Health, freedom, time with family and friends are more valuable, we have from the beginning this "thing" that a good part of them voluntarily give up, which is identity, this feeds the system, the daily routine if you are identified is information, information it's power, don't let them know your next move. Give up any social media, give up TV, give up the barber, be humble and you will see a different perspective. #bitcoin #nostr
Pussies.
Hey #nostr, is there any driver who hasn't gone to buy cigarettes drunk at least once? I don't know how to challenge the fine ;)) I need evidence.
Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. (John 11:25-26). Do you believe this? #bitcoin conspiracy.
My whole life fits into this little box. #bitcoin
What if i tell you if you take orange pill won't heal your shitcoin addiction, but it will help you realize what you have lost in all this time and how your life was set on fast forward.
Understand #bitcoin use #nostr, cheat the rigged game of governments.
"Learn from the mistakes of others. You can't live long enough to make them all yourself." — Eleanor Roosevelt
Cu băieții mei aici, la un alt nivel #nostr !
The true purpose of this era is within your sight, take a stand #bitcoin #nostr
Yesterday and today
Yesterday I took my slaves to Club Mamalu... or was it Mamali ? Momolomo, whatever the fuck, something in that vein. Whatever the house of the (meanwhile passed) Principe de Lignac's currently on the market as.i
It was refreshing to see a bunch of people bereft of facebras for once, because everywhere else we go we're reliably an' universally the only sane, normally behaving people therefore sticking out like fabulous glamour in a dull sea of grey retards. Not a weirdo in sight here on that score ; but otherwise the jeans-and-a-blouse civvies are their usual shy self you all know and apparently love (or at least for some reason tolerate). They'll go barecunt if effectually encouraged (let's call it) yet try an' keep the bra on nevertheless (and otherwise handcover their tits as if nobody's ever seen small ones before) ; they'll sit around patiently and wait to be somehow engaged ; they'll... safety first, right ? You'd think their entire life was made of nothing but bombs and trench warfare, going by how they behave -- which of course it isn't, which of course is the problem : because they're too safe and much too protected therefore their brain magnifies imagined dangers out of any shape ; were they more thoroughly an' regularily exposed, toning down all that bullshit'd come a lot easier to them.
So... as per usual, anywhere I go I'm the only one with slaves, I'm the only one with whips (took that short fiery crop I bought in Prague along just for fun), I'm the only one whipping his slaves (asa, umpic pe fund). As per usual an' anywhere we go my slaves are the only ones with buttplugs, the only ones with correctly attached tails, the only ones with actual shoes, and actual dresses, and... Everything, really. The backdrop's always the same too, and it always looks a lot like you. But whatever, we had a good time and everyone else now has something to look up to in their life. It's something.
Today I took the unicorn for a walk in the park, which... Climate does change. That "Climate Change" as branded by the UStards is neither explanatorily nor predictively useful beyond the usual idiocy of those mental midgets is one thing ; but all that Hot Topic tshirtization aside Costa Rica's never been this arid that I remember. The Sabana lake's likely going to dry out again this year, as it happened a coupla years ago for the first time in recorded history. There's just no rain, and I'd guess the lush tropical forests home to the world's largest concentration of biodiversity (by a fat margin, look the numbers up sometime) is quite in peril. Already the Costa Rica you can experience -- wait, you can't experience anything, you're in quarantine. Right ? Well... the Costa Rica you could theoretically experience, had the World Karens Association not sent everyone to their room (nice job growing up, by the way, you've been grounded for the past year just like a god damned twelve year old kekekex) is a far cry from the Costa Rica I did experience, back in the day (much like, come to think of it, the Frankfurt you could today experience's got practically nothing in common with the Frankfurt I used to greatly enjoy back in the 90s). It's a funny thought, this : even if you managed to somehow "suddenly find yourself with enough success to, say," afford the things I did afford over the years... you still couldn't do what I've done. Because it's no longer there to do, at all! None of it, by the time you get your shit together it'll be pretty much all gone.
Everywhere I go, the only man, and the last man too! Fancy that wonder, in a world of terminal diseases, situations an' conditions I'm the walking, talking, laughing terminator of the very possibility of everything nice, good, pleasant or desirable. Quite the fucking experience, entirely inaccessible to anyone else as it might find itself, nevertheless quite the fucking experience.
And yes, I'm sure there's "new cool things" that "spring up" because "cyclical nature of cosmos" whatever. Sure. Here's the thing we have in common : we both don't know where the fuck. We can agree with this "in principle", but it's an agreement of shrugs. And here's the thing we don't have in common : I'll find them. I always have ; I always do. You won't find them. You'll read about them, once it's too late, you'll find yourself "living in the US" fifty years after it's degenerated from an America that was, perhaps, desirable a century before that ; you'll go visiting Grenwich village to "be cultural" long after the mites ate the last shred of straw-stuffed culture in the place ; you'll walk behind a funeral procession in Saint Louis a century tardy, you'll be in Rio for "the festival" long after it's no longer "the festival", you're always much too late to the party. As usual.
I can't imagine, howsoever I try and whichever way I approach the matter I simply can't imagine a worse fate than being you. It's not a very common sentiment, I suppose, but I quite firmly not to mention heartfeltly agree with the man : Were I to choose I'd be a dog, a monkey, or a bear, or anything really. Anything but you.
———Yeah, seriously, the Dutch dood owned some property here at some point. [↩]
« I can't remember the last time I talked to a dude...
The socioeconomics of swing »
Category: Zsilnic
Sunday, 31 January, Year 13 d.Tr.
Year 13 d.Tr.
Imagine that wonder, year thirteen!
Nobody ever does anything for that long ; the things people flatter themselves with having so done generally do themselves while also not too loudly protesting the supposed doer's spuriousness. Trilema doesn't write itself, though, let me assure you, not anymore than the eager girlfriendi fucks herself : very eagerly under my hand, and otherwise not at all.
So what's it like, and what does one do on top of such mountain as never before seenii ?
Well... I sit here, writing this, on the pinnacle of distructioniii distraction. It's funny, in my mother's tongueiv distraction's how you say amusement ; and I'm nothing if not well & thoroughly amused in that senseless manner. Amusement through distractionv, what more could be hoped for.
I'm low-key playing a computer game in the background. The 174-strong base, well equipped with (locally manufactured) focused laser rifles and hardy endurance garbs, mostly takes care of itself. Like everything else I do. I'm welcome to deign to check in, of course ; and I do, now and again, whenever and as often as I like. Click on a loot, or they'll organize a hunt for my amusement... epoca de aur, in a word. There's some reports I've not yet bothered to read, some discussions open, pending, that I'm going to in a moment resume, besides the girls will wake soon and we'll be going to I don't recall what, there's workers waiting to assemble some furniture on the property, things. Matters.
Supposedly human life comes in cycles of seven ; a thirteenth year implies three such, unless there's remarkable alignment of thresholds, things divers magically beginning at the same time. What was I doing, twenty-six years ago ? Starting life, I suppose, it could be said, it could be put that way. What, in another twenty-six ? Will I be penning the substance of Trilema's soon-to-be fortieth year, then ? Will I, hunch-back and bodily diminutive, ancient hat and ancient writing implement in hand, continue inexplicably, incomprehensibly, some god forsaken activity meanwhile meaningless to the thick fat grubs pullulating all about as all that's... left ?
It's lonely at the top ; but in a sense of loneliness bereft of all companionship. It's lonely like it's sweet, people never perceive their loneliness in joy, though misery's always shared while happiness can never be ; people think themselves lonely when they perceive their own fear that they might be (spurred, in fact, by just how they very much aren't, for they could never be, there's no loneliness at the bottom, not ever, not even as a possibility) ; and don't think themselves anything in those scant moments when it doesn't somehow, inexplicably, evanescently an' briefly suck for them. Too much, too bright, it overwhelms their minimal receptors and there they sit, prostrate, amused, distracted ; yet joy's the only loneliness there is, though not for everyone.
The numbers, confirmed from whatever count of independent public sources you prefer (though in any case a higher count than what makes "news"), show that Trilema's the most widely read thing yet. Slightly less people read it in December past, in the sense of slightly under seventy million, as compared to November's slightly over seventy million. This, aside from being the widest audience any Romanian who's ever lived ever reachedvi, might very well be the widest any one person's ever been read. Look through the actual specifics of the claims of your favourite worthies, what headcount at Woodstock, all told ? What audience the glory days of ABC/CBS/NBC/etc ? How many copies of Harry Pottervii ?
But that's not even it : this thing, by far -- by so overwhelmingly very far it gave everyone else "involved" "in the market" dry hives -- the biggest blog in Romanian back when I wrote in Romanian, now by very far the biggest thing in English, now that I write in English... you see the pattern there, does it give you hives ?
Though all are born to endless night yet some are born to sweet delight ; of those some I know of exactly one, and of his intimately familiar experience I can share in all certainty this fundamental tidbit : that overwhelming one's alleged "own kind" is in fact alienating, but to them. To the chosen it is realising ; the alienation, while certainly present, entirely rests with everyone else : his self-realisation towards their "common" potential alienates them from their hopes and dreams expressed in their common language. For his being great they're less people than they thought themselves, his existence throws the curve like very heavy celestial bodies bend the timespace around and about them.
tl;dr I'm enjoying myself, si la multi ani.
———This isn't to imply I've girlfriends now, ridiculum ridiculorum, but merely to acquiesce that you do. After all, there's nothing really wrong with that ; not anymore than there's anything wrong with anything else, anyways. [↩]Name the blog this old ? And make sure it is a blog, and not the mechanically deboned chicken goop called "blog" for no reason anyone can conceive, commercial communication repackaging itself as whatever it appears momentarily most likely to get it through under the door. [↩]Hey, remember back when "banana republic" was coined, to distinguish countries such as where I live from "the country", where you live ? Well... Not anymore, huh.
The libertard press is quoting Banya now, and as some sort of repository & font of ancient wisdoms to boot. Imagine that fall if you can. I can't, which is the greatest advantage to living a long time : it's the most powerful aid to the imagination imaginable.
Do you suppose Donald McRonald has weapons of mass distraction ? [↩]This isn't to imply we've spoken recently. We haven't ; nor do I expect to, ever again. For my own needs I explain the matter in the terms of, she's romanian, practically ; whereas I'm Romanian, and only very theoretically. I don't expend that much time (or for that matter any effort) towards it ; whereas the actual nitty gritty of daily being romanian's the sort of endless if pointless cvasi-activity that eats up their whole day. It ain't easy, being nobody's nothing and nothing to nobody. It takes a lot of doing, this being the schmuck of all things and all times. [↩]Ever notice the amazement link there, by the way ? Perhaps you too suppose the best thing's being my pet duck on the ocean shore one day, as a state of being. The most amusement to be had at the pinnacle of amazement, is that it ? [↩]Think ye of this : no one of your country, now or at any point in the past, a lengthy sort of past they'd insistently remind you throughout basic schooling stretches out two millennia! None of them can compare with you. None of them are as good as you at some activity you picked for reasons unclear, perhaps spured by disdain, perhaps of boredom, perhaps why not... [↩]Seventy million a month for what, seven months ? Aww.
Nobody cares, they're already doing her. [↩]
« Survivors of the Vault : Rules for the Endgame
Ken Russell's 70s : The Boy Friend, Tommy and Altered States »
Category: Oda Superbiei
Thursday, 07 January, Year 13 d.Tr.
Working Perfect Tower II Mining AI Script
Not being one to waste too much time, here it directly isi :
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
And here's how it looks while it's working :
Perfect Tower II Mining Script at work -- don't mind the primitive drill, it's unupgraded yet.
~ * ~
For everyone else, Perfect Tower II (illustrated to the right) is an... unfinished, how shall we say this, alphaii tower defense game.iii
It's been in development for a year or two (it just hit the Steaming Pile Of Shit as an early release maybe last month) ; but it's interesting to me because it makes a very peculiar set of choices in terms of what to develop.
The graphics, for instance, are very much neglected (as you can see) ; whereas the interface level of access is extremely refined (as you can also see). I mean, there's an actual Basic Ada strap-on for crying out loudiv! I can script game activity to the level of peeling off layers and moving through tabs, and it's all natively supported.
Needless to say this is exactly the sort of balancing choice I tend to favour (and have been favouring systematically throughout Minigame's tenure, especially as seen in Eulora development). I happen to believe it's the right choice, because you can always paint later upon the many edges and panes of a well made game (even if that "later" never in practice comes) ; but you can never "make" a game out of a set of very expensive, elaborately hand-painted... paintings. And, most importantly at all, everyone must wait while the smartest are satisfied first -- always and everywhere FIRST, and always and thoroughly SATISFIED. If this should mean there'll be no resources left for "everyone else" left waiting in line, all the better. Nobody cares. Let all-but-the-smartest whither and die for lack of basics, I don't give a shit. Nor should you! Actually, strike that : nor may you.
Because the alternative, where "everyone gets the basics", results in atrocities like the present situation. Do you know there doesn't exist anywhere, google be damned, a workingv mining scriptvi for this year old game ? I had to make my own ; always and perpetually whenever I want something I gotta make my own, because nobody does anything useful, because everyone's way too busy jacking off and "helping everyone get the basics". Fuck that dumb shit.
Fuck that dumb shit with a red hot poker, the only interesting problem in the world is the complete satisfaction of the very best and nothing else matters.
———If you're curious, that base64 encoding decodes to the lulziest of mixed-binary-xmlish nonsense...
00000000: 054d 696e 6572 0100 0000 096f 7065 6e2e .Miner.....open.
00000010: 6d69 6e65 0000 0000 0c00 0000 0d6c 6f63 mine.........loc
00000020: 616c 2e69 6e74 2e73 6574 0863 6f6e 7374 al.int.set.const
00000030: 616e 7404 074d 494e 4554 4142 0863 6f6e ant..MINETAB.con
00000040: 7374 616e 7402 0200 0000 0d6c 6f63 616c stant......local
00000050: 2e69 6e74 2e73 6574 0863 6f6e 7374 616e .int.set.constan
00000060: 7404 094d 494e 454c 6179 6572 0863 6f6e t..MINELayer.con
00000070: 7374 616e 7402 0000 0000 0d6c 6f63 616c stant......local
00000080: 2e69 6e74 2e73 6574 0863 6f6e 7374 616e .int.set.constan
00000090: 7404 064d 494e 4558 5908 636f 6e73 7461 t..MINEXY.consta
000000a0: 6e74 0200 0000 0008 6d69 6e65 2e64 6967 nt......mine.dig
000000b0: 0e61 7269 7468 6d65 7469 632e 696e 740d .arithmetic.int.
000000c0: 6c6f 6361 6c2e 696e 742e 6765 7408 636f local.int.get.co
000000d0: 6e73 7461 6e74 0406 4d49 4e45 5859 0863 nstant..MINEXY.c
000000e0: 6f6e 7374 616e 7404 034d 4f44 0863 6f6e onstant..MOD.con
000000f0: 7374 616e 7402 0400 0000 0e61 7269 7468 stant......arith
00000100: 6d65 7469 632e 696e 740d 6c6f 6361 6c2e metic.int.local.
00000110: 696e 742e 6765 7408 636f 6e73 7461 6e74 int.get.constant
00000120: 0406 4d49 4e45 5859 0863 6f6e 7374 616e ..MINEXY.constan
00000130: 7404 012f 0863 6f6e 7374 616e 7402 0400 t../.constant...
00000140: 0000 0d6c 6f63 616c 2e69 6e74 2e73 6574 ...local.int.set
00000150: 0863 6f6e 7374 616e 7404 064d 494e 4558 .constant..MINEX
00000160: 590e 6172 6974 686d 6574 6963 2e69 6e74 Y.arithmetic.int
00000170: 0d6c 6f63 616c 2e69 6e74 2e67 6574 0863 .local.int.get.c
00000180: 6f6e 7374 616e 7404 064d 494e 4558 5908 onstant..MINEXY.
00000190: 636f 6e73 7461 6e74 0401 2b08 636f 6e73 constant..+.cons
000001a0: 7461 6e74 0201 0000 000e 6765 6e65 7269 tant......generi
000001b0: 632e 676f 746f 6966 0863 6f6e 7374 616e c.gotoif.constan
000001c0: 7402 0400 0000 0e63 6f6d 7061 7269 736f t......compariso
000001d0: 6e2e 696e 740d 6c6f 6361 6c2e 696e 742e n.int.local.int.
000001e0: 6765 7408 636f 6e73 7461 6e74 0406 4d49 get.constant..MI
000001f0: 4e45 5859 0863 6f6e 7374 616e 7404 013c NEXY.constant..
Friday, 02 April, Year 13 d.Tr.
What's Up Doc
What's Up Doci is transparently Bogdanovich trying to be Neil Simon. It doesn't even work out terribly ; I mean the result's shockingly superficial and very slow to start, like a nine act comedic play by a retired policeman. Nevertheless, if you've got an hour to wait for the extremely circumvolutedly tedious warmup of the spuriously overcomplex machinery, it does eventually get funny. It never gets insightful or more deeply satisfying than the mere Haha! Hahaha!, there isn't that Simon trademark Aha! at all in there, it's as much about human nature as it is about the humour intrinsic to piles of crates (something cats often see just as well as people do, and occasionally even better). Nevertheless, if you're sixty and had an overlarge steak right before, by the time you drowsily rouse it'll just be getting hysterical.
Barbara Streisand (the only person ever to receive all of the following: Oscar, Tony, Emmy, Grammy, Golden Globe, Cable Ace, National Endowment for the Arts, and Peabody awards, as well as the Kennedy Center Honor, American [...], not to mention the 1971 Gala de l'Unicef (TV Series) as well as the celebrated 1974 production of "Fred Astaire Salutes the Fox Musicals") is perhaps the most obnoxious uninvited guest in showbiz history. A sort of Lorena Lupu of the Borscht Belt, an iconic practical verification of the intrinsic immorality and ethical perniciousness of the postmodern religion : if there's no drawback to "trying", the only virtue left's persistence, in turn meaning that this pile of deplorable fail's just as likely to have a career as actually talented women.
As far as I'm concerned, I'd much rather live in a world without Barbara Streisand (and for that matter without her off-color exact equivalentii), which is why I do. I'd augur you the exact same, but then again we can't all be me.
———1972, by Peter Bogdanovich and introducing the jewnose wonder (if you don't count Texaco Presents: A Quarter Century of Bob Hope and other such highlights). [↩]Apparently I've not bothered to review that 1987 Burglar atrocity, but seriously, Streisand, Goldberg, same shit different hats (somewhat). Except of course the junior did a bunch of Letterman couchwork, for lack of any half-century Bob Hope specials. [↩]
« The many things I couldn't give less of a shit about
The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 5 : To Tuskegee, And Back »
Category: Trilematograf
Friday, 26 February, Year 13 d.Tr.
Un Lache...
"Honey! I'm ho-ome!"
"Don't yell Lache, I'm right here."
"Oh I didn't see you! Hi!"
"How was your first day honey ?"
"Worst. Day. Ever!"
"That bad huh ?"
"Oh it's terrible. Do you have any idea what being the UBS for the Boxing Arena even is ?!"
"You sit around the urinals and they... they pee on you, don't they ?"
"Yes, that's right! Urination Beautification Specialist!"
"That doesn't sound so terrible."
"It's much, much worse than it sounds. First, you have to take all your clothes off, right ?"
"Yeah."
"Well..."
"It's a job, honey. Of course you have to take your clothes off."
"No, some people have jobs-jobs, like in an office. With a water cooler and everything."
"Yeah. Right."
"What! It's true!"
"No it's not true. It was true."
"Whatever, one guy there even said he knows a guy who once worked for a guy who did that."
"Yeah, his cousin thrice removed twenty years ago."
"But then, after you take all your clothes off, and your shoes and everything you know, I'm out there, barefoot in the men's room."
"Of course."
"And then do you know what you have to do ? Ask me what you have to do!"
"What did they make you do at work, honey ?"
"They made me take everything off, and then I had to put my wrists in these cuffs up on the wall, and there was a special ring come into my mouth so I couldn't close it anymore!"
"Right by the urinal ?"
"Right on the urinal. Everyone pees right on your face, Marge! That's the job. It goes in your mouth, because of the ring, you have to taste it, Marge! Every drop!"
"You don't have to swallow it all, do you ?"
"No, they told us not to."
"That's not so bad..."
"The worst part is that some dudes actually shove their prick into your mouth. Like all the way down, so it touches on the back of the throat, and you can taste them back there."
"Oh wow!"
"Then you have to swallow it all, when they do that. Or drown in it, I guess. I don't think they're supposed to do that, really, I mean the ring is there so I can't close my mouth so they can piss in it, not so they shove their cock in past it... They said ar whorientation the ring is there for our own protection, too!"
"But you've got the job, right ?"
"Honestly Marge, I tell you I don't..."
"I'm so glad you got the job, Lache!"
"Why is that ?"
"Because I'm pregnant, you big dope, that's why!"
"Oh my god! Marge!"
"Aren't you happy ?"
"I'm so happy I could kiss you!"
"Go brush your teeth first."
"Wait... but I mean... Marge ?"
"Yeah ?"
"How come you're pregnant ?"
"Try and guess ?"
"You had sex ?"
"That's right, Lache, that's right. Margie had sex."
"But... I mean, when ?"
"Oh, about six-seven weeks ago."
"But..."
"You remember, you couldn't get a job, we were behind on the rent ? And I said..."
"You said then all that's left is for you to try and talk to the landlord, see if maybe he'll give us a break."
"That's right."
"So what happened, you never said anything."
"Actually what happened is, he wanted to increase our rent really."
"Oh. Wow. For this dump ?"
"Yes. He said we're not getting any younger and he's not running an asylum. He said the town needs young people, eager people, we can go be old on a funny farm in Iowa just as well, no need to be in the city for that."
"Wow."
"Yeah."
"So what did you say ?"
"What could I say..."
"Are we getting evicted ? What's a funny farm in Iowa anyways."
"Oh, one of those things, you know, with the singing."
"The singing ?!"
"You know, all that 'I can hear 'em callin' hogs in the clear Ioway air, I can sniff the fragrant whiff of an Ioway rose!' then there's a chorus, 'You've got Ioway in your heart!' and then it goes 'I've got Ioway in my hair! I've got Ioway in my ears and eyes and nose! Oh, I know all I owe I owe Ioway, I owe Ioway all I owe and I know why. I owe Ioway more than I can ever pay, but I'd love to move to Californiay!' then it's 'You're a breeze that Ioway blew.' and then 'I owe Ioway more than anyone should owe, so I think I'll start in owin' Idaho!' like that."
"Oh gosh-darn Marge..."
"That's the spirit, Lache!"
"But..."
"What ?"
"I... I don't want to go on an Iowa farm. It's not even funny."
"I don't want to either."
"So what are we going to do ?"
"We're going to be pregnant."
"Oh."
"That's right."
"So is it... that's he... did you..."
"Did I get pregnant from the landlord that day ?"
"Yeah..."
"Nah."
"How come ?"
"Because he only fucks in the ass. Especially worthless amateurs like me."
"But..."
"But what ?"
"I like you."
"Well yeah you like me, but what other options do you have ? He's the landlord, he fucks what he wants, no ? Whichever way he wants. That's what we're for, after all."
"We are ?"
"I don't mean you, I mean us. Look around Lache, what do you think they have all the apartments for ? They're here, they were built, they must have some purpose."
"For people to have families and raise their children, no ?"
"Exactly."
"But..."
"It's just not exactly the same people, that's all. We're still raising them. Aren't we ?"
"I... uhh."
"The city needs young people, he's right. Eager people too, but that's easy. Young people is easy too, with the right mindset : everyone's born very young, and it brings the average down. So..."
"Oh."
"I'll be pregnant every year from now on, and we'll raise them all together, Lache!"
"But we have no money!"
"You've got your job, don't you ?"
"Oh! Marge!"
"Oh no. No you don't, buster. You're not quitting on me!"
"But... but..."
"No buts!"
"Marge!"
"There are ways to deal with dodgers, Lache. You don't even want to go there."
"What ways ?"
"None of them great, I'll tell you that."
"But, Marge..."
"Yes Lache ?"
"If... if the landlord only does... only did... you know, in the ass..."
"Yes ?"
"Then how come you're pregnant ?"
"You remember I had that thing on Saturdays ?"
"Yeah ?"
"Well... what kind of thing was it ?"
"The... I don't know, the empowerment of liberties club ?"
"Libertines, you big dope. Libertines."
"What's that ?"
"That's when I go to the big housei and..."
"What big house ?"
"It doesn't matter which one. Any of the. And I'm the maid."
"You have to put on a uniform and everything ?"
"Oh, they provide the uniforms. You show up nude, we have to wait in line all naked, all of us. And stop stroking yourself."
"Please Marge. Please. Will you ? Please, may I ?"
"Just on the feet again ?"
"Alright."
"Yesss!"
"But let's go out in the hallway, honey."
"How come ?"
"Well... it's closer to the shower room, for one thing. And... let's just say I really like how the performance anxiety makes it difficult for you to do it."
"Oh."
"Besides, it's not just your worry that somebody might come, and see. Maybe someone really does come, and sees you, and then gives you what for."
"Marge!"
"Oh don't act the priss with me. You've already had one down your throat at work."
"Five."
"So you know where it's going next."
"Marge!"
"That's right, buster. What, you think you're better than me ?"
"But Marge!"
"No buts if it's not your butt. I don't want to be the only one broken down there, you understand ?"
"I... I..."
"We're in this together, and that means it goes in. Both of us, equally, all the way."
"I don't know if I'm ready for that."
"Then get ready. Grow up, Lache! I need a man, not some fly by night romance."
"Uhh..."
———Cuz n, geddit ? [↩]
« Cu ciorapu' flausat pe pula...
State Fair »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Thursday, 28 January, Year 13 d.Tr.
Two hands
Two handsi is another one of thoseii. In it, some retarded pixie history can not remember, for she's not a woman, puts out the magical cuntbeam and smites the guy that (from what I understand) made a passible Joker in some TV series.
The whole thing's terri-bad to MST3K standards of bad, starting with the worst credits Tommy Wiseau could've ever dreamed up. There's cool metal effects for the names making them look like they're affixed to old Pontiacs against utterly inadequate caption font atop explosions and cheap revolvers being pointlessly discharged like industrial machinery. What gets across is a fascination with method worthy of retarded bois, the sort that long outgrew the magical moment in time yet never will actually manage to make the leap. I think Elliot might've liked them.
The rest of it is... well. The "mobsters" from Sydneyiii get casually wiped by an ambiguously sexed fifteen year old, just like that. Before it, the retarded popindaiiv manage to foul a ten dollar pistol through liberal application of powder detergent in a domestic setting, get beaten to shit by the intended victim while yakking like dumb cunts about their criminal past and, to peaktop it all to hell, hire random kids to courier peanuts to unknown women paying five percent. It boggles, I've never heard of bullshit this thin in my life (which, unlike yours, was actually the, not to mention a, life).
The trainwreck bills itself a comedy, though if you think back to what was coming out in the late 90s... actually, that thought might be the only chuckle availabe in arid Shittystralia.
———1999, by Gregor Jordan, with whatever. [↩]Shit, piss, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, and tits. No fuck, because the whole thing's been produced by an unholy alliance of highschool viceious principals, nigger "case-workers", and "concerned members of the public" (momentarily not employing their time towards cruising highway trucker stops looking for anonymous if sweaty gay sex -- true story) to the exacting standards of insanity their own factitiuous worldview imposes upon fiction. It used to be called soviet bullshit outside and "socialist realism" inside ; but since the soviets collapsed it can't possibly be the case they've won, so "we" can't possibly discuss any of that.
Honestly, the old stakhanov nonsense was a lot better than this v2.0 rehash. [↩]To be perfectly fair : for all I know this might actually be very accurate depiction of the sad island & its sadder islanders. I mean, they go around calling their ridiculous copycat scrip "bucks", what the fuck. Wake up and smell the coffee, convict island : calling your furrency "dollars" because that's what the US groked of the lowenthaler may be ok for you, "we're just like them only smaller" ; but you can't also import their slang along with it! They may be "Australian dollars" in the sense your "open marriage" is Schmuck's harem, but they sure as hell ain't ever gonna be slats, sawbucks etcetera. Not your history, geddit ? [↩]Spermophilus citellus. Chew on that for a minute. [↩]
« Porky's
At Long Last Love »
Category: Trilematograf
Monday, 22 February, Year 13 d.Tr.
Three for three
Christina's life took a sudden turn around eighteen. Hers was a turn entirely different from most others', though not visibly so different at the time.
She left the comfortably dull surroundings of her parents' home, just like any other normally developed middle class girl about that age. Back home, she had known everyone, and everyone knew her back, exactly equal in kind and degree. They all knew their respective roles, made simple in their intricate complexity by unrelenting social practice. She was to be the nubile daughter of one of the few local notables, they were to be gas station attendants and classmates, sons of truck repair shop workers and mine technicians. She wasn't exactly to save herself for marriage, but neither was she to ritually prostitute herself to their self-perceived needs, and so, chiefly through a sort of feeling of glaring inadequacy readily masquerading as disinterest she came to the big city sexually unexperienced enough that, upon meeting a boy -- tall, dark and hansome, irritatingly mysterious and yet threateningly at ease, evidently well informed, well rooted within the new, dizzying urban atmosphere -- she yielded readily, and then with the same readiness earnestly confessed her surprise. "That was actually... it felt good." she said, bemused. He laughed at her. "Of course it felt good. What did you expect ?"
She didn't know what she expected, if anything ; but it very much wasn't that. Yes she expected a boy would ask her out. After all... what was she there for ? "Studying psychology", what the hell is that even supposed to be ? But she didn't expect it'd come in his direct manner, bordering on brusque almost. Nor did she expect he'd take her out to a posh restaurant for her first date, the evident equivalent of that place her father'd take the family a few times a year, on special occasions, but scaled up for the city. Nor did she expect he'd have her blouse on the way back, just ask for it as if it were his all along -- and receive it, too, as if she wasn't there for aught else besides satisfying his demands ad idem, on the spot. She didn't expect, as she handed it over, that he'd have her walk, topless, over the lawns, the endless lawns meandering through views of the entire valley, thick with roads and buildings and all else, towards the parking lot.
She knew she'd ask him over, try and cook for him, secretly try and bring their encounters on that second, unavoidable installment somewhat more in line with her own private history and personal life to date, more aligned to what she saw and took to heart from her mother's house. She didn't expect he'd push her on the sofa afterwards, and have his way with her just as he had his way with her whole morning's work, looking her in the eye from atop the whole time. In easy continuation, as if off a platter, directly, adroitly he undressed her, and then he used her. Then, afterwards, she entirely didn't expect he'd have used a condom. She didn't expect most of it, most none of all they did together, not really, not as such. Least of all she expected her personal, ready, more than willing identification with function -- such function as he identified, whatever it might've been or may in the future be.
Yet it happened, exactly, and upon happening it also became a part of her life, as quick and as unyielding as anything else. It thrilled her, she yielded to it eagerly within herself, whatever it may be. Like pregnancy, she thought to herself, like it must've been to them before there was the pill. Just there, one day, suddenly yet as if since forever. Not asking anything -- not for permission, not even out of curiosity, nothing at all. Existence, plain and simple, entirely disinterested in anyone's subjective reception. Whatever feelings it may elicit, they are to be upon the feeler in whom they're elicited to resolve, as best he can, or carry unresolved as far he will. "She will", rather, per usual.
She did expect her wardrobe'd change with the move, yet didn't expect it'd change in the way it did. She wore nothing besides close dresses, with plenty of access, with nothing underneath. He touched her, randomly, oftenly. He disrobed her, exposed her. She never expected she'd have sex outside of a bedroom. Back home it was the degenerate thing to do, out in the bushes, the close appanage of the lowest of the low ; but here in the big city, here and now, in her own life as it unfurled, in her own sexual experience as she lived it, most copulation occurred outdoors, not for lack of alternative but for patent, manifest disdain of social norm. He ordered her to moan, and louder, louder, loudest in the darkened cinema hall, and thereby she discovered how she loved her own voice. She loved hearing herself vocalize every stretch, every yield deep inside, have her own feelings reflected back to her through her own ears, by her own voice. She'd never done it before, and therefore never knew before ; but perhaps she had always loved it ?
She discovered also no-one else is permitted discovery. She thought they'd be interrupted, kicked out, she expected on some level deep within subconscious mind the whole theater turned into an angry mob bearing torches and pitchforks, ready to throw stones, cracking her skull, her sternum, tear her apart with bare nails turned to talons. None such occurred ; never did any such occur. Soon enough she knew her nudity, even plain, but especially during copulation is not something anyone may look upon, take notice of, observe. Stray dogs more like than people to make the most modest overtures in that context, so complete, so untouchable was the tabboo of her young body used in the old manner. It was as if he had in his hands a cloak of invisibility, all it took was taking her clothes off and bam, she was gone. Disappeared. Vacated from the social space, from that invisible but imaginary fabric that supposedly, that she had supposed, stretches over all, through parks and walkways, over bridges and in dark alleys, everywhere throughout.
That was the first shock, the first early sign of the sudden turn. He had walked her home ; she lived in a rented room inside an old Habsburg construction, a sett-stone courtyard surrounded by small, uncomfortable windows connecting the still air inside-on-the-outside with the stilled moans and mutters of the outside-that's-inside. Habsburg constructions get complicated quickly, hence Freud. In the gangway, he had her almost naked, playing with her, using her body almost musically. Her breath syncopated, her experiencing of her own instant life intense, as per his intent, not explicit yet manifest. There was a voice, suddenly, unexpectedly.
"Hey! What are you two doing there!" Shrill and yet demanding, almost comedic in the contrast between capacity implicit and status presumed, the syllables leaving her mind time for little besides flashing the firm conclusion : "this won't end well." Presently it continued, even shriller, ever more impudent, "What are you doing to her! Hooligan! I'm going to tell your mother! I will report you to your school!"
She perceived the stiffening. She had felt it before, slightly. Worrisome, always worrisome, whenever her unruly nature or natural impetuus took her outside the invisible lines in his mind. She always yielded, humbly, most apologetic, and he always accepted her submission, quietly. She couldn't imagine what he'd accept here. There wasn't anything.
"I don't go to school, my mother's dead, and so are you." his voice came presently. Cold. Grim. There was a sound, triune, tripartite, like a loud sewing machine up in Heaven above : bang. bang-bang. The fat avatar of indignation collapsed in the flash of light, then lay on his back hurling towards the patch of night sky a most horrible sound, full of aiches and consonants indistinct. He walked over, there was another bang, then, finally, silence. He walked back to her, grabbed her by the scruff of her neck, and walked off.
She struggled to keep pace. Eventually, getting the hang of her feet again, and breathing heavily, she let the inquiry fly. "You're a gangster, aren't you."
"I own this place." he looked at her. "Yes, that's right. I'm one of those your mom told you to steer clear of."
Christina shook her head. "She wasn't very specific."
Indeed, her mother had warned her ; but hadn't been very specific. Not usefully specific, anyway. How's a mother to be specific ? What's a warning to do ? Her grandmother had warned her mother also, as best she could ; it worked out no better that time, either. The voice of untold bloodlines gurgled and spun inside her head, taking the horizon with them, twirling savagely. She felt ill, and certain. She opened her mouth three or four times, unsure what'd come out, what substance, or what form. Eventually she squeaked, like a wounded animal, a squirrel or a rabbit maybe, "When it's time for me to go, please shoot me too." She looked at him, horror in her eyes seeking his. He looked back at her, but didn't say anything.
« The will of the people
The emotional content of speech »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Tuesday, 11 May, Year 13 d.Tr.
There's nothing inside the box.
"Why would anyone want to get over the one thing you hope for from the minute you're born, and remember every day until you die?"
"Because it'd supply the illusion of power and control."
"And what's that good for ?"
"Oh, uncle Arby! Illusions are by their nature sweet."
"So you'll be lonely, sad and fat."
"What would you have me do ? Face on the floor, bare ass up to the winds just because he said hello ? Like a moth or some such type of primitive life ?"
"You could just say it. Why does everything always have to come to such extremes with you ?"
"Extremism makes it that much easier to pretend there's nothing in between."
"Well... at least you didn't bring whatever obscure book you like to misquote into it."
"I really don't think that book has anything to do. With anything."
"Then why do you bother with all the pretending, and all the rest of the bullshit ?"
"Nobody can prove it doesn't, so they have no reason to act as if the truth were the truth. Because they can't prove it. And that makes a difference!"
"No, it doesn't."
"I guess maybe it doesn't. But I can still pretend as if it did anyway."
"Sure, you can still pretend. What's that do, for anyone ?"
"Nothing. It does exactly nothing at all, not for anyone. We can just ignore each other all the better : myself and everyone, everyone and myself. It's easier that way."
"And after all the ignoring's done ?"
"Then I die."
"Sad, fat and alone."
"That's true ; but nobody will can accuse me of it. Not of any of it!"
"I... guess. You're what's wrong with the world pretty much exactly."
"Isn't that the definition of youth, pretty much exactly ?"
Writing dialogue's not difficult at all, if one manages to think outside the box.
« Acum douazeci de mii de ani, or the article I can not write
Sedea un prost prin ceva bar »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Friday, 05 February, Year 13 d.Tr.
Their tits are tan, their giggles wan, their butts are there to beat
Suppose it is a song, or for that matter sleep : there is a place you know too well, where jagged notions heap. All movement, cast as flight or told as dream, yet 'round that center swirls ; don't matter if the moon is there, or darkness is complete.
Once fallen in -- be it just you, or just your twin (as you, for her, as well recall, you both there having been) -- the veil comes off. Off compass' folly and its twin, the folly to compass ; and there you stand, deep in the deep, again naught but a lass.
Alas this being's naught to be. As breezes billow yet again, and candles beckon thee, you find a way, your way again, away, away, a whee! Then lines curve with gravity, and as direction's a conceit so flee the flitting free. She, whose flutter sweet was yet to greet unbridled symphony turns, and returns, and then there's the...
There's the place, the place again. That drain-and-chain, discreet, eternal bane of dignity. Within its subtle, missing world all clothing is removed, and coats of paint fly freely off by willowy whorls oddly akin to liberty. The gauze is gone. 'Twas to be slight, most transparent, an ineffable inherent ; yet it's too much, and so it's off, off on its own, and urgently.
The paint won't stay attached, the nets won't stay in place, nothing remains but still, again, the same. How, freedom without the conceit ? How, liberty bereft its pretense ? What's it to be, of tyranny, when naught adheres to any ?
Meanwhile the place, the place again, exhaustion's brother without sleep. Nor is a night, nor will be dawn, nor can be said "eternally".
« El sabado, por la noche
The Sea Wolf »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Sunday, 23 May, Year 13 d.Tr.