shit posting
I want to be drunk and sloppy and scatty and rude and disgustingly vulgar, and then forget everything that I have been. But not stop there. No. I want to forget that I will wake up the following morning, or possibly afternoon (though if I had it my way I would not wake up at all) and remember - as hazy as I will inevitably be - and still be here. Here as in, alive, on the planet, residing on this sinking continent, suffering through myself. I want to lose what I will be in lieu of absolutely nothing at all.
Cliché, isn’t it? I do not care. Just so the audience is informed. I. Do. Not. Care. Speaking this makes me fall in love with the ends of sentences; the periods - pauses between one solid idea to another, without transition, or grace. Perhaps I simply like the ends of things, but there is a resolute finesse that makes me feel as though I have done something fantastic. I haven’t, but it’s the thought that counts. That’s what it all comes down to; what was I thinking? The answer, of course, is not a whole lot but it’s encouraging to note that humanity has gotten slothful enough to count the chemical reactions in the brain in among real action. It makes me think maybe I am a worse person than the naked eye could estimate. Never the less, I am wasting all the good people’s oxygen - all the innocent, orphaned, widowed, shit-on mother fuckers standing on street corners with cardboard signs telling of misfortune and woe - with my filthy thoughts. Suck on that.
Another announcement, while we are on the topic of thought. I have my best revelations with my legs open. Take that however you please. If you’d like, I can even give you suggestions; illustrations.
I have gotten off topic, however, and for this I sincerely apologize. What I had meant to say was, fuck. Fuck. Is that offensive? Good. I intended it as such. I want an excuse to lose my mind, and my soul as well. Expletives seem as good as any cause for damnation, and I will be expecting it. Don’t leave me disappointed; you won’t like me when I am disappointed. Not that anyone could like me at all, but I needed a lofty explanation for my wrath. Were you frightened? You should be.
Fuck.
Any thoughts yet? Try harder. Perhaps you should open your legs. Take the air in a bit. I won’t look, much - stare? - so long as eventually we can both get off.
Allow me to elaborate (possibly provide you with an idea or two to ban from libraries and placards on government buildings) on this fixation of mine; the idea of loosing myself at the bottom of some cheap gallon of red wine. To hell with taste. Or class. There is no place for that here; only my crass mouth guzzling existence frantically, in gulps as though if I got enough of it my words would taste better. No such luck. Isn’t that always the way of it?
Who came up with that motherfucking question? People use it as a statement, like inquiries were now a suitable manner of explaining why, once again, I want to punch someone in the face. Frankly. I would find it infinitely more productive if we could all just forgo the pithy rhetoric that goes nowhere, and instead just let me loose with a blunt object.
How does the House vote on that one? Should we ask the UN, or just assume that the talking sphincters are in agreement about not a fucking thing and therefore should all be hung (lump judge and jury in there and it’ll be one hell of a party)?
Submitted for the approval of no one, here I stand before you. Fucked. Naked. Rattling off on my many glorious shortcomings and wondering who, besides the notches in my bed post, is keeping track. Judge me as you will, but bare in mind that I don’t owe you a fucking thing.
Cliché, isn’t it? I do not care. Just so the audience is informed. I. Do. Not. Care. Speaking this makes me fall in love with the ends of sentences; the periods - pauses between one solid idea to another, without transition, or grace. Perhaps I simply like the ends of things, but there is a resolute finesse that makes me feel as though I have done something fantastic. I haven’t, but it’s the thought that counts. That’s what it all comes down to; what was I thinking? The answer, of course, is not a whole lot but it’s encouraging to note that humanity has gotten slothful enough to count the chemical reactions in the brain in among real action. It makes me think maybe I am a worse person than the naked eye could estimate. Never the less, I am wasting all the good people’s oxygen - all the innocent, orphaned, widowed, shit-on mother fuckers standing on street corners with cardboard signs telling of misfortune and woe - with my filthy thoughts. Suck on that.
Another announcement, while we are on the topic of thought. I have my best revelations with my legs open. Take that however you please. If you’d like, I can even give you suggestions; illustrations.
I have gotten off topic, however, and for this I sincerely apologize. What I had meant to say was, fuck. Fuck. Is that offensive? Good. I intended it as such. I want an excuse to lose my mind, and my soul as well. Expletives seem as good as any cause for damnation, and I will be expecting it. Don’t leave me disappointed; you won’t like me when I am disappointed. Not that anyone could like me at all, but I needed a lofty explanation for my wrath. Were you frightened? You should be.
Fuck.
Any thoughts yet? Try harder. Perhaps you should open your legs. Take the air in a bit. I won’t look, much - stare? - so long as eventually we can both get off.
Allow me to elaborate (possibly provide you with an idea or two to ban from libraries and placards on government buildings) on this fixation of mine; the idea of loosing myself at the bottom of some cheap gallon of red wine. To hell with taste. Or class. There is no place for that here; only my crass mouth guzzling existence frantically, in gulps as though if I got enough of it my words would taste better. No such luck. Isn’t that always the way of it?
Who came up with that motherfucking question? People use it as a statement, like inquiries were now a suitable manner of explaining why, once again, I want to punch someone in the face. Frankly. I would find it infinitely more productive if we could all just forgo the pithy rhetoric that goes nowhere, and instead just let me loose with a blunt object.
How does the House vote on that one? Should we ask the UN, or just assume that the talking sphincters are in agreement about not a fucking thing and therefore should all be hung (lump judge and jury in there and it’ll be one hell of a party)?
Submitted for the approval of no one, here I stand before you. Fucked. Naked. Rattling off on my many glorious shortcomings and wondering who, besides the notches in my bed post, is keeping track. Judge me as you will, but bare in mind that I don’t owe you a fucking thing.
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