against a struggling blonde who could pass for legal if she lost her wallet. “I’m going to make you mine,” a rough whisper in her ear.

“Is that you Michael?” it dawns on her she’d been fucked by this particular rapist on more than one occasion. Her luck! He likes to go doggy-style bareback she recalls as sure enough he flips her over and proceeds with the creepy off-tempo fornication so characteristic of old Mike off his meds O’Malley. A real fart whisperer, he was always down to explore every invaginated intertriginous zone with his tongue and sure enough, before you know it, he’s kissing her asshole like on the mouth. “It’s kind of weird, but it feels good!” she thinks, kind of getting used to the idea of suddenly getting shoved into by a nut. “I mean he obviously thinks I’m pretty!” in vain.

He actually wishes he picked a slimmer target without as much experience, but it was a kind of spur of the moment thing. He knew where she’d be after school and her political stance against mass incarceration, having seen her at a protest declaring she’d go to the grave with her position unchanged.

He changed her position for her, flipping her over again, she busted.

Anyway, as we return from our autistic trance, we remind ourselves what the Founder and Father of all creation had to say through his prophets: “Allahu-Akbar.”

3/13/24

A name, an identity, a social security card, and a timestamp order the lifeform. “Looks like this one will grow a weiner, shall we cut if off now or wait until it’s ‘her decision’?” doc using his fingers for air-quotes, “it will be less painful now, and she’ll resent you either way for introducing her to this blasted place we call Earth 2049.”

The sin of Mike O’Malley was not omission, “for although it wouldn’t all fit, he left nothing out,” like a Zen koan. “There’s only so much space in that attic upstairs to put stuff and you don’t give a shit, you fuck and throw things everywhere, I’m over this,” to the target of bipolarity.

“Let me live the way I want. I don’t miss us.”

“So why are you still here?”

“I’m very sick. I’m too weak, scared, tired, and intimidated to go back where I’m from and leave a good impression with those I assume have high expectations of who they think I am, so I am what we believe. I am the sum of my ‘Be Here Now’ slant shifting parallelepiped with sharp corners 2D thinking."  There’s a problem that wouldn’t be a problem if it were addressed promptly. The longer it goes duration-wise, the worse the hell to pay.

Some people drink a culture of beer. It’s what puts life into dead stuff. Wheat, barley, rye, malt, hops all have had a life of their own. And it’s not what they were, it’s what they can become that ties the room together. The mind reflects the environment like a nice book collection.

Addiction is simplified recreation – love removed. Smoke weed, stay inside, and fill in the blank.

Will I get the fear?

Apply logic to abortion, addiction, and pornography/prostitution.

Addiction: sex, gambling, overeating, codependency, drugs, alcohol, etc. Any subject an Anonymous group that meets at churches biweekly discuss. All the indulgent acts performed in isolation.

“I’m so in the moment I forget whose party I’m at! I drop out. I become so small I blink into inverse eternity.” Observing the celestial from the subatomic, being both. What keeps us temporal is undisciplined behavior. Unevolved consciousness – monkey brain. Control your goats! Grazing past confines, paltry. One kills what one cannot otherwise contain. An overflowing chalice of Christ’s blood – too pure for this world? Abounding in compassion.

“Does anyone know how one would go about capturing a person and forcing them to work for you these days?” The loophole! Some call it a snare, but it’s all legalese over Johnny’s head in the court so drunk he can’t wait to be sentenced so he can finally go home for the next 5-10 depending on what happens. He hasn’t been able to stay anywhere for more than a month lately (threadbare welcome) so the consistency seems nice by contrast.

The first guard grabbed his ass. The second one kissed his mouth. Third exposed a length of foreskinless phallus and put it in his mouth with guard Gloria on gonads. “Ong-ong-ong,” was about the sound she’d make with her stuffed larynx. “Two hours to cumshot so make yourselves very comfortable around the house and don’t forget to get creative!” goes the porn director.

Pornography means “the study of a poor man’s head,” which I know is wrong because I have little money. What I want is unattainable to obtain or unobtainable to attain or something.

Part of me fears I’ll miss loafing if I pursued success (and I really like just laying around!)

If I write more, will I loaf less? Yes. Will I miss loafing? Probably not, but it’s hard to say. It’s pretty good eating some drugs, getting fucked up, screwing around. I make the international sign of contagious tiredness. YAWN!

3/16/24

I’m not fulfilling my quotas. Yes, I know the blacks already have a place they call home called “Africa” so Wakanda is pretty redundant really, even if it is even today increasingly overrun by “civilizing forces” formerly known as colonists straight to Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. “The horror!” And this is the sort of story that drives me to drink large drafts. I’d rather not contribute to consumer culture, but man I don’t know where to escape but inwardly! And if I could convince a wealthy industrialist to consume 36 buds a day by example the world would be wiser and I could get off my gas station medicine. So in a way I’m doing what needs to be done and in another I’m derelict of duty. I get the impression however that it’s impossible to please both sides. Some people hate to see you succeed. And success brings its own care and concerns. I don’t really care one way or another. I think we ought to love one another regardless. And not like Mike or Bill. Something tells me they’re both off their rocker, but even then I’d rather kiss mad Mike than “where’s Melinda?” Gates.

Is thinking out loud the same as thinking in silence? “All I know is what I have words for.” went Wittgenstein. Third eye inward, throat chakra muted, 110% sleep I follow my dreams in overdrive. For me: a formee: she assumed the fat-ass form of my darkest ideals. Part of her alters to accommodate increasing turgidity suspended like a fishing lure on a liquid plane.

“We’ve done enough damage,” mused the witch, stick in her crotch, stirring, “but we could always do more.”

“Until the day I die, I’ll spill my heart for you,” Storyof the Year screamo emphasizes her conjuration. An image in her mind, one quite reprehensible, “Spill away,” she quoted, mirroring an illustration in a leather-bound book white cutting quietly, but not silently into a lamb’s heart, easily obtained in Shepherd’s County. She relies on “Mohammad the Blasphemer,” his D&D moniker. He even delivers the goods and throws a bone in the old bag, “his sort of thing,” when he thinks about old broads in the third person while perusing the county’s heritage seed vault with a stave in his ass. “Down donkey!” he commands the braying beast wearing a saddle and a tiara he’s selling on eBay. Outside, an owl gives a series of hoots unheard before taking of t’wards Myra’s with a fresh pellet she’d unpack in order to perform divination. “Fuck, her breath stinks,” he expressed facially before flipping her on her hands and knees. She knew it, and expressed her satisfaction with a low moan, “only real arseholes don’t acknowledge my stench,” she considered many moons ago, “they ur afraid of the truth.” She pulls a cock’s head (rubber chicken) towards her knowing ass and let out a loud snort. “The treatment” always does something to her and this time it even felt a bit pleasant.

One lamb is enough meat for one big fat guy. I imagine the maw of a great beast and a burning intensified by acid. I imagine death’s door arrayed with teeth individually pulled and organized by category up and down the ivory exterior. A BladeSaw® brand circular saw spins to life for death. It severs the spine before any feeling amounting to agony. The French used to practice this technique on the bourgeois in public to perfect it. They’d even put a tourniquet around their necks to help them breathe less. That way they’d want to die! They’d be asking for it like, “please just kill me,” you could read in their bulging eyes as their faces got red with pressure before the head popped off. “Boo-gee...boo-gee,” Myra back to reciting from her brown book while visualizing torture. An encyclopedia of world history is as good as any spellbook to an experienced witch. “There’s even some good images,” she thinks in a way back to emaciated corpses on their backs everything about them agape, “in a ditch,” to an Entelechy™ resonance sphere that harnesses her energies. She utilizes it to commune with powerful entities on the fringes of the unknown universe bent on unholy retribution, “burning blood in native soil. As above, so below.” They laugh now, but soon they’ll be howling.

“How are you, Nancy?” the Spirit wryly queries Pelosi experiencing metempsychosis on drugs on the floor of a trailer park in Elizabeth, CO. Realizing her worst nightmare. Middle America. Two kids. A third she can feel kicking. Second husband passed out on a used couch. High-gravity tallboys strewn. Immediately her congressional training kicks in and she starts searching the cabinets up and down for rat poison. “I’ll kill the motherfucker while he sleeps,” to “Goodbye Earl,” with warped acoustics. Nobody knows how to serve one’s country like an experienced bureaucrat. She knew intrinsically like a lawmaker how to abuse the children so they’d enter state protective custody and she wouldn’t serve serious time. She could abort the third with the art of tong-tea which defies state sanctions. “Soon I’ll be on my way to Wash…” she glanced at a mirror and lost hope. “Ugly! Ugly!” Could it get any worse? It could. Her water broke.

3/20/24

Online chatrooms: the silent shouting match.

1) The world is all there is, it behooves humanity and moreso the morose individual to improve upon it. "Make the world a better place," is an apt platitude. Simple! Smile! YOLO! In the moment...

2) If Heaven exists (ideal forms), what is the purpose of this world at all? Discounting mere purgatory and Earth as Heaven's waiting-room (duality) we've stumbled upon realms one considers higher or lower. "Proving ground" comes to mind even if one only judges oneself without a greater intercessor. Moral basis of existence.

3) If Hell exists and there are only lower realms of existence, "Abandon all hope, ye who enter," for this life is only a comedy of errors. One is born in blood, decays, and dies. Epicureanism at best (to Sisyphus) or absurdism to Camus. Moral retreat into atheism or...

4) Nihilism - nothing exists - all is a dream, illusion, maya, or otherwise devoid of intrinsic meaning/value (beyond this message ineffably understood). Entertainment is the highest ideal. It follows that the most entertaining would be the most highly praised/prized, which leads back to the Lord of hosts, Jesus Christ, lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the World. Happy are we to be born in His image (the highest illusion!)

Is a truck 500 horses more complex than one mere horsepowered horse? 500 times more logical and unnatural! Humanity is stuck in an absurd time when efficiency is a high ideal. A slavish mindset.

"So what you're saying is kill all the Slavs?" to an alien hallucination, purpose of an Area 51 visit.

"Correct. Convince Putin to invade Ukraine, and convince the comedian Zelensky with big numbers that he'll be considered a historical figure of magnitude. Enough for Dante to consider amending his opus from beyond the grave," goes the little gray man, lips ventriloquistic to advanced telepathy (a more convincing command on account of the high fidelity (oracular) direct input upon the relatively weak monkey brain of the standing U.S. president, Joe Biden) not oft observed in Pennsylvania (except to Quaker mountebanks). Add to this the dithering effects of radioactive nuclear waste buried in the great state of Nevada, burning holes through to the core of the Earth like MDMA to the brain of a druguser on DARE all the way to "China" in caricature of caricatures' Trumpspeak. What a boof! The children are still humping on the grave of the rolling racist. Revisionist historians overlaid "Fornicate with Everyone!" on the bad epitaph everyone remembers, but no one can say without fear of reprisal from next door neighbors eavesdropping for next month's rent. One World Government 'saw to it all' from its Flanders, Belgium HQ. Invictu!

Literal Experiments 1, 2, & 3

 

2/12/24

At a place where I am forced to acknowledge (once again) a lack of discipline – not writing 1,000 (ideally 2k) words/day. Nearing the end of a rope encased in wax with twain termini alight. Self-fulfilling nihilism of a dark prophet approaching end-times on a horse named lightening-consciousness, a chemical hallucination. I feed my beast fermented grain and let it run amok a'lea. Who cares where we wind up? (So cold…) How about a private ledge with a lasso secure betwixt neck and gargoyle.

“God willeth; I resisteth,” the grimacing beast with bat wings restates its rebellious mantra. “Power hungry open air, I breathe what fills me in and informs me.”

“Oxidative reduction rusts me,” weeps the chimera. “Wherever I go, here I am,” I remind myself, yet I can tell my integrity has been compromised despite admonition. In spite of warnings! So goes my horse-sense, more like a mule.

This is where I ought to swallow pride and find out how bad my ass looks to strangers I don’t care all that much about if I’m being honest about my relationships with so-called friends as an indicator. Do I care about anyone or anything? A sporadic BM. As if every impetus weren’t a minor annoyance. “Time to get up! Go to school! Perfect attendance won’t attend to itself!” up the stairs.

If only the cure weren’t as bad as the disease! “Sloth is not an option, young man, and mastery takes courage. You’re not an otter (and even they must fetch clams) so up!”

My object of happiness lays beyond the snooze bar in a metaphysical reality where time has no essence. “This stinks!” I protest just after 5 AM February. “There’s no sun and it’s as cold as Dickens on Christmas! What kind of life demands such austerity?” wonders into a blanket over head. Already considering the dark magic of trading lives. And yet whose life would be worth the trade? As I perceive the struggles others face daily, I am reminded how necessary it is to come to terms with the reality of the situation that involves everybody suffering. Even monks make up a routine. “I’m up, I’m up. Hell, can’t a lazy boy stretch while horizontal?” my bad vertitude.

All this occurred before the psychological impact of COVID-19, a modern summit of mercury, autism, and corporate-governmental gaslighting, plus woke neighbors who have ‘bought in’ to the newest secular ideologies. Before the great brain-damaging.

Temporal transport to college - recognizing the relationship I forged between chemicals and self. A materialist love.

An industrial love akin to “the mechanical bride.” A story I tell myself about an affection for replaceable parts. Or about rapidly reproducing cannabis plants and psychoactive fungi. Things that can be controlled and administered to modify a literary life to conform to plot lines. Much of this is related to hygge and leaving the rat race. Conceivably if one were to own adequate capital, one may be made self-sufficient, and ideally this ought to be within the realm of possibility for modern man. That is if the hyper-wealthy didn’t control the vastness of entirely mapped, demarcated, secured, sequestered, parceled, and satellite-surveyed land. Entire third world nations under neo-colonial dominion, so there’s nowhere anyway to escape to outside the mass-surveillence of panopticonism that would be worth going to feel detached, isolated, or uninvolved. We may feel detached, but we know we’re held to the quick by invisible strings that cloud and traffick the ether. At the end of the day, I’m nothing more than a necessarily industrious heathen (NIH) that can do little more than buy bread and heat for the winter. Every expense is a new tax that keeps me burdened, debt-strapped, and a dispensable asset. This is the depredation of an increasing share of Americans, plundered.

Whose fault is this? We have plenty of information – more than ever before, and yet there is participation in ventures as unholy as war and accepting spoils therefrom as birthright until generations pass, the fighting spirit has assumed its respite, and generational wealth is squandered back to the NIH. Therefore the NIH must be rendered forgetful, unconscionable, and diminished, but how? (They must remain heathens and slavish in nature (at least the Russians are attacking the Slavs overtly!)).

Remember the Alamo! Cross the Allah-moat (the Rio Grande), and repatriate the motherland, fatherland, and homeland sexual. Race and sex are not clearly defined until science makes a mockery of itself (on a Superbowl commercial). How many social services can really be relied on in a crisis?

The idea of setting quantitative writing goals I had known from Henry Miller, but then yesterday I was reading Steven King On Writing and pieces of a Sylvia Plath’s journals that restated that seemingly obvious wisdom that if one wishes to be a successful writer, one must above all else write. And setting established parameters is a sign of professionalism. Another bit of seeming misfortune is that I lost/misplaced a journal last week. I have created a missing link for myself, which in a certain light is a sign of evolution. The Archaeopteryx is a feathered dinosaur considered to be proof of the link between birds and reptiles. I’d like to think that I’m moving past having a bird brain and a cold heart and moving into a condition relative to the better ideas of humanity. Out in the cold gray February, a year of my life is somewhere out there unaccounted for – how sad! I’d like to think some good came out of 2022… and if it’s a big loss, let’s make it a learning experience. I wouldn’t have bet on myself that year! In the conversation as a known knave - I have good reason to distrust. You think I’m not taking all I see, hear, and otherwise perceive into account? My personal affects – objects I’ve poured my conscious soul into, a year here, a year there, all gone, lost, stolen, scattered to the four corners. My time dissipated. Who or what in the world is trustworthy?  Bury me with it...

2/17/24

Love to a materialist makes so much sense it’s not silly anymore! Who (as an adult) can afford to be silly?! Horse sense of humor. Become supercilious – look down from a mountain home upon those whose lightness of being prevents them from making the larger investments characteristic of one with any acumen to speak of. Economically solvent. Living paycheck to paycheck like a child – a child who refuses to grow up and take life seriously, what?

There are a trio of children (out my window, in a dream) attempting to bring down a demon in the night using fire and any other incantation they may dream up. In succeeding, a friend is lost because it was discovered there was an unselfish motive which a demonic force can exploit. “Love? How pathetic! We rise and fall as one and Legion!” the rather large, lumbering demon morphing into the guise of a frenzy of bees as it judged their minds and took one down to be divided amongst a hoarde of homies who would experience a relief amounting to spit on a hot engine. “What do you think happens when you kill for a love that is not yours? It’s not your birthright!” a concept difficult to understand for someone who wants it all, but won’t settle for second best. Gatsby could be summed up similarly: attempted wholesomeness through bootlegging (new money) for unattainable property (Daisy/old money) in the Hamptons. High on an ancestral hill, there is a startling ideal of Romance as a child. The Fall of Romance can be brutal, savage, Gothic, Visigothic, and Barbarian. Yet many still idolize and worship its ancient spectres, falling at the knees of Aphrodite. Summoning salts – LSD creates a split/rift in the minds of those who choose the world, but have no idea how to grapple with the immensity of its suffering. The Devil’s second offering to a regular dude on a Savior trip. The answers to many questions were made apparent in seconds that could pass for hours, but slipped away all the same. If only every historical no or yes were as a light-switch for good or bad decisions that could be easily toggled to optimize the conditions for a second coming that would put me back in a big house with a beautiful wife vs. an apartment with a groupie? Who care what happens to Kate Hudson (or any icon of deviancy)? The war is not over until we rock to Valhalla!

Baby cuckolding – my wife’s love has shifted. Still thinking about a stack of letters to Aomame unsent. Fearing her reaction. But fear is universal, right Krishnamurti? It’s her temperament – her animal nature I appeal to (out of id). It’s something in the animus I identify with. Meanwhile she remains congruent with a derelict of spirit. I am derelict too. Staring at an ever-growing blacklist at my favorite bar and fantasizing what I would do to get on there. One by one I alienate and move a little closer to that private ledge with its gargoyle, monstrous yet pathetic. The story it would be! Banned for not getting down from there like a young son up a tree to a mom trying to act like this is not a game. Swinging just out of reach. One last cool draught before everything is hot and thirsty. Maxwell’s laughing demon mocks my stupidity for being cold and using energy for nothing.

“He that loseth his soul shall find it.” Christian platitude.

“...the possession of a strong will and a clever head makes some things very difficult to see.” Watts, A. Become What You Are. p.5

At the brink of stealing joy by becoming a basis of comparison, a superlative.

Become ugly and receive love.

Become beautiful and reject advances.

Transvaluation: naked human form as beauty & the body itself as a work of art.

Historically, the human body was something dirty and ugly, made beautiful only through art itself.

Plato, who wrote and transcribed the dialogues with the physique of a professional wrestler while his muse Socrates was notably hideous and completely natural – who viewed the written word as an amputation of innate human ability to remember with lucidity.

Many who flaunt carnal goodies – the failed OnlyFans model who is too real and remains amateur knows. Aphrodite knows she is loved universally – whose role is to reject/reflect as a moving mirror the aspect of all that is held as ideal.

Just be your selfishness.

Very many manage, but don’t take care.

Fibby Meals – delivered fresh to your door! Frogs/taddies, sallies/axolotls, newts – no lizards! And marshmallows. Easy to bake recipes included!

Demands and constraints: the DNC.

The author’s plan to push (your) buttons.

People who drive BMW’s think they’re on an important mission like James Bond. They even park obnoxiously. I'm in a kind-of-full parking lot and they’re settled into a loading zone. Impossible/unreasonable. Focus on a goal – triple 20’s in darts because bullseye’s too mundane, but hitting 1’s and 5’s while crying, “I’m not normally like this!” until it’s too late, game over, last call, bottoms out. “Show us your asshole! Asshole! Asshole!” They afterhours crowd chants in delighted anticipation. Beamer-guy performs his best stink face in the nude. Spreads his cheeks. Everyone loves it. Even old Spencer, but he’ll never let on. Even gulags have holidays. Do prison guards have Valentines? Bass kicks of reference – buh-buh-dah-buh means what again? Where’s the siren? Aw, hell, I think that means pushups – the squadron does three sets of twenty before realizing they’re surrounded by jeering fiends. Further miscommunication. Bloodbath. Services. The fact that people can drink aggressively implies that one may also eat aggressively and perform other acts overall aggressively as a character trait.

People are more ill-used post pandemic. Human voices rise to a radio pitch. Invisible soup. Swimming in meta-recession-proof politics; no crises we can’t handle collectively by taking cover, covering up, and isolating. Oxygen-nation sold CO2. Adversereaction – circumstantial transaction, pay at a later date. “Later, date,” off Tinder. Comedians shrink god, psychoanalyze a deity reduced.

2/18/24

Gilgul –(Kabbalistic esoteric mysticism) “rolled soul” a soul meant to complete a specific task in the world that may require multiple incarnations.

Tulku – (Tibetan Buddhist) an enlightened being taking on corporeal form to direct paths of others.

Pop-psychology motivates the masses of the modern world. The plunder of yesteryear: the bullcrap of tomorrow! Prior to Antietam, slaves on both sides ran amok! Smack dab into battlefields and borderlines.

Amusing scenarios:

The notion of flying.

The notion of finding a better place.

The notion of being one with the world.

The phone calling itself. “Phony baloney full of money, take your milk and honey and shove it!” to a politician. A quiet finger in the air. Dissident unity. “When the same voice is picked up by more than one mic, tap the room, and note the gathering,” instructs a CIA gray man, Pentagon meeting. “Any unified display is a threat to America! Mobs are okay (being a public display). Protesters are easily categorized. A type easily swayed into belief from an absence of true faith (at least since civil rights and Vietnam). It seems like bad policy for someone to kill somebody else in the name of democracy, but somehow it works. These days votes sway themselves, so there’s no need to do battle. Everything’s all hunky-dory now the machines do the counting for us. “

“A belief in God is paradoxical to free will from a gene theory standpoint,” a materialist who believes he recognizes patterns better than the next guy through interpretation of particular data sets on a graph may hypothesize.

“Those who maintain a belief in free will may well find out what such a reality represents in a repatriation camp,” designs a social engineer.

All these people at the peak of statecraft collaborate for their own entertainment. They like seeing what the masses do – what they come up with. If I had access to all the money I might do the same! A love of money plays bazaar tricks. Balthazar’s Bath Bombs: the name alone is worth repeating.

Mi-mi-mi-myrrh…!

I select all my ideas from the aetherspherioid. It’s a slightly oblong humming mechanism designed by Entelechy, Inc. that tunes into the miasma of collective consciousness by 5G watchtowers. It doesn’t merely tell time, it gives it like orders five times an hour on a barely perceptible subliminal chimer. Instructions are Skinner conditioned with care from Manchuria.

“I defy a skilled translation!” the self-assured egoist.

From above, the powdered schnozz of Roselyn Jeffers looked twitchy. She needed more of the good rabbit-test. The good lab-grown. The good market share.

“I’m drunk when I go to vote, and sober when I go to drink. I’m only fully drunk when I get home and fell the impact I have on my family – it really peaks me. My tolerance testing threshold has had it up to here!” a patriarch.

“I deserved the beatings,” the voice of true love. There’s someone who trusts the process!

Playing cards with an absolute savant who reads rooms in black, white, and red. He counts. He senses heat distribution. He can tell by the faintest trembling difference between three and two. Many marvel at the self-made no-good trillionaire who beat Vegas fair and square. A sixth sense for a hot slot machine. Roaming the neon with a bucket full of coins and chips evenly distributed to a fawning entourage. “Eat, my protoplasmoids, the world is your buffet!” Maxwell, fully possessed.

“Then why are we eating Chinese?”

“Good question – those godless heathens can’t cook without rats!” dog-sized rodent literally pulling chef's hair over a wok a la Disney's Ratatouille.

Full of spite for both supply chain and distribution network. Max understands both too well.

Maxwell utilizes his genitals about as often as his head, almost never. I mean, he’ll touch himself almost constantly, but not much really happens. It’ll tingle and be a range of flaccid, but that’s about it.  Unless he's got a fist fully up there that is, but that maneuver is never easy on his own. He’ll stick a plug up there, sure, but he likes to feel fingers tickling the insides. Gaping in the mirror. Raw and necrotized. Demolished. He tweaks his fleshy bulge. Nada. She needs a tune-up he can never afford and it’s too late to be fixed and he's too defeated to care. “Those breasts can sag all the days, I’m just happy to be your puppet,” nosedeep in hot salami. “Can we agree that it’s better when I’m in stilts and you’re in a hammock? And the neighbors are watching?” He think's she'll brake it with her sheer mass stuffed into stockings, and neither of them have the tools. This is how he treats his depression in any case.

A cow’s purpose is to feed and feed. Imagine competing with animals. Imagine wrestling with goats. Imagine falling in love with your cousin. Imagine you love intensely. Imagine you love living together and vow never to break hearts. Imagine the sex is fantastic. Imagine being lost to sin. Imagine everyone thinks this is wonderful, not that you ought to care, but it does make life easier when people are glad to see you fail. Imagine pushing her legs up on the ottoman while positioned on the divan in such a way she squirts rainbows. Imagine a lasso of hot ropes on her chest. Imagine glaze on a cinnamon bun. Imagine her best friends show up for sessions with webcams and to watch the illegitimate kids. Swallow the truth. Follow the gaze. The way she looks snaps me erect. Imagine not needing forgiveness. Imagine all is already all there is. Imagine a wish and a command. Imagine it’s better than you thought it could be. Imagine a four car garage and a well. Imagine a stable full of horses. Imagine only being tempted by things that are good for you. Imagine your mind, whole. And now instead the drama is reenacted where a baby is separated from his mother and transferred to his hostile father who lives separately rendering the child emotionally staunch. He will sit in his own shit longer. He will be put to bed crying. It is justified that this will all make him tougher which may prove true enough if the scarring wounds ever find time to heal. If by some miracle this doesn’t prove a death sentence uttered by his father while he was still in the womb. A curse’s residue. Cousin-loving lawmakers tend to take a man’s side since women are ‘hysterical’ – not that they are funny, but they think with their organic pocketbook rather than an imitation of leather. A transvaluation of currency: what is important in the moment is a thing far off like an idea of success of Heaven like a pleasuredome, no place like it! His energy is seething – his anger overfloweth like eroding real estate to a raging torrent where a where a trickling stream used to be. I was joking and you were serious – now we’re uncomfortable.

“The resistance is rather the fundamental unwillingness of this type of mind to contemplate the limits of its power to succeed, order, and control. It feels that if there are areas of life which it cannot order, it is surely reasonable (i.e. orderly) to forget them and turn to areas of life which can be ordered – so that the sense of success, of the mind’s own competence, can be maintained.” Watts, A. Become What You Are. p.46-7.

Imagine all the face money could save! Whether it’s a birdbath, sundial, or a floating orb atop a Gothic pillar that consumes consciousness, it’s interesting to plot a garden around a trickling stream. Plus the congregation is growing wary at its presence in the cathedral. Many have caught on and some have come out saying how its presence brings them nightmares, cramps, and sexual impotence. They have been “silenced” yet the threat of a rebellion’s rebellion remains. The attendance the sphere demands is all-consuming, yet it’s not enough for families with “soccer” practice. This pesky “will to live” means I may have to come up with a heavier dose for the “Jesus juice”.