#he loses his 120+ year old worth of shit

[tekitothemagpie]

He hates him so much it's hilarious.

[lokilickedme]

Somebody help me chill, this is insane.

(under the cut because long and also pretty traumatic, for me at least)

Crazy neighbor, remember her?  Her son destroyed a piece of equipment we had attached to one of our trees at the fenceline last week, she denied it and called us insane liars - that’s the most recent craziness in the ongoing saga of the neighbor from hell.  I was sitting here reading my dash tonight and happened to glance over at the monitor for the surveillance camera husband got me the other day to watch that exact spot (where the equipment was smashed) and guess who I see bent over looking through the fence peering very closely at that exact spot?  Neighbor’s equally insane son, who we know did the actual dirty work.  And I, stupid like I am, took a screenshot of him and then immediately jumped up and ran outside in the dark in my pajamas (nearly 9pm, pitch black, their porch light is off because obviously they’re doing something they don’t want to be seen doing) and I ask “Excuse me, what are you doing?”

This lunatic immediately starts SCREAMING at me - I mean top of his lungs SCREAMING abusive threats, calling me a stupid psycho whore bitch, yelling at me to get my ass back in my house and generally just acting completely off his rocker unhinged nuts - and then his mother comes out and comes over to the fence and gets in my face while I’m just standing there and tells me to mind my own business.  I say I am minding my business, I saw him looking through the fence at my property right where we had vandalism happen last week so I came out to find out why he’s interested in my property.  She laughed in my face and said “No he wasn’t, he was standing right here looking at his phone like this” and she does this little pantomine of someone looking at their phone, which is funny because she wasn’t out there when he was doing it and there are no windows on that side of her house at all.  I ignored her and asked “What are you looking for?”  He kept screaming incoherent animal noises and insults from behind her so I asked again, “What are you looking for?”  And that crazy woman grinned at me and said “We’re just looking to see what kind of new devices you’ve installed!”

OMG.  She didn’t even take a breath in between lying and then contradicting her own lie.  And she’s grinning smugly at me the entire time, gesturing around pointing at our property cams and mosquito light (it flashes and apparently she thinks it’s watching her) and my bedroom window - which means she’s been snooping.  There is a cam sitting in my windowsill, aimed at the spot where the device was smashed.  Every bit of this equipment is on our property, some of it behind a privacy fence.  I tell her it’s none of her business what kind of devices we’ve got on our property, but she just yammers over me, and of course numbskull is still ranting like a psycho behind her, screaming at me to mind my own business and get back in my house and leave them alone.  At this point he’s pulled out his phone and shoved it over her shoulder toward my face and is recording me, which is just...fucking hilarious...because I’m literally doing nothing but standing there in shock and awe at how nuts these people are, and he’s still screaming abusive curses and names at me while he’s recording.

Anyway, for about 4.5 minutes we stood there with them shouting over me (I know the exact time because it was later discovered that our doorbell cam recorded audio of the entire event) and a little ways into it he screams “I WILL TEAR YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF!!”

At this point psycho woman finally turns around and says “Addison Case!” and pushes him back.  He lunges at me and she tells him to go call the police (??what??  I mean...I wish he had...my phone was in my hand frozen solid, locked up because of the glitchy surveillance app I had to install to see the camera, or else I would have called them myself - but my god they really thought I was the one the cops needed to come for??).  Meanwhile I’m just standing there on my own property in the dark in my pajamas, all 5 feet and 120 lbs of me, while this rabid animal - he’s a 21 year old college boy - is lunging at me and screaming nonstop, calling me a fucking whore bitch loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear it while his phone’s camera light is in my face blinding me.  Crazy lady smiles that smug shit eating grin of hers and tells me to get back in my house, leave her alone, and move the hell away so she can live in peace.

Wow.  Just...holy shit.

This is the person who has allowed her dog to attack my very small 8 year old son on our property and send him to the hospital with injuries last year, then attempt to attack him again 2 weeks ago (he is now 9 at the time of the second attack) - again on our own property (in our back yard this time, in our front yard the first time), has allowed her dogs (multiple) to bark all night long and keep us awake (she leaves them outside and then goes away for the weekend and they bark the entire time she’s gone), then she had her crazy violent son destroy the BarkBox we put in our tree on our side of the fence last week (we put it up as a humane way to get the barking to stop without having to listen to her call us insane liars every time we complain about it).  Yet...she kept repeating over and over and over for us to leave her alone and stop harassing her.

All I could even do was stand there shaking my head.  It was surreal.  And frustrating, because they wouldn’t even let me get a word out without screaming over me, and she was doing that infuriating Karen thing where they shove their hand at your face and grin smugly while they’re telling you what you better do or they’ll call someone to make you.

I actually started laughing, it was so ludicrous.  She’s committed all those vile offenses against us and we’re the ones that need to leave her alone.  We’ve had to file four police reports against her and we’re the ones that are making her life miserable.  I just can’t stop thinking about that Liar Liar movie where the repeat offender keeps calling his lawyer to complain that the cops won’t stop arresting him and the lawyer finally yells THEN STOP BREAKING THE LAW ASSHOLE!!

It’s just like that.  My god.

SO -

She tells him to call the police again, and this limp dick shoves that phone light right up to my face and says “You think she’s worth calling the cops over?  Look at her, she don’t look worth it to me.”  And bitch starts laughing.  My god, these people are subhuman, I swear.  I’ve never seen anyone act like this in my life, over a person doing literally nothing to them.

So she finally orders her rabid son (who is just about foaming at the mouth, I swear he’s making these barking animal noises at me, it’s weird as hell) into the house and they walk away, with him still ranting like a madman until the door closes behind them.  I immediately go inside my own house and call my husband, who was way out at the back of our property in our camper (he self quarantines each day after work out there to protect us because there have been a lot of covid cases at his workplace) and he didn’t know anything was happening.  He immediately runs up to the house and I tell him I caught neighbor’s thug son messing around at our fence and that when I went out he threatened to kill me.

Tom grabs something - I don’t even know what it was, I think it was this piece of board that was sitting by the door, we’ve done a shelving project recently and a couple of leftover pieces have been there for a few days - and he stalks outside toward neighbor’s house.  I hear him yell COME OUT HERE BOY!!! and I stg you guys, if I wasn’t on the phone calling 911 I might have thought about getting naked right there and then because damn.

So anyway, let’s not go there.  This is serious by god lol (look for this to show up in a fic soon though because material like this doesn’t get handed to you for free every day).

I call 911 and say the neighbor’s son just threatened my life and for them to come quick because he’s still over there but I know he’s going to leave any second (this is his mom’s M.O, the two times the police have tried to go talk to her she gets in her car and leaves before they can get from my house to hers, and I know he’ll do the same because COWARDS).  Tom comes back and says the little pussywillow wouldn’t come out of the house.  He’s breathing fire, you guys.  Pure fucking fire.  I tell 911 to get somebody out quick before the kid leaves, and just about 2 minutes after I hang up he does just that - we see him blast past our house in his truck and he’s gone, and then the police arrive about 3 minutes after.  I’m so mad I can’t see straight.  If they’d been able to see him in the state he was in, they’d have arrested him on sight.

Two squad cars (big SUV’s) pull up and block her driveway with full lights flashing, which makes me laugh because suddenly we’ve got neighbors coming outside to see what’s going on.  I meet the officers outside, and the crazy bitch next door does the same, yelling “Hello Officer!” and waving to them as they’re coming up to my porch.

They talk to me and Tom for a long time, I tell them everything that happened, they interview Big (he and Little were inside the open door and heard it all), we fill out our statements and talk with them more until one officer goes next door to talk to neighbor.  We can hear her dripping her fake sugar and spice while they’re talking on her porch and my husband loses his shit - he heads toward her house and yells “We got the entire thing on recording, don’t even try to lie!  Your kid, threatening to kill my wife?!?”  (he’s referring to the camera in my bedroom window, which actually only recorded about 2 minutes because I don’t have it set up correctly yet, but they don’t know that). The officer yells at him to get back, which, yeah - he shouldn’t have done that, but for god’s sake the woman’s peckerhead son just literally threatened murder on a member of his family, this is the final fucking straw and he’s mad.  And as he’s coming back across the yard the officer that stayed with me points at our new doorbell camera, just freshly installed as of about two weeks ago, and asks if it’s on.  We haven’t even really figured out how to use it yet, but yes, as far as we know it’s on.  The incident happened around the side of the house, but the doorbell records audio.

God bless technology.

I invite the officer inside the house and Tom gets his phone, pulls up the app for the doorbell, and starts skipping through the recording looking for the right timestamp.  Up till this point all they have is me saying the guy screamed a lot of abusive profanities at me and threatened to tear my head off, and they’re taking me serious but probably not that serious, you know?  Neighbors fight all the time, wars start over barking dogs, things get exaggerated, we’ve all seen the TV dramas.

Until Tom finds the segment on the footage and starts playing it to them on his phone.  It’s kind of quiet because we were a good distance away, but you can hear the guy screaming just like I said he was.  The officer asks if we have a speaker we can play it through so he can hear the words more clearly, because he needs proof of threat and that’s entirely in the words.

You guys, I’m tellin’ ya, sometimes you get a chance to fucking SHINE.  My husband is a musician and this cop is asking him if he’s got a good speaker.  So within minutes Tom’s got this huge venue-style amplifier designed for broadcasting music to the back wall of a freaking stadium pulled out into the livingroom and he’s hooking his phone up to it, and then he hits play and the other officer comes back from next door to join us and I can tell by the annoyed look on his face that neighbor bitch has likely charmed him and shed a plethora of persecuted tears and spewed her lies about how we’ve been harassing her forEVER and I think for a second that it’s a total loss now, he’s made his mind up in her favor.

And then...away we go.  Tom cranks the volume on the speaker and they both lean in to listen closely.

Just about a minute into the recording they have their proof - thugnuts screaming I WILL TEAR YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF!!!

Both officers nod, close their notebooks, and the second officer makes a phonecall while the first one turns to me and says “That’s terroristic threatening and it’s a class C felony.  You’re going to need to go to the PA’s office with all the reports you’ve filed against them so far and all your evidence from tonight including that recording and hand it all to them.  They’re likely going to issue a no-contact so that he can’t interact with you ever again.”

This is a victory, but it’s just the first step, and I feel sickeningly disheartened that it’s all in my lap to do everything.  I want them to go demand his whereabouts from his mother and just go get his ass and haul him in.  But no, I have a ton of legwork to do now because these horrible people won’t fucking stop.

After several more minutes of me asking questions about what exactly we need to do and where we need to go, etc etc (I’m competent but I’m also fucking rattled, someone threatened to kill me tonight and I’m blanking hard on the instructions he’s giving me) they finally wrap it up and leave.  They’ve been in my house for a half hour waiting for me to finish filling out the report (I had to ask for more paper because honey I’m getting ALL the details in there) and I can just imagine how freaked out neighbor is when she sees what time they finally move their cars from in front of her driveway.

And now I’m coming down from the weird calm that I had through the entire event, and my heart feels like it’s going to EXPLODE.  I had heart surgery two months ago, do I need this??  The pathetic part is that I know now just how stupid those people are, and I know this won’t be the end from their side by any means.  We’ll start finding more stuff broken, or he’ll start climbing over the fence back at the back of the property to steal stuff from husband’s tool shed, or my tires will get slashed.  These people are that dumb and hateful, they proved it tonight.  He said if we had animals he would kill them, and then he made the same threat against me.  How stupid does a person have to be to stand there with his phone out recording himself ranting and making threats against a woman standing in her own yard in her pajamas?  Big tough man there.  And his mama grinning at me the whole time, telling me I’m crazy and she’s concerned for her own safety because of me, while her son is standing right behind her threatening my life.

I’m just...my god, I don’t even know what to think.  I thought people only acted like this in TV dramas, seriously.  I’ve seen some shit in my life but this particular brand of stupid has up till now evaded me, but now it’s been in my face and I’m sort of in shock.

I don’t like guns.  At ALL.  Tom has always had at least one hidden carefully away, safely locked up away from the house, but now there are two inside my house in immediate grabbing range.  He insisted that I let him show me how to use them.  Rules were laid down for the boys - never touch, never, don’t even get close to them - and now there is a box of shotgun shells on my fireplace mantel and a singleshot rifle by the door.  I hate this so damn much.

Don’t pick it up unless you’re ready to use it, he told me.  Without even thinking, I said back, “If I touch it it’s getting used.”

I HATE THIS SO FUCKING MUCH

My god.  I told the cops that the drug lord that lived over there four years ago was a better neighbor than this woman.  They didn’t even laugh.

I guess they’re right, now that I think about it...it isn’t funny.

[theotherace]

@omegansamurai​ said this: 

when I asked for request, and I don’t know what the hell happened, but it turned into the sappiest shit I’ve ever written. Hope you still like it at least a litte, because I’m not sure how much I like it. Sorry it took so long. 

ao3 | ff.net 

----

[102 AG]

Toph ... was a girl.

He'd known that, of course.

Kinda.

The first vision of a giggling girl, jumping from branch to branch, eluding him, had quickly vanished after he'd seen her blow her opponent out of the ring without much effort, after he'd realized just how ... not fragile she was.

(Because she'd always been able to knock him over, despite being half a head shorter than him back then, and almost a full one right now.)

But now ...

Looking at her ...

He felt a blush creep up his neck, his ears burning.

He couldn't usually see her face like this, maybe that was it – with her bangs pulled back, it was free for him to marvel at, dark eyebrows drawn together and lips, painted red just for tonight, twisted into a frown, her slim nose crinkled in annoyance. And her eyes were defiant.

He wondered what she was listening to and was glad to not be the man standing next to her.

Aang started when an arm was slung around his shoulders, but when he looked up, his gaze was met by Sokka's ocean eyes, sparkling with mirth.

"Watcha looking at?", the young warrior grinned.

Aang flushed a deeper shade of red.

"... nothing."

"Toph's looking pretty tonight, huh?" 

[109 AG]

"You've got dirt on your nose", Aang panted, fully aware that he was caked in dust and half-dried mud himself, a tear in his new pants – and he really should've known better than to wear those today, should've known better than to challenge Toph Bei Fong while in his shiny new trousers.

She smirked and wiped the sweat of her brow.

He tried to swallow past his hammering heart.

"Do I now?"

Maybe the rip in his pants leg was worth this.

To look at her now, basking in the knowledge that she'd forever be the superior earthbender between them, raven hair escaping the bun it had been tied into by practiced hands this morning, glowing from within and under the bright midday sun.

"Yeah, you do."

And she was breathing deeply, too, her toes digging into the earth she commanded so easily, looking oh so very alive, so very ... in her element, captivating, breathtaking, and Spirits, he wanted to kiss her more than he wanted to do anything else, dirt on her nose, tear in his pants, and never let go of her again.

She cocked her head to the side.

He swallowed again, harder this time. 

[112 AG]

"Help me up", Toph said (almost-whined, and he smiled) from where she sat next to Appa's paw, one hand resting on her stomach, the other stretched towards him, fingers wiggling insitently.

(He hadn't know they could do that, until just now.)

"And stop grinning like that."

Aang bit his lip, just for a moment, before he threw his bag onto Appa's saddle and walked over to her.  

"I'm not grinning", he laughed, then grabbed her hand, small and calloused and fitting perfectly into his much bigger one. "Gimme your other hand, c'mon."

She pushed her bottom lip forward, and he couldn't help but think that she was adorable.

"Laughing at me!"

"I'm not–"

"My own husband!"

"–your husband."

Which wasn't how he'd planned to end that sentence.

And he was still chuckling.

"Maybe I'll just stay here."

"Like I'd let you." 

[120 AG]

She was ... etheral.

And his heart beat in his chest, a little too quickly, and his mouth was dry, his palms were sweaty, when she beamed at him, absolutely radiant, the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes upon.

Somewhere, distantly, a grinning voice said words that meant everything and nothing at all, but he had trouble concentrating on anything but Toph, her head tilted a little to the right, bangs tucked behind her ears just for now, and the smirk that pulled on her lips when they sparred, when the children managed to prank him, when he called her Sifu in a low, low voice, had melted into the most sincere of smiles.

And her hands in his were the only thing that made this feel real, made him feel real, let him know that he wasn't dreaming.

Her thumb ghosted over his knuckles.

He sniffled. 

[140 AG]

The little boy grasped for long strands of hair that refused to lose colour.

On his grandmother's face lay a peaceful smile, and her eyes were soft, as they only ever were when a child's hand slipped into hers, when he kissed her forehead in quiet moments, when they were with their friends and nobody was looking, and Aang blinked, and the world felt a little weird, because his wife was holding their first grandchild.

And the smile on her lips made her look younger than they'd ever be again.

And she couldn't help but think how very lucky he was to sit beside her.

"Can you believe this?", she mumbled.

"I can't", he replied, without taking his eye of her face.

She traced the child's features with a delicate finger.

He touched his tiny toes.

"Hey there, Metok." 

[168 AG]

"You're beautiful", he said.

She didn't lift her head, didn't even crack an eye open – and why would she, he thought –, but he saw her mouth twitch into a smile, small and tired.

"Go to sleep, you sappy old man", she mumbled into her pillow.

"You're beautiful", he repeated, because she was, and in fifty-nine years of loving her, of being in love with her, he hadn't grown tired of looking at her – sometimes, he still felt like that fourteen-year-old boy realizing for the very first time how pretty his friend had grown to become.

(Had always been.)

"You're senile", she replied with a yawn.

"You're beautiful", he said once more, a soft, soft smile on his face, and she reached out a wrinkly hand to cover his mouth; he pressed a kiss to her palm.

"Love you, too, Twinkle Toes."

[harrishanie]

"Fragmentary Annihilation” by “Alexander”

If you’ve ever encountered the PDF versions of Jesus Ignacio Aldapuerta’s The Eyes or Roger Gilbert-Lecomte’s Black Mirror, you’ve probably seen the link to The Usual Cannibalism, the (now former) blog of the transcriptionist. This blog advertises two original works, now seemingly-inaccessible, Meditations on Ero Guro and Fragmentary Annihilation. I have been curious about these works since my first discovery of the aforementioned documents, but it only occurred to me today that I might be able to find them by just plugging the dead links into the Internet Archive. I thought that they were interesting enough and worth preserving, as much as anything else, so I am posting them here--just the first for now, since I am not sure if Meditations fits the current content dogma. I have also not done any formatting whatsoever so I will apologize.

Both pieces are attributed only to “Alexander”--if you are him, my kind regards. To everyone else, my apologies.

Fragmentory Annihilation

An attempt at overcoming Nihilism and Limitation By Alexander http://the-usual-cannibalism.blogspot.com/

Selected Music: OST 2001: A Space Odyssey: Composed by various. The Beyond: Composed by Fabio Frizzi Blue: Cowboy Bebop OST: Composed by Yoko Kanno. Cannibal Holocaust: Composed by Riz Ortolani Dawn of The Dead: Composed and performed by Goblin Fish ~ Silent Cruise: Ghost In The Shell Stand Alone Complex OST: Composed by Yoko Kanno Greed Bird: Cowboy Bebop OST: Composed by Yoko Kanno Holy Mountain: Composed and performed by Don Cherry, Ron Frangipane, and Alejandro Jodorowsky In Heaven: Eraserhead OST: Composed and performed by Peter Lvers Lucifer Rising: Composed and performed by Jimmy Paige Monochrome: Ghost in the Shell Stand Alone Complex OST: Composed by Yoko Kanno Nosferatu: Composed and performed by Popol Vuh Rain (Female Vocal Version): Cowboy Bebop OST: Composed by Yoko Kanno Requiem for A Dream: Composed by Clint Mansell and performed by the Kronos Quartet Suspiria: Composed and performed by Goblin

Original Compositions Adagio for Strings: Composed by Samuel Barber Ase’s Death: Composed by Edvard Grieg Carmina Burana: Composed by Carl Orf The Crucifixion: Composed by Samuel Barber Dreams Less Sweet: Composed and performed by Psychic TV The Downward Spiral: By Nine Inch Nails F# A# (Infinity): Composed and performed By Godspeed You! Black Emperor Holocausto De La Morte: Composed and performed by Necrophagia Horror of the Zombies: Composed and performed by Impetigo House of the Rising Sun: Performed by The Rolling Stones Hurt: Performed by Johnny Cash I Want Your Soul: Composed and performed by Aphex Twin Ode to Joy: Composed by Beethoven Rain Drops Prelude: Composed by Frederic Chopin Prince Igor: Composed by Alexander Borodin The Requiem: Composed by Mozart Strange Fruit: Composed and Sung by Billy Holiday Song for Liberty: Composed by Giuseppe Verdi Sympathy for the Devil: Composed and performed by the Rolling Stones Va Pensiero: Composed by Giuseppe Verdi Yanqui U.X.O: Composed and Performed By Godspeed You! Black Emperor

In Puberty’s ambush, maidens bloom, All unaware of impending doom They listen to the radio, drink tea Unaware they will lose their liberty Bourgeouis recoil not from slaughter Though victim be son and daughter From Salo: The 120 Days of Sodom.

Diagram -an attempt to understandThe World that follows Sadism or Social Darwinism. Invokes the OverMAN, Absolutism, and a kind of Primitism. Leading to the Simple Passions, the Complex Passions, the Criminal Passions, and the Murderous Passions. Power. The World that follows Psychology (Freud, Jung, and Wilhelm Reich): Implies a tree of influence and evolution, cherry picks the good out of each religion. Interconnectedness. The World that follows Unification (Kierkegaard, Krishnamurti, and the Bhaved Gavid): Man is unified with himself and every other, simplicity, taking away from excess resulting in Social Evolution. Instrumentality. The World that follows the Poete Maudit (Lautreamont, Baudelair, Rimbaud, and Artaud): It is with a fury that man achieves a manifest destiny, personification of the Phoenix. Death & Rebirth. The World that follows the Larvae (developmentally halted no further evolution): An introverted and absolute justification for being wrong and spiteful at humanity. The emulation of an idea taken from a great man, modified for the benefit of the shepherd. Defined technically as Scizotypal. The World that follows Escapism: Be satisfied with life and pursue its vices, no more joy to be partaken than that inside a fellow, and housed in a limited splendor with glass walls. There can be no manifest destiny nor growth when one is given it. The Consumer. The World that follows the Dictator: Differing from the others, this is entirely individual yet joins every belief together for the benefit of the one and truly via cherry picking. Implies a Tao of humankind that commits all positive and negative acts, a kind of birthing process where all thinking merges to create a child different from both parents. The Third Mind. Evolution. The World as Reality: the meaninglessness of art and thought as a futile interprise, limited by the finite life span of the earth and the eraser of all hard external memory. Implies that we will not be remembered no matter the effort. Nihilism. The World as Splendor: To believe one and only, by following only Islam or by following strictly Nietzsche. Limiting one self to but one interpretation, thereby denying reality and evolution. Faith.

SACRED Imagine a voice that is low and hollow and that its vocal cords strain to produce sound. This voice that utters a monotone speech begetting remorse and pain, dignity and hatred. Picture this voice on your parent that visits you in the morning and rapes you at night. Object 1 A woman runs up a stairwell, pursued by a deformed man who walks on all fours; his flesh is bruised and clean shaven, the ears are shorn and pointed, with a tongue sewn from two –twice as long as a dog tongue- without thumbs or big toes, those amputated by eugenic miracle, a man is what he sees himself as through the eyes of others by this very transmuted flesh. The woman is cornered on the roof; this dog/man proceeds to rape her. She then slowly changes, shedding her skin, each limb becomes metallic, she transforms into a plane and leaps from the roof and glides into a building, explosions, a gray fog bellows out.

-£¼ªÙÆ When it comes to conversation, I rehearse almost everything. Ad-libbed material gives way to awkward speech like in a random conversation rushed out if only to keep interconnectedness afloat. That is insipid. Better to rehearse and come across as better then a fellow then to wallow in mediocrity and a limited dialogue. People are angry and nice, giving me eyes that would paint me as an evil outsider placed therein to murder them all. The niceness comes from opening doors for them, as they do not do for me. It is unfortunate that I have the habit of implanting pieces of my personality within my characters, what new extremes that I invoke: Three characters that are the me when given over to fury: They escape my brain and proceed downward through my skull where they break through my mouth, which now resembles a deformed cunt. Yet I cannot stop writing, so with my left hand I use a sewing needle and twine and proceed to stitch up the wound. On a mirror just above this paper I carefully study the wound, opening and closing the lips, showing my slightly yellow teeth; realizing it looks like a rat chewed a circular hole asthough my lips were bitten off completely. I continue forward with this surgery, I do not need a mouth to speak.

The character of Defilement Here arises another Eden; one imagined by that better person inside each and every other –that human that acts upon desire-. The setting is the same as the pictures from the bible

with waterfalls and golden gates, populated by one old cow that can just barely stand. Defilement approaches the cow with the glee of a great sadist. “You ask nothing more then to feast and to have your teats pulled and drained of a blockage of fluid. Much like the nymphomaniac left alone with their arms amputated. Allow me to pay tribute to you and all others.” Defilement undresses, smiling as he shows his disfigured prick; for it takes the shape of a double A battery with a stub of flesh protruding through the hole. His testicals are in fact one dozen knives strung like wind chimes. He is not obese, just pounds of loose flesh hang off him, folding over like animal flippers found on a new race of man. His skin ripples like the top of disturbed water as his knives slightly tingle and ring, and drops of ejaculate fall from them. Now a dirty cunt brimming with urea, crowned by dried shit, penetrated. He kisses the animal’s snout in submission. ‘Bestiality is to give up on humanity’ he whispers into the animals’ ear. With that finished, he begins milking the cow. His children drop onto the grass, colored of milk-white with no mouths or any kind of limbs, but born as torsos though they were only bio-engineered fuck-holes. Defilement buries his children under shallow earth; they grow like trees over years and decades thereafter. He bleeds out, feeding his children organic debris. His plasma becomes their water and his shit becomes their food. Once they have matured, he proceeds to their mother and wrenches loose one curved blade. As saintly as conjoined pedophile and martyr when one kills their lover and a surrogate mother. The teats are completely severed in three disorderly gashes, like a crescent with the star being a separated heart. He wears this apparatus atop his skull like a hat. The cow falls to the ground trying to crawl away. Calmly, he sinks the blade through the snout multiple times as if a child making sure his pet is dead. Cutting off its ears now, he has little time left until he dies of blood loss, and cutting off many inches of skin that would bestow one large coat in one last frenzy that relinquishes everything that once made him human. One last gash to the throat, blood pours in gallons; he punches the jaw and breaks it in half. He opens up its stomach and hallows it out and crawls down this hole, curling up like a fetus, preserved for his children, for this is Eden and depravity is only memory for an audience of weeping trees. The character of Defy “Young boy with medium-sized breasts walks pompously, walks right by me. A boy of milk less breasts dares himself to think that he is better then I with his pompous walk, how dare he looks down at me.” A fifteen year-old girl part of a tribe of the destitute with her fat, crippled girlfriend in tow. She curses at me, calling me a faggot for my nice clothes and my walking like an aristocrat. I am dressed in top hat with a Christian cross etched onto the front, an

expensive suite and shoes, and a magnificent cane beside me with the handle of the Cobra (For Defy is the best representation of me as a person, in how I dress and speak) “You walk like you got a corn cob up your ass!” I approach her, being so cautious that she may have several inbred protectors, “You, minute and destitute whore, you were not christened by any kind of virtue nor vice, for both have a kind of attrition and dignity. You, who were born from a moronic fuck between such forgettable inventors, that which claims how great is life and how great is their delirium; those who bore you and let live, what a waste of raw material. I would not rape you in a fury; I feel your vulva has mixed with the mucus of dogs and paint, standards be not your priority –how you will die from pregnancy-. For I am the me that I WILL, such a high and vulgar being of all powers that dwarfs you and your nothing-life. I pity you for having to bathe your crippled pet with your ignorant tears. I wish you nothing. People, such as you, the peon-masses deserve the earthly Hell that you have so graciously built, that is paradigm, that is Darwin, that is you little woman, without power, you and your class, you incredible weakling, you timid and tortured bitch.” She seemed dumbfounded. I see an ugly girl with brown hair with a scalp resembling a bird’s nest filled with parasites. She has an ugly and misshapen face with protruding teeth and glasses that truly add nothing to her appearance. She walks with her pack of an equally disgusting mother and grandmother or some such; they are all obese, just as putrefied and dead as the child. Someone asks them what time it is… they strain with this simple question for about a minute, and they finally give a wrong answer and proceed on their way. I will prove a point to an atheist author, for I am the great Agnostic. I will see the murder of a martyr, that grand attrition, the only tool worth anything by your cult and genius. Back to the crucifixion: I see a crowd devoted to that phantasm of faith; how easy it is to think all is well at a crucifixion post-mortem. Children start to beat the body with sticks as I arrived, pushing down members of the crowd and presenting one simple dialogue as I arrived and spoke“I am the murderer of god, you are but his pets and I have bathed in your creator’s blood. And I have castrated this god of human hands and a blood-less heart.” Raising my hands high, mentally controlling their will with my skeletal fingers by twisting my left hand’s fingers, beginning with the pinkie, turning inward with a folding thumb. “Every man now, is only a fallen god without eyes. You see the world once emerging from the engorged cunt, and there your fellows sealed your eyelids to a close, your voice becomes an echo, and your hands are now tools for someone else. I offer you the heart of your creator. Ingest this organ of not truth or what is known as divine, but a though, like a match to bring the flames.” I pull out a heart and carve it open with my nails then throw the remains to this crowd of the illiterate and begotten. In actuality, it was the heart of a large ape. As the crowd and minor holy men are busy picking the pieces of the heart, I approached christ with his black hair and a tiny height that rivals the myths of Napoleon. His nails are long, his teeth broken and crooked like a

beggar, his anus widened as with cut open balls. “This is what we’ve been waiting for?” I asked loudly and expectantly, my right arm pointing to the body “We’ve waited thousands of years to see the return of an ordinary man not any different then any of us? He is not worth it. He is not the jesus to be forgiven, he is the man we are glad to be rid of; the bourgeois and insipid variety.” I insert my longest fingers into the spear wound and stretch it open, like a portal down not into the thought process but a descent into organic nausea. Through this hole, passing by fantasia no grander then packaged gizzards. I am now at the top of an incredible mountain paved with diamonds, gold, and titanium. Such a spot befitting a man who says ‘I am god’ I see him now, this most real form; here is the inner child sucking on a thumb. Wait, I examine closer and see he is dead when I feel for a pulse and put my ear up to the mouth and there is nothing. The body is slumped to the right side; thumb still in mouth, covered only by a blue blanket that barely hides a violet flesh, his face is cut apart by the shaving of moustache, eyebrows, and hair on the left of his face, this small and castrated child. I curl up right next to it, hiding under the blue blanket and I sleep. The body dissipates like ashes. I smile. The character of Atheism Atheism, dressed in a white short sleeve shirt and black pants with black tie, armored with a Snake Skin jacket while clutching his imposing pocket knife in a side pocket, culminating with a two-foot long cross impaled through his skull; this deformed pariah who failed as a chameleon. The Madman is dead, and we have killed him. Morality is the assassin; we are the conspirators for being so compliant and listless. We have succumbed to not a land without god or logic, but a mindset without idols. The idol is the bringer of influence and what idols remain? But the dead, dying, and meaningless without innovation and strife… A natural selection that favors the weak. Oscar Wilde once said that all influence is immoral, something referenced to by my now dead friend. The reincarnation is not worthy. If that were untrue, then would we not have evolved beyond Nietzsche? All that has been created are the ouroboros of shared ideas. It is the Madman to come from the brink and deliver to us something that had never before been conceived. As it would, that a Madman would arrive with every dying star, it reminds me of a whore who is given a facial and there discovers illumination. I come too late. My time has long passed…

A young Mormon boy, an old Catholic with a black beard, an obese Evangelist mother of three, one follower of Islam, a female atheist, one stereotypical Buddhist, ending with a small Hindu family; all of whom are extremists which should be noted. An illumination, brilliance, and the Madman: They are the conclusion but to what? Countless images happening all at once, struggling to find that vent through this one character in each action of repulsion and glory. I pondered for a moment if I should draw this out for much longer, then again, this should be quick as my author has set me free and I shall thank him with an excess of blank pages. This Mormon is beheaded by an Al Queda operative. The Catholic is placed in the Antarctic half submerged in ice water. The Hindus are treated like untouchables in their culture; the women are raped and beaten, while the men watch and are castrated. The Evangelist is fed to several apes. The Islamist is given a world without enemies; there he finds no one and dies alone. The atheist mocks primitive cultures; she is then subjected to their rituals and is raped and beheaded. The Buddhist is locked in a room without windows; given only a little tree and sand, within days he consumes every leaf on the plant, and then dies of starvation. I am afraid. as I remain one without bible or coda, but a verve that coils and sheds the former ideal like the serpent crawling upwards the tree of knowledge; things that I have written and will re-enact. My fear is that I will not pursue them any longer when pacified by society. It is like a poker game, it ends when you show your hand. … “The girl screamed. The murderer laughs like mad, she begs, he takes out a large knife. She prays, tears rolling from her eyes, a bone-crunching sound is heard. A shot from the policeman’s nine-millimeter pistol, the fatal shot to the head of the murderer. She pleads to her hero ‘I just want to go home’ “ “This novel is my masterpiece,” said an eleven year-old boy struggling to become a horror writer, the author of the above paragraph, if even that, more like an extended sentence. He has had two short stories published in very, very small fanzines and he has posted four more on the Internet. This “masterpiece” is a typical slasher story; so typical it would have been rejected for a Friday The 13th screenplay. He shows the novel to his boyfriends, and they love it. A Naïve boy who is devout to the followers of a passion-less manifesto, and the novel is sold to a large publishing house and it does all right on the market, not at all surprising when the challenge and depth of this book reaches the mighty height of a grain of sand. I write myself in, “Naïve boy, you must challenge people.” he screams that he does not want to, that he only wants to be a jester, to be remembered for his entertainment. I retaliate, “True, that after your death people will remember you, but for only a shot

period of time, fifteen minutes to be exact if we are to follow Warholla and his pretension. For decades after no one will care about your rotten corpse that the worm defecates on, and no one will remember you past that expiration. But, we always remember the pariah’s who wish to change the world and to show us glory whether introverted or extroverted. It depends not on timelessness but on the passion.” A critic descends, casting me as perverted and unworthy, going on in the erotication of rape that I bestow, the difference (same old same old) between pornography and art. I will show misanthropy personified, this is a way to view something as the atrocity that inspires hope, pain, and numbness: In a room of teal, we watch three figures through an iris window, looking out from within my two eyes. A man dressed like an aristocrat except for a black hood that hides his face who stands between a blonde-haired girl no older then seventeen trying to cover herself, and her mother with matching hair; whose limbs are chained to a concrete ceiling that hold her several feet high. Both are of course nude. The daughter cries, and her hands block out her pubic hair. The aristocrat that does not show his face brandishes a very clean and defined sickle with a metallic handle painted yellow. The mother becomes silent. A portrait ten feet by ten feet descends attached to two near-invisible strings, just a foot or two above the mother’s skull. This portrait is in fact an enlarged photograph tainted (artistically) in sepia; the image becomes visible, showing off a victim of Ed Gein’s immortalized by her violation. Gein, one of the first American serial killers: his victim, this aged woman that hangs by her lifeless feet chained by ankles, torn open from anus to chest. It is so awe-inspiring that you would think Dali would masturbate to it. The executioner tilts his skull slightly upward for which beams of light shine on him, thereupon a bent halo tears through his eyes and hangs above the skull; suddenly two large wings rip through his back and these wings are plastered with lined paper and drip ink. From this man’s spine, the epitome of Goodness wrings loose from him, born from the pores of skin and showing its innocent flesh to human eyes. Goodness emerges as a limbless dwarf with empty, plastic bottles planted in its mouth. With a clammy and Asiatic (recalling Shintoism) skin that turns violet from the exposure to oxygen, no longer shelled within polluted man, crawling slowly forwards like a dying slug as it approaches the child and rapes her with its bottles, to give her pleasure, for that is mutually good to the corrupt individual. The sickle approaches the mother, her child still is watching with a penetrated cunt magnified by a see-through bottle: The sickle (moving upward) penetrates the asshole by a few inches, and then a slow lift approaches; working in a seesaw motion, the blade moving quickly; slowly tearing through the outer wall of the cunt, tearing through stomach, and now torn en half. The mother is dead. The boy and critic vomit in unison, I speak, “You see how I’ve made art out of a tragedy? Showing how our world is a constant mirror, I have taken a man who wanted to fuck his mother out of love and hate. He wore the flesh of his victims much as the same as we wear masks; whereas he wore them to become what he wanted to be, we wear a mask to be acceptable. And, by that dismembered woman we witness the birth of new pleasures, and new freedom. The mask becomes our weapon, and the trophy is our freedom.”

“You’re sick!” the boy screams. “No, you’ve glorified Gein’s crime for your own profit. Simply creating a series of violent episodes does not make you a writer, it makes you a pornographer” said the critic. I speak again, “I don’t give a damn if I’m right or wrong. I will change people by showing them our world simply as it is; deep down inside they know this is true! It is all a reflection of our corrupt universe that offers no solace but hope while elites continue on in murder and monopoly, it is this idea of hope that has only given us shit and democide.” “What is true? Showing men committing bestiality? Saying there is no God as repeated for over a century? You’re nothing but a hack wishing to gain attention for his crimes!” said the critic. “What crimes? This is everyday violence; you simply ignore it and refer to it as a tragedy. It is no tragedy; this is the way of life, it is Social Darwinism prophesized by the divine Marquis! To do away with it is to do away with the society that created it, a solution through artistic genocide. This is necessity; one cannot overcome reality without having first faced it.” I speak again. “I sincerely doubt that the essence of Good is a crippled dwarf, or champions of capital punishment fuck on a mountain in celebration. This is obscene. Enough of your ‘mirrored’ world, people want the truth” said the critic. In defiance, “I am giving it to them” The critic shakes his head, bemused. I speak once more, “You hate people like me don’t you? It is of course obscene but people need obscenity! Enough of this cushy world where imaginary characters are created to live in a tedious cycle of life, death, triumph, love, and freedom, enough of these anecdotal biographies written exclusively for money, enough of everything that rebuilds people as puppets meant to follow the words of an invented prophet such as your Ayn Rand. We NEED work that will fuckin’ murder our glee and take with it our restraining morals. To gut punch us and implant it’s terrible voice in us” foaming from the mouth “We need violence to show violence! There must be this conclusion, the end of the moral coda and the end of the meaningless life and with it the end of meaning. No more a truth to be found, that absolution may only be a word to satiate the herd while men lie and give of them selves to nothing, and they die for nothing. Only in the extremes may we find what we have ignored, the Gray. Love and hate, horror and the paradise, are the same. No different to fly or fall. I do not propose to know of the truth, nor the proper way of life; but I know what is wrong, and that is the slavery of today encompassing Social, Religious, and Economic varities. Before each and every ritualistic task to find oneself, one must recognize what is around them and the idea of Good & Evil being the supreme Lie given to us by our kind and loving society, though well-intentioned it became the greatest kind of propaganda. Secondly, one must react to it. ”

The critic gives a good review of the boy’s work. They quickly undress and begin to fuck like student and teacher. … I peel away a piece of dead skin from my face, nuisance hangnails amputated with nail clippers, pieces of me fall onto this very paper with a single drop of blood, I wipe off this waste and continue onward. I, not we, you could never understand me no matter what lengths I reach, and I say that out of relenting to a truth and not a defeat nor condensation. I alone must commit transgressions out of invented mysticism; therein I will be created as I see myself and not as I dream in writing. An individual and selfish trait usually referred to as martyrdom by people who do not wish to create themselves but only follow that which has been created. I feel this is a trait that links subversion, atrocity, and glory. To be a martyr is to give your self over to the masses, and then be reinterpreted to be more appealing. When you become the individual, you are the in-understandable entity like the Sphinx or Stonehenge; the ritual and the God cemented in time. There I am in this limbo, muted colors flow from above; you can taste these colors by licking the air. Who am I? I am the one who desires to be the OverMan, to laugh at every weak last man. What am I? A man that remains hindered by what he has. With a hacksaw, I set about decapitating my self, to free mind and body as separate entities. The pain soon subsides, a fetus levitates off in the distance, there is me in the mirror and my desire. The stage has been set for metaphysics, but this body needs freedom from this reality constructed for it. Only there may mind and body become whole and separated into eternal entities of absolution. My brain is above me, awaiting me, my body is like cement in water; eating of the fish and viscera that swim by it while still rooted to this world. I will become as I desire, to confront reality and conquer it and to map out my self and remake it. Take all that you despise, use that as the catalyst for the new body like wood to the fire. When I see myself, I see only so much to still be done. … Of Nine Eleven: From the viewpoint of a misguided martyr not at all different from a child wishing to emulate dead mentors Knife in briefcase, could not believe how easy it is to fool these bastards. The others were very anxious and I was worried that the others in the other planes would back out like in the Conspiracy to murder Lincoln or some other fuck up would occur. The plane takes off. The plane is a little away so I motion to the others that the time is right. Brandishing our weapons and doing our best English, screaming aloud in a tall and arrogant voice.

“We have a bomb on this plane” My fellows were breaking down the door to the cabinet as I secured the rest. I then quickly ran in and bound the flier’s hands with those plastic handcuffs that idiots use to tie up toys and loose wires. One of the pilots pissed himself and I took the reigns of the plane, and then ordered the others to secure the passengers. My fellows went at it with but a few hostages were allowed others to gather in the back and phone whomever they wished, it was the least we could do, it would not matter; we feed the mouse before we feed it to the snake. The tower is within range; I fly into the top-middle trying to get the best possible shot. Collision. We die in flames. People scream. People will film it. And I will be immortal. Praise be to Allah, and let I be remembered. [Ending with a very average man committing what is only a spectacular suicide to prove he is something more then simply human] Even now I have not committed the most despicable of things as accorded by the moral guardians and do you know what that is? To say that 9/11 was a staged event. No room for the politic, they are a thing you cannot preach, for the insipid refuse to even listen and only condemn, this prejudice of knowledge. Êö”ºÆ_ Ö×ØÙÚÛÜ -£¼ªÙÆ @™Çö”ºÆ_@ __ __ __ __ __ ÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿ Only an excuse to cross a bridge, such as a meaningless parlay- like you would bring up the mundane only to get to that crass joke or make a point on the day-. Such a revolt of misguided proportions, he would even speak ‘the artist crucifies them. The artist crucifies all of them.’ … _ þª_ «_ _«_ _«_ _«_ _«_ «_ «_ «_ _«_ _«_ _«_ _«_ _«_ _«_ _«_ -«_ «_ "«_ ì²_ î²_ ð²_ ò²_ ô²_ ö²_ ø²_ ú²_ ü²_ þ²_ ³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ -³_ ³_ "³_ $³_ &³_ (³_ The other two would be restrained and forced to watch: the longhaired one has her hands handcuffed behind her back, her legs tied and held apart. She is cut along the thighs with a box cutter, the blade invades underneath her toenails, her hair is ripped out and stuffed into her mouth, her eyelids are held open while a match is struck and falls onto an eyeball, the cunt is spread open to greet one intrusive lit match, a breast carved into, the fat is expunged and replaced with cotton. The image of Shiva and Kali are tattooed upon her forehead and pubis. A climax is not a necessity to affect people, like a staged orgasm in pornography. When it is the moment caught in the twilight at the height of an extreme that is the necessity. Think of a boring film/book that is remembered or the weak man who became a killer. …

“I should’ve had the abortion; I should’ve had the abortion” My mother, speaking to me when I was nine years old…Suddenly that sentence just sprang into my mind so suddenly. One boy very much in accordance to what is the outsider finds his vices, and he becomes dominated by them-mimicry- becoming just as the other humans, one who putrefies while living in dreams. He is torn by the complex nature of his deranged mother, and feels intimidated by his father, which yields him to his mother. Slowly becoming aware of his errors, yet still pious to delusion, and still buried in limbo while thinking of cruel ideas. He finds an angel in fuckery; he begins to learn new things. An angel in philosophy visits him; he thinks new things. One day he no longer thinks and sets about to be what he has always dreamed of being. OverMan. The writer may be god but the writer is also a slave to their creation. If the creation fails, the writer must abandon it and forget it or destroy it and rebuild it anew. If it succeeds the writer is forced to outdo it or perish in its ravages; if not the writer is forced to create clones of his creation. One man approaches me, spouting on and on about how I am a threat to humanity and have perverted previously innocent children. He continues to harasses me for the appraisal of all freedoms and of all men in which every thinker is the Iconoclast; as he referred to me as a cancer to his utopia that had never existed. ‘Turns out he hasn’t even read of my work, so I hand him a copy while saying with an arrogant smile “judge not les ye be judged” and I leave him my email address. Weeks later amidst many emails, I received a message from this man. He tells me how my work has changed him and he has given up his ways and became an organ donor then helped bastard children by giving them much-deserved toys, and most surprisingly of all, he has donated to pro-choice agencies to raped mothers. How I wish this was true and this man existed instead of merely writing this paragraph of fiction to create a counter-image. Am I no better then he? Write to me at Etuvivrainelterrore@Gmail.com … Idols riding in Cadillac’s with open tops down a poorly planned parade, they look no different from a walking billboard, such as a living deformity attributed to Teflon poisoning. I am part of the crowd and dressed in the skin of Jack Ruby; I take careful aim and fire the fatal shot at one such idol no different from any other. This one hollow point round makes contact with the face, and dead center down the nasal cavity. The idol now resembles victims of nerve gas through a heavily deformed mouth and face, like a horse with its face blasted off and its body dragged throughout the streets, my way of giving them a purpose through a stupendous demise. That is the me who subscribes to violence being an immortal action.

That is, Immortality by Immorality. What an insipid, and at once brilliant and proven thought that violence in it self may grant eternity. A road traveled by the most insane of men; your Albert Fish, your Idi Amin, your lord Heliogabalus, and your artist. It is no better then to carve into a tree. We soon forget that the tree will die. “If God is dead… Must we not become gods ourselves to seem worthy of it? “ NIETZSCHE The Gray (in Tao terminology) that embodies man, for it is gray which grants us the ability to do both positive and negative at once. This Gray would now be truthfully recognized… and not as the purgatory or the void that is filled, but the totality of all creation. As ‘Do what thou wilt’ is not the pass to commit atrocity, but to only be human, and once we see what we are fully capable of there may be created the second paradise. The first paradise was the one created by Cavemen freed of restriction. Though, debatable as to what exactly restriction is. It may be an invented reality (such as what we have now) or reality in itself (an unchangeable thing). This applies to the mass and not in it self to the individual. Such as Jonestown, which was a reality founded by one man, with a herd that latched onto that, thereby placing themselves within another paradigm without pursuing a personal freedom -just another escapism- and perished in that reality. Whereas the individual is free to create as he pleases and walk away from that mass and his debts. His is entirely manifest. See also Perspectivism. … The book posses the author; becoming a surrogate brain of what we desire to be, no better than a log of dreams or a diary filled with paintings about as understandable as a blank piece of paper. The book becomes a map of the thought process or the external memory of ancient humans. I see it as a scarification process much like a live autopsy committed by our brains upon this limited body, no better or worse then the monk who set himself aflame. … A dead oak tree lies in the middle of a dirt field; old condoms hang from the dead branches while icy cum drips down onto mud along the road to an Orgiastic Heaven: Where man and rhino are united by a speared anus. One octopus pleasures eight women while eating pubescent girls feet first-but not before drowning them with a flood of ink. men and women fused to create bee hives joined by the hip as their genitals are the gateways for such bees where bears pluck these hives, bite into them and drink the honey. Women are impaled from anus to throat by giraffe necks, each giraffe adorned with this human necklace. Clean-shaven people are laid as the ground and ceiling to every last species of bats, these people are the toilet and the nest for the bats, for that shit to be eaten, and bodies hollowed out and homes for dozens of bats. Tigresses with immense clitorises rape young boys whose limbs are rooted in cement, the tigresses generally bite

off the ears and claws the backs of each child during the hourly penetration, and how they mimic male orgasm and urinate into the mouth of each boy. Men enjoy the splendor of birds that lift them up onto a bed of spikes; the remains are fed to young children as vomited by the birds. Pigs would bite off the fingers and toes of men and laugh while the men struggled to grab and stand. Horses would trample the old and invalid after a lifetime of suffering; where ducks and chickens would be lifted up to their faces and scratch out their eyes, or plow the fields tied by their breasts or genitals, along with previous and unheard atrocities, as newborn children are fed alive to komodo dragons. Yet, that one angelic woman that stood out was subjected to the very worst; being lifted to the sky and forced to watch it all for a lifetime. In Heaven. … Jerry Fallwell, Pat Robertson, and Billy Graham are the recipients of retribution for every man to be given a smite by a fascist, or for every man to have come so far and believe in personal freedom… only to be reminded of these wretched men and the will to be rid of them. Fallwell is strangled to death by a leather strap. Robertson is gutted and thereon stuffed with the many pamphlets promising one land for the Christian and the triangle-eye of the dollar. Graham is ignored entirely, and he and his offspring disintegrate, there exists no real life to a thing if it does not make a human connection either positive or negative…It is not to ignore a virus, but to isolate it. Religion spreads by the ears and eyes, when a virus is then isolated and cannot grow; it then rots from the inside. That I realize too late, and am now executed for murder. … "Let the most insulting blasphemy, the most atheistic works next be fully and openly authorized, in order to complete the extirpation from the human heart and memory of those appalling pastimes of our childhood; let them be put in circulation the writings most capable of illuminating the Europeans upon a matter so important, and let a considerable prize, to be bestowed by the Nation, be awarded to him who, having said and demonstrated everything upon this score, will leave to his countrymen no more then a scythe to mow the land clean of all those phantoms, and a steady heart to hate them. In six months, the whole will be done; your infamous god will be as naught," Marquis De Sade To murder the epitome of faith and beyond, to defy all others and insult them brutally like the coward, to outdo human capacity: The artist aims at this so revered and holy target. This is my great transgression; for I may never look back again, for it necessary if nothing but for my inner peace, and once there you can never go back to what you were: Jesus approaches with a solemn look and with hands laid low and open, I say ’free me’ and he then walks over with a gesture to kiss his bloodied feet. I stab him with my pen in his ribcage, clutched by my left hand, and now painted with blood and dirt. Using this pen as a lever to lift him before a giant sheathe of sheet metal with a white crucifix

painted before, cementing him there by thousands of pens to crucify this dead hypocrisy. A figure riddled with protrusions, like an Indian fakir fallen upon his bed of spikes, kept alive now by these very words that wish to torture him more with metal pens imbedded into palm and wrist. I cannot let such a thing die by a bourgeois mechanism such as the crucifixion. Therefore, he is lowered into a vat of boiling lead, consumed and now recycled into a tool for every man that thinks, both pen and rifle. I hate to plagiarize; but I have committed another meme formation of your jesus, at best he shall evolve into a phantasm long forgotten, at worst another kind of ideology. Something that Atheist and Iconoclast so worship, the destruction of a man they do not believe in, what wretched people these must be to invent their enemies such as your religious extremists and each and every last herd. What evolution we have come across, to go over the same old same old. I see god: This obese hermaphrodite figure, with crooked teeth emitting ‘round the mouth and down the chin, and ratty hair and one hundred arachnid eyes. With fingernails showing skewed remnants of little men, and a belly and breasts covered with the filth of dancing angels mocking tortured humans in cages. With a body hair like the forest and a prick miniature and syphilitic, an ugly cunt is the gateway to paradise and saint peter being a louse. Dead children fall into god’s mouth and eaten in its slack jaw like a Roman being fed grapes by his chained prostitute. I throw his whores and his meals away from him and into space; it pleads with me without emotion, like a child saying ’I’m sorry’ with a lifeless tone. It offers me immortality with no morality so long as I rejoice in putrid faith. My right fist connecting a one-inch punch to its skull, the noise of a jet breaking the sound barrier erupts while the face falls to atoms. Falling out of a throne made from human bone and crowned by fetal fossils, tearing away the crooked jaw and pulling out each of its one hundred eyes. My nails are now dirty and covered in blood and sinew. The cunt penetrated by my pen clutched in my left palm; with a pistol held by my right hand, I fire six hollow point rounds into the abdomen, legs, prick and balls. The pen blasts poison ink down a tainted uterus, an ink no different then a flesh-eating virus. The king is dead.

Finale The me whom I desire to become witnesses the best & worst of humanity: Abraxas I write of a fine escapism. One that requires all the energy needed to crush a minute insect -so easily in reach to an average man who gives birth to nonsense dreams- but there are cripples that envie such men. Hypothesis: For every action committed (referring to a Tao of Joy and Pain), a kind of energy is emitting that mirrors string theory in the joining of two opposing ideologies. It is a kind of energy to wallow in the wake of Kierkegaard’s ‘Single Individual’, in particular a ‘sea of individuals’ united in totality. Like how radioactivity emanates over time and poisons the inhabitants over an undetermined period; if such energy were genuine, it can then be inferred that both saint and Madman are the result of genetics. Such as the Holocaust influencing a half-Jewish man, with a wife indifferent to Judaism whose son then carries this kind of baggage. This also references Jung’s theories on the Family tree and Eternal Reccurence. In metaphysics: to create an individual (in the ‘enlightened’ sense) is by a continual process in thought and doing in order to overcome limitation while separating oneself from the herd. This creates the genius both tortured and divine, and men that the masses will not remember, because ‘enlightenment’ is a solipsist activity. That is voided when the genius creates something in order to connect him to his herd; often art is that attempt. In reality: one becomes individual by retaining popular ideas as created by the original genius; like manufacturing plants that create cheap imitations. One cannot become an individual in reality. From the artist, dictator, and fucker each and every last one is an imitation of another… proving right Kierkegaard and Jung. For the idea/dream: As we only know 1% of the universe, the dream is all that remains. What if such positive and negative energy gave birth to one man via the great and evil Abraxas beyond only an idea but created here and now. What would this man be? A flow Sacred: Knowing a man and his attempt at conquering limitation. Finale: He gives birth to an individual that cannot exist-abortion-. Return: Purgatory state. Man thinks he is individual and attempts to conquer nihilism. Incomplete/broken Man is born and gives one sermon promoting an artistic genocide. An author counters this, promoting the ideal of the masses being wood to the fire. The ‘Tower’ is referenced,

such an idea of a paradise that retains this idea of society. I recognize the value of society. I recognize the value of eugenics. All this leads to a new society; once this world dies and is reborn. … Multi-colored mammals lay out, stabbed, shot, executed By the millions. Bowels lacerated, mammals vomiting shit and blood. Among this New excreta, ankle deep in a newfound blood tide In waves, in rivers, amassed in a small pool of fat creatures as men stand in the muck prodding dying animals singing sweetly in unnoticed sighs. Yet another and another gashed, torn open, fountains of the divine essence, in a ritual swirling of all things, joining, becoming, all united in pain, pleasure, & pity in a visceral ink, endlessly. An ink without conscience; only hard-externalized memory. A needle and thread arrived from flesh hallows of dying slaves; little mouths violently react to a bio-mechanic deep throat by needle and twine, bridging ones and twos and threes united as one enumerable creature. The needle/thread are now the magic wand of a creator who mends a unity between things never meant to coexist; cats and walruses, mice and birds, two-headed cattle and dead men hung across the skies and replace telephone wires, bringing a new communication through a semblance of maggots where the citizenry writhe in a new and living ink. Otherwise, what is orgiastic and good without mantra are impounded by vanity and good cruelty. Scorpion tails are amputated through genetic regression; the scorpion no longer kills but prefers to die by its one time prey like Quang Duc who did not fight but preferred to die in a martyr-fashion. A sign of the times being a waste of resources. A woman volunteers to have her teeth pulled out; the teeth are removed and are then planted in the desert and give birth to untold acres of snow. Scorpion stingers are fitted as her new dentures, and we see drops of venom falling down her throat. Throngs of people in a brown valley; flowers stick out among atrocity photographs and old soda cans littering patches of tall grass. One photograph displaying dead children killed in the West Bank atrocities fills an empty Coca-Cola can. These people proceed very solemnly through a path; every twenty steps they stop to pick the flowers. After two miles of this, they rest atop a tree stump with arms filled with flowers. They proceed to rub the flowers in their eyes, soaking poison and pollen, awash in the fury of gathering bees and mating insects, thorns scratch the corneas along with inflamed eye sockets. Tears fall from now distorted faces onto a handful of undisturbed flowers clutched in the hands of a little girl pigeon-toed. The flowers bloom in deep shades of red and blue. Nests of bats are poisoned; mid-flight the drug kicks in and they are left dying in grassy fields being visited by merciless sunlight and the thirsty fly. By the way side of these

dying bats are the birth-process: gigantic mud puddles with tumourous bulges, reindeer watch over this in a protective manner as one giant reindeer oversees the operation; its horns are made from human fingers, and for this it declares itself the king of Eden. Out from the mud emerge young children born into a pantheon, animals of the forest partake in tearing off the wings from the previous dying bats and then suture these wings into the backs and temples of the children. The children sing in alien voices –relying entirely on body language, each child signals the depths of their torture- as the sun baptizes the bodies in molten gold. Two men embrace before a burial pit of hermaphrodites and fetal deformities that are speared and now preserved in oddly sexual positions, as though De Sade wrote the Karma Sutra and this fills with illustrations. The men commit to their passions; and sperm falls down the esophagus’ of corpses. One woman seated like a monk with palms folded and introvert. Her hair begins to fall, joyful faces everywhere, over a muddy floor that cradles a comatose people submitted to invisible bolts of electricity which puppeteer an aimless frenzy. These people are fed cowhide, are then placed in one pile to vomit their meal; on top of that are placed the finger and toe nails torn ‘way. As that cancerous woman like the virgin monk, watches like an idol witnessing innumerable sacrifices. Fallen teeth cover this pile then set upon a pyre. The strong man leads herds of animals into tar pits. Animals drown and are encased in tar. The man has the bodies dragged out and are set as stairs leading to the next ambition. No need to describe, which has been foretold too numerous a vision: But here is one before you, this very ink. Look and touch upon this blank, and here is your universe: Swarms of greenish twigs with insect faces, open sores sending loud vibrations, without voice and without the passions-angels before mankind-it becomes a mirror of a homeless people in bondage with closed eyes. While those eyes reveal images of Abu Graihb: Malcolm X: America’s conscience is bankrupt. She lost all conscience a long time ago. Uncle Sam has no conscience. They don’t know what morals are. They don’t try and eliminate an evil because it’s evil, or because it’s illegal, or because it’s immoral; they eliminate it only when it threatens their existence. So you’re wasting your time appealing to the moral conscience of a bankrupt man like Uncle Sam. If he had a conscience, he’d straighten this thing out with no more pressure being put upon him. So it is not necessary to change the white man’s mind. We have to change our own minds. You can’t change his mind about us. We’ve got to change our minds about each other. We have to see each other with new eyes. We have to see each other as brothers and sisters. We have to come together with warmth so we can develop unity and harmony that’s necessary to get this problem solved ourselves. Three Japanese women sit to watch a one man play performed by a hunchback; the man proceeds to play with a small dog. Two old men in overalls haul a crosscut saw over to the women in attendance. The women applause greatly, lovingly, when the two men took

that saw to their necks and behead them. The three heads drop in an orderly manner as the puppy licks the man’s face, Buddhist sutras falls from the bleeding neck stumps, and in those eyes for those last ten seconds of life are the reprieve of a million lives. Foetal bodies are hollowed out, computer parts are built into the cadavers; these computers produce modern children literature. A procession of bodies cut apart and sorted on a conveyor belt by grinning senior workers that dismember an unending multitude of bodies where the remains are fed into a furnace. I do not know if was an energy plant, a meat packing plant, or a mass crematorium. A man named Arundhati obsessed with cunnilingus; his home is enveloping and has a moist air that you could feel upon entering a fog of semen. In his brain played out a collage of every kind of cunt that could be imagined: black, white, yellow and brown, pierced and infected, hairy and prepubescent. He falls into another world Among reddish/pink walls drowning in a kind of urea/saliva, think of a man trapped in his attic with flooding water. This new universe where he is cradled like a planetary fetus, to feel every last sensation down to the molecular level… he becomes a new kind of circuitry for supreme pleasure. The pleasures sweep away every desire and want, all needs evaporate as starvation begins to set. An amusing sight to see a skeleton at orgasm; then he consumes the flesh and begins to taste humanity, absorbing a macrocosm of our narcissism and joy. The universe contracts Each tremor of fruition What is not ritual but New pain and pleasure The TAO fully realized In a man to die by his pleasure To become the next evolution From the cunt emerges this man, Arundhati, born as the Harlequin Fetus. Among a slave nation, a stillborn creature falls. The workers kick at the body, cursing it for being unable to work. The elites stab at the body with their umbrellas, cursing it as a useless thing as if it were a temple of knowledge. The beggars rape this body, infecting it with the sweet venom of pity. The animals gnaw at this body and see it no differently then water in the river. Your wise and bitter god and Nietzsche use the body as a metaphor; it is the mantle of the entirety of earth to be displayed and judged, this hammer of the gods. Blood pulling up from the desert floor; young girls are subjected to circumcision rituals, the immature clit is nailed onto their foreheads.

Among the massacres of the Indians, one soldier’s scalped brain becomes the map of new sensations: He sees a middle-aged nude woman, arms chained above her via wiring; she is a spider web of tubing, a new kind of human circuitry. Her eyelids taped to a close by electric tape; she dreams of paradise and weeps, tape began to slowly peel, tears fall with ebbing blood. … Chapter 3 How Candide escaped from the Bulgars, and what happened to him afterwards “Those who have never seen two well-trained armies drawn up for battle, can have no idea of the beauty and brilliance of the display. Bugles, fifes, oboes, drums, and salvoes of artillery produced such harmony as Hell itself could not rival. The opening barrage destroyed about six thousand men on each side. Rifle-fire which followed rid the best of worlds of about nine or ten thousand villains who infested its surface. Finally, the bayonet provided ‘sufficient reason’ for the death of several thousand more. The total casualties amounted to about thirty thousand. Candid trembled like a philosopher, and hid himself as best he could during this heroic butchery.” The young philosopher belched as he stepped upon the remnants of little brother and sister. Each thought strained to be produced from such obvious epiphanies that could be drawn out by a boy who has yet to know what is greatness and what is a reality –like it were a bullet wound ebbing with error & vice, collecting among a pool of individuals, and bleeding out to the very final drop of existence though it were mohammed personified in bacterium. That fine thought did come among the sweeping euphoria of epileptic convulsions and tremors of faint orgasms. With a fist planted at each pillar of cadavers, with a scream, and expelled in a putrid verse ‘Let there be a new mankind’ spoken by Candide in a manner both plain and obnoxious. A silver ship descends, fire bellows from its bottom, lighting ricochets off the surface and into Candide’s very eyes. Gigantic creatures with arachnid faces and bird torsos exited the craft and greet him. While survivors stood and watched when these creatures spoke ‘What you know as man is only a conduit, a statue of dead men’ and then leave, Candide proceeded to fuck child corpses; their orgasms shall be his philosophy, and the sunlight his dinner. … ‘Let there be a new mankind that does not wallow in the latrines of dead men’

One hand appears of our as-yet-to-be-born individual. It touches one plastic mask, woodcarved masks ‘round the world burn; each pore on the hand becomes an eye and a gateway, it sees what you are. On the Virginia Tech Massacre: My boy, you are one who does not know of much more agreeable targets. You see ‘immortality by immorality’, which is a flawed structure. Why don’t you partake in a more satisfying execution, such as the extinction of the creators of such insipid creatures? To murder only the insipid is a waste of energy; it is like setting out to destroy every usless insect on the planet, not only pointless but you fail to strike at the very heart of the matter. A lab mouse in its cage set in a sterile environment, in the corner is a homely woman with glasses and yellow dish gloves. The oxygen is plain and disinfected, a hospital all the better without a consumer. The woman proceeds to extract the mouse… Mouse: Please cease what you are about to do; I am not one to be sacrificed for nothing. Woman: Why not? What I’m about to do may save innumerable lives. Therein will be delivered my sainthood and your martyrdom. Wouldn’t you do the same? Mouse: Yes I would; but that would be performed on a more deserving creature. Woman: Such as? Mouse: Those inhuman deformities you knowledgeable types like to call ‘individualists’ if life itself is divine (to ignore Schopenhauer) why pluck from its womb, such cherished and meaningful creatures as I and every other? Is it not your tyrants, your impoverished, the unknown depths of deformities that should be the fuel to the fire? Woman: Eugenics: A series of unsuccessful experiments. Mouse: But doctor, what separates you from those very scientists at Auschwitz and Unit 731? You may say that you’re black and that alone separates you as far as racial duties. But that is only a matter of pigment. If pigmentation and this idea of genetic unity among fellows is your defense, I could so easily deconstruct it: Genetic unity is a lie. When parts may so easily be assembled by the most unskillful of creatures, that we are unified in such an insipid factory. Yet we are created blank; any individualist traits may be so easily explained as simple auteur theory. The whole of humanity can be broken down to mechanic a motivation: that tree that grows to become your paper that is scribbled upon by your children –domino theory and interconnectedness-, your art and culture-but elitism and the remaking of an idea-. Even what I speak is pilfered dialogue. Woman: So if life offers no real individuality, and this is due to a bio-mechanic paradigm. Then I ask again, why should I spare you?

Mouse: But you see at what I’m getting at? Why should I perish when you can use any other? What we think grants us individuality, is only fading memory. It is that which creates any kind of identity. Woman: Incorrect. What is real is real and not perception. Memory may be cheated by physical markings with violence, love, and barcodes. You in fact prolong life with metaphysics. No. It is technology, growth; the third eye rebuilt… enough of your bullshit. The mouse protests while being placed inside a small window box. The woman manipulates robotic fingers and hypodermic extensions via remote control, as a now tortured mouse mutters a sentence struggling to be profound. The stomach is slit open, the intestines criss-crossed with plastic tubing, veins plugged into black electronic boxes, a Star of David is excised from a beating heart housing the remains of lynched blacks and whites. A South Korean boy lays waste to whitey and darkie. Shooting a woman in the gullet, she vomits flowers. By a grin and muffled voice armed with distinctly feminine pistols-such weaponry is no longer phallic when misused, such as a dyke armed with a strap on- at close range, emptying entire clips into the torsos of men and women. What is individual? Not creation in itself, or the will to break away from herd mentality, the individual lies in neither extremes or profound awakening nor even Gray, but only in oblivion. Just as Kierkegaard was no more individual then a radical priest to be triumphed by Nietzsche. No more then Sade was a more talkative Vlad or Genghis Khan. There is your god and master, your new jesus per century, your car crash/crucifixion and your viral phrases. There is your individual: A stillborn fetus. Feel it, know it, it is our delusion and god. It is the cancer I neglect and my last futility and final bridge there may be. Total freedom is a lie. Without structure, this class system-paradigm- what are we then but a people without language, without escapism, without a Gray, in other words Haiti, a country with a people who have not gone much farther then creating the wheel and fire. A nothing. I recant once idealist values; I favor building for something, an attempt at anything for what we will never realize. Be it eugenics or free enterprise.

The individual is born. The Great Individual: A handsome face stabbed and re-worked, a screaming face that spits. A tongue made from human faces, winking as it clicks and smiling as it lies. Here is what I give you, our god and master, your prophet and mentor, your martyr and rapist, your saint and chameleon, this Tao of pain and creation. Here, I am a man that wreaks their brain to create something, only to see another summit to surpass. White hands with short fingernails, palms are painted with tar, every fine hair has been plucked; no imperfection shall dampen a fine cannibalistic meal this moment in time I take from you, how well you feed me with blood and brains. There I am as a man that rapes the earth; I take your little joys and little death and will transform them into far greater things, through art and crucifixion. The torso is my mirror; here the roach may survive without a head till the end of time, the well of vice and greatness. Each body hair upon you is a wire brimming with electricity, to touch me would be enlightenment and to die for a cause. But there I am as someone who struggles, one that creates everything and becomes nothing. The legs are great serpents without need for genitals; they wrap around you and caress, be enlightened and look into my tongue. The feet are defiled with shit, the perfume attracts herds of animals, and each toenail is infinite and is marked with the portraits of saints and madmen. A nasal cavity deep and violent, as ethereal as a rainforest while stealing your oxygen. And now these eyes, red and deformed about to burst then and now from the strain of knowing, knowing I and you, and it is dead. The Individual caresses an emaciated torso atop a Gray planet. Stars bloom, a smile brings on erect legs to swoon such a torso, unity in great things: an idea and a mutilated body.

A Return Would you think I hate people or am alone? I only resent mistakes; hence this thing, this book of mine. Life is my only burden and I completely empathize with Bunuel in that he only wanted to live in dreams. This book remains as a continual mirror, but how could anyone write down the entirety of himself when the ‘Will’ is given shape by ink, blood, and hardware? How could we possibly take this incredible force that is beyond perception, and illustrate it for a third party? How many great men have poured out everything they could into the arts, and in technology, and so on… endless volumes appear for each of these humans, and we still do not understand them. A bit of hair falls out, with each hair soaked with oil and a bit of scalp root giving a cocaine-like appearance, and each hair tells me a bit about myself: One would like to see an accident on the side of the road; the hair would be the catalyst for this event. It would not matter if people died or not, only that it did something in the third person and that it was felt. One day there was a pigeon by the roadside, the hair had attempted to crush it but the bird had flew away. Another would want to keep a pubescent girl as a slave, fuck her occasionally but ultimately enjoy her in all avenues. If she had no pubic hair, it would cut off the mane from a rabid dog and glue that hair upon her pubis. How lovely would it be to see a clitoris encased in fleabites. This one dreams of great blasphemies; it would spit on crucifixes, stab at mormon and muslim and buddhist with great vigor and strength -not the kind befitting an Atheist, nor the drone, not the mere shit-stirrer, and not a single man alone-. This one would be a herd formed into a single warrior. Tearing up bibles then praised and reviled. It will be the murderous hero to destroy every last superstructure, then suicide it self upon a throne of guns and old manifestos. This hair would soak it self with lighter fluid and other chemicals, and then be immolated. Yet again, this one seeks martyrdom. It would want to die on live television by suicide or assassination just as it delivers a particularly scathing remark. A twin to the others, but one of two colors, my dyed and natural hair color that wants to live and enjoy life in excess of nobility, and to be that one great man. It then tells me things I needed to know, that there is several conspirators here: One wants to ruin me then re-create me as a drone. One last would like to see me as a prostitute and nothing more. A humanistic side wants children if only to name them upon my mentors. This leader being the head of this little group tells me I should end it, I am not an author, I am not a creator, I am only a thing no different then the leaf. “Okay” I say to the hair “How do you propose I fight them?” It speaks “You must combat them.” But how then do you fight better judgment? It gives no further response. People don’t want art; they believe they may create a meaning out of fruitless endeavors.

Only art can love art. Those who love art without creating only seek it out of emulation of their desires. How must I fight them? How will I fight them? Praise? Great success, great deeds, great obscenity, great virtue, great spirit, beloved people, the herd, the mere animal, the pet, the toy, escapism, infinity, useless. I realize one thing that I have been suppressing for some time. Writing is for cavemen. Why do I, why should I only create an emulation of what I see? That is all it is when the primitive witnesses a deer disemboweled and eaten; it creates pictures, same as if we invent. The exception would be the thought process, how else do we paint what we think? Unless you only think upon simplistic matters, that kind of thinking isn’t interesting in the end, like examining a rat brain and charting banality; it’s just another type of purgatory. I see myself as the drone locked by his chain; this book becomes a letter to be smuggled out into the hands of free humans and warn other minds to awaken the slaves. It would be a total riot in the prison; great art and rage merge into a living spectacle of a man feeling suicidal revolution; not a one that he would destroy himself for, but one he knows will beget his annihilation. Atrocity. That is the accent, both conclusion and catalyst to a society that does not work. A thing made in a dystopia; in that the atrocity is the catalyst for new order and new tactics along with the deaths to the king and queen and cronies, the end of an era devoured by another. This is Social Darwinism as the worm ouroboros. If you break it down much more, you can see that the atrocity is only unfiltered communication; from within you is carved onto the body and land of another. No art may do justice to this when one is true and pure in great violence. The nature of violence is to escape from reality by unmaking it. … I see a circle; within the circle are untold numbers of people fused to religious artifacts with each overlapping the other: The circle is one universe housing innumerable planets. One planet just beyond our own houses men and women in the midst of fuckery projected before a Star of David giving way to a tide of human fluid, where we see men crucified to these stars, their falling blood is our comets, their screams our thunder, and their orgasms become our lightening. One other planet has a floor piled with amputated hands; above this pile is a weeping black man emitting red sunlight, and each tear resembles falling napalm. One looming planet where bestiality is encouraged, the emerging children from man/animal fusion look like angels with wings splitting from the back. Two tiny planets -which plays all too well in this macrocosm- within grasp of the other. One occupied by men, the other with women; in the center of the two planets there is born one looming hermaphrodite… birth of god from man, this Roman universe consumed in the orgiastic. The last planet inhibits

the ode to joy, a totality of love and hate in sweet chaos and total freedom via one mountainous tower in a city; this planet shall be spoken of much later. … A grotesque human where no sexuality may be defined that is hidden by emerging tumors and dirty flesh lay out in the heart of space. With a putrifying planet-shaped torso, laid out for eons while a long tumor hangs from his lower jaw extending from the chin past his left eye and into the scalp: he is a landscape imagined by Bosch and Joe Coleman. Nothing happens while the tumors age with a host immobile and uncaring, and relents to everything. The body is overwhelmed, slowly becoming one indescribable mass curled in a fetal position. That is your modern man who lives and dies. Out of that emerges a new parasite, one that may speak and hold a consciousness and as enormous as a mite, and just as compelling and fearsome. A parasite requiring all of the attention and spite as we would a deaf mute – this single bacterium pious to one and only fusion, a mantra so sacred to the herd-. From there stood alien creatures with a mutant origin, splintered by tribes, and no more human then fantasia spewed by wretched minds. Until one deformity spoke as pretentious as he could, and emerging with a language just as toxic as his species “Glorious is the man who stands up to die.” This was the beginning of a Roman society, one of divided classes and a divinity in madness when futility and mortality overwhelmed the senses… therein Decadence. What has emerged has been the classic structure of the elites and proletariat recited ad infinity. This once great Dionysian structure perverted by dead men and animals laid out side by side with erect pricks as the conduit for ebbing desire, with carved open bodies resembled looming organic foxholes. Children play crude clay flutes while bloodied spears encircle the lot: Mars, Venus, and the Child. A light rainfall occurs as with rejoicing, blood and water spill out of abdominal cavities. For there is created ritual, thereon philosophy and tortured humanity; no different then society as that is nothing more then ritual. From there a woman’s head is held aloft, from that meaningless thing spills new humans from putrefying eyes. Sixteen men and women (eight per eye) poured out; these children of a new world emerge with a new primitivism. There they create a new society ratified in unified incest with new elites and new leaders, the pariahs are born and there is now nihilism, and from the drone there is now positivism. Out of all of this, the planet is rebuilt with isms and a new language- this they call the paradise- the sixteen children then split, each professing a will to life. Each child creates a new group, which begets the concept of morality, good and evil, monopolies, and the nature of life. Typical divide and conquer strategy to prevent unified freedom, then came the little man personified as shepherd and herd as one. Centuries later atop one misshapen mound drawn by magnetism between pain and viscera, and this one creature pulled itself from the wreckage and stood.

The Last Individual No gender was apparent for this creature at first with a height of 6’1 with barely a face, it could not be called a hermaphrodite or an evolved man, nothing human emanated from it. A third arm protruded from its chest that reaches below its knees, with raptor-like feet rooted on the haunches, and staring out with a crude face painted with yellow fingernail clippings arranged as three circles like eyes. White feathers drooped from the scalp, a mouth decorated with rows of knives and pens matching a long and black tongue, each hand came equipped with eight fingers, the third arm equipped with two thumbs parallel to the palm but with only three fingers, with a multi-colored skin tone; the chameleon made into man. It seemed to gesture with just a flick of all three hands in an upward motion, as though it spoke ‘one last manifesto’ and it bit off its tongue with black ink pouring from the wound. This is what spilled out onto the ground: God is not the invention, no opiate may suffice; the creation of a god is like the big bang, a social ejaculation I had seen a middle aged man rape three teenage girls about the age of fourteen and Asian and this man had raped each child through every available flesh vacuum, at one point forcing one girl to shit herself endlessly while he ejaculated onto her open eyes. There I sat watching them, without any spectacular epiphany or any great deal of empathy had emerged as I watched in quiet reservation. The man finished up, the girls were laid out in a circle in a drained and broken attitude. I had unsheathed my M-1911 Pistol and conducted it at the man while telling him to kneel and be silent. At the same time, my left hand brought out three appropriate blades and letting them land before the three girls in an expectant manner. I spoke in a monotone voice to these children “Do what thou wilt” while directing my pistol at the man. Revulsion had overwhelmed me to such a hysteric disbelief once these children told me the most inhuman thing I had ever heard. Without even glancing at the blades, they had explained to me that they will love this man, how they will remake him into the ideal lover, how splendid of a man he will be, and what a great life that would become. It would be nice to quote what exactly they had spoken, but my mind was too far gone in deep thought upon hearing such atrocious spectacle; this inhuman spirit based on a god who has never been there, this platitude which defies the very will of nature and humanity sans mass stupidity… yet stupidity recognizes itself for being such. I exploded “You! You violate the words of De Sade? You ignore what makes you, every essential component of humanity is a loss; you are inhuman! Your rapist, this most insipid of pederast, he at the very least pursued simple passions. For that he may not be faulted for if only to have the desire to carry out these

passions… he invites himself to have all manner of passions be taken out onto him whether murderous or simple, the ebb and flow of life in Master and Slave principals. Yet I gave you the tools to rise up and take upon him all that you have lost and wish to carve onto another in the infinity of violence and cathartic dreams. How you reject good fortune! Putrid cunts, you believe in fusion! Where the one needs the other to gain out of the lie of pacifism and goodness. There is one and only one! We use the other to gain out of conquest and manipulation; even your idols are guilty of this! The one is virus, the one is parasite, and the one is divine; that which is all that you ignore out of that pathetic will to ingest godly escapism of the drones who do not think! One is wretch, one is depraved, one is powerful, and one is De Sade, one is Darwin, one is Nietzsche, one is Goethe, and one knows when to act! The wise man walks away but only the fool takes it on his knees! Nihilism is the tool of the greatest of individuals, therein exists the mighty Sadist. Lo, you refuse logic and seek delusion, and that is your religion.” The man attempted to flee, so I shot him from behind just below his right kneecap. The pariah has the gift of invention for being handed morality and then refusing. I drag him by the wounded leg back to the girls and before those blades. Again, logic’s defied when the girls –in knowing they could not attack me and live- chose suicide. Two had slit their wrists, and one committed Hari Kari; she looked as though she was attempting to give herself head in such a position. The man said nothing. I had shot him an additional four times in the left kneecap, both elbows, and at the base of his spine with slug rounds. He rolled around pitifully while screaming. A pariah is only a thing that builds and dies. The manifesto ended, thousands have gathered to watch as the face of the creature began to give way; the likeness of Artaud had emerged, with a tongue no longer bleeding and a body emptied of verve. A sweet odor emanated from him like a candle burning skeletal debris as he raised his right arm coerced with remaining iota of strength, and Artaud offered his body to the masses. He is quickly eaten by the people who render free dry limbs without flavor, devoured and crushed on the spot. The manifesto was all that was left, and it could never be removed. Society had become hungry; it began to need absolution while being no longer aroused by the delusion of escape. A renewed passion began, recalling Dionysus and Osiris. Several centuries later: A people still in deep thoughts ringing with the tale left by that final individual; they realized that a zenith had been reached; no resources were left, nothing more to invent, and a kind of primitivism had now awakened. The end had come;

reaching metaphors from the wilting plant to the dog with rabies whose limbs quiver and collapse into itself with a drunken stupor. Mass suicides dictated by Schopenhauer-Idealism, wide-ranging depression, giving up on everything and laying down to rot. Entire armies forfeit, leaving tools and guns by the wayside as they walk back to their homes without a uniform. Prisons collapse with inmates casually jogging back into the cities committing simple passions. Churches remain decimated without a herd; the Vatican Bank has its assets plundered by bishops with businessmen fearing a proletariat uprising of all castes that would shower themselves with international coffers and Nazi gold. The corrupters assassinate each other; no anarchist need apply as one after another murdered each other, they remain as the cannibals holding that severed head –a last vestibule of power- before their fellow in dying ritual. Starvation, murder, total madness same as we know, be it the last time. The man/planet had died long ago, with his tumor feeding off his last bit of life; finally dying from prolonged starvation. Out in the heart of space: A centipede-like creature deflowers a cunt; the hymen is torn open as with tears of blood spilling out and creating a new planet. A new beginning, a valley without mirrors that female ejaculate drips down onto = man blooms once more. A new world without the words of dead men; they are cremated upon a dead planet as befitting a philosopher’s head on a pike, as are annihilated entire ideologies and the whole of morality and good and evil. Man created as they want without hindrance and therein dies once more. … When the herd begins to splinter off into single cells in anger and despair, the right catalyst is needed to set them off. The Hutu-Tutsi Genocide springs to mind in what has come and what may be. Here you had millions of people in conflict with the other. For months the anger and frustration at Hutus grew, until a radical broadcast sounded the alarms and the people were armed and slaughtered a million Tutsis, the details of such atrocity ring of the details encapsulating De Sade. Today we have millions of illiterate, homeless, and unemployed in this country all awaiting to be led and utilized, herein exploitation of resource and man’s true capacity are merged. … I had once believed in this dogma ‘Immortality by Immorality’ which suggests that one can find eternity in atrocity. I had given everything I had, every iota of strength to this doctrine where in the end I had created nothing. Such endeavors are no more glorious then a crush video with just as much callousness to a fellow. This is a Christian dogma: that violence in itself will free mankind that commits transgressions. Each religion dictates this approach to violence that without this body there is delivered your freedom. When it is without the insipid dialogue, without religion, without restraint, without

morality, without conduit, without artifice, without the masses and without shepherds, and with pain and joy, this greatness within Gray with what we discover as humanity. When we paint, as we fuck, as we give birth, there is no resolve for a ceaseless and ongoing ouroboros that only a mechanic oblivion would suffice. … The OverMan: For every man that sought eternal freedom, at his mercy are trillions of universes that each mirrors ours. This is the reward for each man to have become individual divine. Could you imagine a world governed by Nietzsche? In Nietzsche’s paradise both Zoroaster and Jesus are complimented by the Wicker Man, this was his sabotage of society. His people became primitive OverMen governed slowly by technology. Leonardo Da Vinci creates angel wings and gives his people flight as they escape limitation, law, and paradigm. Artaud’s galaxies are composed of mutes who communicate by body language and excreta, a constant motion resembling collective bacteria incarnate as the phoenix. It goes on to Hunter S. Thompson, Bruce Lee, Schopenhauer, GG Allin, Che Guevara, etc and etc. … I give birth. In my child I witness my naiveté. I see my weakness and strength. I see the seed of a shepherd. I see a deaf-mute who will be suicided with a fine pistol. I cradle my offspring and snap its neck, letting the body float into space. Am I the man who believes they are a phoenix that will plunge and with his picture in the paper to be an inspiration to another? I give up my former joys. Here I exist as someone who should have rightly died long ago, for I had nothing to create but for repulsive mirrors. I renounce suicide. I renounce the Tao. I renounce everything I had once put faith in. When one thing is roadblocked, man may use their fists, their voice, and their inherent weaponry to continue onwards to break through that boundary in ‘The Will to Power’. Then they die so suddenly and create nothing else.

Notes: Look towards the history of humankind.

The Extermination of Humanity Under Keynesian Economics "I have become death, destroyer of worlds," Oppenheimer I see comets fall, riding them are a bacteria known as refugee. A boy writes ‘fuk ur god’ on a computer monitor; within that very text, macrocosm, entire worlds feud and die, their blood runs down the computer screen, the boy licks up this blood, and how sweet it tastes. The boy walks off, half-smiling while staring at the breasts of twelve-year-old girls. Later at home he masturbates, a little fetus covered in boils falls out; he kills it and consumes the child. “Hello boy” “Hello Danny” “Hello Son” As spoken by elites. The boy is held down on an operating table. “Please help me.” As spoken by the last man. Down an open mouth, I see the real world. There are children playing atop a glass dome, inside the dome are future weapons and new innovations. A man proceeds to dig his way to China; he breaks into the dome and falls. A bound Asian man shot in the head point blank, rows of murdered civilians, some trampled by tanks, and they got their information by then. In captivity are middle eastern men being tortured by suited whites. Sen. Wellstone is laid to rest. In Haiti, the results of a puppet who rapes children: people living in cardboard houses with flooded latrines, the UN forces leaves a message by executing a man and leaving him rotting in the streets, forgoing the usual media. The Democide of the once saintly individual, there now is your Pinochet, here overcome are the murderous Spics. There is an image of a black man crucified onto a monolith. “He’s coming out of it now; notate the foam falling out of his nose. I know we’re only to record spoken word, but I feel it necessary, this may convey a kind of poisoning” “What a trip.” “Indeed.” Air force pilot Alex Harmen awakens from his Demerol-induced trip, he has been given a code name he will not remember; he has seen such horrible things.

“How do you feel John?” “Fucked.” “That’s good you feel something, better for that then the usual depression, eh? We can set you up there John. Ermm, uh, just, waitaminute, there we go, sorry about that I forgot hit the record button. You feel fucked right? Testing. But the depression, how is the depression?” “Neutralized for lack of a better term, I feel weakened, my testicals ache, and my feet are trembling a little. It’s like feeling drunk in a way.” ‘Good.’ They never suspect, nor will they ever. Our media and Devine Tesla. We shall make these birds sing, we shall let them see what we want, o’ mighty, o’ infallible rouge, that be our religion, what a nice and pretty thing. You kind birds that part my hair; you pursue our interests, you make us strong, O insipid and great mankind! Riding alongside Gary Powers, we do not have our cyanide capsules… he refused and I forgot. The plane is shot down so suddenly by a patriot missile. I see the Tesla coil as the crucifix. There is Tesla palming balls of lightening, at that moment I realize just who is the true prophet. There exist no beautiful cherubs, but only HAARP, Tungeska is the fall of man, every last man being tracked with radio chips – a list for who’s naughty and nice – what a pity for men that will never realize Saint Peter is a computer. Summary of the MK Ultra Project: was put into action when U-2 Pilot Gary Powers refused to take his cyanide capsule when captured. To prevent the leaking of any information, his plane was shot down on return from the Soviet Union. Though it were researched well into the late 40’s/early 50’s, it was after the Powers incident that the program when into effect for all airmen. Reasoning: It costs millions of dollars to train an airmen, versus thousands of dollars to train a grunt, they would sacrifice one hundred grunts to reclaim an airman. Execution: The subject would be placed in a drug-induced coma (once done with LSD now done with Demerol) and given a trigger word, when the subject has been captured, the trigger word is given to the subject in some manner and the subject commits suicide or assassination (see Sirhan Sirhan). Dr. Keynes, god bless you. What amazing spectacle, the brain of Keynes downloaded into an android. I see over a dozen people in lab coats covered in vomit, computers reaching orgasm through a mass of new information, paint-like fluid ebbing out of hard drives… they know now and see the rebirth of their messiah. Here to witness, the fall of every little man; cementing a warped ideal of the OverMan as recited by the great Nietzsche; an ideal that perfectly validates Darwin and De Sade, Natural Selection via Master & Slave.

Dr. Keynes gives his speeches by binary code, it takes 5-10 minutes to translate each senteance uttered. “My people, how far you’ve come. To advance upon an idea to mutate this wretched, deviant species into something without future, without a god, without anything but to give to us. And you have taken it even higher then I hoped, with worthless paper, and great and holy media. How splendid it is to have only the consumer. We need a more controlled population, for that I refer to the great and beloved Rwanda. With what we have asserted, the white protector to save the poor and dying niggers, by the simplest possible manner, upon these very hands (invokes the crowd of sychophants, spooks, and idealists) are befallen diamond and crude, how justly to reep material from a people who do not think. And so our bases were made, our men deployed and (begins speaking even more pretentiously) sheltered they that were provoked, they that were our fuel to the fire, they that ranks among the greatest of parasites that which partakes in a social cannibalism.” How much longer should I see it continue? Cameras which monitor every last gesture, and every conversation recorded with a multitude of triggers. I see people re-wired and dumbed down. A sick and meaningless people (Image of the American flag, the masses, cannibalism) Arise Dr Keynes; you will be the eternal Ugolino Della Gherardesca. You will be remembered as the man who gave us the television. You have won the battle without a Stalingrad, for you are Mengela and General Shiro Ishii. You are the Wiseman who says to us ‘May you live in interesting times.’

In The City Excavated buildings, rainfall of black ash & rivers of saliva. Trees upturned with roots soaking of blood and fused knives. Held under a red and blue sky with no wandering humans, no arranged ode to pain and joy, but only a sacred misery. There’s people lynched from atop rotting buildings with protruding skewers, their agony muted by cut vocal chords & blank faces. A people united under not cruelty, but Instrumentality beyond pain or love, but the flesh married to idealism & completed with the utmost in artistry. A nursery holding mutant children; one child’s fingers are broken backwards; the fingernails grow immense & dig into his torso & now paralyzed in a sitting position with his toes plugged into electrical sockets for eternity. Untold rows of dear minority hang in the sun with amputated noses, tubing runs from each nasal cavity up into a high structure where biological weapons are dumped into, & bodies stay in constant rot & convulsion. There is a stadium rebuilt by one crucified muslim who becomes a new kind of circuitry, his limbs become extension cables to power the one thousand electric chairs for seated cowards & every last & remade fuck machine. Among his attendees, holes are cut into the tongues of one dozen women, funnel-like jowls erupting from the earth, and ants are lead down their gullet & begin to nest. When a queen emerges, she will lay her eggs down into her victims’ open mouth, under the shadow of mohammed, under the shadow of dead jesus: the begotten people who do not realize what they are, walk past such spectacles while speaking to themselves in tongues who stare with the eyes of an insectseeing but a few millimeters ahead of them in this glory of the planet now minimized-. On billboards promising newfound glory, there lay the image of one male pubescent, with each limb amputated including the minute prick, the flesh filleted ‘round the chest, re-wired to become a polygraph device to listen in on each confession by godly men who have had their ears stabbed by crucifixes, stars of david piercing the eyes, and etc. In the streets, two dozen people laid on their backs, their feet pin pricked by intermittent fires, pointing up at the sky & doused by the concurrent rain looking out into nothing, these living anchors. One lesser building is crowned by young girls held and raped by gargoyle automatons, fucked by a constant mechanic motion & emptied with sperm at every hour, and pausing just before any child could ever reach orgasm. Each child has an opened stomach by cesarean where a new child is plucked, the fetal legs ground up and fed to the mothers; the remains are left in gutters that house rare flowers, broken glass & vomit –this is the manure for a rare plant that arises with a human hand clutched in an Anarchist fist-. In the glory of the sun, there beams a gigantic mouth with a jaw like a guillotine & a tongue like a needle, people are kissed by that tongue & bitten into twos & threes, and left to writhe and live by that wretched kiss. Dogs with sewn eyelids live inside each hollowed & sustained bodies. New-Age solar panels with opposing men & women are speared upside down in a criss-cross fashion, they are let live by a series of tubing

leading from the cunt, prick, & ass to each mouth, one couple are impaled by a spike through each head in a kiss, being held together in sun light, giving vital energy to this very paradigm. In school yards I see giant men at least seven feet high, are run around with razor wire like a may poll by wounded children while the wire is wire is rooted in the palms & may easily give if any slack is applied. On the beach a man is crucified upon a dying whale, spray paint marks a cross outline, black natives appear & sing, guided by a road of dead animals opened by bullet holes, such beautiful chants from atop a mound of dirt –an island within the city- the natives kiss this man on the cheeks, the whale explodes from expanding gasses. Laughing; dying refuges lay out on hospital beds, feeding rows of tears to mosquitoes sat upon unblinking eyes; a white nurse looks after them, a white man is born from a shotgun wound (pellet round), pulling himself up & emerging now as a thing beyond little wars & little men, the white man & woman proceed to fuck. There is a thing levitating upward,

The Tower From the extremes of Hedonism, O’ mighty Libertine and significant herd In the middle of the city, one tower pulls up from it immeasurable in scope and all too palpable to the richest of men. It seems to root the city as it touches the sky, like the handle for a dradle, an anchor, a tool, a thing with life. Too difficult to place it into the limited confines of language, you can only see and know what it is from the outset, seeing something so powerful it brings enlightenment. No entry is apparent, this is not a thing made for humanity, but just a painting made manifest. Each floor follows a different variation on total freedom: Populated by nude women, and sustained entirely by diluted urea. These most exquisite of women neither anorexic nor obese, those extremes lay only to consumers. Some with a gap in the teeth, or slightly crooked, others with minor baby fat, others still with shaved cunt and a light stubble, every race is welcomed without a creed, their numbers in the tens of thousands, haven’t I said that the herds have been separated and retained? What of birth? There is no need to create a vice when one achieves totality. Another floor, a mirror of the previous, but only with men; and one other going a step farther with hermaphrodites. On one floor all three converge, it resembles the birth of the universe. A domain of creators; philosophers, scientists, inventors, etc: Many are re-incarnations of previous great men, and some request to be placed back into their original and mighty state once they acknowledge the outside world. Some do nothing and enjoy the view,

saying that everything that can be said has all ready passed, and while others questioned their meaning on a planet where an ideal has been reached and now attained. God is here, a monochrome deformity useless and preserved in a vat of ecstasy. A plaque above him reads ‘Paradise is a shifting element that must always grow and evolve, if satisfaction is ever reached thereon it mutates into purgatory. Here lies your idea of heaven.’ A school environment, nude children are encouraged to watch Madolescenza. Free love and little angst, with those vital years recycled and re-invited, pick your parents; for once you may actually choose a destiny. Dead civilians from each war, united here in a new state. Theirs to grow and nourish, strangely Masochistic in its appearance, pain is too familiar to them. There is a family portrait in bondage. Ocean of cum, nudist camp set on the beach with an orange light that would tan. People frolic and enjoy, but not at all sexual as they remain unaware and naïve of such things. Children swim in the ocean, by the side are women masturbating in a frenzy, emptying their selves to give these children water. A floor of fetishes from necrophilia to crush, with imagery too obvious to recall. The castle of the Four Libertines from De Sade’s The 120 Days of Sodom are granted the gift of modernity. Only here the children are replaced by realistic Japanese androids. The Holocaust: The camps are now bordellos; it resembles an Italian Nazi-sploitation picture where Jews, Poles, Christians, Homosexuals, and Deformities converge and writhe with soldiers. Not offensive at all once you subvert a thing sexually, no one may resist pleasure and the most abundant of escapism. An electronic floor; children are seated in a Chucky Cheese-like environment with wires run to their brains. They play the arcade games; each victory brings a flood of endorphins. The games, you might be wondering, are wired to pedophiles trapped in a hidden room. Each victory brings a prolonged electric shock with a minimal amount of endorphins injected. On the example set previously, with androids being a catharsis: There exist an infinite amount of floors dedicated to each little group and their hatred. From pigs beating to death minorities, Black Panthers executing corrupt white, muslim extremists stoning women to death and committing suicide – though they let live, a secret room houses 72 androids who remain virginal due to blood pumps and an automatically regenerating hymen-. This domain of metaphysicians granted a second set of arms, an extra finger, dual genitals, and a third eye, etc. They speak of their thoughts and given little applause, repeating how they will begin to do something in creating a new and better planet, amounting to only the usual masturbation.

Topping off into the crown this floor of deformities without language, but only a screaming cacophony, and with a wallpaper of mutilated holy figures: There stood mohammed tied to a crescent with a star anchoring the mouth, there sat jesus in an electric chair, the usual mockery as you could imagine for buddha and vishnu accompanied by a dance of these people. One inhabitant without eyes, four arms without fingers, and pointing needle-appendages up at the roof where it meets a giant hand plain and forgiving as they touch and sing. The roof opens, light beams, it looks like Bosch’s painting of insect angels flying into heaven. Populating yet another floor, one without anything, but these deformities who lay and weep, and arises a cloudy-ness of a stillborn people that anchors this planet. It stays like this for eternity.

apocalypse The Chameleon has died and the spider has escaped from its nest Travelers enter a ravaged village smelling of blood. Huts broken open, dogs torn to pieces and impaled with sticks. Screaming faces forever set on beaten bodies. Men and women crucified upright and upside down, torrents of blood falling down the hillside. People half-buried, an old man dragged across the fields by his intestinal tract; hands and feet cut off and hung from tree branches, now limbless people struggle to crawl up the hillside, away from the forest, begging, whimpering, covered in lively essence. There’s a boy crucified through his palms, castrated, and still drawing breath. A forest of hanged and gutted animals. Every woman lay destroyed, crucified upon those trees, pierced and impaled by every phallic limb. Mother s torn open a daughter s cunt impaled and stretched wide, funnel-like. And I was the ruler and the Devil: Spreading from me this biological infierno, flesh-like walls lined with entrails, demons conjoined to screaming children fused to the skull, back, and genitals with weeping faces sprout, these demons stabbing screaming people laid out on all fours with finger nail-shaped blades. People falling, screaming, laid on needle mountains, constant and everlasting screams, and a hot steam arising from a river of blood and ejaculate. I was there, eating these broken bodies . May you come to the attention of those in authority. . Seeing Human heads falling, cut off by massive swords protruding from the palms. Phallic and spear-like blades arising from arms held high above a massive human form clouded by shadow, each arm parallel to the other, and each blade toped by human heads, one head is white and the other is black, the Ying and Yang of mutual decapitation. Mountains of human heads stretching for miles upward, young lovers begin to fuck on these mountains, blood ebbing from torn hymens. It is all here within this coliseum, and there was an obese Caesar presiding over this accursed place, thumbs down. Sparks fall from the sky and there is a loud electronic hum of machinery. Black wires decorate the walls and floors; it is difficult to find your footing. People in the stadium stare down at you; Lightening bolts fall and strike me, my limbs are numb and scalp is set afire, struck again and again by lightening falling from heaven. Other people tortured with electrodes attached to genitals and nipples, and another crowd joined together by holding hands lit up like a live circuit as electricity courses through them. Man attached to flying kite and once he is struck by lightening he plummets; blood, shit, and random viscera covers the wires, a floor drowning in a small pond of blood, low-level electricity slowly killing those who drown, death by heart attacks, charred flesh, aneurisms, ruptured veins and destroyed eyes, ulcers exploding and exiting bowels. I hear a great electronic hum in tune with my heartbeat, a subtle pounding of what may be generators or the trampling of dying slaves, I hear it so often and so familiar, even when I fall asleep it continues, this electronic beat. Children take bullet hits for the Elites who watch onward in the stadium, one of which is dressed as Caesar: the king of Earth. There is an orange/reddish light which permeates throughout this place, an underground cavern, a ground of jagged stones and bits of dirt, naked human feet, a ceiling of stone spikes almost touching the ground. Man with outstretched hands walks over the thriving

bodies as if he is in a drugged trance, and with blank and lifeless eyes. A blond woman presides over this, not a queen but an heir apparent to butchery and grace. Man masturbates a woman laid out on floor; his hands are then cut off, large clumps of hair pulled out of now bloodied scalp by a clawed hand reeking of chlorine. A threesome with a brown-haired woman fucked with two pricks in her asshole, a knife forced into her mouth, with her nipples and pubic hair draped in falling cum and blood, held in the splendor of the stars. Beautiful Italian music with a woman singing elegantly plays on, labia s bitten away by plaque stained teeth, a man tied to the ground on all fours, his asshole fisted, he is decapitated, and he gives birth to a child through his opened neck. The child is the idea, the blond woman holds the child and say’s ‘oh king of god, open your gates’ and the child levitates off into the sun and perishes: Plants grow, buildings fall, no more vices to find once blighted by supreme pleasure that no one may resist, and therein the world is reborn. ... Blue The most morose of colors, there is something about it that conjures the feeling of depression, and much more simplistic, easily grasped things such as the abyss of water, memories and flight. There is hope in Blue; the world may be destroyed as would Pariahdom and there would arise and forever be of permanence Individuality. Limitation is a forgotten memory. The world is opened and we have become the new bird no longer chained. People begin to swim in the air, and they are set free. Ascension, free from paradigm, and there allows new humanity. When I die, no one will remember me. My body will nourish this planet; I will be the nourishment for all people. I will be this great and kind thing once I am gone, no more will there be this void to be filled. My escape shall be Manifest Destiny, and then to let it all go and lay in peace. I witness the limits of violence and pleasure, and I see how limited they are. There is only so much you can take away and rebuild, when you see that a corpse is just a corpse without a freedom or final descent. But a nothing. I am at peace with that.

Final sophistry of a Pseudo-Maudit: Infierno: There is an orange light interwoven with needle mountains, mud pits filled with black pikes, flames, howling, and ongoing groans of pain. On one scaffolding to my right there is an Asiatic adult male laughing while he is whipping a young girl with what looks like intestines, a violent strike to her lower stomach splits her open like a cheap piñata, I am awash with her viscera. I see a man impaled by a Catholic drill and held over a group of slithering pigs, his eyes are furious and drip ink. Large human erupts from the dirtlayered earth sprinting miles upwards with an extended right arm and a clenched right fist; the body explodes with a rain of blood and refuse. Constant sounds of fucking high on the mountains, motherly woman overjoyed by one dozen pricks, her skin melts away as a flood of sperm falls. Girl squatting and masturbating with a white horn filled with termites that eat out her womb and spill out of her body, she presses a button on the horn and it ejects itself out through her body and emerges through her back. Yellow birds fly to the crucified that hang below and pluck out their eyes. Up high between two mountains, there is a man trapped in a webbing of medical gauze, he is pinched and prodded by a scorpion created by fused humans hanging just below him, its phallic tail bores through him, a poisioned torso, with blood and venom overflowing. Ancient woman with amputated limbs laid out on her side, her stomach lined with nipples, infants suckle from her. Preserved fetuses attched to umbilical chords hang off the ground, tortured by lit candles planted below. A sow’s breasts are bitten way by infantile boys. A woman sweats, her cunt pulled open and filled with hot lead. Man is pulled inside out, still alive as ancient men eat him. Too many more that passes by and are too easily forgotten. I see the exit, appropriately a grail doorway and what I thought was the pubic hair were instead pikes which bore through a multitude of screaming people of all genders and all ages, a man crucified to the clitoris. Paradiso: It is much more tropical, jungle-like then a forest. There is a blue sky mixed with clouds and stars and even bits of most cherished night, there is a constant sunset here, a grassy floor rich with green. Every women lay entirely nude and there lies no shame nor morality, and no punishment given to a free body. Many orgies under the trees before not a one who is holier-then-though but your fellow Wretch, and foliage-covered mountains echoing screams of glory. Children even involved with this mass and consensual pleasure, involved with their equals or yet even older, not following the law of Give and Take but only Need. A mad sense of pleasure without fear of being stricken by plague or that of parasite. Elephants howl and bathe women in water from a lake of ejaculate. A baby hippopotamus steals the clothes off the backs of young virgins; they give chase to that infant animal with a great deal of joy. There exists no oppression; there is no opponent that shall rob man of their want and desire; everyone has achieved what is manifest, hence their point of existence made realized through physical interconnectedness.

PaRaDISE I love you please please I don’t want to be alone anymore Someone love me, someone need me, I need you to leave I’m all alone in the world I have died and gone to hell That were my innocent and weak self You have awoken me, I the sleeping demon I would gladly bite off these feathered wings and bend these horns I just don’t want to die alone You will be with me, for without I would gladly die then to be without a goddess I will be with you darling, you are my Lover You will be my awakening from this limited planet I will spare you agony upon agony You will not feel pain, nor birth, nor wraith For I would give to great attrition Moreso then any woman on the planet, as I have no mother My mother the queen of lies and pity All men should destroy their mothers All women should defeat their fathers For we are Apollo & Dionysus This tao of mighty things Thy will that man becomes whole again The void filled with not flesh nor ink But unity among a fellow Let us glide and dance Let there be a new ego One evolved and loving Not to die like a philosopher Not to live like the prisoner But a void filled With all manner of what begets Instrumentality For you, my Love

birth Rioting Asiatic people rampage through villages, they are driven by some religious/political right that brings back an ancient practice of their culture. As they decapitate begging men on their knees that they do not see as their fellow nor as opponent but only as a trophy, three heads placed on a roadblock and the people cheer as the camera records it. It was done mainly to gain attention for the people‘s cause or the media wouldn‘t give a damn and there would be no world coverage. There is a photo of a man in military fatigues seated by his trophy, the putrefying head of a young man. Here we have a prime example, where violence is committed not so much to gain attention for a cause, but to be noticed by a third person. Not so much as a cry for help, but a method to prove one’s identity. We may have an existence through one and the other; two humans become a mirror of the other no matter the relation of blood. By committing this act, they have drawn attention, people know of them, no longer as the powerless specter, they have an existence in the third person, their cause is no longer an esoteric spectacle for their people, it is their identity to all people on the outside; they have murdered in order to establish their existence. ... I tear away my flesh, and there I see my true self. We forget that we are alike underneath this nervous system of physics, the flesh is only a microbiotic society of interactions, and the society that houses the one is not the identity to the self, it is only a delicate ecosystem that may crush the one. Just as spirit/mentality is individual, when the flesh was born it was plugged into to this society, it is joined to a fragile thing and the cure is when that single cell is extracted from the diseased creature and it evolves to a higher being that wipes out that disease. ... To amputate your Index and Ring fingers is to be free of marriage and of making accusations. ... What are fascists but sexual cripples? ... These new creatures, adaptations of humanity One is a black thing, near shapeless with few defined features. With a mouth cavernous and wide like the spread cunt, five fingers often held together as three sharp and scissorlike fingers. The body overall is mutilated and deformed, often walking on its haunches and leaping onto the weak to eviscerate them with an intense speed. With needle-like teeth and it shall vomit napalm and without asshole or genitalia. This is the Ego, and the Ego does not shit.

It brutalizes a single man who is defiant to it, slamming his head against the wall effortlessly, cutting off the face whilst amputating struggling limbs. It culminates when this man is disemboweled at an instant and napalm falls onto the exposed entrails. The Ego feasts on that castrated organ with a subtle joy. The second creature: The ‘supposed’ Goodness, I say ‘supposed’ because a sense of good is not born from within the human, it is an implanted idea. It is a thing that is mimicked so long as it may serve the one; Goodness is only a modified clone of the Ego. A figure clothed in a deep blue gown with awaiting arms in faux-human form, as if to embrace you and bring out a goodness; a goodness that is ultimately an inhuman thing wherein a cancer grows from that tainted heart now blackened and ugly, pumping that diseased blood, topped by disintegrated marrow, and a toothless mouth. It grabs handfuls of pubic hair and shit glued together by saliva and forms wings out of these ugly things attached to its spine, masking the ugly as pure and clean. It attempts to live onward, deluding it self with visions of grandeur. ... That which separates man from lower animal: For the benefit of the insipid, cut off your thumbs. Then we would become equals.

D e p r a v i t y (Justification) D e c i m a t i o n = C r e a t i o n. This is an Anti-Christ Complex; the death of everything could only beget the creation of a new and better thing, a Fascist approach. One may draw parrallells between the Inquisition and the democide by the Khmer Rouge. E x i s t e n c e a n d t h e n a t u r e o f V i o l e n c e. Philosophy clefts at one point, that the animal exists for it self or it exists for the nourishment of the other-just as humans are social animals. That is a flawed argument, man chooses to exist as a social creature (Fusion) and that gives way to Pariah. One cannot exist for the other (society) and maintain wholly, physically and mentally, a new filter is created as an intrinsic piece dissolves to achieve life in a Society, and that being our individuality. The Pariah gives up only the albatross to Society, and grows a further enhancement, and that is to evolve. When I exist for my self, therefore my inner ecosystem implodes and takes away, nothing. Nothing collected, no genetic tree of life, nothing added and nothing gained, a human worth -0. Art and Action are the one loophole to this truth, when one engrains their existence upon another… they in fact violate the nature of the Pariah. When I exist for the other, I have become a molecular creature bound to the other. You may find metaphors in paradigm and evolution, the splendors of life that they may affirm. Both values imply Eugenics –either the one who exists for himself evolves then dies, or we are fused and evolve as the mass- and have then been executed by Democide and the Serial Killer. How often Social Darwinism clashes with Peace & Love. V i o l e n c e a s i n t r i n s i c t o E x i s t e n c e: Those within Society go towards violence to escape this universe. The Pariah retorts to violence as a counter action or overt anti-influence to create a new paradise that suits their comforts. According to Kierkegaard, the Single Individual is the one who has separated from a society of individuals (individuals as if cells that work in conjunction of one being). That is, complete separation, becoming an alien thing to that former society; like birth of a deformity. How does one separate from society? Separation from the masses is an impossibility when taken into accord the unionification of mankind… there is that scientific suggestion that we each interact with each other via mass energy, negative input creating negative output, and etc. It seems that growth is the ideal he went for, but it has been misapplied. Chaso Applied to the Masses: The Negation of state, the Negation of the politic, the Negation of the dictator and all democracies, the Negation of money, the Negation of religion, the Negation of morality. Therein is the man that seeks his fame and destiny, he is that Single Individual and OverMan with another kind of irredeemable growth so easily available to people with a horribly precise logic. Like Consumerism; the simplest possible method to fill the void.

Tao of Joy & Pain (Chaos depicted in terms of the Madman witnessing the fall of society) One, one vast land of a natural yellow-ish pallet overgrowing with unimportant minutia (grand buildings, televisions as large as oceans, scrawling text/propaganda) non-human models, in-human models, dead animals and living cannibals, brief vestiges of former slaves, new generations of fused races, and half-dead Methuselah’s connected to biological mechanized hard external memory. Birth of new man; an unending violence that is both catalyst and result, a thing which creates itself; a man who disembowels himself and gives birth to the embodiment of his ego in a child’s body draped with his innards = rebirth. Therein man invents his destiny and reaches it. Foam streams through the sewers from mouth and wetted cunt, from the armpits the people give birth to new beings no longer blank but entire ideologies created in the flesh, millions with knives, guns, and untold weaponry, and to drown in flooded latrines. No heat or wind, no weather of any kind, constant falling of cum -tears of freed humans- the sewers stuffed to the brim with bodies, and shit arises among the converging masses. Omnipresent laughter and screaming, screams of joy and pain, man in black guns down gyrating fuckers in Tiananmen Square and he begins singing Strange Fruit shooting them thrice out of a luminescent joy. Craniums broken open on concrete sidewalks, people kiss the ground housing their buried lovers, a man takes a screwdriver upon his finger nails, tearing them out one after another and feeding them to a child, and the man then writes a poem in ode to Will Inman’s The Flowers of God . Pricks grow from a man’s shoulders, rows of them as with several rows of teeth, he lacerated his tongue and cannot speak, he keeps biting his pricks, and he then amputates them with his teeth thereupon bleeding to death. Average woman clubs a man until he is in a coma; she amputates his hands and fucks his stumps, and riding those black arms endlessly. Wounded humans run onto the highways and suicide themselves while pilgrims use this collection of bodies as a massive raft to a new world. All races/generations of people fuck one and other not at the final dawn of apocalypse, not to fuck out of futility but only to live freely, all people fuck openly, splendidly, in that are expelled what makes humanity, creation in not a blank, creation of the joy of life. ….

I see the nature of Chaos. Is it a throw back to grand primitism, or an explosion of mind and body? Only bullshitters seem to know the exact answer for that. I no longer see anything in Chaos, there is no great thing to it, only a mass of imagery-our purest language- however great and divine it is, it is only built upon a simple logic, and Nietzsche said that the OverMan should not follow only logic. If Chaos can then be evauluated as an act of an Individiual, then no longer can violence be claimed by an individual if it is available to the masses. Therefore; the individidual would be a wholly unique creature that applies to no real set of standards, but a shifting set of principals that works like Evolution (an inescapable idea blighted by herd mentality and a limited manifest destiny) that suits that same man. With that, we discover that Chaos may not be violent, but only another life form like water, a thing that can become anything. May you find what you are looking for.

The Madman and his lover What I see now remain as fragments But pieces of a landscape Still morphing and being molded By what is the same old same old Even for the approaching hurricane Nothing new to find in this final image So obvious and unexplainable When you try to find your self and escape But predictable paradigm The usual ‘cause’ of all errors on this planet The experiment has failed Start over How comforting it is to a people Never once to find absolution Never to gain what is cherished and so sacred The death of God and all masters Let us become the new masters So we may chisel away the teeth Of little slaves and little men The final solution But turmoil and grace What little depth and pity For the blood of billions Like a newfound virus –cured by the bullet and furyWhat is Manifest and what is insipid Oh worldly genius and dictator Every last who will perish on this planet Now manure for fresh creatures A magnificent age The Dawn of nothing but individuals To battle time it self Without finish nor last glory What we see now Is endless possibility Infinite Divine and Cruel

[m1xedju1ce]

Turbo's "speech"

You all. Every one of you. My legion, my friends, my tribe. I see you. I know your names and I know your heart. I know who puts in an honest day’s work. And I know who slacks the system. You know it, too. You know who you are. I SEE YOU. And it’s to you, I say, I’m lowkey-not-lowkey ballistic. You trust me to give you everything, yeah. food, shelter, warmth, weapons, leadership, safety. Even a beer every now and then. And in return you know what I ask? It’s pretty fuckin simple. I ask you don’t murder-kill me. That’s how this shit is supposed to work. Fair exchange, right? I mean, after everything I’ve built here? Look around you. This is our school. Our public school. And public school takes in anybody. I take in anybody. There’s always a seat for you on my bleachers. Doesn’t matter your former tribe. Doesn’t matter who you used to be. You’re safe here. I’m the eye in the Hurricane Nuclear Fallout. I’m the SPF 120 protecting you from the heat-blast sun. and once it sets, I’m the only warm blanket you got on these bitter-ass nights. I give you all this, and I ask the simplest thing in return. Loyalty. Loyalty and trust. Loyalty and trust and like an inch of respect maybe. But mostly loyalty. And would it seriously hurt you to pick up trash every once in a while. This place is a mess. And it’s starting to smell like foot cheese. Again: I SEE YOU. A quarterback can’t make epic plays without knowing where every single lineman and running back and receiver is. Same here, with you.

My job is impossible without lieutenant and soldier and kitchen scut right down on the line is doing their fucking job. Vibe me? Am I getting through? Well guess what? Y’all betrayed me. Why? I didn’t build all this so you fucks could just take it from me. No way. You don’t own this. The second you think you do is the second you make it toxic. I’m reminded of the immortal words of that guy who said whoha in “Any Given Sunday,” “I don’t know what to say really. Three minutes to the biggest battle of our professional lives all comes down to today. Either we heal as a team or we are going to crumble. Inch by inch. Play by play. Till we’re finished. We are in hell right now, gentlemen, believe me and we can stay here and get the shit kicked out of us or we can fight our way back into the light. We can climb out of hell. One inch, at a time. Now I can’t do it for you. I’m too old. I look around and see all these young faces and think, I mean, I made every wrong choice a middle age man could make. I uh… I pissed away all my money believe it or not. I chased off anyone who has ever loved me. And lately, I can’t even stand the face I see in the mirror. You know when you get old in life things get taken from you. That’s, that’s part of life. But, you only learn that when you start losing stuff. You find out that life is just a game of inches. So is football. Because in either game, life or football the margin for error is so small. I mean one half step too late or too early you don’t quite make it. The half second too slow or too fast and you don’t quite catch it. The inches we need are everywhere around us. They are in every break of the game, every minute, every second.

On this team, we fight for that inch. On this team, we tear ourselves, and everyone around us, to pieces for that inch. We CLAW with our fingernails for that inch. Cause we know when we add up all those inches that’s going to make the difference between WINNING and LOSING. Between LIVING and DYING. I’ll tell you this in any fight it is the guy who is willing to die who is going to win that inch. And I know if I am going to have any life anymore it is because, I am still willing to fight, and die for that inch because that is what LIVING is. The six inches in front of your face. Now I can’t make you do it. You gotta look at the guy next to you. Look into his eyes. Now I think you are going to see a guy who will go that inch with you. You are going to see a guy who will sacrifice himself for this team because he knows when it comes down to it, you are gonna do the same thing for him. That’s a team, gentlemen and either we heal now, as a team, or we will die as individuals. That’s football guys. That’s all it is. Now, whattaya gonna do?” yeah. That’s right. I memorized the whole speech. Took me a whole year. but, I did it. I also memorized the speeches from “Hoosiers” and “Remember the Titans” and “Rocky IV” and “Cool Runnings” and “The Mighty Ducks” and “She’s The Man” and “High School Musical” and “Friday Night Lights,” both the movie and the television series. So I know about inspiration. I’ll tell you a story. It’s something I didn’t understand at first but now I’m coming around to it. It’s a story my dad told me. There was this guy who used to make vases. I don’t know what they call that? A vaser? Maybe? No. that’s wrong. A sculptor. I guess that could be right. A potter? Maybe a potter? I wonder if that’s why the kid is named Harry Potter? Because he made magic. Like made it. What was I saying? Potter? The vase! Right.

These vases were beautiful things. And check this out… the guy would wrap an entire vase in horsehair – then put it in his kiln. The horsehair would burn off and leave these black, charred scars. But to get the horsehair, the guy would have to pluck it straight from a stallion’s tail. How baller is that? Every time he did, that stallion would buck. The vase-maker, vaser, potter – he was pretty good at dodging the kick, ‘cause he  knew it was coming. But more than once, that horse would get him. Knocking him in the face and shoulder. Nasty shit. He still had rolling shards of broken bone you could feel, where the horse shattered his clavicle. But Christ in a halo, it was worth the pain. Those vases,  man. I know you think I’m a dumb jock, but I can appreciate a thing like that. well, I look at you all, and I think that’s what I have here. You’re the bucking horse. I’m the sculptor. And the beautiful vase is all this, Glendale High. Look what we have. but, you fuckers broke the vase. And I’m not sure we can ever glue this thing back together. But I’m gonna try. I’m really gonna fucking try.

[child-of-sunshine]

Just gotta rant for a minute so this is going under a cut

I can’t stand the way tumblr in general talks about “rich people” (which they can’t define to save their fucking lives) and particularly when they mention “millionaires” as though it actually means something significant in terms of wealth. 

First, no one seems to understand that by today’s inflated standards, a million dollars really isn’t that much. A quick google search will tell me that the average “middle-income” parent in America will spend over 250k to raise a child from birth to 18 years old. If a couple has 4 kids, they’re already spending over a million dollars on those kids. Yes, that’s over 18 years, but it’s still meaningful.

If a person makes 100k, which is supposedly the 85th percentile of income, it only takes them 10 years to make a million dollars. And yes, obviously they’re spending money too, and it’s not like their savings or their net worth are going to be a million in that time, but people don’t even seem to comprehend that their earnings over that time would literally be a million. Someone earning the average American income, let’s say 50k because I get conflicting information from various sources, would only take 20 years to earn a million dollars.

And calling “millionaires” (putting that in quotes because people (a) do NOT understand the difference between net worth and actual liquid assets or even income) rich, particularly in the context of the “eat the rich” rhetoric, is ridiculous. I know this site has a serious problem with black-and-white thinking, but for fuck’s sake.

Let’s take a look at my parents.

My dad grew up in a relatively low-income household. His mother’s grandparents came straight from Italy with a few dollars in their pockets and nothing else. Her family struggled to get food on the table at times. She worked very hard as a seamstress and married a man who had a good job at Ford back when that meant actual benefits including into retirement, and so they managed to raise two boys without having to worry too much about being able to afford food or housing. They saved like crazy and spent the minimum that they possibly could on themselves, so that when they reached retirement, they had a pretty decent amount of savings for the rest of their lives and could finally enjoy some luxury vacations and get a small but nice house in Florida.

My mom grew up in a truly low-income household. She was the youngest of five siblings living in a tiny, shitty town in Nowhere, Michigan, with two parents who smoked constantly, in a house that sat next to some kind of horrifying mystery waste pond (she and both of her sisters had cancer, my mom at just 36, and one of her brothers died from some kind of unknown neurological deterioration). Her father got TB and spent time in a sanitarium, after which he became a withdrawn alcoholic and then died relatively young. Her mother became depressed, stopped working, and died of cancer. My mom lost both of her parents in her early 20s, before she even met my father.

Both of my parents were gifted with the great privileges of great brains and being white. Even in their crappy hick town in the middle of nowhere, my mom managed to be in the top of her class (of 56 whole people) in high school and earned a scholarship to a state university, literally the only way she could have afforded to attend. My dad worked to pay for his college as far as I know (because back then you could actually do that). They both got bachelor’s degrees. My dad became an engineer, a good career, and quickly found a job with a relatively new, small local company. He worked extremely hard, long hours for years and moved up to being a manager, and the company has grown a lot over the 25+ years he’s now worked there, with the result that he now makes a low six-figure salary. My mom took a computer programming course after realizing her journalism degree wouldn’t get her much paid work, and has worked as a programmer for 25+ years now, switching jobs sometimes, usually making somewhere in the 60-70k range in the last decade or so.

My mother got pregnant with my sister around the time she and my dad got engaged. She was working a crappy programming job and he’d barely started as an engineer, making nowhere near six figures. They lived in a trailer park, in a trailer with a hole in the floor and steps that were a safety hazard. She’d spent some time living with her sister, who’s 13 years older than her and never had children (thus had a house and some savings). My dad’s mother, the seamstress, made my mom’s wedding dress for free as long as my mom bought the material for it, which was just about all they could afford. They had a nice, small wedding when my sister was about 2 (she was afraid of my mom’s dress lmao) and one of my cousins took the pictures.

Four years after my sister was born, my parents had saved up enough to put a down payment on our house, a moderate-sized family home in a suburban neighborhood that was just being built. The house was a little over 200k. She got pregnant with me and the house was finished just after I was born.

My mom got cancer when I was 2 years old. They haven’t talked to me much about it. Her sister spent a lot of money to buy her a really nice wig made of animal hair (which, unfortunately, she could rarely wear because it made her very itchy). She went through surgery, chemo, and radiation. She spent months sick as hell and miserable, while trying to raise two young daughters. Thankfully, they’d saved enough to be able to handle the medical bills, particularly with my dad’s good job that had good benefits and, by then, was paying him a pretty decent salary. My mom recovered, thankfully (over 20 years in remission now!).

In 2008, when the recession hit, my mom lost her job quickly. She tried finding new ones but couldn’t. No one was hiring programmers, they were getting rid of them. Her depression got a lot worse. I was in high school and depressed myself (in large part because of the situation at home, though my parents don’t know it, that became suicidal depression a while afterward), and they had to start paying for therapy for me. My sister was in college and had to try to pay for it herself because my parents’ college fund for her hadn’t gone as far as they’d hoped. My dad’s company supplies machines to auto manufacturers. They were worried. They laid off some people, thankfully not my dad, and others had to take pay cuts. My parents started sitting down and seriously going over finances. My mom and I had to completely quit figure skating, my only physical stress outlet (like I said, that contributed a LOT to the severe depression). We had to cut down the grocery bills and think about not buying gifts for family members’ birthdays and such. My grandparents, happily retired by then with good savings, paid off the rest of our mortgage and told my dad to pay them back without interest whenever he could, so that no matter what happened with the jobs, we at least wouldn’t have to worry about losing our house. I listened to my parents scream at each other over money and I cried myself to sleep a lot of nights.

Guess what? My dad is a millionaire. Definitely not in liquid assets, but in net worth he probably just barely hits 1 million. He now makes a low six-figure salary and when the economy is doing okay, he invests some of it in the stock market, mostly in low-risk stocks that are guaranteed to have payouts (I don’t know a lot about this, so that’s all I’ll say). He inherited/learned his dad’s extreme money-saving ways and saves as much as possible. He’s an engineer and very handy, so whenever possible he does home and car repairs himself to save a lot of money. I managed to get a scholarship that covered almost all of my undergrad tuition, I lived at home for half of undergrad and all of med school to save money, I worked in retail in undergrad and as an EMT in med school to pay for some of my own stuff, and they didn’t pay for any of my med school tuition, so that’s it for their educational expenses for me. My mom’s had a good, stable job for the last few years that pays in the low 80k range, I think. We live in a house worth ~250k that we now fully own thanks to my grandparents. 

A few years ago, my dad’s brother bought a crappy, tiny, nearly-condemned cabin in the woods up north for about 20k (seriously, it was shit). He and my dad put in a few hundred dollars and a TON of time and manual labor to fix it up, and now we pay half the bills on it and both of our families use it for vacations. We have a small (19ft) boat that my dad bought as a gift for my mom when she had cancer--he got it extremely cheap from a guy who’d bought it, barely used it, and just wanted rid of it. It’s a 1994 and full of problems now, but we’ve managed to keep it going (barely, at times) and my dad has taken really good care of it over the years. A friend of my dad’s got him into snowmobiling about a decade ago and once his brother bought the cabin and they fixed it up, my dad got a cheap, crappy used snowmobile, which he used for a few years before reselling it and upgrading to an actually nice, new one, because yeah, he could afford it. He’s upgraded a couple times, good for him. When I actually have the time off, I go up with him in the winter and ride one of his old ones that he kept and fixed after it had an engine problem. It doesn’t cost much to renew the trail permits each year and I borrow my uncle’s gear for riding, so other than the initial cost of the sleds, it really costs us nothing to go riding (gas is extremely negligible in snowmobiles, they can go 120+ miles on a single 8 gallon tank, and we store them ourselves at the cabin so we don’t pay for that). We store the boat in our garage at home (like I said, it’s small) so other than the permit and gas for that when we take it out, again, really no continuous expense.

My parents pay all of their taxes without trying to do any bullshit work-arounds. They don’t have a lawyer or a tax accountant or a financial advisor, my dad does it all himself. He keeps track of all of our finances himself. We don’t pay a landscaping service or a cleaning service or any of that crap, we do it all ourselves like any other middle-class family. My mom donates regularly to charities for cancer, animal rescues, and injured veterans. 

But to tumblr, incapable of seeing nuance, we’re “one-percenters (absolutely nowhere near true) who own a house and have a ‘vacation home’ and a boat and recreational vehicles” so we’re pretty much just as bad as Bezos, because anyone who isn’t actively struggling to put food on the table or in horrible medical debt because of our disaster of a system is apparently “rich” and there’s no such thing as shades of gray.

[emblem-333]

Rebooking WrestleMania 35

What stays the same:

Kofi beats Bryan

Whatever else I didn’t care enough about to mention.

Brock Lesnar retains vs Seth Rollins

Why: Is Brock a good champion? No. He works very few dates and his best in-ring days are long gone. But give me him over Rollins as a Babyface. Rollins is a fine wrestler, one of the best in the WWE. However, his microphone skills are nonexistent and his feuds subsequent winning the strap from Lesnar have either been uninspiring or downright pathetic.

Still, there was a groundswell of support from fans eager to see the Universal Championship around the waist of a full timer once more. The secondary WWE title has had many misadventures. It’s inaugural champion Finn Balor suffered a legitimate shoulder injury and relinquished the belt the day after winning it at SummerSlam. WWE held a fatal-4-way match on Raw a week later between Kevin Owens, Roman Reigns, Big Cass, and Seth Rollins - the winner being Owens. He went on to hold the belt for nearly 200 days, but his reign came to a screeching halt when Goldberg returned and steamrolled him.

Since Owens ate a Goldberg spear, the belt spent nearly two-years around the waists PF part-timers. Frankly, I’ve forgotten it’s existed at points. To be honest, I was glad to see Rollins win initially for these reasons alone. Then came the night after ‘Mania, Rollins is in the middle of the ring out comes Triple H, his former rival who tried to derail his career... and they hug. THEY HUG. Instantly I get this feeling Rollins is a corporate backed champion packaged as a Babyface. While every WWE champion is a corporate champion at the very least give me the veneer Rollins isn’t a suck up behind the scenes by making him one during the show.

But the WWE is infatuated with themselves. They were so satisfied to have pulled off the angle and believed to have gotten Rollins over as a Babyface they couldn’t help but rub it in for all of us to see.

Lesnar, in hindsight, needed to remain champion. Rollins simply wasn’t the guy. But Vince McMahon isn’t going to put over someone like Samoa Joe- and let’s be honest, neither is Triple H or Stephenie. Whoever beats Lesnar has to be a creation of the WWE laboratory. If not Rollins, then there’s nobody on the Raw roster worth giving a look at.

If I was booking the WWE, I’d have Kurt Angle’s last match be against Lesnar and call it a night.

Sasha Banks and Bayley retain vs The IIconics, Nia Jax & Tamina, Beth Phoenix and Natalya

Why: The Women’s Tag Titles are the offspring of Bayley and Sasha’s constant lobbying. It is odd the women’s division does not have a tag championship in the first place. For all this talk of a “Women’s Revolution” and the idiotic elevation of “The Four Horsewomen” as if on par with “The Four Horseman,” the whole thing proves to be a farce despite the wrestlers being insanely talented and effective.

Heading into the eight women tag match the “Boss ‘n Hug Connection,” the inaugural champs had held the belts for 49 days. While their defense wasn’t something to write home about the whole point of their run was supposed to add legitimacy and mystic to the strap. Yeah, the IIconics are solid heels, but after winning the titles their reign didn’t last long either ending in 120 days before dropping them to Alexa Bliss and Nikki Cross, who later lost it to the current champions Asuka and Kairi Sane after their heel turn. (Why are the tag titles primarily held by heels?)

Just let Bayley and Sasha keep the belts. Since ‘Mania, Bayley’s won Money in the Bank, cashing in on Charlotte Flair and is still the champion today. Holding the belt for 197 of the last 202 days. The interim period occurred when Flair beat Bayley at Hell in a Cell. On the following Smackdown, Bayley returned for her rematch with a new look and a new attitude. The lovable hugger with a back bone became a chicken shit heel over night. Instantly undercutting months of booking. While she did get a main event slot at pay-per-view at Survivor Series, she was treated as an afterthought by many inside and out of the company. The morning after Shayna Baszler made Bayley submit, the WWE twitter account reminded fans that Baszler didn’t beat “The Man” a.k.a the champion they actually care about. (https://twitter.com/wwe/status/1198805122681147392?s=21)

It’s a damn shame how Bayley’s been booked. A complete waste of her character and even from the standpoint of solely caring about making money, WWE circumvented an avenue of revenue by turning her heel. Bayley’s whole character is designed to appeal to young kids, girls in particular. Changing her to someone who makes them cry is a fun thing to do on paper, but in actual practice is awful.

Batista def. Triple H

Why: Triple H is 46. He sucks as a Babyface and is a fraud. He should retire. He does the same goddamn thing every year where he wears a suit, acts as an authority figure and then takes the suit off because things have gotten serious. This happens every year. It’s beyond annoying.

Bobby Lashley retains vs “The Demon” Finn Balor

Why: Poor Finn. Never able to find his footing on the main roster. Such a big star at NXT putting on clinics against Samoa Joe and Kevin Owens. Ironically, neither of them have been properly booked since their NXT days came to a close. WWE has a habit of restraining their talent. Balor fell prey to this and his run as Intercontinental Champion wasn’t relevant and later would lose it to fellow roamer of purgatory Shinsuke Nakamura.

I don’t see a reality where Balor as I.C champion works out. He was a lukewarm, forgetful player on the main roster. It’s good he’s back at NXT. They let their talent express themselves a little more than WWE. Best thing for him.

The Main Event:

The main event between Ronda, Becky and Flair was.. okay. Nothing special. I was happy for Becky. Initially booked to turn heel after SummerSlam in 2018, her promo the night after Flair stole her title made her a star overnight and plans changed to have her turn Babyface and keep Flair heel. Despite numerous attempts by WWE to make Lynch a heel fans simply weren’t allowing it just so Flair could win another title. That didn’t stop them from giving Flair titles, but at least it won’t be at Becky’s expense anymore.

Why did this culmination of months long storytelling feel so underwhelming in its conclusion? Simply put, it wasn’t a good story. Every participant was an absolute fool and the WWE doesn't remember how to book Babyfaces anymore. Becky failed at the Royal Rumble losing to Asuka clean. Then hijacks the No. 30 spot in the rumble when there were more deserving candidates available. What makes matters worse is Asuka would have the rug pulled out from under her a week before WrestleMania losing the belt to Flair. So why bother having her retain against Lynch and making things more complicated?

Following the rumble, Flair and Lynch battled for the right to go to WrestleMania. Despite being cleared to compete weeks before the PPV she still entered the ring on crutches and got the crap beaten out of her before Rousey inexplicably crashed the party, got Flair DQ'd and doubled the chances of her losing her title making the match a triple-threat.

The main event of WrestleMania didn’t need to be a triple-threat. It didn’t need Charlotte. And most certainly didn’t need to have both belts on the line. You had an actual fighter in Ronda Rousey and someone from the wrestling world who took an actual punch to the face, broke her nose and suffered a concussion so both participants had credibility entering.

In my eyes, the WWE could’ve done the following, dominate the headlines for their inclusivity, make everyone who needed to look good look good, and not marginalize Asuka in the process:

Becky Lynch def. Asuka for Smackdown Women’s Title at the Royal Rumble, Flair wins the rumble:

Asuka submits to the “Dis-Arm-Her” and Lynch is once again on top of the world after being unceremoniously knocked off by Nia Jax. Flair wins the rumble, and demands both belts are on the line to prove she’s the “Queen.” Both parties oblige and volià! There’s your WrestleMania main event done without unnecessary detours.

Or

Asuka retains vs Becky Lynch, faces Mandy Rose and Sonya Deville in a triple-threat for the title; Banks wins vs Rousey, Ronda is the one to enter No. 30 into the rumble and turning heel in the process.

Pushing Flair to the side here. She’s had enough moments in the spotlight and she’ll have tons more. Being omitted from me, WrestleMania isn’t the end or the world. This year belonged to Becky and Ronda. Let them have the spotlight.

I kind of think a Ronda heel turn would have worked if they paired her up with Paul Heyman. Would’ve made sense since she isn’t much of a talker and is from the ultimate fighting background as Lesnar. But that’s far too simple! And we can’t forget about The Queen. Heavens, no!

Sasha Banks wins vs Rousey; Flair wins the rumble. Lynch vs Rousey has no belt on the line. Banks vs Flair for ‘Mania:

Oooh, this is probably my worst take, but c’mon the Becky Two Belts story didn’t really lead to anything besides Bayley’s revival when a simple win over whoever was champion at the time would’ve done the trick.

Sasha Banks and Ronda had a very nice battle for the Raw Women’s Title. Perhaps the best match of Ronda’s one year stint in the WWE. If anyone doubts Banks’ in-ring capabilities, tell them to look at how she guides the green Rousey through the match. Booking Banks to win the title is a risky proposition. Ronda built a mystic of being unbeatable. A real fighter. Not a fake entertainer pumping ‘roids. Beating her essentially undos all of that. I guess Banks’ could have turned heel here and used a chair when the referee is unconscious and smashed it over Ronda’s head knocking her out of commission for a couple of weeks.

Anyways, Banks defends the title versus Flair. Asuka defends vs Sonya Deville and Mandy Rose; Becky Lynch and Ronda Rousey have an old fashioned grudge match settled at ‘Mania. How’s that for inclusivity? Why aren’t I working for the WWE? Is it because my ideas suck and have no basis in reality? Probably.

[thesportssoundoff]

Keeping up with my Yankees centric MLB preview, I wanted to continue onward and take a long look at the trade market the Yankees may be waddling into. Over the past two seasons, the Yankees have done most of their damage via trades both as it pertains to shedding unwanted salary, clearing 40 man space (Caleb Smith and Garrett Cooper to Michael King) and making big fish splash trades like Giancarlo Stanton and James Paxton. The Yankees have opted to make deals in large part because it's cheaper but also because they are just flat out good at it. So good in fact that it was reported toward the trade deadline that teams were absolutely going to get Brian Cashman to overpay because they didn't want to be the latest team to give up something for nothing. So if Brian Cashman opts to upgrade through trades, here are some names to keep in mind as we go through the late fall/early winter*

*As an aside, no Syndergaard, no DeGrom, no Bauer, no Kluber and no Lindor. For starters, I just don't see those deals as being remotely possible so I'm not going to waste keystrokes. Beyond that? I mean WE also all know WHY those deals make sense for the Yankees would be a barrel of fun so why waste time? They'd be amazing additions to any team let alone this one.

1. SP Robbie Ray, Arizona Diamondbacks 12-8 4.34 ERA 174 innings pitched 12.13 K/9 4.34 BB/9 98 ERA-

In a very chippy and controversial post season presser, Brian Cashman stated plainly that the people they were aiming at the deadline ultimately didn't get traded. We know for a fact that one of the guys that the Yankees chased up until the deadline was Diamondbacks arm Robbie Ray. According to Jon Heyman and other NY media members, the trade fell short when the Diamondbacks asked for a FOUR player package headlined by Clint Frazier. My guess is that the Yankees and Diamondbacks are going to circle back around to one another and the winter meetings will be ripe with Ray to the Yankees rumors. Robbie Ray is not the answer if you're chasing down a stud ace starter. He's a less talent but still quite good version of James Paxton. Let's discuss the positives; Robbie Ray is a strikeout machine who was somewhat fluked by the juiced ball in 2019. His xFIP is a full point lower than his actual ERA which suggests some flukiness. He was third in the MLB in K's per 9 innings and at 234 strikeouts, would easily give the Yankees a power lefty arm they yearn for. He's under contract until 2021 and is still on the right side of 30 which matters because Severino could be the only starter on the rotation now who is around beyond next year. The downside is that giving up assets for a guy who doesn't solve your desire/hunger for a #1 starter isn't normally wise business. Severino, Tanaka, Paxton and Robbie Ray is a really good top 4 in your rotation but it's not the sort of rotation you can trumpet out vs Houston's or even on the same level as Cleveland's top 3 of Klueber, Corrasco and Bieber. Ray also has crazy walk totals and like most power pitches he tends to give up flyball contact at a relatively spooky rate. Also could dude shave his beard in time before pitchers and catches report? That shit looks like it'll take a while.

2. SP Matt Boyd, Detroit Tigers 9-12 4.56 ERA 185.1 innings pitched 11.56 K/9 2.43 BB/9 98 ERA-

Sticking with the names and faces we know of that didn't get dealt, Matthew Boyd! The Yankees apparently checked in on Boyd a few times and Detroit figured the best way to start negotiations was with Gleyber Torres. Because idiocy exists in Michigan seemingly. To his credit, Boyd decided to "reward" the Tigers down the stretch for their view on him with a 5.55 ERA and a .505 slugging percentage against. With elevated walk rates and elevated contact overall, Boyd was pretty terrible in the 2nd half. The good news is that he throws for power, is under 30, has crazy K rates and is under contract into 2023. He is worth a lot if you buy into the upside but worth a whole lot less if you take in the totality of the circumstances. he was slightly better away from Detroit and the fact that he pitched to softer contact on the road might have some pitching coach figuring it's just a desire to get out of a dead situation. It would also be fair to note that every team trading for a Tigers pitcher is going to remember how they jerked around teams on Michael Fulmer only for him to completely fall apart. Matthew Boyd is the ultimate gamble; ridiculous stuff, amazing K rate, good walk rate and a penchant for loud hits with a terrible second half to send him. My guess is Detroit would probably like to hold onto him until the trade deadline and then reconsider things.

3. RP Ken Giles, Toronto Blue Jays 1.87 ERA 23 saves 53 innings pitched 14 K/9 2.41 BB 41 ERA- 1 flat WHIP

The final name on our Trade Deadline targets from July. Apparently of the three names above, the Yankees were closest on Ken Giles as an added bullpen arm before something in the medicals spooked them. Giles had a great year in Toronto and was a quality-ish arm for Houston before falling off the map and losing his confidence, eventually getting swapped out for maligned Roberto Osuna. If Chapman opts out, it's worth noting that Giles is probably going to do around 8 to 10 mil or so through arbitration which would put him below Britton and Ottavino in  the financial totem pole. The guy who runs Toronto also was in Cleveland when they drafted Clint Frazier so clearly they have a comfort there on their end. Britton can close and Giles can be your 8th inning guy.

4. SS Nick Ahmed, Arizona Diamondbacks .254/.316/.437 19 HR 82 RBI 79 runs scored 93 OPS+ 92 wRC+

The general thought process is that if Didi leaves, the Yankees will just shift Gleyber Torres to shortstop full time, put DJ at 2B and have Gio and Voit round out the infield. In that case they probably will want somebody who can rotate around at a variety of spots in the infield to keep everybody fresh aka the same role they had in mind for DJ LeMehieu when they signed him. If they want a more traditional shortstop and use DJ/Gleyber/Gio as a trio of rotating infielders (or play DJ at 1st) then Nick Ahmed might make a lot of sense as a trade option. Going back to names from the past, the Yankees have inquired on Ahmed in the past; once as a potential 2B (the role went to Neil Walker) and once as a fill in for Didi when he had TJS. Ahmed had his career best year which is still noway near Didi's peak years BUT his glove is world's away better than Didi's peak years so that's the trade off.

5. 1B Daniel Vogelbach, Seattle Mariners .208/.341/.439 30 HR 76 RBI 79 runs scored 112 OPS+ 111 wRC+

The original plan in 2019 was a Greg Bird/Luke Voit platoon gig at 1st and DH. It didn't work out that and to his credit, Voit took the job and ran with it for the first half of the year. In the 2nd half, injuries and a lack of confidence in his ability to read the zone led to Voit being off the playoff roster. He's got all of the tools to be a really good hitting 1st baseman (less about the defense said then the better) but Voit remains a "Yeah but" for the Yankees. He's too good on paper to not make the team but too question marked filled at this point to be a reliable set it and forget it starter at 1st. Daniel Vogelbach falls into a similar boat as Luke Voit; both see a lot of pitches, both hit for power, both are cost controlled and both struggled in the 2nd half down the stretch. Vogelbach isn't great shakes defensively which would give the Yankees a sketchy lefty-righty platoon with bad defense but the pop and the OBP skills are tremendous and well worth considering if Vogelbach is not considered a key part of the Mariners rebuild. The argument could/should be made that the Yankees already have a Daniel Vogelbach in waiting in Mike Ford though.

6. SP Jose Quintana, Cubs 13-9 4.56 ERA 181 innings pitched 8.0 K/9 2.4 BB/9 107 ERA-

Went over this one elsewhere. For a Yankees staff that really could use the innings, Jose Quintana would provide a reliable somewhat affordable (at 11 mil) innings eater with upside. His stuff was basically the same as usual (he K'd a bit less than usual) and figures to have some bounceback ability especially if the balls are untreated this year.

7. DH Kyle Schwarber, Cubs .250/.339/.531 38 HR 92 RBI 82 runs scored 120 OPS+ 120 wRC+

So as previously stated; if Brian Cashman wants you then chances are he'll find a way to go and get you eventually. In 2016, Cashman went toe to toe with the Cubs in an attempt to get Kyle Schwarber for Aroldis Chapman. It didn't work out and apparently they tried again for the stretch run in 2017 as well. When the Yankees lineup was being wiped out with injuries, they went out and got a DH in Edwin Encarnacion with the belief being that they could hit their way by teams with no upgrades to the rotation. It didn't quite work out in the playoffs but Encarnacion was very reliable for the Yankees last year. Could the Yankees jump on a potential Cubs soft rebuild by grabbing Schwarber and using him as an occasional outfielder but mostly full time DH who mashes lefties and provides balance at the top of the line up between the likes of Stanton, Judge and Gleyber? Schwarber is an abysmal defender who mashes and then some but cannot hit lefties for the life of it. The price would probably be high despite his warts because he's still relatively cost effective and lefty power is always in demand.

8. RP Blake Treinen, Oakland Athletics 4.91 ERA 16 saves 58.2 innings pitched 9.1 K/9 5.6 BB/9

If the Yankees have to go and find some additional bullpen arms, they might find a friend out in Oakland. Blake Treinen was superb in 2018 and despite having similar peripherals for most of 2019, the results were way worse. EVEN accounting for regression to the mean, this was a hell of a decline for Treinen who ended the year on IL. At 31 years old and likely at an elevated (by bullpen standards) cost, the Yankees could take a low risk high reward flier on Treinen.

[rouge-heichou]

And because Im bored I’ll just do the same shit as yesterday...

answering shit no one cares for. From that reblogged Meme thing. :3

Relationships

111- The last person you hugged? - My dad I believe, a month ago. 

112- Who was your first kiss with? - My sandbox best friend, called Mara.

113- Do you like kissing in public? - Depends. Some short peck, I don’t mind. Make out sessions? Hell no. Not a fan of PDA.

114- Have you ever kissed someone older than you? - Yes. 

115- You have a preference for boys or girls? - Women. 

116- Is the male or female body closest to perfection? - Females.

117- Do you believe in love at first sight? - No.

118- Do you believe in soul mates? - Maybe. 

119- What is your idea of the perfect date? - Pizza, and a good film at home.

120- Based on past relationships or crushes, describe your perfect boyfriend/girlfriend: - Ugh, tough one. I don’t really have any “standards” for someone “perfect”. But considering I’m a massive dork who can’t do anything alone, I just need and want someone who can kick muh butt every now and then. And since I’m also quite honest and harsh, someone who doesn’t bend to match my opinion on something. Basically just someone who has the balls to crush my massive balls lol. 

121- What is the first thing you noticed in someone? - I don’t really know. Haven’t really taken care of that, I care too much about how people receive me when first meeting.

122- Are looks important in a relationship? - To an extend, I’d say yes. 

123- What’s the most superficial characteristic you look for? - Being hygienic. I hate when people don’t shower regulary because they think they don’t sweat. 

124- What’s your opinion on age differences in relationships? - I’m rather tolerant with that. As long as someone isnt twice the age of their Partner, I don’t really care because I think it depends on their maturity Level. I’ve met 15 year olds that are more mature than some 20 year olds. 

125- Would you ever date someone off of the Internet? - Done that already. 

126- Five guys/girls whom you find attractive: - Mila Kunis. Mila Kunis. Mila Kunis. Mila Kunis. Adam Gontier.

127- Do you have a crush on anyone? - Yes.

128- A description of the girl/boy you like: - Well, he’s about 5′3 tall. Got black hair, “styled” as undercut. He has like, steel gray eyes and makes me question my sexuality.

129- Say 1 fact about the person your like: - He likes cleaning. 

130- If the person you like says they like someone else, what would you say? - I’d wish them good luck with that person. Although, heart would be shattered.

131- When was the last time you told someone you loved them? - genuinely and romantically, proooobably around 2pm at August 15th, 2016.

132- Do you think someone has feelings for you? - No. 

133- Do you think someone is thinking about you right now? - Nah.

134- Have you ever cried over a guy/girl? - Obviously.

135- Have you ever wanted someone you couldn’t have? - For the entire past year. 

136- Anyone you’re giving up on? - The one I cried over for the past year. Finally.

137- Have you ever liked someone you didn’t expect to? - Yes, Goge. 

138- Have you ever liked someone who your friends hated? - Same guy as in 135 and 136.

139- Have you ever liked one of your best friends? - Yes, Goge lol

140- Has anyone told you they don’t want to ever lose you? - Yes.

141- Is there a boy/girl who you would do absolutely everything for? - Yeah, but platonic. 

142- Is there someone you will never forget? - Yes.

143- Say five ways to win your heart: confidence, honesty, memes, generally making me feel save, being able to actually deal with me for a long time lol.

144- What turns you on? Neck kissing. Neck kissing is my weakness. Butt grabbing too!

145- What turns you off? Kissing like, they’re gonna suck my teeth out of my mouth.

146- What is the sexiest thing someone could ever do for/to you? Neck kissing. Lots of neck kissing.

147- What’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for you? - I was being bullied in school a lot. So my first crush ever (I was 12, he was 16), who took really great care of me, made them stop. He also fought my big brother when my brother was accusing him of being some disgusting pedophile, telling him that he doesn’t have any sexual intentions and that he just wants to help me out with the bullshit I was dealing with.

148- What’s something sweet you’d like someone to do for you? - Dunno, surprise me.

149- Have you ever written a song or poem for someone? Have you had one written for you? - No

150- What’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever done for someone? - My ex had some massive fight with some of his friends way before we started dating and he’d usually not talk about how much he missed his old friends, and that he really regrets what he did to cause that fight. So one evening, he was really sad about it, and told me he was crying for the first time in like forever. So I asked him if he wanted me to talk to his old friends, although I didn’t like most of them at all. He kept saying he doesn’t want me to do so, because those old friends and I had our differences in the past too. Eventually, when he went to sleep I secretly messaged one of his friends, explaining everything and get them to talk to him and like being friends again. He really was happy about that and I was happy that he was feeling better than this whole time before. 

151- Are you in love? - No.

152- Are you in a relationship? - No

153- If you have a boyfriend/girlfriend, what is your favorite thing about him/her? - Needa pass this one.

154- Are relationships ever worth it? - Yes.

155- Is there someone mad because you’re dating/talking to the person you are? - I don’t get that one ;-;

156- Can you commit to one person? - Yes.

157- Do you think you can last in a relationship for 6 months and not cheat? - Lol yes. Did that already, too.

158- Do you ever want to get married? - I don’t need papers to be happy with someone.

159- Do you think you’ll be married in 5 years? - No

160- Future names of your children: I’d be a terrible mother. I don’t want children at all. 

161- Do you get jealous easily? - Very

162- The last time you felt jealous, and why? - Ex was talking to his ex he was dating like, 2 years before our time, completely platonic.

163- What is your definition of cheating? - Intention or fulfilling of romantically/sexually interaction with someone that’s not their partner.

164- Have you ever been cheated on? - Yes.

165- Do you forgive betrayal? - Did it once. Was a big mistake. So no.

166- Have you ever cheated on someone? - Too loyal for dis.

167- Why did your last relationship fail? - Because I wasn’t over the relationship before that + terrible depression resulting in me feeling empty as fuck and I don’t like saying things I don’t mean. 

168- Things you want to say to an ex: - “Took me way too long to get over you.”

169- A description of the person you dislike the most: Dramaqueen.

170- If your first true love knocked on your door with apology and presents, would you accept? - Yes.

171- How many boyfriends/girlfriends have you had? Too many. 8.

172- How long was your longest relationship? - 2 years. 

173- You’ll love me if… tf is this, idgi

174- Share a relationship story: So, we start dating on April 7 last year, was some online thing, which I didn’t mind much, because I don’t really mind a lack of physical affection. He started out to be really sweet and loving, making me feel really good and all. Until eventually, he started firing against one of my closest friends. Jealousy started sparking, but I could deal with it, somehow. But soon enough he’d start treating me poorly. Joked about cheating on me, telling me I need to work out and not understanding why I felt quite bad about it. Telling me “Maybe I just don’t like you enough” in an all serious matter, not understanding that he just crashed my heart with that. Telling me he wants to break up, because I like Pokemon. Constantly telling me I got shitty friends. Generally making me really “small”. While I was totally out of my usual character, being extremely anxious, shy and too scared of losing him to actually speak up, like I usually would do. Still trying to defend him against my friends. Until we broke up, and he afterwards tried to get me to block him, because he didn’t want to hurt me further, and I just spoke out my entire mind for the first time in months, making him speechless. ; Dunno if that’s a “nice” relationship story.

[phantom-goat]

Today was bad bad bad

I accidentally slashed my own tyre (ran over a post on the ground) and I'd never changed a tyre by myself before so I had dad give me a quick run down over the phone but yeah. Called nrma, they were gonna be 90 minutes so I figured I'd do what I could and let them finish it. Somehow I changed the tyre myself :D Then it was time to go to work. Right before work though I get the massive text message from Monique accusing me of not paying rent (a year ago) and that because of that and me moving out (and subsequently not paying rent there anymore) she's now $120 behind. I went through my statements so I know that's utter bullcrap. She also accused me of paying $50 (that I said I would as a storage rent since the new place I'm in couldn't hope to hold all my stuff) after she sent a message this morning about rent. I sent it last night. Then there was the part of if I had actually moved out I basically wouldn't have left a trace of myself behind. 1) I'm literally paying you to store shit there. Something your own daughters have never even thought to do 2) when your daughters moved out they left the majority of their stuff behind, one of your daughters leaving all her stuff for us to move between houses because why should she? She doesn't live there? There was a part of her having no notice and that I'm expecting others to pick up my rent/left over bills. That part is also stupid (and false) because not only did she know over two weeks ago but she's also not losing my share of the rent. Why? Because her youngest conveniently moved back in the week I moved out. Not my problem that Monique is constantly letting her get away with not paying her full share of the rent. Oh yeah. And Monique always sends me messages in a group chat between myself, her and my dad. I feel like it's her way of trying to make out that she's always nice to me (when literally the only reason why she talks to me is to accuse me of breaking shit or owing her money) and that I'm rude back. But this message? Nope. This one she specifically sent just to me. And seeing as she last used the group chat this morning but last messaged just me months ago it's obvious it was intentional not to be seen by dad. So I screen shot it and sent it to him anyway. And told him all the reasons why this is bullshit and she'd never treat her own kids like this. He said he'd talk to her tonight as "you can't be sure of the tone people are using when it's through text". I don't know what came of that. THEN one of my friends who has decided that he's going to start reconnecting with all his friends he's been a dick to and been ignoring (he has yet to apologise for ignoring me on my birthday even though I specifically told him I was hurt and upset by it) decided that when he went and saw a mutual friend (ex friend) that he would tell her that we should reconnect. So in the midst of all this shit going on I get a message saying "hey, long time no see" Yeah. You're right. Because you fucking hurt me. You used the fact you knew I had a crush on you to drag me around and keep me from leaving you. Then you decided the friendships you'd made with people who literally would let you die rather than risk you being angry at them because they put you in hospital were worth more than everything I had done for you. I messaged the first friend saying what the hell and he was like "you two should reconnect. Besides, she's sorry" She's had two fucking years to apologise by herself. I've cut out my mum. I've cut out my brother and sister. I've just about cut out my step sister. I'm on the verge of cutting out my step mother. Why would you think I need her back in my life? Fuck you too. And yeah. All my alcohol is at my old place so I can't even drink myself into oblivion.

[seijousucks]

a victuri fic rec: part two! ( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ♡ 

part one (x)

my favorites will be bolded!

if its tagged nsfw it just mean its pwp

one shots

-  never tasted rubies by ebenroot / words: 16613

Phichit puts up a poll on the radio website. It reads ‘What Do U Think About Yuuri K. from Hasetsu Nights and the Mysterious Caller Victor?’

Seventy-five percent of listeners said ‘lol they should just f*ck already tbh’.

--

in which Yuuri is an unwilling radio host and Victor won't stop calling in to chat with him

-  Dance For You by Grassepi / words: 3425

Viktor Nikiforov is going to learn to pole-dance if it's the last thing he does.

-   while you're here in my arms by lazulisong / words: 4434

Victor slinks in the kitchen, looking shifty as hell and holding a plastic sack of snacks from the combini a block away.

Yuri hates that he finds it more charming than weird, but he's still reaching out and making grabby hands toward it.

He also hates that he's managed to avoid Victor seeing him in raccoon-and-desserts print PJ bottoms and a shirt with a trophy that says WORLD'S BEST TRASH (thanks, Phichit) on it for seven months, but failed now, three months before Victor is set to leave. It's like skating a perfect program and then falling on your ass five seconds before the end. He’s managed to dress himself like an adult human all this time but now Victor is being treated to the Full Katsuki Yuri In Heat experience and staring at him like he can’t believe his eyes. .

"I got you purple sports drink," says Victor, eyes slightly crazy, and Yuri hates even more that he's into a person that likes purple sports drink.

-  BREAKING NEWS: Local Man Would Like To Date Other Local Man by counterheist / words: 1164

Viktor is an anchor for Channel 9 Action News and Yuuri does the weather. Probably Viktor draws hearts on the playback monitor. Most likely someone gets kissed in the rain.

-  Trembling Hands, Smooth Jazz, and You by SuggestiveScribe / words: 10785

Yuuri swallowed past the tightness in his throat, “Am I the one being interviewed now?”

“I just want to know more about you,” Viktor responded. “You write so much on your blog and within media, but none of those words are ever about yourself.”

Music filled the momentary silence. “There’s not much to say,” Yuuri eventually answered.

“There’s always something to say.”

- nsfw:  Need by sub_textual / words: 8226

What stands before Viktor now isn’t at all the Yuuri that had stripped off his clothes in front of a hundred people. This is Yuuri, beautiful and blushing, shy in all the ways Viktor knows he isn’t, too embarrassed to express what he really wants. This is Yuuri, abandoning the clasp of Viktor’s pants, to slowly undo Viktor’s tie. This is Yuuri, desperate and needy, ripe and ready for the taking, and he’s all Viktor’s.

-  solidify the echoes by ADreamingSongbird / words: 5597

Viktor opens his eyes—blue, so blue—and looks directly into Yuuri’s. “Yuuri,” he says, quiet but almost terrifyingly intense. “Yuuri, I think… I think I’m in love with you, and I’m terrified.”

(Or, Yuuri wants to know if that kiss on the rink meant anything, and Viktor really hopes it did.)

-   with you, it's what i need by reciprocity / words: 5276

Yuuri moves to Russia. It takes some adjusting.

Or, five times Yuuri and Viktor get caught in the act, and one time they somehow don't.

-  Calm After the Storm by garbage_dono / words: 10288

Yuuri and Victor, newly bonded, prepare to become new parents.

-  a day for all the rest by Etharei / words: 6266

Phichit clears his throat. "You, ah, might want to wear your scarf again." He taps meaningfully at his own collarbone.

Victor touches the indicated spot on his neck. The skin is markedly sensitive. He presses down, unable to help himself, and the sweet little ache summons a sense-memory: strong fingers carding through his hair, then digging into his shoulder, powerful thighs like a vice around his hips, his name gasped into his ear before a hot mouth seals over the skin of his neck.

The day after the Cup of China.

-  These Frozen Nights by viciously / words: 6451 

Yuuri gets along okay with most of the ghosts in Saint Petersburg.

-  magpies by winchilsea / words: 2251

Viktor can be brave for Yuuri, he can be so many things, he can be anything, and all Yuuri wants him to be is himself, what does that even mean.

(It rains during Tanabata.)

-  pause/play by cordialcount / words: 2226

The mechanical noises blanket the room in a truer quiet than silence. "Yes," he breathes into it, more feeling than sound.

(Yuuri, holding them together.)

-  A Simple Pivot by RC_McLachlan / words: 472

It should feel like failure, and yet. (A coda to episode 9)

-  with a love this deep by lazulisong / words: 2904

There's two types of dates Victor and Yuri go on in St. Petersburg. Yuri likes them both.

-   Altschmerz by Liana_Legaspi / words: 15123

Altschmerz

n. weariness with the same old issues that you’ve always had—the same boring flaws and anxieties you’ve been gnawing on for years, which leaves them soggy and tasteless and inert, with nothing interesting left to think about, nothing left to do but spit them out and wander off to the backyard, ready to dig up some fresher pain you might have buried long ago.

(Yuuri has trouble adjusting to St. Petersburg.)

-  And Baby Makes Three by nevermetawolf / words: 3045

This was not how he wanted to do things. There were supposed to be flowers, champagne, and something other than Chinese takeout. Something mature and adult that said, hey, I’d possibly maybe be an okay(ish) co-parent, see?

- nsfw: With The Engine Inside by RC_McLachlan / words: 2050

Victor brought this on himself.

-  The Cashmere Train by RC_McLachlan / words: 2615

Yuuri shouldn't even buy it, but he has to touch it only once to know that he's not leaving the store without it. He stands in front of the display for way longer than he probably should, rubbing it against his cheek and imagining what the deep burgundy will look like against Victor’s pale skin.

When he brings it up to check out, the saleslady pastes on a smile and tries very hard to make it seem like molesting sweaters is completely normal and that she definitely hadn’t been reaching for the panic button.

-  185/120 by RC_McLachlan / words: 1111

Yakov isn't paid enough for this shit.

-  Stay Close to Me by dasedandconfuzed / words: 11373

At the Grand Prix Final, Yuuri misses the podium by fractions of a point. Embroiled in a skating controversy, he tells himself he'll prove his worth in the World Championships, but there's a long time in between.

Or: Vicchan lives.

-  Five Times Viktor Got Jealous (and the one time Yuuri noticed) by braveten / words: 10846

Before now, Viktor hadn’t realized that he was the jealous type. What an interesting revelation.

-  Written in History by Ashida / words: 1625

Victor knows just how great Yuuri really is, he knows just how much Yuuri has given to get to this point, and in front of everyone after Yuri's last performance; Victor asks for one last thing.

-  Everlasting End by Ashida / words: 3224

There was nothing about Katsuki Yuuri that was fair, Victor had long since decided. He might have just decided that the first time they truly interacted, that night at the Grand Prix Final banquet, full of fleeting intentions that were over in the blink of an eye, this familiarity Yuuri had with him that made it seem like Victor had known him forever. And that was impossible, because everyone Victor had ever known were nothing but memories on the wind, and Yuuri would be all too soon as well.

-  I love you, no expense spared by myoue / words: 5680

Victor is used to paying for dates, accidentally spilling things on people, and spoiling Katsuki Yuri like no tomorrow.

-  the clavicle-snapped wish byastoryaboutwar / words: 6533

The sun glints off their twin gold bands, the band strikes up their first dance, and together, they follow each other into the rest of their lives.

(Or: the wedding fic fix we all need.)

- i have my body (and you have yours) byastoryaboutwar  / words: 8147

Yuuri overflows with the weight of things that have been said, trembles with what remains.

Their shared zeroes flicker in time, the early morning light muting the red glow to faint numbers. In the amber dawn, an idol is only just a man.

(Or: the Soulmate Timers AU where things happen out of order, secrets are kept, revelations are had, and they arrive where they need to be in the end.)

-  better than sliced bread by ebenroot / words: 8161

“What,” he breathes, “is that?”

Victor – his darling coach and fiancé Victor, love of his life and dream come true Victor – smiles at him and squeezes the dakimakura tight to his chest, while Makkachin chooses to make the large cardboard box his new chew toy.

“It’s you!” Victor chirps.

--

in which we all assumed yuuri is the one to own a dakimakura but maybe that isn't entirely the case

-  turn it, leave it, stop, format it by ebenroot / words: 19688

“If you want, I can recommend you some security programs that you can download for free and protect your computer. That way, you won’t be at risk of losing these cute photos of your dog even when you browse websites like ‘Luscious Lonely Wives’.”

Victor gives one long ‘haa’. “I don’t browse those websites,” he says through his straining smile.

--

the 'i will break any and all electronic devices that get into my hands if it means I get to talk to the cute tech support guy' fic

-  Russian for Dummies by cutthroatpixie / words: 2489

"Are you a beginner?"

Viktor was not a beginner. Viktor was the TA supposedly in charge of this study session. Viktor spoke Russian. Viktor was Russian.

"Sure!"

-  Polyglot Variations by spoken / words: 8528

‘If first languages are reservoirs of emotion, second languages can be rivers undammed, freeing their speakers to ride different currents’ - Lauren Collins, Love in Translation, New Yorker (2016)

The languages Viktor speaks, and what he finds as he's learning them.

-  we laugh, we fumble, we take it day by day by waitingforreason / words: 3066

When it comes to taking their son on the ice for the first time, Yuuri is worried, Victor is patient, and everyone else is helplessly intrusive.

-  Where Your Eyes Fall by MilkTeaMiku / words: 2300

Yurio let out a small, vulnerable noise, and lifted his eyes. “Not everyone looks up to Victor.” ‘

- nsfw: Submission by SuggestiveScribe / words: 8118

Viktor leaned forward, breath whispering just behind the shell of Yuuri’s ear, “If my Yuuri wanted me to submit, I would be elated to experience submission.”

-  brave enough to love you by kevystel, xyai / words: 5070

Yuuri settles into his new life in St. Petersburg.

-   lovesick by Ironinkpen / words: 2729

“Did the doctor send you?” When Yuuri doesn’t reply fast enough, since he's still gaping like a fish, he turns to Yuri. “Did the doctor send him? Because wow,” He drops his arm and presses his hand to his chest like the dramatic bastard he is. “You’ve got to be the prettiest man I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh my god,” Yuri groans. “Is he hitting on you?”

(In which Yuuri worries, Viktor's on the good drugs, and Yuri puts up with a whole bunch of bullshit.)’

-  time may change me by emilyenrose / words: 2156

Yuuri and Victor met by chance as children.

-  you're like heaven to touch by lazulisong / words: 3179

"Is this because I let you watch American movies as a child," says Yakov flatly. "The ones where the popular boy gives his coat to the pretty girl?"

Victor puts up both eyebrows in a delicately mocking gesture that was unbearable when he was a fey creature of sixteen and makes Yakov yearn to clip him around the ears now, when he's twenty-eight. "'Let' me?" he says.

-�� specks of silver in the evening sky bywinchilsea / words: 3909

Loneliness compels you to get a dog, not wipe drool from the corner of a stranger’s mouth with your own thumb.

(Or: Viktor's kink is taking care of Yuuri.)

-  Heartbeat by emilyenrose / words: 3148

Victor starts sleeping in Yuri's bed well before the Cup of China.

- nsfw: pillowtalking by seabear / words: 2492

“We’re not leaving bed today,” Victor says, throwing a leg over Yuri’s waist and pulling the covers up over. “I decided.”

-  in death, at the end of the world by perennials / words: 8030

"Beautiful, you say?"

“Your hair. It's the color of the moon.”

-

From this life, to the next, to the next, he'll chase you for as long as it takes.

-  Just for You, a Symphony from My Soulby Caeseria / words: 12968

Sometimes, it’s the smaller moments – those out of the public eye – that are the most important.

-  Of Glass and Gold by smudgesofink / words: 4436

“Just hear me out,” Yuuri presses. He can feel heat burning behind his eyes and he grits his teeth, fighting back the tears. If he cries now, Victor will be too occupied with comforting him to actually pay attention to what he’s saying. “I want you to be happy.”

“I am,” Victor grounds out, confused and hurt. “I’m happy with you. What even gave you the idea that I’m not?"

“Because I’m never going to win gold!” Yuuri shouts. His words echo like a gunshot, and the silence that follows it is haunting.

(In which Victor is gold--magnificent, breathtaking, brilliant--and Yuuri is glass--transparent, thin, breakable.)

-  Nights So Slow by jibrailis / words: 3755

“Well,” Viktor says helplessly, because it’s all ruined now, “I was going to try and seduce you.”

-  it's not gay if it's on the moon by lunarorbits / words: 1765

Friend: new challenge, write something coherent out of a meme. Prompt: if there were two guys on the moon and one killed the other with a rock would that be fucked up or what? Me: challenge accepted PSA this is not crack it is hardcore space fluff.

-  At Home by SuggestiveScribe / words: 9346

“You excited to start our vacation?”

I always feel like I’m on vacation when I’m with you.

-  for all the ones who hurt the most by perennials / words: 3021

Viktor's birthday approaches, Viktor drifts away, and Yuuri does his best not to let him go. Home means so much more when it's four letters traced into the palm of your hand.

- nsfw: Each Sip Like Starlight by cloverfield / words: 13753

“Come quickly, I am drinking the stars!” ― Dom Perignon

There are two beds here – both identical, made up neat with hotel linen and pillows piled high. They’re only going to need one.

- nsfw: and over our heads the gray light unwinding by radialarch / words: 2152

It turns out, Yuuri and Victor have been having two different conversations.

-  this is how he loves you by perennials / words: 938

He says thank you for everything, Viktor, but it sounds like I’m leaving now.

He says thank you for being my coach but really, really, it sounds like good-bye.

-  it's you I want to go on seeing by 100demons, aubreyli / words: 2112

Victor’s eyes meet Yuri’s in the reflection for a brief moment, heavy-lidded and brimming with covetous heat. And then, slowly and deliberately, he draws his gaze down the length of Yuri’s body.

-  Adoration (noun) by crossroadswrite / words: 2049

Viktor is no stranger to being adored.

He’s used to gasps of awe, to blushing faces and shaking hands offering him pieces of paper to sign and phones to take pictures with; he’s used to proclamations of love accompanied by sweets, works of art to his image, and thoughtful gifts, all of it like offerings in a temple.

He’s used to it, and even though he revels in the attention and validation of all the work he’s put into his career, he’s bored.

- nsfw: Distraction by SuggestiveScribe / words: 7968

"Yuuri, let's not think about that," Viktor said, holding out his hands. Yuuri set his other skate aside. "You should take your mind off it; maybe seek a distraction--"

"Okay."

"--Anything to disengage from the nega--" Viktor stopped, blinking. "Wait, what?"

Yuuri rose back to his feet, moving to stand in front of Viktor. Emotion burned at the edge of his irises, and in the limited light his stare flashed more crimson than brown, "I said, 'okay'.”

-  the history books are made for us by d10smessi / words: 6600

Victor thinks, I'll never love someone this way again.

or: Victor Nikiforov, on loving Katsuki Yuuri.

-  here on the roof of the world by jibrailis / words: 2097

Figure skaters are such crybabies.

-  the warmest part of winter by dadvans / words: 8047

The wedding is in early February, right after Yuri comes home to Yuuri and Victor’s crumbling farmhouse in upstate New York from the European Championships with a gold medal around his neck. They’ve been in the process of restoring the dilapidated barn out back and turning it into a fully functional dance studio, and the fire marshall has finally approved it for occupation without fear of the whole thing coming down all at once and crushing a half dozen elite figure skaters to death at any given moment. Which is perfect, considering they’ve been planning on holding the reception in the barn, and finding a last minute venue would be a goddamn nightmare, especially since Victor has obsessively planned the entire event down to the last detail for the past six months.

-  sight of the sun by cityboys / words: 6418

Wherein their honeymoon brings Victor face-to-face with a lot of firsts in his life.

-  love at second sight by ninjee / words: 1834

He looks at Victor as if he somehow believes Victor would have come all the way here if he wasn’t desperately, stupidly in love with a drunk almost-stranger.

(a study of victor's love for yuuri, post episode 10.)

-  a kingdom, or this by perennials / words: 1091

The problem is, Yuuri sees Viktor’s face light up at every performance except his own.

The problem is, Yuuri takes off his glasses when he skates.

The problem is, Yuuri doesn't see.

-  change from grey to color by pageleaf / words: 1661

Viktor's had his eye on Japan's ace for a while.

-  It's Almost Like He's Done This Beforeby iamalivenow / words: 1637

Yuuri lands on his head in Sochi.

It's not that bad, though.

Not when he gets a second chance.

-  i think i may have loved you first by perennials / words: 1313

Here are the facts:

Yuuri is drunk. Viktor is not.

Yuuri is riding an alcohol-induced high so far up above the clouds he cannot even begin to comprehend the weight of his actions back in the human realm.

Viktor is falling in love.

-  When the Sun Rises by utsu / words: 4019

He focused single-mindedly on Yuuri and on promises; and Yuuri, well.

Yuuri taught him how to master both.

By mastering him.

-  hungry, but i'll hunger on by incode / words: 6119

Yuuri has been learning to reach out for what he wants.

-  things we're all too young to know by incode / words: 1789

Victor miscalculates a date.

- nsfw: i think i was blind before i met you by incode / words: 4917

Victor has a thing for every new bit of Yuuri he sees.

-   your love is my turning page by cityboys / words: 4755

Victor and the hours he spends waiting, reflecting and figuring things out.

Set parallel to Episode 9.

-  home is when I'm alone with you by lazulisong / words: 1691

because Phichit is a better bro than Yuri deserves, he reminds Victor that a) Yuri has a birthday and b) Yuri hates flash mobs

Victor is still 70% sure he's gonna screw it up.

-  Ex's and Oh's by Aurum / words: 1042

It turns out that Yuuri is not quite as inexperienced in love as Victor was led to believe. 

-   Hot in Here by Aurum / words: 2687

"Yuuuuuri," Victor drawls, leaning his head on Yuuri's shoulder. "It's hot," he complains. He's already down to his t-shirt.

Yuuri huffs a little, reluctantly amused. "Maybe you would feel cooler if you didn't drape yourself all over me."

-  the magic of your sighs by kevystel / words: 2925

Makkachin’s asleep by the time Viktor reaches the clinic. Viktor sits down on the sofa beside him, buries his face in Makkachin’s fur and breathes.

-  Breathe With Me by novellanouveau / words: 1327

Viktor soothes Yuuri through a sleepless night.

-  nsfw: Watch. by SuggestiveScribe / words: 7869

"You have pretty legs, Yuuri."

‘

- nsfw:  Love On Top by garbage_dono / words: 5319

Yuuri is used to holding back, but Victor is determined to change that.

-  we'll call this place our home by perennials / words: 2216

The Big Day approaches, and Viktor seeks advice from various members of the Katsuki family.

-  to stand on your own two feet by perennials / words: 1048

“You're strong. You've grown stronger. You've always been strong.”

No, I'm weak, Yuuri thinks.

“You're so much stronger than you think you are.”

-  Addicted (to the taste of you) by smudgesofink / words: 5832

It’s mortifying. Of course it’s mortifying.

But even with his hands restless by his sides and his stomach buzzing with butterflies and adrenaline and nerves, Yuuri finds that he oddly doesn’t mind the attention. Or rather, Yuuri can’t bring himself to care, for once. He’s exhausted to the bone from his performance, eyes slow and limbs heavy from running on little to no sleep for more than 24 hours now, not to mention kind of emotionally drained from his mental breakdown earlier.

If anything, Yuuri kind of wants Victor to kiss him again. Preferably right now.

At once.

Immediately.

(It’s turning into a problem.)

-  Worthwhile by surveycorpsjean / words: 6276

In which, it's Viktor that breaks.

-  Delete Clipart by Oort / words: 1607

Viktor Nikiforov wore clip-on ties. Yuuri had somehow failed to notice this.

-  (will wait for the morning to come) by contagionangel / 8130

"It's no use, he speaks the language of the ice!" chortles one of the women as she pats a sobbing girl on the back. He'd tried to be smooth and deft in his rejection and had fumbled it with all the impact of bones rattling against the ice in practice. Maybe more. She hit surprisingly hard for how twiggy and delicate she looks. While experimenting with new moves, he plays out a man touched by innocent affections that he cannot accept, who admires the strength of the one he is turning away. She nails all of her jumps in the next practice, smiles with neither malice nor blushing when he gives her pointers on her form.

Yakov's eyes are dark when he watches it. "You weren't feeling it at all." he murmurs. "That won't fool a crowd."

Victor just nods in response. It's true.

-  like heaven to touch by kevystel / words: 3161

He looks younger than half the other skaters, with his fine features and the porcelain clearness of his skin, but here he is — here in Moscow with Viktor at his side, ready to impress a crowd that’s too used to roaring Viktor’s name. Viktor is prouder than he’s ever been.

-  i know my madness by astoryaboutwar / words:14133

It's hardly a secret that Victor Nikiforov is a massive player.

(In which Yuuri doesn't blow the Grand Prix Finals the first time round, does blow Victor, and everything changes but ends up the same.)

-  turnabout is fair play by foreverautumn / words: 1582

Victor’s eyes widen. Five seconds pass; long, agonizing moments, and still Victor’s staring like Yuuri had just smacked him across the face.

-  Now When Arrows Don't Penetrate, Cupid Grabs the Pistol by ken_ichijouji (dommific) / words: 10673

Phichit Chulanont doesn't know how he ended up the skating world's wingman, but he ain't mad at it.

-  falling as we grow by Judchen / words: 5953

Yuuri's mother leans towards the candles, and shortly before she blows them out she squeezes his hand and says “I want you to always be happy, confident and loved.”

In which Yuuri grows up and gets by with a little help from his friends.

multi-chapter: complete 

-  No Less Unthinkable by rageprufrock / chapters: 3 / words: 10224

In which Katsuki Yuuri fights a losing battle with chronic anxiety, the quadruple Salchow, and his own judgment four drinks in — but wins the war.

-  Yuuri!!! on Floor by thehandsingsweapon / chapters: 6 / words: 67392

katsuki-don do you know how amazing you are?

v-nikiforov do you?

katsuki-don do I what?

v-nikiforov know how amazing you are

The gymnastics edition, in which Viktor is still a skater because he's too pretty on ice and I couldn't take it away from him. A story about how sometimes love comes slow and soft, and how hearts get bigger when they break.

-  begin to be half of what you think of me by kevystel / chapters: 2 / words: 10935

In which Yuuri's self-image finally starts aligning with reality. 

-  never stop until the grave by Naraht / chapters: 3 / words: 12714

Back in St Petersburg, Victor attempts to combine coaching Yuuri with preparing for his own return to competition. The spirit is willing but the flesh may be weak.

-  Dear Mama by Ferrero13 / chapters: 17 / words: 27277

In which Victor writes letters to his mother, who is fifty percent of his rationality and self-control.

-  lie to make me like you by cityboys / chapters: 9 / words: 80075

It’s become a game, of sorts, to anyone privy to the fact that the pattern exists in the first place: ask Victor out at the beginning of the month, date for however many days, and wait for the end to come and for Victor to say, always: I couldn’t fall in love with you. Let’s break up. Or, Victor is a retired actor looking for love, and Yuuri happens to be the (un)fortunate soul to unwittingly ask him out at the beginning of the month. Except relationships don't come with a script, and it's much harder understanding love than roles.

-  stay awake with me awhile by kevystel / chapters: 2 / words: 8374

The problem, should Viktor care to take the time to think about it, is that he’s no longer competing to win. He’s defending his title. It is a very different experience. It burns a hole in his palm, sometimes, on the mornings he lets himself sleep in.

-  the road that stretches out ahead by hellodeer / chapters: 4 / words: 7350

"What if we drove to France?" Viktor asks, and Yuuri says yes. Of course he does.

multi-chapter: incomplete

- dear true love by cityboys / chapters: 2/? / words: 18258

Victor is a writer pretending to be on a break; Yuuri is a pianist pretending to not be on a break.

They meet, somehow, in the backwaters of Saga Prefecture, Japan.

-   Call Everything on the Ice... by shysweetthing / chapters: 6/7 / words: 43790

Victor learns Japanese while in Hasetsu. He doesn't tell Yuuri, and things get dicey when he overhears Yuuri and Mari talking about him in Japanese. Repeatedly.

(The subtitle of this fic should be: Victor Nikiforov really needs a hug. Luckily, he gets one. Eventually.)

- series:  勝つ丼姫 by lazulisong / works: 3/? / words: 2011

     1.   baby it's so sweet / words: 769

Yuri knew exactly what was going to happen when Katsudon announced his retirement, but he was too late to kill Victor.

     2.  baby baby baby / words: 628

Victor and the katsudon breeding turns out as badly as Yuri expects it to.

     3.   if it's quite all right i love you baby / words: 614

it suddenly dawns on Yuri that the katsudon and Victor breeding means that Victor will be in charge of a child.

-  somewhere i have never travelled by d10smessi / chapters: 1/? / words: 4959

Victor is a specter, a killer, a myth, a machine trying to be a man.

(Victor falls in love with Yuuri—beautiful and out-of-nowhere, like the impractical black of his Aston Martin amidst the sea of tourists and locals in the streets of Barcelona. Yuuri falls in love with Victor like the slow bloom of a flower in spring in the middle of bustling Tokyo, tended and taken care of.)

-  i seek another place by heygorgeous / chapters: 2/? / words: 5225

Somewhere along the line he stops providing excuses, and the world stops asking him.

So now, Viktor thinks - thumb carelessly rubbing against Yuuri's scalp, now what?

[viktor suffers from bipolar disorder]

-  centripetal force by braveten / chapters: 7/? / words: 60928

Victor speaks seven languages.

(Physics isn't one of them.)

Luckily, though, he ends up rooming with his antithesis: a shy, black-haired boy who just so happens to be a physics major.

-  Masquerade by Ashida / chapters: 7/? / words: 46206

“Just say the word.” came the whisper as Victor stepped close, behind them Yuuri was aware of guns out and at the ready, of confused men and questioned loyalties, here Victor was offering, and Yuuri was too selfish to say no.

“Ok.” Yuuri smiled as this game of masquerade came to an end, what would happen now, he didn’t know, he would probably die, his family would come after him and try to put a knife in his back or a bullet between his eyes, none of it mattered, because together they would fight, and the rest of the world would finally burn.

-  Until My Feet Bleed and My Heart Aches by Reiya / chapters: 13/14 / words: 166931

‘…Of all the rivalries in the world of sports over the years, perhaps none has become so legendary as that of Russian figure skater Viktor Nikiforov and his rival, Japanese Yuuri Katsuki…’

A single event changes the course of Yuuri’s life, throwing him into a bitter rivalry with Viktor Nikiforov that spans across his entire skating career. But as the years go on, rivalry and hatred begin to develop into something very different and Yuuri doesn’t seem to be able to stay away, no matter how hard he tries.

Hatred and love are two sides of the same coin and even though everything changes, some things are still meant to be.

-  Catching Butterflies by skeletalparade (boythighs) / chapters: 1/? / words: 10387

It was a straight shot from here to the city, and sometimes Yuuri liked to imagine that he could bike the whole way in. Just start pedaling and never stop, no turning back. He could get a job in the city and pretend like his time on the island had never existed.

He wouldn’t do any of that, of course, not really, but it was a nice thought to entertain when things got hard. Some days it was the only thing that kept him afloat.

- series: babysitting au  by perennials  / works: 1/? / words: 2094

     1.  Yuri Plisetsky, five year-old killer of men / words: 2094

“Um, hi. I'm the new babysitter,” says the new babysitter.

“Hi, I'm the old babysitter." Viktor smiles brightly.

-

In which walls are vandalized, lipstick becomes a weapon of mass destruction, and Viktor flaunts his beauty in an attempt to woo the new boy while trying not to burn the house down. Also, there is a cat and his name is Power Ranger #4.

-   i see quiet nights poured over ice by ohhotlamb / chapters: 11/? / words: 25879

He’s a despicable man, but what he offers is the truth. I’ll make you a winner, he says. And he knows—

This is one thing that Yuuri can’t refuse.

-  Down the rivers of windfall light by cyan96 / chapters: 3/? / words: 11940

“A human,” Yuri observes slowly. Because it is. A human. Dark haired, with fog-dusted glasses and a truly unfortunate number of layers to ward off the autumn chill. He smells vaguely of sea salt: crisp and sharp, the mark of a water mage. Nothing extremely special, otherwise. The closest Yuri explanation can come up with for having been dragged all this way is Viktor deciding to add “Magical humans” to his list of hoard-viable objects. Which, although stupid and a perfect example of Viktor’s terrible life decisions, is still sadly within the realm of his ridiculousness.

The noise Viktor makes is—high and floaty, somewhere between a purr and a chirp, deeply pleased, and sounding entirely out of place on a currently house-sized dragon, even one as elegant as Viktor. For a moment Yuri simply stares, the vibrations of it tingling on his spine. And then his brain makes the leapfrog from point A: Viktor’s obscenely cheerful mood to point B: what is that smile what are those dopey eyes Viktor what the fuck—

What the actual fuck.

“Vitya, that’s a human,” Yuri hisses, whirling, as the whole and appalling picture snaps into place.

[noahsegans]

bunch of personal crap under the jump

so most people don’t know this, but i used to be around about 300 pounds, and i ended up losing a lot of weight and dropping down to about 120 -- i bounce around from 116 to 122 most days (it’s not important, i’m just unhealthily obsessed with the numbers on the scale because of how much weight i’ve lost). 

and like, i feel really great about my body when i’m wearing the right clothes -- pants and long sleeves -- because i may have lost the weight, but that doesn’t mean i’ve lost the skin. i’m disgustingly flabby and saggy. i had about twenty or so years to develop the worst bat wings you could ever imagine -- i’ve been video game and computer addicted forever, so the old arms didn’t get a lot of action, and now my upper arms are REALLY showing it. it’s gross. i can’t wear womens’ t-shirts because the sleeves are usually an inch or two too short, and you can forget tank tops and sleeveless things unless i have something like an open long sleeve shirt or a shrug over it. summertime is brutal for me. 

since i started working my current position, i’m lifting heavy boxes and shit, and i’ve built great muscle on my arms. when i flex, the tops of my arms look fucking jacked and feel so tight and firm. but you almost can’t tell because of the amount of sag on the bottoms of my arms. it might not sound like a lot to some people, but i’m not just talking about a slight bit of extra flab. like i said. 300 pounds down to 120. that’s a lot of skin to have laying around.

my stomach/muffin top is alright. i can’t wear tight clothes without a body shaper to cover up that flab and cellulite, but that doesn’t bother me. my thighs are still big and my butt is droopy and flabby, but i can ignore that stuff. it’s not important to me. i hate my flat, saggy boobs and the excess skin around my armpits, but it’s still not as bad as my arms. when i tell you my arms are bad, i mean, they are B-A-D bad. they were bad before i lost the weight, and they’re bad now, and i can tell you i’ve dreamed of plastic surgery JUST for my arms for as long as i can remember. 

and so. i’ve finally decided to try and be optimistic about it. i’ve got a consultation with a cosmetic surgery in a few weeks, and he’s gonna assess the damage and all. and i’m trying very hard to think positively about it. i’m poor as fuck, but maybe they’ll have a payment plan i can work with or something. this would help me so, so much, and i’m just praying that i can somehow get this done. recovery doesn’t sound very fun, if i can even manage the price, but it’ll all be worth it in the end, i think, and just. you know. please, please, please, right? 

i originally was going to look into laser hair removal for my face -- i could join the circus as the bearded lady if i didn’t shave every day -- which i know is much cheaper, but when i thought about which one was more important to me, i figured i’d at least look into the cosmetic surgery first. at least i have the ability to shave my facial hair every day. there isn’t anything i can do about my arms myself. 

J doesn’t think i need it. J is... you know, i couldn’t imagine there were guys like him, and i know i get sappy about him a lot, but he’s seen me naked and yet he’s still around and like? he touches me without fear, he looks at me with light and softness in his eyes, like i’m some work of art or something, and he tells me regularly how beautiful i am, and it’s crazy, because he’s this thin, attractive dude and i’m this stumpy little cellulite flab-monster, and it kills me sometimes because i don’t know how i tricked him into thinking i’m pretty. but he thinks i’m perfect the way i am and he doesn’t like the idea of me getting surgery to fix anything, because he doesn’t think anything needs to be fixed, but at the same time, he’s supportive of my choices, and i know, if i can get the surgery, he’ll go out of his way to take care of me during my recovery and stuff. 

i made him breakfast on Sunday. he’s getting a new job soon with a completely different schedule. whereas we used to stay up all night, and he’d leave around 5/6am to go home and sleep, we now go to bed around 11/midnight, and wake up together in the morning. it’s wonderful waking up next to him. and i didn’t get fancy or nothing on Sunday, i just had some instant pancake mix and whipped some up for him. had some M&Ms sitting around so i was like, hey, i could throw these in there to really impress him lmao. he loved them. he acted like i’d served him a gourmet meal made of the finest ingredients and in reality, it was a box of instant pancake mix probably from the dollar store. he refused to leave the kitchen while i cooked, and refused to start eating without me, and he was desperate to help me with anything that he could. it was adorable. and it just really made my week. 

writing sucks. the state of writing sucks. an e-publisher i was extremely interested in is closing down at the end of the month. with Amazon Kindle, anyone can self-publish, and it’s really harming these e-publishers, i guess. as if it wasn’t hard enough to go with traditional publishing, now even e-publishing might die out. in a way, i hate Amazon letting people self-publish. now anyone can string together words and call themselves an author, no matter how bad they are. they can throw up an unedited, non-formatted piece of trash (excuse me for saying so) and they can make actual money off of it if they market it well enough and either have a target audience that has no palate for good writing, or dupe enough people into thinking it might be good. i have nothing against self-published authors in general (the ones who try their best, edit their work, format their work, etc) but i’ve never wanted to be a self-published author. my dream has always been to get published traditionally and it seems like it’s getting harder and harder unless you already have your foot in the door. like, if i had somehow become friends with say, Veronica Roth or even (*shudders*) Cassandra Clare before they were published, i would at least have a connection, someone who could recommend me, but without any connections, it’s like, good fuckin luck, you know. and it’s just a little disheartening, and i know it shouldn’t be. 

so yeah. that’s about what’s going on with me.

[jumpsitehq]

200 Best Sarcasm Quotes and Sarcasm Sayings & Messages

Ever wish to be honest without hurting somebody’s feelings? One perfect way to do it is through sarcasm. It’s funny and witty, brings humor into our lives but it gives the most brutal kind of honesty too. So here we collected some of awesome 99 Best Sarcasm Quotes and Sarcasm Sayings & Messages. Even some of the best life lessons we learn are from the most sarcastic quotes we read over the internet or from our dearest friends and family. Although some people find it difficult to understand the hidden meaning of our sarcastic messages, others have no problem in finding the sense of it at all. We also have a great collection of Insomnia Quotes & Angry Status.

200 Best Sarcastic Quotes

1. I’M 2% Cute & 98% Single. 2. All You Need Is Love 5M $. 3. I’M Like Monday. Nobody Likes Me. 4. True Love: I Love More Than Free Wi-Fi. 5. Your Crush + Fast Replies = Imagination. 6. I’ve Never Faked A Sarcasm In My Life. 7. Are You Free Tomorrow? No I’M Expensive. 8. I Love Education But Without Examination. 9. Avracadabra ! Nope. You’re Still A Bitch. 10. You Remind Me Of My Chinese Friend. Ug Lee 11. World Biggest Lie ” I’ll Always With You “. 12. Let’s Just Stay Friends = Never Talk Again. 13. Money Can Buy Happiness, It’s Called “Food”. 14. First Rule Of 2017 ” Never Talk About 2016 “. 15. Conjuring 2 Is For Kids. Real Men Get Married. 16. Not Everyone Likes Me But Not Everyone Matters. 17. If You Are Late, Don’t Rush You’re Already Late. 18. Sarcasm : Just One Of The Many Services I Offer. 19. If You Don’t Have Something Nice To Say, Hush It. 20. I Don’t Understand You. I Don’t Speak Assholian. 21. Always Be Yourself, Except During Job Interviews. 22. Losing Your Best Friend Is Worse Than A Break Up. 23. I Am ” Eats Ice Cream In Winter ” Type Of Person. 24. Single Bell….Single Bell….Single All The Way. 25. Life Is Full Of Fake People. Don’t Trust Blindly. 26. I Would Slap You, But That Would Be Animal Abuse. ( Sarcasm Quotes . 27. Every Year Thousand People Quit Smoking, By Dying ! 28. I’M Single Because Nobody Believes That I’M Single. 29. I Was On Diet For 30 Days & All I Lost Was 30 Days. 30. Yes, I’M Online 24X7, But I Hardly Chat With Anyone. 31. If Nobody Hates You. You Are Doing Something Boring. 32. People Get Mad When You Treat Them How They Treat You. 33. Happiness Is You And Your Best Friend Hate Same Person. 34. Sarcasm Is The Body’s Natural Defense Against Stupidity. ( Sarcasm Quotes . 35. Tip For 2017 : Don’t Get Emotionally Attached To Anyone. 36. My Secret Talent Is Getting Tired Without Doing Anything. 37. Don’t Remind Me How Old I Am ! I’ll Always Watch Cartoons. 38. My Problem Is That I Hate Maths But I Love Counting Money. 39. I Love All The Religions Because They All Bring Holidays ! 40. Studying Is My Drug. But Thanks To God. I Say No To Drugs.

Sarcasm Quotes for Twitter

41. Don’t Be Ashamed Of Who You Are. That’s Your Parent’s Job. 42. Everyone Is Matured Until Someone Brings Out Bubble Wrap ! 43. To Be Old & Wise, You Must First Have To Be Young & Stupid. 44. Sarcasm : Because Beating The Crap Out Of People Is Illegal. 45. The Hardest Part Of My Job Is…Being Nice To Stupid People ! 46. Never Laugh At Your Girlfriend’s Choice. You Are One Of Them. 47. It’s Okay If You Don’t Like Me…Not Everyone Has Good Taste. 48. If You Want A Sarcastic Answer, Don’t Ask A Stupid Question. 49. I Live For Two Reasons. 1 . I Was Born 2 . I Haven’t Died Yet. 50. Tom & Jerry Taught Me That Life Is Incomplete Without Enemies. 51. Dear 2017 : Make Sure You Don’t Come Up With Temporary People ! 52. I’M Actually Not Funny. I’M Just Mean & People Think I’M Joking. 53. I Don’t Believe In Plastic Surgery. But In Your Case, Go Ahead. 54. Brain Logic : Let’s Insult Our Best Friend Ore Than Our Enemies. 55. Just Wanna Be Rich Enough To Buy My Mom Everything She Deserves. 56. Show Me You’re Different & I won’t Treat You Like You’re Typical. 57. Thanks To The Wrong People In Life. They Teach The Right Lessons. 58. Sarcasm : The Ability To Insult Idiots Without Them Realizing It. 59. I’M Sorry What Language Are You Speaking ? It Sounds Like Bullshit. 60. Behind Every Successful Person…There’s Lot Of Unsuccessful Years.

61. Damaged People Are More Dangerous Because They Know How To Survive. 62. Everything Is Like Either Expensive, Illegal Or Won’t Text Me Back. 63. The World Is Filled With Good People. If You Can’t Find One, Be One. 64. 3 People Who Call Me. 1. My Mom. 2 . Wrong Number. 3 . Customer Care. 65. Closing Your Eyes After Turning Off The Alarm Is Very Dangerous Game. 66. Don’t Respect Her Because She’s A Girl. Respect Her Because You’re Man. 67. If The Teacher Tell You To Get Out, It Means You Have Won The Argument. 68. The Luckiest Are Those Who Fall Asleep As Soon As They Close Their Eyes. 69. Why People Buy Guitars Now A Days. 10% To Play, 90% To Click Profile Pic. 70. I Want One Of Those Jobs Where I Get Paid For Travelling Around The World. 71. Don’t Judge A Book By It’s Cover. Don’t Judge A Student By His Percentage. 72. May Be You Should Eat Some Makeup So You Can Be Pretty On The Inside Too. 73. My Girlfriend Is So Good At Playing Hide And Seek. I Haven’t Found Her Yet. 74. We Don’t Need Cctv Camera In Our Country. Neighbours & Relatives Are Enough. 75. When People Ask Stupid Questions I Feel Obligated To Give Sarcastic Answers. 76. I Don’t Care What People Think Of Me. At Least Mosquitoes Find Me Attractive ! 77. When I’M Free No One Texts Me ! & When I’M Busy. Bam ! Still No One Texts Me ! 78. True Bonding Is When You And Your Friends Are All Angry About The Same Thing. 79. If You Think Nobody Cares If You’re Alive, Try Missing A Couple Of Car Payments. 80. We All Have That One Teacher Who Give You Amazing Marks On Matter What You Write.

Sarcasm Quotes for Facebook

81. From The Moment I Saw You, I Knew I Was Gonna Spend He Rest Of My Life Avoiding You. 82. Babies Are So Lucky. They Can Sleep All The Day And Everyone Still Would Be Proud Of Them. 83. I’M Sorry I Hurt Your Feelings When I Called You Stupid. I Really Thought You Already Knew. 84. You Cried All Night ? You Were Hurt ? And No One Knows ? Congratulations ! You Are Mature Now. 85. I May Look Calm, But Inside My Mind I’ve Killed You 20 Times, In 5 Mins, In 20 Different Ways. 86. My Attitude In Exams. They Give Me Questions I Don’t Know. I Give Them Answers They Don’t Know. 87. I Can Only Please One Person Per Day. Today Is Not Your Day. Tomorrow Doesn’t Look Good Either. 88. I Love Texting People Who Reply Super Fast. It Makes Me Feel Like They Really Want To Talk To Me. 89. Bring Able To Respond With Sarcasm Within Seconds Of Stupid Question Is A Sign Of A Healthy Brain. 90. At Age Of 25, Others Want To Get Married And Have Kids But I Want My Parents In The Backseat Of My Audi 91. There Are Two Types Of People In The World. 1 . People Who Understand And Appreciate Sarcasm 2 . Idoits. 92. Askhole. A Person Who Constantly Asks For Your Advice, Yet Always Does The Opposite Of What You Told Them. 93. Need Money For College. Need College For A Job. Need A Job For Money. Who Was The Mastermind Behind This System ? 94. What’s The Point Of Education If You Still Throw Garbage On Street To Be Ultimately Picked By An Uneducated Person ? 95. If You Want To Change The World, Do It While You’re Single. Once You’re Married You Can’t Even Change The T.V Channel. 96. Not All Girls Are Made Of Sugar And Spice And Everything Nice. Some Girls Are Made Of Sarcasm, Wind And Everything Fine. 97. I’M Sorry, I Didn’t Realize That You’re And Expert On My Life And How I Should Live It ! Please Continue While I Takes Notes. 98. The Whole Purpose Of Sending A Text Is To Get A Reply Within Seconds Or Minutes Otherwise I Would Have Sent A Letter By F***In Mail. 99. My Future Wife Would Be Probably Texting Her Boyfriend About How They’re Gonna Stay Together. Haha, See You In A Couple Of Years, Sweetie. 100. Don’t worry about hurting my feelings, because I guarantee you not one bit of my self-esteem is tied up in your acceptance.

101. They say women speak 20,000 words a day. I have a daughter who gets that done by breakfast. 102. Excuse me, which level of hell is this? 103. When I’m feeling down and someone says “suck it up”, I get the urge to break their legs and say, “walk it off”. 104. You know that little voice inside your head that keeps you from saying things you shouldn’t? Yeah, I don’t have that. 105. You know what I like about people? Their dogs. 106. People who reply to my sarcasm with sarcasm are my favorite. 107. Have you ever met someone and thought, “There goes the reason why contraceptives were invented?” 108. I’d slap you but that would be animal abuse. 109. Most people have “Ah ha” moments. I have “Oh for f..ck’s sake, f..ck this shit” moments. 110. I have to stop saying how stupid you can be. Some people are starting to take it as a challenge. 111. I think Dildo is a perfectly acceptable insult. I’d call you a d..ck but you’re not real enough. 112. If your phone doesn’t ring, it’s me. 113. When something goes wrong in your life, just yell “Plot Twist” and move on. 114. If someone points at your black clothes and asks, whose funeral it is, you just look around the room, and answer, “haven’t decided yet.” 115. Sweetie, leave the sarcasm and insults to the pros. You’re going to hurt yourself. Go play in traffic. 116. What’s a queen without her king? Well, historically, better. 117. Abracadabra! Nope. You’re still a b..ch. 118. Oh. I’m sorry. Did the middle of my sentence interrupt the beginning of yours? 119. When people see you laying down with your eyes closed, they still ask “Are you sleeping?” And I’m like, “No. I’m training to die.” 120. Come here you big, beautiful cup of coffee and lie to me about how much we’re going to get done today.

Sarcasm Quotes for Whatsapp

121. My alone time is sometimes for your safety. 122. Sometimes I wish I could get a refund on the time I have invested on people that weren’t worth it. 123. I wish more people were fluent in silence. 124. Deja Poo. The feeling that you’ve heard this crap before. 125. I’m a lady, but when I’m mad, I am an evil sadistic demon spawned b..ch from hell that will make you regret the day you were born. And when I’m happy, I like to bake cookies and shit. 126. I’m an odd combination of “really sweet” and “don’t mess with me.” 127. I am in one of those moods where I just want to throw a book at someone’s face and be like: I facebooked you. 128. Controlling my tongue is no problem. It’s my face that needs deliverance. 129. Trying to understand some people is like trying to pick up a turd by the clean end 130. Hmmm, I’m going to file your opinions right here between “f..ck this” and “f..ck that”. 131. I’m not petty, I’m dead ass disrespectful and I will straight up disrespect you if you want to play that petty game. Your feelings will be hurt. 132. Everything I like is either expensive, illegal, or won’t text me back. 133. Some people are a human version of a migraine. 134. Grammar. The difference between knowing your shit and knowing you’re shit. 135. If only closed minds came with closed mouths. 136. People think I’m shy because I don’t get involved in their conversations. The truth is, I don’t give a f..ck what they’re talking about. 137. I hate it when I think I’m buying organic vegetables but when I get home, I discover they’re just regular donuts. 138. It’s a beautiful day to leave me alone. 139. Congratulations! You’ve managed to make me feel like a worthless piece of shit again. Would you like an award for that? 140. I’m sorry I hurt your feelings when I called you stupid. I really thought you already knew.

141. Life is a soup and I’m a freaking fork. 142. Some people are just treasures that you just want to bury them. 143. Sweetie, I’m going to need you to put those few remaining brain cells together and work with me here, Okay? 144. In order to insult me, I must value your opinion. Nice try though. 145. I’ve got heels higher than your standards. 146. If you don’t like and still watch everything I do, b..tch you are a fan. 147. I may look calm but in my mind, I’ve killed you three times. 148. Oh sure, you’re smart. Sesame Street smart. 149. Don’t worry about what I’m doing. Worry about why you’re worried about what I’m doing. 150. I’d rather be someone’s shot of whiskey than everyone’s cup of tea. 151. Oh, my bad. I’m sorry for bothering you. I forgot I only exist when you need me for something. 152. If you don’t want a sarcastic answer, don’t ask a stupid question. 153. Shhhhhhhhhhhhh. No one cares. 154. Oh, you hate me? Join the club! There are weekly meetings at the corner of F..ck You St. and Kiss My Ass Blvd. 155. I’m 97% sure you don’t like me but I’m 100% sure I don’t care. 156. Your flexibility amazes me. How do you get your food in your mouth and your head up your ass all at the same time? 157. I don’t have a bad temper. I just have a quick reaction to bullshit. 158. Listen, I’m a nice person. So if I’m a b..ch to you, you need to ask yourself why. 159. Good morning world! Your little ray of sarcastic sunshine has arrived! 160. People say I act like I don’t care. It’s not an act.

161. I try not to laugh at my own jokes but we all know I’m hilarious. 162. You are the result of 4 billion years of evolution. So act like it. 163. I’m sorry, I don’t take orders. I barely take suggestions. 164. I am the friend you have to explain to your other friends before they meet me. 165. It’s nearly time for my Psychotic Break. 166. I know I don’t have to be sarcastic, but the world has given me so much material to work with. I would hate to be wasteful. 167. Here’s a tissue, you have a little bullshit on your lip. 168. Only dead fish go with the flow. 169. Some people will only like you if you fit inside their box. Don’t be afraid to shove that box up their ass. 170. If I say “First of all”. Run away because I have prepared research, data, and charts and will destroy you. 171. In my defense, I was left unsupervised. 172. I am a nice person. Just don’t push the b..ch button. 173. The B..ch Slap. Keeping a..holes in line since 1836. 174. Warning. I’m bored. Things could get dangerous. 175. I am currently experiencing life at the speed of 15 wtf’s per hour. 176. Interviewer: What do you make at your current job? Me: Mostly mistakes and inappropriate comments. 177. I’m confident my last words will be, “Are you fu…ng kidding me?” 178. I’ve come to a point in my life where I need a stronger word than f..ck. 179. We all have problems. Some of us just choose not to post them on Facebook. 180. In all honesty, things would’ve never worked between us. I’m a unicorn, you’re a donkey; I’m majestic, and you my love are just an ass.

181. It must be hard putting makeup on your two faces every day. 182. Nothing brings a group of a…holes together faster than something that’s none of their business. 183. Don’t be an a..hole to me, cause then I have to be an a..hole to you. And I’m way better at being an a..hole than you are. 184. My decision-making skills closely resemble that of a squirrel when crossing the street. 185. Some people are like Slinky’s. Pretty much useless but make you smile when you push them down the stairs. 186. I would like to confirm that I do not care. 187. Of course, I talk to myself. Sometimes I need expert advice. 188. Breaking someone’s trust is like crumpling up a perfect piece of paper. You can smooth it over but it’s never going to be the same again. 189. Please cancel my subscription to your issues. 190. Be the reason someone smiles today. Or the reason they drink. Whatever works. 191. Patience. What you have when there are too many witnesses. 192. Good judgment comes from experience. And experience? Well, that comes from poor judgment. 193. I don’t know how to accept compliments. So thanks, suck a d..ck or whatever. 194. I need a cocktail. Hold the tail. 195. I’ve met some pricks in my time, but you my friend, are the f..cking cactus. 196. I don’t always tolerate stupid people. But when I do, I’m probably at work. 197. Quick Tip: Mind your own motherf…ng goddamn business b..ch. 198. My loyalty cannot be bought. However, it can be rented. 199. I’m definitely a morning person but often choose to sleep straight through it. 200. Mom: What did you learn in school today sweetheart? Me: Obviously not enough. I have to go back tomorrow.

In every sarcastic remark we hear, there is always some truth behind it. It’s easier to express our feelings to other people by being sarcastic. It makes the person laugh a little and accept the advice you say without them feeling offended. But being sarcastic can be a little harsh as well. We find ourselves using sarcastic quotes or remarks usually when we deal with our friends and family members. We use it as a way of dealing with issues in relationships, in decision making, and in life in general. If you want to know why sarcasm has now become a meaningful way to express one’s feelings, you have to familiarize yourself with them.

[taekwondorkjosh]

This is just something I put together because I’m freaking out and thought this might help me process things. do not reblog, please.

abuse, manipulation, mental and physical illness, and financial drama below

When I was really little, my mother and father had some money troubles. According to my father, my mom routinely went and spent his money on irrelevant stuff, instead of paying for groceries, bills, etc. I don't know how accurate that interpretation of what happened is, but its entirely possible that the Irrelevant stuff was stuff for the children, just not stuff we needed. Trips to amusement parks, toys, movies, new shoes when we had perfectly good shoes already, etc. I know this is likely the case because my mother told me stories of how HER mother would do that too. Instead of important stuff, she spent money on little stuff to make us happy in the moment.

This post isn't to debate whether or not that is an appropriate parenting tactic or life strategy. Its too establish that my mother has always had trouble managing her money responsibly. Eventually, it got so bad my father was on the verge of bankruptcy, so he divorced my mother and sued for custody. He lost, and for a few years my three older siblings and one younger sibling (the first three from a previous marriage and the younger sibling my full sibling) lived with my mom until her life came crashing down. She lost everything.

My dad got custody when I was in second grade. I finished second grade and then my dad bought a house, the house I live in to this day. My younger brother and I went to live with him, while the other three stayed with my mom and her previous husband (who had by now pulled his life together enough to help with his kids). I saw my mother every other weekend and on wednesdays for dinner.

Every few visits we went to my Aunt and Grandma's house instead of spending time with my mom doing fun stuff. My mother, myself, and my brother would clean my mother's sister's apartment, taking care of them as best we could. It wasn't particularly fun but we loved our family and helped with.... marginal complaining.

My aunt and I had a very powerful connection. We liked a lot of the same things, and she even got me into a lot of stuff that I still love today, primarily martial arts. When I was seven, my mother signed me up to attend tae kwon do at the school that my aunt was helping out at, and it was amazing. I don't remember much of my childhood, but I know I loved it, even if it was difficult towards the end. Black belt testing is tough hahahha.

After I got my black belt, I wanted to take a little break. I was ten years old and wanted to play around a bit, and my dad took this as an opportunity to get me to do other stuff. I didn't return to tae kwon do until high school, where my connection with my aunt grew much stronger.

I spent three to five hours, six days a week at that tae kwon do school with my aunt. Eighteen to thirty hours a week in her company. Some weekends I would go over to her house and hang out, spending the weekend with her.

I spent a fraction of that with my mother. Saturday afternoon to sunday night, thirty six hours, every two weeks. In a month, I'd spend between 72 and 120 hours with my aunt, and 72 with my mother, if I didn't spend a weekend with my aunt. I loved my aunt.

By the time I was in high school, though, my mother turned her life around. She found a steady job and a good apartment, and had divorced her third husband, an aggressive and dangerous man with some bipolar condition. I was little I don't remember, only that he would sometimes get very, very angry. The point is, that she was doing good.

The three of us started spending mroe time at my aunt/grandma's house. It was getting bad. Two older women with a SLEW of physical disorders and an army of cats, crammed into one thousand square feet? NOT good. It was a terrible mess, and we all came together to turn it around. My mom and my aunt got a joint bank account, so that my mother could help them manage their funds, and IMMEDIATELY she got them a new apartment, found homes for several of the cats, got them insured and healthier (my aunt got all new teeth!), and even managed to get my aunt several job offers.

An then, college. I spend a few years putzing around, and one day I catch my aunt going over bank statements at tae kwon do. She's confused by some of the expenditures on there. Alright, fair.

This starts a huge conflict. According to my aunt, my mother owes her thirty thousand dollars, spent on stuff that my aunt does not have or has no recollection of authorizing. This money was spent over the course of the last 10 months, from when the bank account was made to the 'present' day. 10 months, and my mother somehow stole 30k AND turned my aunt and grandma's lives around.

My mother's rebuttal: all but 2k of that 30k is accounted for. Presents for the nephews/grandchildren, authorized by my grandmother, new clothes for my aunt for a job interview, that's the new fridge, that's a one thousand dollar loan that my mother borrowed, with grandma's approval, and paid back three hours later (banks are weird like that), gas money for the trips over to their apartment to clean cat shit off the tile floors, lunch after cleaning their toilets, etc. It was all stuff like that, with a recurring theme: my aunt wasn't the one who said "Do it," grandma was. The 2k that was left was just stuff that my mom didn't have receipts for and couldn't remember, and my mom would have paid that back if my aunt asked for it.

But my aunt demanded the full 30k. She refused to accept "but grandma said so" because grandma didn't remember that. What my aunt also refused to accept was that grandma was going senile and had been for a few years. Maybe she forgot? HOW DARE YOU BLAH BLAH BLAH it was awful.

So my aunt brings my mother to civil court and charges her. Touts all this evidence and claims that she's an invalid and has lived in a fugue state for the last few years due to pain medication and, well, pain. She claims that my mother was taking advantage of her, stealing from her, risking her life by putting her in financial jeapordy.

This is garbage, because A) my aunt was working at tkd with me EVERY DAY FOR THIS PERIOD OF TIME, B) my aunt managed to pull off straight A's at LBCC while they got a certificate in something, and C) HER LIFE IS SIGNIFICANTLY BETTER THAN IT WAS BEFORE!!!

My Aunt's annual income, including tae kwon do and Grandma's pension, was around 40k. HOW DID MY MOTHER STEAL ALMOST AN ENTIRE YEAR'S WORTH OF MONEY, AND STILL MANAGE TO GET YOU INTO A BETTER SITUATION? Its all a load of bs, its lies, its slander.

My mother loses the civil case. She has to pay back my aunt 15k. Alright. Fine. Its over with. Its far more than my mother should have to pay but its done.

My Aunt then charges CRIMINALLY, and brings the whole thing back. My mother is unequipped to handle this, we do the best we can, and manage to bring down the multiple felonies my aunt is trying to charge my mother with down to a misdemeanor theft charge. One thousand hours of community service and we're good to go.

Unfortunately, the misdemeanor theft doesn't exist, so my aunt's lawyers file the paperwork as a felony anyway. My mother now has a felony on her record, owes 15k dollars, and has to somehow do 1k hours of community service while working a full time job.

Now, by the time this all goes down my aunt has quit tae kwon do, she is no longer working there and hasn't been for some time. I see her occasionally, as I still have a relationship with this woman, until the criminal charges are brought up.

I immediately tell my aunt to back down. She refuses. I sever ties with her and we're done now. I focus on my relationship with my mother, trying to help her as best I can to deal with this mess.

My relationship with my aunt was severed five years ago. A few months later, the trial is over and my mother is struggling to deal with the repercussions of all of this. Its been half a decade, and we're finally turning shit around. My mother has almost paid off my aunt. She's back in school to get a bachelor's degree while working and bringing in six figures (when combined with her husband's income). We're doing wonderfully.

Then I get an email this morning from my aunt. She wants to let us know that my grandmother is sick in the head (senility alzheimers, idk), she likely does not have long left, and wants to see us before she forgets who her family is.

I do not know how to process this. This rambling post is my attempts to fully understand what has happened, and to give context to anyone who wants it. I don't know how to do this. I don't want to just leave my grandmother to die, broken and alone, but I also don't want a relationship with my aunt. My grandmother through my mother under the bus, supporting my aunt completely in all of this, and is just as much to blame as my aunt.

But.... still. I don't know what to do.

[flauntpage]

Golden State InfoWarriors: Among The Conspiracy Theorists At Oracle Arena

Conspiracy.

You'd think that a fan-base with a barely two-year-old NBA championship to its name, a bevy of superstars and a commanding series lead coming into the game wouldn't feel victimized.

But goodness me, I heard that word a lot around the Bay Area in the days before the NBA Finals came back to Oakland on Monday night. Conspiracy. Rigging. Money trumping everything. The innocent Bay, unspoiled by cynicism or avarice and blessedly untouched by the disgusting hand of the oligarchs of the world, was sure that their Warriors were going to lose Game 5. The global forces of capital demanded another game, and another game's worth of television revenues. It was the blameless, hard-working Warriors, like Steve Kerr (averaging a salary of $5 million a year) and Kevin Durant (guaranteed more than $54,000,000 between this year and next year), who would pay the price.

This was the hum I heard in the Stella Artois club at Oracle Arena, where people were poured $13 Bud Lites and were charged $120 for a jersey. The conversation in the air was one of fear, but not the usual "man we're gonna get roughed up by the refs" fear of a team that did not want to slog through another series against LeBron James. Rich, powerful men were convinced that they were about to be robbed. This was chili-tilted, Alex Jones-level muttering, a fan base humming with paranoia about—if stopping just short of accusing—the globalists cruelly using their influence to change the fate of the $1.6 billion Golden State Warriors, who make around $168 million a year. Or at least push the series to a sixth game, anyway.

Moneyballs

It's time for some game theory.

My friend Colin is a ticket hound, and regularly gets into games for a few hundred dollars that would usually cost thousands. He does this by gaming the system using a series of apps to play the same digital mind-games that touts play with fans. As he'd told me many times before, the system usually worked on the prospect of driving up pricing right until tip-off. Usually, the ticket hoarders drive up their prices to varying levels of obscenity—over $2,000 for one lower-level seat where you can vaguely make out an ass, but not a specific ass, up to $5,432 (which I heard referred to as "a hell of a deal) for a courtside club seat near the hoop, where you could specifically identify any number of sports-asses, but not really see the game so well.

The bottom line, I quickly understood, was that I would need to put aside my preconceived sense of the value of a sports ticket. It is obscene, almost insulting to the suffering communities of the Bay Area that aren't San Francisco, just to see these numbers discussed. It is easy to imagine a way this could all be a lot less gross; there are an infinite number of better uses for Ticketmaster gouge-fees than being funneled back into the Ticketmaster machine, and the Warriors have a great deal more leverage on this than they appear willing to use. Anyway, the conversation among the people who had been gouged on those fees for this game was about referee rigging.

Would you pay $10,000 for a chance to sit near motivational speaker Tony Robbins? Photo by Kelley L Cox-USA TODAY Sports

The Uber For Touting

Usually, if you watch the right apps, you can see the moment when ticket-holders start shitting their pants. Sometime just before the game, people that bought tickets in advance with the intention of making a profit will realize that they are screwed. Prices are meant to drop, but they didn't on Monday.

Before the game, Colin showed me Row 10, eight rows behind me, at $3,400 a seat with taxes and fees. That was more than I'd paid; the seat directly in front of me was selling, or not selling, for $5,102.50. My favorite, and my dude if you are reading this I hope you're a season ticket holder doing Tout Irony, was by the 115 section corner on the Warriors' side, which listed $10,800 for a couple of seats. God bless this hopeful seller. This was less than a pair of $9,000 on-the-floor "VIP" seats, which offered a view both of the game and of Chris Rock and other celebrities checking their phones.

At 5:30 PM PT, there were still lots of expensive seats available.

At 6 p.m. I was ready for some football—"uh, this is basketball," the man in front of me told me sternly when I made this joke out loud—and tickets were either withdrawn, unsold, or left at the same price. Just before tipoff a lucky buyer could have gotten a steal (?) of a deal on a $3,965 front-row dead center Cavs-side ticket, or scored one for $3,108 for the same on the Warriors' side. The disparity was not an accident; people wanted to be on "the right side" of the arena despite there being precious few Cavaliers fans in the actual house.

I kept watch for the hour or so in which you can still buy tickets through the Gametime app as the game begins, as well as the Warriors' featured "you can upgrade your current seat using our app for $100-$1000 a ticket" app (which allows you to do so from 4PM to 30 minutes after tip-off.) At 15 minutes in there were still at least 25 seats on sale, all of them priced to the purest obscenity. I was delighted to see that the $10k "why am I sitting here" corner seats disappeared around then. I hope they sold to the biggest, dumbest startup idiot alive. I'm not even going to comment on the $22,954 courtside club seat far off in the bottom corner of the Cavs' side.

Prices just kept on rising, with a few disappearing and more appearing, then at about 6:45 PM the wheels came off of the market. Tickets dropped off rapidly, some withdrawn and some sold; you could see as they'd flash yellow if they were sold (which was much rarer), and those were mostly fairly (in context) higher-level 200's seats of people saying "hey, $800 ain't bad to see the Warriors win." I watched as the $5,232 seat quite literally in front of me (102, row 1), the $8,260 corner Courtside Club seat—by the by, the demarcation between courtside and sideline club is different seat and stair color, and you can get drink service—and the $2,238 section 108 (close enough to say with some certainty "that's Steph Curry's ass!" but not the action) seats sat inert. Colin himself remarked that it was weird.

By 7:01 PM all that remained were two staunch, sad seats—lower baseline ($1,127 for a view of some yellow and reddish ants) and $1,400 (217, row 17, a better view, off to the left). They never sold.

At game time, several expensive seats remained unsold. Photo by Cary Edmondson-USA TODAY Sports

Infowarriors

During the game, I went out to grab a beer and was confronted by some sort of touch-screen beer thing. You'd slide a card, you'd choose a beer, and then the thing would dispense the beer. A woman grabbed me by the arm and yelled that I'd "LITERALLY [emphasis hers] ignored the ENTIRE line." The line was long, to be fair, but I had misunderstood the process. The process was that you had to line up behind 50 people in order to get a punch card, in order to buy beers from a totally automated machine.

Take a look y'all:

Look at this crazy beer tech! Photo by author

The people in this line were mumbling about "biased" refs, too. "It's bullshit," said one guy in line at the bar as he gulped down a beer that he'd finish before he got to the machine that would sell him another beer. "They let us get this far so they could make money, now it'll go to Game 7, because they want to make money." I asked how he thought they'd do this, what system was in place, and he looked at me and said "look, man, they've got cameras everywhere. They know when to call shit." I still don't know what this means.

Near my seat I chatted with a guy who'd had season tickets since the 1990's, and who also shared the conspiracy. "Three phantom calls!" he bellowed in the first minute when the Warriors were called for fouls like "he touched him" or "shoe was too squeaky, distraction on the play."

"It's crooked," he grunted at me as the refs failed to call LeBron for the foul of "scoring points on The Warriors."

Of course this isn't unusual in sports, and Warriors fans are no less petty than any team claiming the referee's a wanker, or wants the other side to win. But they were not quite talking about the refs, or not just talking about the refs. They kept saying it was about the NBA wanting to rig this for an extra game. Perhaps it was more that the Warriors kept trying to do flashy triple-passes or were being outshot from three by a percentage of 36.8% to the Cavs' 45.8%. Or maybe a belief somehow persists that the NBA is just hurting for cash, and must conspire to make more. Like all conspiracy theories, the truth said out loud is absurd—the fans I asked said they "beat the shit" out of the Cavs the first three games, but Game 4 was "stolen." This one was "rigged" too. If someone glanced harshly at Steph Curry, someone in our section would cry foul.

When David West and Tristan Thompson got angry after Kyrie Irving yelled (I think) "Westworld fuckin' sucked!" a fight began. The woman behind me, in the same tone that I've heard really nasty shit said, yelled "THEY'RE FUCKIN' ANIMALS," and "OUR BOYS ARE CLASSY."

Snoop Dogg and Stephen A. Smith shake hands prior to Game 5 because sure why not? Photo by Kyle Terada-USA TODAY Sports

Conspiracy or not, the Warriors carried a lead over an exhausted opponent. My nephew and I could see the tiredness in LeBron's eyes—he had conviction, and some evident fury at his team's failures, but he mostly skipped the Warriors' truculent, endless complaining. The Warriors played whimsical and fancified at times; they seemed almost to be having too much fun.

Yet people kept saying there was a conspiracy. "Refs are in the pocket of the NBA" came from the top of the stands. "It's fuckin'RIGGED," they yelled at every foul, even with a 10-point lead and the Cavaliers approaching exhaustion. Whenever they missed a shot, a man in his late fifties, on his own, would throw the bird and yell "FUCK YOU LEBRON" at the Cavs bench. No matter the Warriors lead, there remained a cacophony of queasy dipshittery.

Yet it really was a great game. Both teams played all out until the end, but the dominance the Warriors hold over the NBA is brutal and stunning to behold. It's simple and stunning how powerless every opponent was when it came to preventing Durant from doing what he wanted; Curry's speed and vision seemed supernatural. If there was coaching happening on either side, I didn't see it. I just saw two teams locked in a game that, however imbalanced, was incredibly entertaining.

In those last 58 seconds, I could still hear chatter behind me about how "we're lucky to have won, 'cause the refs wanted seven games. The NBA just wants our money, man." Twenty seconds remained and one guy yelled "FUCK, WHAT WAS THAT?" for some reason. If you were wondering who was booing when Adam Silver was introduced to hand Durant the Bill Russell NBA Finals Most Valuable Player Award, wonder no more.

My brother and his girlfriend later confirmed that things were no different in their seats. People were wailing about the conspiracy against the Warriors despite a dominant performance. "It doesn't matter we're leading, they're just gonna take it from us," with they being the NBA. The Warriors fans—and I suppose I should add that I'm a Warriors fan, and that I live in Oakland—were worse than just sore winners. They were tantrum-throwing children, seething over their expensive toys.

Hearing "NEVERTHELESS, THEY PERSISTED" as the Warriors led by 10 to 14 points was inarguably my second-worst moment of the game. The next was when the announcer said "and thanks to the players of the Cleveland Cavaliers" and the arena erupted in boos. Sure, it's normal sports bullshit, the human nature of us versus them. But after crying that the NBA was beating up your multi-million superteam and then giving Cleveland hell isn't just unsportsmanlike, it just felt pathetic.

It also felt like the Bay, circa now. What happens if the Warriors decline, as they eventually must? Will it be a conspiracy, then? Will it be bad coaching, then? Will Steve Kerr Have To Go despite two championships in three years? There are a lot of wins ahead for this team, but it's hard to imagine that there are enough for the people I saw fuming through this victory. We don't just have a tech bubble. We've got a Warriors bubble. And when it bursts, it'll be painful.

Golden State InfoWarriors: Among The Conspiracy Theorists At Oracle Arena published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv