The Moth

So, earlier I was overpowered by a stench.

But I don't mean, run of the mill stench, like something odorously displeasing on some kind of level as it may happen all the time in the sad, meaningless wastes of time that people who travel by bus out of necessity pompously call "their lives" as if such misery could ever properly be theirs as opposed to simply public nuisance.

No, I mean something effusing the testament of Moloch's own putrefaction through the... offices, let's say, of ten thousand cacodemons and not a single one less!

So I sallied forth to investigate, reciting The Conversation in antiphony as my only shield of hope and pavise general ; whereupon at the epicenter of the eyewatering emanations from hell, I found two things.

...where as ye guts of them yt doe quiff-splitters bear, stand comely still and rounde...

The first thing I found was this :

The second thing I found was my man Guillermo, who was ~painting~ the walls because waterdamage from the endless tornadoes and earthquakes and let's not digress.

IT WAS HIM, it turns out. Modern paint stinks, it turns out, and I don't mean in ye olden sense of "o woe, I don't like the smell of turpentine, herp derp". I love the smell of fucking turpentine, I used to handle toluene without a mask, that's not what this is.

There's no words for what this is, outside of perhaps "ourdemocracy" or "pantsuit" or such -- rotten piles of never-used-this-millenium old woman snatch-droppings macerated in stale prolapse.

Terrible.

Never paint anything ever gain, unless it's to paint it in like, steel, or something.

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Category: Zsilnic

Friday, 12 January, Year 10 d.Tr.