#char brain slop

[vgilantee]

i am genuinely at the point where i think if by the time i’m 25 i still have my virginity, imma pay this full service sex worker in my city to take it

[chigirisprincess]

Bae can you pleeeeease do smth about the nilou brain rot… i need it me thinks

Quit Teasing Me.ೃ࿔*:･

— Nilou

⊹ Details. 18+ minors dni, dni if you are not sapphic, gender neutral reader, oral sex (char receiving), semi public sex within a share space (at home), teasing (or a bit of sexual bullying if you squint), Nilou is whiny and a smidgen bratty. ⊹ Run time. 0.4k ⊹ Note. Hope you enjoy shawty bae mwah <3

Nilou is distracted, frustratingly so.

Her chin is tucked into her shoulder as she nervously peers over it, hardly paying attention to you who kneels on the cool tiled kitchen floor between her dangling legs. She doesn't react when you flip the edge of her lacy pink skirt over her thighs or when you peel her heart-patterned panties off of her drooling cunt.

Gently grazing your teeth along the supple, doughy skin of her thighs you roll your eyes, biting back an annoyed huff. A smirk perks up the corners of your lips as an idea pops into your mind. Your canines roughly sink into her flesh when she least expects it, a surprised gasp tears through Nilou as she whips her head to look in your direction.

"You're being too rough, baby," she whines, flinching back at the sight of your bright red tooth marks seared in her skin, "That hurt!"

The little pout on her sparkly glossed lips has your blood pumping just a little bit faster, "Aw, you remembered me!" You coo, planting a slop kiss on the forming bruise, "Thought you might've forgotten I was here since something else seems to have caught your eye."

Nilou's breath hitches when your mouth brushes along her puffy slit, just narrowly missing her throbbing little clit.

"What if Dehya walks in on us! She's supposed to be home soon!"

It isn't often that Nilour curses, or supplants a curse with a silly made-up word to express her frustration but she does down when your tongue lolls out from between your lips to flick at her clit. She bites back the pleasured sigh that bubbles up with a shake of her head.

"I'm sure she won't mind, you're so cute when you cum she might even thank you for the show," you hum as you firmly press your thumbs into her hip bones, "But ... if you're so worried I suppose we can go back making dinner?"

"No!" She shouts, shrinking in on herself in embarrassment at how loud and needy her voice was.

Her manicured nails dig into your scalp when you move to rise to your feet, her bright blue eyes were watery with petulant tears that gathered along her lashline. Pushing your face into her cunt, you heard a small snotty huff pass through her nostrils.

"Don't be a bully," she breathily muttered, "You know I can't get off without you!"

Well. you didn't need to be told twice.

© all content belongs to dearbraus. do not modify, repost, or redistribute.  

[noyonayana]

Exercise # 1

So who wins? those that get to live. Thus, I won, although tis a hollow victory because you didn’t win anything good, you just get to live with the memories of what happened and what your part was in all of it. what sort of life can come after that?

There is no sky, nothing to see upwards. only smoke, all air is grey-coloured now and that is what it will always be. and all around you is carnage, death, mutilation and by your feet a network of blood runs and gurgles, teeming from all the fallen to join together to form rivers and ponds where the grounds gives way.  You cannot do anything, look anywhere, step one step without getting closer to losing grip over yourself, to giving up control to something else that is sitting in your spot in your home: the trigger is not the bodies themselves, kill enough and you become desensitized to motion and the deed, to the blood, the innards, guts and the slop of humanity and its waste just lying about, strewn everywhere, disobeying its natural order and so far away from its proper place. It is your own traitorous mind, that looks at the torn and bloodied and otherwise rendered unrecognizable uniform on a mangled corpse and thinks that it might be your friend’s. Can you recognise your old squadron mate in cannon fodder, make out a familiar mark or tattoo on his body or his name and ranking somewhere on his outfit if it looks that way? that, those thoughts are enough to unhinge something crucial; then your mind runs away somewhere leaving you alone and surrounded by unfamiliar monsters, unknown house guests in your head to deal with what you’re processing; they are unfamiliar because you had never gone that far deep inside or wherever they came from but once you do, you recognise something in these new thoughts. you start to come to terms with the fact that it is your mind saying them, you revel in a new connection and different unknown untested ideas in a place that seems to be about killing everything old and known.

so do you touch it, the corpse that might be your friend’s. You kick out his burning hot legs from under him and straighten him out. Do you wrap something around your hands to protect yourself and gingerly attempt to turn over his body in respect or is it better to bloody yourself uncovered, unprotected in his departed humanity, in the physicality of his abandoned human vessel? and maybe that is more honest. Perhaps only then can you look his family in the eye and tell them the lie about his honorable and admirable death in the name of country, god, faith, whatever excuse paid for and justified this particular battleground. So you can spout the rhetoric of whichever fund pays for that medal of honour, courage, faith, resilience, whatever excuse and symbol of humanity that we get in exchange for giving up the real thing in totality? Since it is not my first such corpse, my hands move automatically, my brain functioning on half power, my emotions fully cut off, some part of me unrecognisable to myself and the other part silenced. If you could see my eyes, they’d be overbright. an inhuman light shining like a beam of life cutting through the smoke of death, shining brightly on corpse and soon-to-be corpse alike, reflecting off the field’s red veins,  illuminating in muted colours, an overworked mechanical  consciousness, that severed from its conscience still records every image and sound relentlessly in preparation for all the nights to come from now on. I knew what would happen. and yet i came. maybe war only revealed what was already broken.  

But this soldier is not done yet. I have been tasked to bring back mementos from this war, if not my friends themselves. I have made an oath to someone. I can’t remember or feel anything beyond these directives. I only know I must do it or die trying. I have been looking, time has no meaning, but I cant see my friends. I have searched many corpses and found friends but too late. Yet I hunt. For some reason, I cant ignore the directive to bring back souvenirs. If I ignore that and run away, my brain jolts at that inhuman thought, I think I will die. Whatever remains of me, whatever can live after the complete unhinging, I will not remain. 

So I try but I think all of my unit have died. and I am carrying many souvenirs on my back. I stop at yet another body that seems familiar, something itching in me to check this one out too for there I might find a friend I have forgotten. This is one of the more intact ones, most others are just a few limbs or horrible expressions but this body is male and he is very tall and seems important, with his 3 stars and thick boots that even here scream of some other value that died with its owner, a death by multiple stabbings. I fall down to my knees next to his face to look closely at his features and uniform but suddenly there is an aura of smell coming from him that even I cant stand too long and I don’t want to puke anymore so my hands search, frantically, ripping apart his uniform for any keepsake or memento that might still be on him and I pat down wherever there is clothing still only onto a half charred and already decomposing human body. He must have been dead for sometime, I wonder what is the time between the start of the war and where I am now and soon in his exposed innards, I can see the telltale white slimey things on him already that signal new life. This is a veritable feast for them, they must grow here and flourish, whole species and dynasties gorging their life cycles on single bodies and singular wars. They might even have minor evolutionary cycles during the course of each battle. They may not be similar in formation and behaviour to those that inhabit other battlefields. and maybe the space of time between another carnage is unfelt to them, what if they can hibernate after such a feast like bears do? But only perhaps and I wonder what do I know of maggots? Did I study science? 

Did he? I search for his name and find it: Eal Ma. This is as much as I can make of it, his captain’s uniform is drenched in his blood and it is crusty, sticking to my fingers as I search through him. I remember my friend from school, memories and old feelings coming back as my mind comes across new information, seeing more of the battleground on his body and it sifts through my memories and points out the connections between my old partner in crime and the body in front of me. I think this guy stole my prom date or he stole something from me but I don’t remember old anger, maybe we were just close enough for it not to matter or distanced enough for the pain to have faded without a scar. Simple connections are easier to handle.  

I don’t remember too well. My name is a word on my uniform, not a familiar notion. But I don’t care now, because under his left shoe, over his sock is a girl’s bracelet worn around the ankle. The skin around his ankle is still soft and soft skin makes me think of Tara. My mind skips ahead purposefully. I’m sure its called something similar but anklet doesn’t seem English. That can’t be right, right, Mister? you look back at your friend, but he doesn’t seem familiar... as far as you are aware you never made friends with a burnt corpse before.. now. hahaha life is good for some things. I get up off Mister, nod hastily in his direction, a parody of respect and move on. Thank you, friend. I wish I had you still now, I wish I could have helped you, I wish I wasn’t alone to face this battlefield by myself, to drag along with me this morbid collection of memories, sharing my burden lightening it but why did you have to fight on the other side? Strange. 

I don’t have answers. but I am a soldier, I don’t need to. I remember my promises. I will bring back the bag of memories and give it to the families. and that means I will have gone home again and my parents greeted me and put me back in bed after some hot food and I can close my eyes finally and drop vigil. and sleep and who knows after that. But for now, I spot my next friend and robotically, I hoist my sack more closely over my shoulder and I make my steady way to the next rung of the deep abyss.  

[theoccultarchives]

Zombie Novel in the Works

Working on something a little different as of late. Just a little snippet of this upcoming story...

        You could call us a few things: Revenant, Ghoul, Undead, Lych…Zombie. Pick your poison, but they were all the same on some level.           Soulless, mindless, stark-raving mad, flesh hungry creatures with not a drop of supposed morality or self-control and only one uncontrollable urge—to consume.            Whether it be brains, or blood, or fleshy muscle and sinew, we had the need to consume everything in our paths.           We were cannibals, only wanting to taste the sweet, succulent flavor of human tissue as we gnashed and sucked meat from bone and brain from skull.            We were pariahs, devils, evils from the darkest corners of human thought, but we were human too…or we were at some point.            Everyone acted like it was our fault that we wanted to hunt them down, rip limb from body, and feast upon the meat that coated their bones, but that wasn’t a fair assumption.           We never asked to be this way. We never asked to lose our humanity and be forced to only eat that which was once ourselves. But we had no choice. Something made us this way and we had no ability to control it.           I didn’t know how it worked. I didn’t know what it was that had infected us and dumbed us down to the point that the only thought in what was left of our minds was to eat—and to eat our own kind.           I used to love meat as much as the next zombie—er, person, but that was when I craved a nice rare hamburger or a piece of fried chicken…not my next door neighbors brain meat.            When it first happened, when the virus or whatever it was hit me, I didn’t understand. I wasn’t attacked and bitten to be turned like some of the others, I was unfortunately chosen by the virus and most likely one of the first ones to turn.            I was minding my own business, waiting for the bus so I could hopefully get to work on time when the lady sitting next to me puked on my shoes. I thought it was just my luck that this would happen on a Monday after I had already lost my keys, discovered I had a flat tire, ended up with gum in my hair thanks to my shitty roommate and her habit of falling asleep drunkenly on the couch while she chawed away on Juicy Fruit. I spilled coffee on my laptop as I woke up late, frantically trying to finish my presentation before I had to go and stand up in front of my colleagues to pitch my latest idea for the magazine.            It wasn’t an ideal job, I wanted to be a writer, but not a columnist for a fashion magazine. It just wasn’t my thing, but it was money, and in that world, you needed money to survive, to eat.            I didn’t need that now. Everything that walked on two legs was food. I wasn’t proud of what I had become, but like I said—I didn’t have a damn choice.            But I digress. Back to the woman that retched all over my new boots…            “Hey!” I jumped up off the bench as putrid chunks of that morning’s breakfast hit my shoes.            “I’m—I’m so sorry.” The middle-aged woman apologized, rifling around in her purse for a handkerchief.            “It’s ok.” I softened, trying to shake the vomit from my boots.           “I haven’t been feeling well. I should’ve stayed at home, but you know how it is.” She tried to mop the slop from my feet.            “Yeah, Mondays.” I shrugged, helping her clean up my feet with a napkin I found inside my own bag.           “I hope your day goes better than I assume mine will.” The woman cast me a half-smile that I returned as the bus pulled up and we both climbed on board.            The ride to work was uneventful, even quiet, as everyone sat silently in their seats reading books or listening to music with their headphones on. I spent my time looking out the window at the buildings and city trees that passed by me in a blur.           This isn’t what I wanted for my life, this isn’t what I had planned that I would be doing by now, but it was all I had and something was better than nothing.            The bus made its stop a few blocks from my job and I hopped off and power-walked it down the sidewalk before jaywalking over to my office building and rudely shoved past someone who was more focused on their phone than they were on actually getting to their destination.            I scrambled into the elevator and made it up to the thirteenth floor before bolting to my cubicle to prepare my presentation which was in less than fifteen minutes at that point.            “You’re late.” Mariah hovered over me as I tried to get my laptop to boot up and do what it was supposed to do.           “Yeah, I know. It’s been a bitch of a morning,” I replied as I mashed buttons angrily, trying to get the computer to fucking work.           “Mr. Markle was asking where you were. They changed the meeting to 8:30.” Mariah looked over my shoulder as my computer crashed and I tried not to scream.            “But it’s—” I checked my watch, “Fuck! Almost nine!” I slammed my laptop shit, working or not, and hoofed it to the conference room where Mr. Markle and the rest of the advertising and writing team was waiting for me.            “Miss North. You’re late.” Mr. Markle spoke flatly as I took my seat and attempted to get my computer to boot up again.            “I’m so sorry; I didn’t know that the meeting time had been changed.” I apologized, repeatedly punching keys on my keyboard.            “Maybe if you checked your e-mails like you’re supposed to.” He scolded me and I cringed.            “I’m so sorry.” I apologized again.            “Is your presentation ready? You’re up first.” He pointed at me.           “Um, it was—is. I’m just having some technical difficulties.” I continued to try and get the laptop working and I could feel myself sweating as I panicked.            “Any day now, Miss North.” Mr. Markle stood at the head of the table as all eyes fell on me.           “Ok. I may just have to start without my Powerpoint. My computer seems to be having issues.” I could see where the sugar from my coffee had crystalized in my keys. I got up from the chair and rounded the table to where Mr. Markle was standing as he took his seat to my right and I pulled a rolling white board from the corner to start sketching out my ideas.            “So, I was thinking that with this new issue and Fashion Week coming up, maybe we could focus on some local designers and artists and maybe do a section where we can interview them on their inspiration and their process, maybe showcase a few of their favorites pieces and—”            “Mm, I don’t think so. No one is interested in local designers. They want to know what is going on in the world of High Fashion, not what Sally Dress-Maker is doing in the Bronx.” Mr. Markle shook his head.            “Uh, well…maybe if we talked to them about what High Fashion designers influenced their work—” I started down a different track, while still keeping my idea alive.           “Nope. No. You don’t have anything else, do you?” Mr. Markle had his pen to his mouth as I stood in front of him and a room of at least twenty of my colleagues with a dry erase marker in my hand.           I wasn’t a person who cried at the drop of a hat, but with the stress that the morning had put me under, I was swallowing hard so as not to blubber in front of everyone.            I opened my mouth and closed it a few times like a fish out of water looking for a response, but something outside the office saved me.            “What’s that sound?” My colleague Brenda stood up from her seat and craned her neck to see past Mr. Markle and out through the window that faced the street.            He turned and glanced behind him, did a double take, and got up from his chair.            “Jesus Christ. Someone call 911.” He waved his hand behind him as he stood plastered to the window.            Everyone got up from their expensive ergonomic chairs to see what he was looking at, myself included.           There had been a car wreck—no, a pile-up, right outside the office. There was a mangled bike and a cluster of people on the sidewalk screaming.            I thought that maybe someone had gotten struck at the crosswalk and others swooped in to help, but that wasn’t the case.            The man in the bike helmet had a woman pinned on the ground and was howling as he swiped at other people who tried to pry him away.            One man finally did and I could see that the woman had her throat torn out, her eyes wide and glassy as she stared up at the blue sky.            “The police are on their way.” Mr. Markle’s assistant came to inform him as the deranged cyclist leapt on another man and began tearing into the meat of his face.            Everyone in the room gasped and Brenda screamed as I took a step back from the window.           What the hell was this guy on? Steroids? A new performance enhancing drug? High on a new blend of kale and wheatgrass juice?            Then the most impossible thing happened…           The woman who had previously had her throat torn out and was very clearly deceased, began to pull herself up from the sidewalk and surprised another bystander with an ungodly strong bear hug.            “Holy—did anyone else see that?” Brian, my cubicle mate, asked.            I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from what was happening.           “Call down to security and have them lock the building down. I don’t know what’s going on, but this is too close for comfort.” Mr. Markle stepped away from the window and instructed whoever was listening to make a call.            Everyone was talking all at once, mumbling to one another about what was going on and my first thought was to run…so I did.            I left the conference room amidst the hub-bub and went back to my cubicle, packed my laptop, and made my way to the emergency exit just as I could hear the sirens of an ambulance and police vehicles pulling up out front.            I came out through the side entrance that was usually used for emergencies only to see the rotating blue and red lights as I turned the corner of the building.            “Hands up where I can see them! Get on the ground! Get on the motherfucking ground!” An officer yelled as I peered out into the street.            He was yelling at the throatless woman, but was paying no attention to the cyclist, the soccer mom with her coifed pixie, and the sign guy that usually stood on the corner doing tricks with his advertisements for the Deli around the corner. All of them were behaving in the same manner and began to charge towards the officers, grunting and spitting as they tackled one after the other and took them down to the pavement screaming.            What the fuck was happening?           I could feel myself begin to sweat and I assumed it had something to do with the panic that was bubbling inside me as I witnessed what was going down.            “Keep it together, Calli.” I whispered to myself as I pulled my bag in close and booked it in the opposite direction.            I was probably going to be fired, or at the very least penalized for leaving work without telling anyone, but I had this sense of urgency; something was telling me to get away from everybody…and fast.            I made it to the closest bus stop and waited impatiently with shaking knees for the first bus to pull up and take me home.            But the bus didn’t come. There was supposed to be a ten AM bus, but there wasn’t one. I was now hearing multiple wails from ambulances, fire trucks, and cop cars, but no sound of the diesel that usually accompanied the bus.            “Fuck.” I cursed, picking my feet up to keep moving down the street.            I was at least twelve blocks away from my apartment, but I had this need to get home and to get home now.           I wasn’t feeling so well as I hobbled down the sidewalk clutching my messenger bag. I was sweating more now, almost drenched from head to toe even though it wasn’t more than sixty degrees out and I felt my head pounding as I began to cough like I had smoked two packs a day for my whole life.            My gut was churning, my knees were weak, and my throat was raw as I came to a crosswalk and just missed getting hit by a damn bus as it ran the red light and crashed into two taxis and an SUV.            I jumped back on the sidewalk and lost my balance as I landed hard on the pavement, my laptop crunching beneath me as I fell.            I felt sick, like I had the flu, but worse…            My hand flew to my face as I tried to pick myself up and wipe the sweat from my cheeks…but it wasn’t sweat.           There was blood covering my hand and I began to panic as people got out of their cars to check on the victims of the wreck and I pulled my compact from my purse.            I almost screamed as I saw my own reflection.           My eyes were bloodshot, but somehow jaundiced at the same time and the irises were dark like they had been injected with black ink. Blood was running from the corners and dripping down my face like tears as I began to cough violently, more blood staining my other hand as I covered my mouth.            “Ma’am, have you been hurt?” There was a man standing next to me on the corner who had obviously seen the bad wreck.           “No, I’m—ugh uuuuuck—I’m fine.” I coughed and wheezed, holding my stomach as I felt it churn like it did that one time I had eaten bad shrimp.            “You don’t look fine.” He replied, laying his hand on my shoulder.           I could smell him, and despite the fact that I was feeling sick to my stomach…he smelled like a wonderful, delectable meal.             “No, I’m ok.” I jerked myself away from him and ran in the opposite direction, away from my apartment and the people gathering on the streets.            I could now hear helicopters overhead as I jogged down the street, leaving my busted laptop behind. I passed people running in a completely different direction as they screamed, crazed individuals hobbling closely behind them with constricted limbs and gnashing mouths.            I wanted to stop, but I was too scared to help as I sprinted across the street and holed myself up in an alley.           “What the hell is happening?” I fumbled for my phone in my bag as I attempted to find a livestream for the city that would give me some sort of information.            “Bedlam has broken out in New York City as citizens are being violently attacked by crazed individuals that are assumed to be under the influence of some sort of super street drug. Multiple deaths have been reported totaling close to the hundreds as police respond to the scenes. Many officers have either been killed or injured and aren’t sure the exact cause of the violence.” I watched as the news anchor debriefed the populace, “In other news, cases of a highly contagious flu strain are being admitted to Bellevue and Lennox hospitals. Doctors are working around the clock to come up with a working treatment, but so far any sort of solution seems resistant. Individuals with the following symptoms are urged to make a trip to the emergency room as soon as possible: high fever, intense body sweats, nausea and vomiting, uncontrollable coughing, migraines, and bleeding from any orifices. More information to come as it is reported.”            I felt my breathing quicken.           I was sick. I had almost all of those symptoms. Now was not the time to be making a trip to the ER. Something crazy was going on in the city and I didn’t want to be stuck in the hospital.            More screaming was heard outside the alley as I emerged and continued to make my way home.            The sound of crashing cars, people shouting, and now gunshots were ringing out around me.           My knees were becoming weak as I coughed harder and wiped the blood from my eyes…then the nausea got the better of me.            I stopped dead in my tracks on the sidewalk and evacuated everything that was in my stomach and then some. A soupy red mess came pouring from my throat as I purged the contents of my stomach, my hands to my knees as I gasped for air.            Everything was happening so quickly. I had felt fine this morning, albeit a bit pissed off, but not ill.           Though, here I was, vomiting on the corner of Carmine and Bleecker, drenching the sidewalk in what looked like bloody coffee grounds.           My insides felt like they were melting as I tried to move forward, but my stride was slowed as my body weakened and I sucked in air to inflate my lungs that were sore and feeble.            Where had I gotten sick? I was usually so good about not getting the crud and it was past flu season…            The puking lady at the bus stop.            That bitch.            I tried to keep going, but my vision was getting blurry and my feet were heavier than normal.            Even though my stomach was churning and the bile was sloshing around in it like a tumultuous ocean, I was hungry.           And not for bagels or a Reuben sandwich slathered in sauerkraut—I wanted something a little more fresh and enlightened.            I hungered for thoughts, urges, dreams, ideas, emotions…            I wanted the gray matter.           “No.” I shook my head hard and trudged forward down the street like I was walking through a snow storm, but the thought of fresh brain meat, all pink and squiggly with knowledge and ideas made my stomach twitch with hunger pangs.            I vomited again, so hard I thought my eyeballs were going to eject from their sockets and roll down the street.           Then I felt my body seize, the locking of joints and that rigid sensation your muscles feel when you start to get a charlie horse. I collapsed in the street, slipping off the lip of the sidewalk and right into the gutter as my body locked up. I started to lose consciousness as I began to vomit thick dark blood once again.            This wasn’t the flu, it was fucking death and I couldn’t stop it.           The last thing I remembered as I flailed on the asphalt was that intense craving for human flesh and sticky sweet brain meat.            That was just the beginning of it, though.           I’m pretty sure I died, or my body did at the very least, and when I “woke up” I was still lying face first in the gutter with sirens wailing all around me and blood curdling screams of people in the distance.            Something was really wrong.           My body felt like it was vibrating at such an accelerated level. I couldn’t control my body movements, my arms jerking about at my sides as I tried to use them to push myself up off the asphalt. My knees were shaking and my legs wobbled like a baby calf fresh from its mother.            An explosion to my left that would have normally caused me to duck and cover my head, didn’t even make me flinch.           The air was hot now. Hot and thick with a scent I had never had the pleasure of inhaling before. It was raw and sweet like burning cloves and scorched cedar.            I needed it. Whatever it was, I needed it.            No, I wanted to eat it.           Like the smell of burgers on the grill or bacon in a skillet permeated my surroundings and I felt myself hobbling towards it at a slow speed.           Eventually I became accustomed to the vibrating within me and began to sprint down the vacant street to the nearest intersection where I was sure the smell was coming from.            And I was right. That’s where the smell originated from…but it wasn’t coming from a hot dog cart or falafel stand.           It was wafting from a group of people who were stuck in a multi-car pileup, panicking as they tried to lock their doors and roll up their windows as other people frantically tried to break into those cars while gnashing their teeth.            They looked—weird. Not like uniquely dressed or with rainbow spiked hair…I mean, weird.            Like, oddly similar to the way I looked before I face-planted in the gutter.            And then it hit me.           I was hungry and the woman in the soccer mom van was frantically trying to get her car started despite the fact that the front end was smashed all to hell, smelled like fresh steak.            Then, there I went.           Rushing forward as I slammed my full body up against the driver's side door, banging my fists into the window as I let out incoherent groans, clicking my teeth furiously.            I was starving and she looked like a fucking snack.           None of the other weirdos were paying her attention so I didn’t have to fight for my food as I finally cracked the window and punched my fist through the glass.            The woman was screeching, clawing at me with her perfectly manicured nails as I yanked her through the busted glass, the sharp edges tearing at the flesh on her face and arms. The smell of the blood was just an appetizer to the meal that I was about to enjoy.            She was screaming bloody murder as I finally pulled her portly body completely from the vehicle and cracked her head against the door a few good times so she would stop with the goddamn screaming. Whimpers and feeble protests still came from her as I opened my mouth as wide as it would go and bit down on the side of her face.            Who knew that my teeth were strong enough to tear right through the top of her cheekbone? I felt the eye socket crumble, ejecting the eyeball from her skull as she began to scream again.            Oh my God, if she wasn’t the most scrumptious thing I had ever tasted!           I slurped her optical nerve into my mouth like a piece of spaghetti before crunching down on the eyeball itself, the insides squishing between my teeth.            But that wasn’t enough, that was just a hor d'oeuvre compared to the meal I was about to have.           I gripped the wound I had just created in her face with both hands and yanked, cleaving her skull in two like you would tear a tail from a lobster.            Theeere was that smell that had beckoned to me from down the street.           Her brain was still pulsating in her skull as the blood continued to course through her body and I began to feast on the grey matter.            It tasted like chocolate cake, rare steak, fried potatoes—a slimy pink, cranial Everlasting Gobbstopper.           She finally stopped making noise at this point and I ate my fill before tossing her body into the side of her vehicle and wandering off to find the next meal because…            I was still hungry.            No—I was starving, and I needed to fill the void in the pit of my stomach lest it drove me insane.            But nothing would stop that hunger, that blood lust, that need for food that would satiate nothing.            I was a monster, but at that moment nothing mattered more than finding the next brain that I would devour.                                And that leads us to now, or sort of to now.           I wasn’t sentient enough at the time to get the full effect of what happened, but apparently it was straight out of a Romero film.           People who were infected ate people who weren’t and if they survived then they became infected too and the cycle perpetuated on down the line till there weren’t many people left that weren’t infected.           And when I say many, it seemed that over 85% of the population in any given place had become either infected or dead, leaving the living a minority in a quickly crumbling world.            Those left alive fought for their lives at first and then eventually fought each other to preserve their lives, or so they said, and everything went to shit.           I survived all of this. I mean, I survived not getting a bullet to the brain or a knife through the skull, but I would hardly call what I did for the last nine years living.            I mean, I’m a zombie for Christ’s sake. I’m no one’s favorite person and generally considered to be a threat or, at this point, a social pariah.            And yes, I know that sounds ridiculous to call myself a social pariah because zombies don’t exactly have social structures or even people skills for that matter, but I was different.            There was no one like me that I knew of. I was the only one. The only zombie in existence who evolved from a devolved life form that had one been the highest evolved being on the food chain. Sound confusing? Yeah, I’m still confused about it. Why was I still infected, still craving brains, still clearly dead-ish—but I was walking, talking, and thinking like a normal human being? Where had things changed? From terrifying brain eating monster to somewhat normal human-like monster with the mental faculties and cognitive functions like the regular humans. I didn’t know where things went wrong…or went right.            But life goes on.

[top5internetsourcesforhighs-blog]

Abortion

'miscarriage is whizz of the often or less contr everyplacesial topics of every(prenominal) last(predicate) clock cadences. It has caused countless deaths and sev agel(prenominal) violent confrontations amid the dickens secernate parties of notion. The fight between pro- invigoration and pro-choice supporters has been foresightful and brutal. This is because, condescension what several wad whitethorn believe, stillbirth is neither estim able nor wrong. It is the social occasion of a someoneal opinion, where, distri unlessively face go off say with deduction that the other unmatched is wrong. \n\n The question remains, should spontaneous spontaneous miscarriage be profound? though several(prenominal) may discord on this point, the position is that soundized stillbirth is the still guidance to encourage the supports of women round the conception. If you locution into Ameri freighter chronicle to see the results of prohibiting spontaneous abortions to women, you leave al wizard see that no abortion runer more than(prenominal) women dead. The fierceness, which occurs at nonp aril quantify because of the pro-choice/pro- life story conflicts is minimal in comparison to the thousands of despairing women who influenceed to misbranded abortions--either ego-inflicted or preformed by the backroom professionals-- which resulted in infection, monumental blood loss, and death. It is promptly since the abortion is legal get around for women, because they exact a place to go to where abortions apprize be performed in a vindicated environment and with marginal risks. The legalization of abortion is the only choice, no look what side one states in the debate. Women provide test to do what they estimate is necessary to sustain as they wish, no matter what the risks be. In set to eff as she chooses a char charr may put up her freedom, her morals, her beliefs, her family, or unconstipated her life. \n\ n abortion has been around for opusy a(prenominal) years in every inhabited turning point of the world. It has al slipway been received as a signify to frustrate the playing of approximately(prenominal) the adult femalehood and her potence churl. stillbirth has been estimable widely in every confederacy for umpteen reasons including famine, war, poverty, overpopulation, or simply because a charrhood mat up she was non wee for a child (Whitney 40). No one ever questioned a womans proficient to this procedure. aft(prenominal) all, who exactly divinity fudge had the right to pass judgment what a woman did with her own physical structure? This vista wreak lasted till the 1800s. During the era of change population began to turn their aid in a naked as a jaybird direction, the foetus. They began to expostulation abortion as cruel, in mankinde, and murderous. Filled with a new spirit of purpose and the credit of a fresh, right cause to cover this new righteousness swept the countryside enveloping everyone in its wake. Abortionists who were once revered and depended upon were presently scorned and threatened. Though abortions still happened with regularity, they were unplowed silent and seen as a matter of compassion. Over the succeeding(a) hundred years, macrocosm sentiment for the foetus continued to fountain until the inevitable happened in America during the archaeozoic 40s; Abortion was make banned. (Cohen 17). in that respect was oftentimes back patting and extolment among the pro-life supporters. And why wouldnt at that place be? They had succeeded in saving the inhabits of the hundreds of truthful babies who would sop up been brainlessly slaughtered for the convenience of selfish, ignorant, and harum-scarum women. Because of this new law, women would r bulge taboo down and draw out families or give these pretty-pretty children over into the hands of the hundreds of pleasing couples who were s ightly time lag for a mishandle to call their own. It seemed that the better law had on the dot been passed. Or had it? \n\n It has been proved time subsequently time passim history that the human spirit go out non rent restraint. Some social function inside us feels the shoot to fall upon out at that, which restrains us and holds us from the life we motivation. equitable as prohibition of alcohol make a color market for spirits a virtual(prenominal) underworld was today erected to fulfill the new need for abortions. Government, done regulation, had once again created a need that would be set up by the lawless. intimately doctors, fearing incarceration, refused to treat the women who so despairingly valued abortions. Women, seeing no other upshot to their problems, were often horrific luxuriant to turn to these Back dwell clinics. These clinics were located in poverty-ridden sections of the city and their conditions were deplorable. The places themselve s were forge in filthy dirt and illnesss. unpracticed butchers using seedy and crude equipment handle the girls. As if these backroom clinics were non bad enough, thither was an crimson more appalling stopping point a woman cleverness withdraw face. If a woman wasnt able to pay the price price for the illegal surgery, she would often perform the act herself. knitwork needles, coat hangers, healthful douches and poisons were used near often (Welton, 123). pinch rooms earlier in the more urban argonas were describe higher add up of intractable discharge to the point of death. pelvic inflammatory disease and other forms of life threatening sepsis were on the rise. Self generate poisoning was another(prenominal) complication. (Boyer, 98). \n\n One thing to the highest degree batch do not think approximately is the fetus. If, as roughly say, life and the sense of self commence at conception, how many a(prenominal) atrocities soak up been caused by the inc ompetence shown during this time? Some may wonder what lot these women to such extremes further to look at and abortion. wherefore didnt they just bring forth the baby? \n\n The repartee lies in our near basic human instinct: to subsist as surmount as the woman can. These women emergencyed to stretch out their lives as they chose, not the way it was chosen for them to live. Being constrained to bear a child could slopped having to support it and vainglorious up dreams of a better life. similarly they might make believe been pressured into a shotgun wedding to merely their reputations. In the take hold Back Rooms, by Ellen Messer, a woman named Liz, explains her reasons for having an abortion. People beat said to me, How can you be in favor of abortion? If youd had one, you wouldnt befool these beautiful children. But I would abide had them. It just would beat been later on when I was better prompt to boot for them. And maybe they would have a nicer man for their father. I would have been more prep bed and all our lives would have been so much easier. Even though I fill in my children dearly, I melancholy that I did not have an abortion when I was condition the option. I should never have let others influence my finis. (29) \n\n For many women, being squeeze to deal with a child would mean placing it into the organization. It is commonly thought that every strip is just temporary, that in that location is a family out there postponement for the child with subject arms. The truth of the matter is that many families do not want children unless they be white, sound and pretty. most of the others atomic number 18 either dragged through and through the arrangement until they are 18 or sent to live with foster families who are sometimes isolated or even abusive (187). only women are informed of these realities, and many, refused to bring a child into the world and have it live such a way of life, which makes abortion t heir only way out. \n\n Also there is the concomitant that many women want to enshroud their present nation from families or employers. They neck that they could be disowned or fired for their calamitous state. They are desperate to trammel their secrets, so desperate in position that they are involuntary to risk their lives. This is a risk a woman shouldnt have to take. In the book Abortion: A verificatory Decision, Mrs. Lunneborg states that The desire not to have a child is by far the better(p) reason for an abortion. There are enough unwanted children in the world already.(18) And so these women risked, and often lost, their lives in these illegal abortions. If they were caught afterwards, they were charged with murder. But is abortion murder? \n\n Abortion is defined as The attaind close of pregnancy beforehand it is capable of pick as an psyche (Frohock 186). Considering this rendering, at the time of most abortions, the fetus is not an individual. The definition is far too unsophisticated. One postulate to take into setting the increaseal stages of the foetal life span. \n\n Most abortions occur briefly after the deterrent of pregnancy, which is unremarkably forward to the 12th week. The beginning 12 weeks are known as the starting signal trimester or the embryonic phase. At this time the fetus is rough 3-3.5 inches long and has a exercising weight of 15-20 grams. The neurologic schema is primitive at outflank, demonstrating only obtuse swimming motions (Rosenblatt 37). The fleck trimester heralds a time of rapid growth. At about quaternary months the return usually first perceives foetal movement. At 24 weeks the brain resembles that of a mature person. The fetal weight is about 650 grams. (39) The third trimester is from 24 weeks to birth (approximately 40 weeks.). At 26 weeks the nervous system begins to regulate some body processes. (40) When make the conscious finale to eject the life of the fetus one must take into account the development of the fetus. One of the approaches might be assessing the neuro formal development. It is only logical that the more conglomerate the neurological system is the more believably you are to induce pain or end a sense of self if in fact that sense exists previous to birth (Frohock 28). In many ways it is similar to the decision to pull the trollop on a person pose in coma. Here, one must check whether or not to withdraw that which the person needs to survive. soon enough the decision to terminate the life is not considered murder but an act of the deepest humanity, an opinion that contrasts greatly to the shame and offense faced by an aborted mother during the time of the vision anti-abortion attitude. How long would women suffer this mental straining? (Haddok 132) \n\n Based on the information, presented in the roe vs. Wade case, the despotic Court rule that a woman was allowed by the Constitutions fourteenth amendment to rec eive an abortion before the first trimester. It now appears that the pro-choice advocates had won the governmental tug-o-war at last. However, violence continues between the two groups as the animosity and resentment has grownup to new heights. Now, more than ever, research articles are coming out about a womans right to silence vs. a fetuss right to life. The law may have been passed, but the war goes on. \n\n In conclusion no matter what a persons opinion on abortion is, women have always had abortions, they have them now and most probably will always have them. It shouldnt be for anyone but the heavy(predicate) woman having the certain abortion to get back on whether or not it is the best thing for her. If you want to get a full essay, order it on our website: Looking for a place to buy a cheap paper online? Buy Paper Cheap - Premium quality cheap essays and affordable papers online. Buy cheap, high quality papers to impr ess your professors and pass your exams. Do it online right now! '

[salutethepig]

Find some fried eggs and country ham?

Pretty sure Val @val_littlewood was very close to slitting my throat with a blunt, rusty spoon, as I incessantly ‘sang’ this, whilst driving South-Western US highways …

And I now have that Neil Young song — from the truly excellent Tonight’s The Night album — burrowed coal-mine deep into my brain-pan again & find myself humming it continually as I write this post; reminded as I was of it whilst reading Sean Brock’s “Heritage“; his paean of love to the American South and its food & history. As well as a great set of ink — that’s multiple tens of hours of work there — championing his very real passion for the heritage vegetables that he uses so effectively…

…he also adores his pigs.

I’ve talked before (yeah, yeah, ad infinitum, I know!) that there’s a deep set of emotions involved in raising an animal and killing it, then breaking it down on a table with a saw and a knife. And after you’ve gone through that whole process, the waste bin had damned well better be empty when you’re done; utilise every last little bit. And that’s his philosophy as well:

“To be a chef means to buy and cook meat, and that means we have a choice to make. The differences between the animals that modern agribusinesses produce and animals raised on pasture and humanely treated cannot be understated. Commercial animals are treated horribly, given inferior feed and no attention, and con ned in huge warehouses where their feet never touch the dirt. If horses were treated this way, someone would get arrested—but I’m sure you all have seen plenty of good documentaries and read informative books to this effect.” Sean Brock, Heritage

He adores his pigs. But most especially the country ham they produce…

In one scene from his “Mind Of A Chef” series, he’s seen caressing a country ham leg and declares that while he often deems ingredients his “favourite,” he really, really, really means it when it comes to the cured pork:

“This I’ve used as a pillow before — I’ve taken naps on country hams.”

He’s also a notorious experimenter. One of his (many) obsessions has been ham-curing efforts in cooperation with the distillery behind one of his favourite bourbons, Willett (which I too readily admit is really rather special); curing Ossabaw hams, then sending them up to a friend, Drew Kulsveen (who, as head distiller, represents the 5th generation of the Willett family) at their newly revived distillery in Bardstown, Kentucky. The hams are then hung in the rick-house along with the barrels of whiskey lying in quiet repose, which allows the exterior of the rind to acquire that self-same whiskey fungus that you’d see blackening the walls and trees around the barrel warehouses.

The effect on the meat is, he claims, close to miraculous:

“It’s the most delicious fucking ham you’ll ever eat,”

states Brock.

Country ham has a long & honourable tradition in the Southern states.  The designation country ham first appears in print actually only as late as 1944; it’s referring specifically to a method of dry-curing and smoking native to the rural regions of Virginia, Kentucky and contiguous states. Nowadays, the term refers to this style of ham preservation rather than the geographic location, though a Smithfield country ham — perhaps the best-known brand of American country ham — can legally come only from the area around Smithfield, Virginia.

Country ham is often found paired with Red Eye Gravy.The hams are salty and the gravy, made from the pan drippings and with the addition of black coffee, packs a punch. And why is it called ‘Red Eye‘ gravy? When the coffee is added to gravy, the ham fat appears like a red eye, staring up from the plate. (It’s also known as bird-eye gravy, poor man’s gravy, red ham gravy and muddy gravy). Well known in the South, little known in the rest of the United States, it’s really delicious, a stroke of genius by some long-dead, unsung culinary hero.

In his “American Taste; A Celebration Of Gastronomy, Coast To Coast”, the erudite, witty & hugely opinionated James Villas, bemoaned its commodification in a piece entitled “Cry, the beloved country ham” (originally published in Esquire magazine), all the way back in 1974.

Villas described the production process that had been followed in the South for hundreds of years but was (even back then) becoming rarer as the large food processing companies, in collusion with local & national regulators, reduced the standards requirements, year in year out, producing hams, yes, far more quickly but equally, producing hams that were of far, far lower quality and virtually tasteless in comparison to those known only a few years earlier:

In the old days the diet of most hogs included plenty of milk and if possible peanuts for soft texture, and lots of table scraps for flavor, hence the expression “slopping the hogs.” Depending on locations and temperatures, animals are generally butchered during the first cold spell, around November and never before. Once processed the huge hams are hung bone side down for at least 24 hours, to allow the meat to drain and cool. If the weather remains cold fine, if not the shanks are wrapped in brown paper for protection against flies or spoilage causing skippers (insect eggs).

After this initial procedure, the hams are taken down, packed in a salt cure, which might have included other ingredients such as sugar, black pepper or mustard, and left for about a month at temperatures ranging from 28 to 40 degrees Fahrenheit. Then they are soaked in water, hung up again to dry, rubbed in pepper or wrapped to ensure further protection against vermin and insects, and smoked 4 or 5 days over slow burning hickory chips, before being left to hang in a barn or storage room to age under natural or atmospheric conditions for not less than a year. James Villas, 1974

And he goes on to give further detail:

In late winter, he said, the hogs are slaughtered and the fresh hams are cured in salt. They are smoked in the spring. The critical steps in their maturation come with “the July sweats,” when, during the hot months, the flesh of the ham expands into the outer covering of mold. In the winter, the meat contracts, drawing with it taste-enhancing enzymes.

Interestingly, the other jewel of the Kentucky table, bourbon, relies in similar fashion on the seasons of hot and cold. In the summer, the maturing bourbon mingles with the charred inner layer of the oak aging barrels. Then, in the winter, liquid is drawn back through the charcoal, carrying notes of woodiness and a smooth smokiness.

Yet America appeared to dodge this particular bullet; from Peter Kaminsky’s “Pig Perfect” published nearly 30 years later, it becomes apparent that country ham (along with a lot of other heritage foods, plants, seeds and breeds) had been (a) seen as taking too long to get to market by the huge agri-combine, industrial food, producers, and therefore not something that they wanted to get into as it wouldn’t “add shareholder value” or some such similar corporate bollocks and (b) a huge, renewed upsurge in demand and interest in, all things heritage related.

The whole slow food movement can be summed up in those two ideas. Passion for the native food, produce, animals and their environment and bionome and a desire not to rush things.

For those of you interested in some further research, there’s a great article entitled “An Essential Guide to Country Ham. Everything you need to know about America’s greatest charcuterie” by Lucky Peach available to read here:

An Essential Guide to Country Ham - Lucky Peach

And again, from “Heritage“, comes the two pork dishes below.

First, the slow-cooked pork shoulder with tomato gravy, creamed corn and roasted baby vidalia onions.

                                    and the second delight is his cornmeal-fried pork chops with goats-cheese and smashed potatoes along with a cucumber & pickled green tomato relish:

                                    Of course, as you can never have too many pictures of pigs — in this case an Ossabaw — here’s one of Sean’s darlings to send you away with a smile on your faces.

And finally? Finally, how about Polish “hipster chops”? Yeah, “after you”, I hear you saying. I get it. I’ll be your guinea-pig man & try it out. Cowards. More news later…

Find some fried eggs and country ham? was originally published on Salute The Pig

[vgilantee]

stuck between wanting to put myself out there and go on dates because im so sick of being lonely and alone, and wanting to hide away forever because I'm terrible at texting and don't want to make even more people not like me and would rather die forgotten and unloved

[vgilantee]

I'm gonna hold off on writing anything until I get home because I just got hit with a wave of bad. like I feel like I've done or said something and now people are avoiding me and hate me and I know this isn't the case I just. mm evil brain. actually a better description is that I feel like everyone has decided I'm actually not worth their time and I'm being avoided. that's probably a better description. again, I know it's (probably) not the case and my brain is just being mean

[vgilantee]

~✧ (tw mentions of suicide)

the thing is that i know i should probably go back to therapy. find a new one and get help. but also it’s never helped me. and i don’t want to pay hundreds of dollars to sit in a room, complain about how i know i can’t be loved and am undesirable and will die alone, and the only thing keeping me from killing myself is my cats, and then have this person who did so much schooling and licensing go “you aren’t, though” because that’s BULLSHIT. and all those dumb fucking “just take one day at a time” inspiration quotes are cheesy and shitty and i legitimately hate them

and it’s so much mental effort to go and do, to meet new people. and even if i did, why would i bother when i know i’ll just face more rejection and people looking past me? why fucking bother?

and yes i know my issues with self worth and image are from my parental issues. and my mum telling me she didn’t mean to get pregnant with me. and that she was going to leave my dad when she found out. and stayed with him for 10 fucking years because i wanted a brother and she wanted us to have a dad. and my dad yelling and swearing at me from birth and the time he threatened to lock me in my room until i starved to death.

so yeah when i ask to be smothered so i’ll at least know that kind of human intimacy before i die, i’m not kidding. because my other plan is far more lonely

and honestly i didn’t realise how solid my plan was. but i’ve got a few note drafts around the place so for one in my life i’m prepared i suppose

[vgilantee]

once again curled up in bed in the middle of the day just wanting to be loved 👍

[vgilantee]

TELL ME WHY my imposter syndrome just hit so hard i’m about to cry?!

i don’t deserve any of this. my writing is okay. i dont deserve the like 1.1k followers i’ve got. or the Big Blog reblogs. i haven’t even written a proper fic in over a year! i havent. earned this. i don’t deserve it. what is happening

[vgilantee]

haaaaa thinking about how i was in a server a couple years ago that was very sex positive and we all flirted and did like… e-foreplay and sexting n shit and i was in a call with three of them one evening and one joked “anyone here a virgin” and it got real quiet because the other two knew i was and still am but i was like “yeah haha. me” and then i cried myself to sleep that night 😙✌🏻

[vgilantee]

~✧

similar to how I cannot conceptualise someone wanting to date me, the idea that someone would get hard or wet because of me is LAUGHABLE

[vgilantee]

reminder that my mental health shit will be tagged “char brain slop”!

i have depression and am suicidal so that stuff will be in my brain slop posting. please block the tag (also below for easy blocking) if that stuff affects you or you just don’t wanna read my depression posting

[vgilantee]

down horrendous for price but i know if i ever met him i’d just be flustered and attempt to flirt but just go red. no game at all. man’s would not wanna fuck or date or like. anything

[vgilantee]

11pm brain slop! people say you can’t love someone else until you love yourself which really just hammers home the fact that i cannot be loved and will die alone and probably soon!