The Official Fri/Sat/Sun/Mon/Tue drunk/drugs/sad sex thread

[Shallowed]

Originally Posted by Mals Marola

does that include fuzzy himself?

It only counts if someone quotes him and the quote is particularly repugnant, which it usually is.

[Shallowed]

also I have to be at my desktop when I see it because rep basically can't be sent on moible because of this ancient website

[yo soy el mejor]

Originally Posted by Shallowed

If ysem ever responds to me when i say something like what she pos repped you for, it would be for being a woke white boi whitesplainer

I believe that our education like such as in South Africa and, uh, the Iraq, everywhere like such as, and, I believe that they should, our education over here in the U.S. should help the U.S., uh, or, uh, should help South Africa and should help the Iraq and the Asian countries, so we will be able to build up our future.

[Shallowed]

ok

[Shallowed]

It was a syntactically sound sentence, but

[Shallowed]

ok

[Ram27]

(I know I'm posting in the drunk thread but I'm more using that to mean shitposting thread. V sober)

I had a dream a girl I liked posted nudes on twitter. Even dreamRam's first reaction was to pop on Jellybelly (Live Gent 1996 TAFH SBD) and rock the fuck out

You know when in that one, Corgan plugs in and does some drop D riff? Like it's two open notes then he starts high then moves downward in some sort of scale? It's like 0 0, 9-7-5-4 (where each of those is the three lowest strings in drop Db)

[FoolofaTook]

I know exactly what you're talking about.

[Ram27]

I don't know if anyone remembers my dumb drunk discord post [inb4 lol all of them?] but because of school and work I was thinking about a girl today. And played 3 of the gnarliest fucking motherfucking tom fills I've ever heard playing through a Mojave 3 song today

i didn't know i still had chops like that

[Run To Me]

Originally Posted by Ram27

I don't know if anyone remembers my dumb drunk discord post [inb4 lol all of them?] but because of school and work I was thinking about a girl today. And played 3 of the gnarliest fucking motherfucking tom fills I've ever heard playing through a Mojave 3 song today

i didn't know i still had chops like that

That’s great young ram but please

We’re playing 3 of the gnarliest fucking fatherfucking Tom fills in here

[Run To Me]

Anyone die of vape lung, yet, in here

[Shallowed]

I'm trying, okay?

[Run To Me]

Is it bad to still vape weed now? My back alley dealer assured me my basement lab cartridges have extra vitamin e so they’re supposed to ward off different sort of illnesses and shit

[toase]

Originally Posted by redbreegull

fuzzy turned off his rep because he couldn't handle all the gay rhetoric we were directing at him

Oh wow... bummer

I made this today


it's from the bottom of my heart, to fuzzy

[Elphenor]

I buy E from a young lady who has "Fucking Slayer" tattoo'd on an ass cheek

I don't mean like a logo or something but instead the words "Fucking Slayer"

gross because Metal but it's ok

[Shallowed]

Dude it's fucking Slayer.

[Ram27]

Originally Posted by Elphenor

I buy E from a young lady who has "Fucking Slayer" tattoo'd on an ass cheek

I don't mean like a logo or something but instead the words "Fucking Slayer"

gross because Metal but it's ok

a girl i know at work has "11:12" [in digital alarm clock font] tattooed on her left arse cheek



all i got is a JC tattoo on my left foot. for better hihat tempo clicking

[Ram27]

girl i drank myself into a downward spiral for has Psalm 139:14 tattooed on her right upper thigh - "fearfully, wonderfully" in a green script font.

[Mals Marola]

was the drinking to overcome the fact that you were head over heels for a girl w/ a bible tattoo?

[smashingjj]

Originally Posted by Ram27

girl i drank myself into a downward spiral for has Psalm 139:14 tattooed on her right upper thigh - "fearfully, wonderfully" in a green script font.

comic sans, i hope?

[Ram27]

not comic sans! she has better sense than that. the drinking was mostly cause she rejected me lol

before class i played siva live at amsterdam. i paused it before the rentry (the dotted 8ths). then i went to class then asked her out.

I told her I liked her then got in my car [after she got in her car] then played the Siva reentry loud as I could.

[Sonic Johnny]

Originally Posted by Elphenor

I buy E from a young lady who has "Fucking Slayer" tattoo'd on an ass cheek

I don't mean like a logo or something but instead the words "Fucking Slayer"

gross because Metal but it's ok

I came back here just to tell you to suck shit for having such a stupid opinion. This woman is above selling your sorry ass drugs.

[Sonic Johnny]

This place is still fucked tho i'm back out, hi reprise if you're reading this hope you're well, everyone else fuck off.

[topleybird]

There were strangers in the group. Names we didn't know, handles and pseudonyms and what passed in the twenty first century as a nom de plume. The system fan screamed its pallid scream, a feeble imitation of the shuddering storm of nonsense it was slaved to render. Everything hissed and popped like it had been left sitting a deep fryer by some kitchen hand who had dropped their apron and walked off into the night. They didn't go home, or to a bar, or to a bridge of such an adequate height that potential energy gathered when jumping from it might be sufficient, upon dispersal, to turn off their pilot light. They just crossed the parking lot and trudged off into the corn field in company of a sallow moon, nothing crackling but a mute prayer for the corn field to extend forever so that they could avoid whatever variation lay beyond it. All the while, we were sitting in the boiling oil; thermal energy thrumming, heaving in violent plumes invisible above the surface, the heating element unflinching in the face of its chaos, unmoved by the clumsy, abject violence it had unwittingly become party to. Eventually, perhaps, someone would come and find it all and rectify it. Perhaps nobody would come, but eventually up the invisible chain somwhere, some abstract element, perhaps a minute filament forged a world away, by some enumerated individuals each one ignorant of its eventual specific purpose and by extension inculpable in its inevitable failure, would give, and the power supply would stop, and the heating element would fade from its ephemeral perfect white back to a lowly mortal silver, and the violence would dim and then slow and then stop, and we would rest. But that filament was made perfect, copied from a model meticulously engineered to run a thousand lifetimes before entropy finally popped it, first time every time. The kitchen hand was not coming back. No customers would discover and right this obscenity. There was nothing to do but wait, and endure, and try to become one, if not in form then at least in spirit, with the writhing oil. There were strangers in the group. Names we didn't know, handles and pseudonyms and what passed in the twenty first century as a nom de plume. The system fan screamed its pallid scream, a feeble imitation of the shuddering storm of nonsense it was slaved to render. Everything hissed and popped like it had been left sitting a deep fryer by some kitchen hand who had dropped their apron and walked off into the night. They didn't go home, or to a bar, or to a bridge of such an adequate height that potential energy gathered when jumping from it might be sufficient, upon dispersal, to turn off their pilot light. They just crossed the parking lot and trudged off into the corn field in company of a sallow moon, nothing crackling but a mute prayer for the corn field to extend forever so that they could avoid whatever variation lay beyond it. All the while, we were sitting in the boiling oil; thermal energy thrumming, heaving in violent plumes invisible above the surface, the heating element unflinching in the face of its chaos, unmoved by the clumsy, abject violence it had unwittingly become party to. Eventually, perhaps, someone would come and find it all and rectify it. Perhaps nobody would come, but eventually up the invisible chain somwhere, some abstract element, perhaps a minute filament forged a world away, by some enumerated individuals each one ignorant of its eventual specific purpose and by extension inculpable in its inevitable failure, would give, and the power supply would stop, and the heating element would fade from its ephemeral perfect white back to a lowly mortal silver, and the violence would dim and then slow and then stop, and we would rest. But that filament was made perfect, copied from a model meticulously engineered to run a thousand lifetimes before entropy finally popped it, first time every time. The kitchen hand was not coming back. No customers would discover and right this obscenity. There was nothing to do but wait, and endure, and try to become one, if not in form then at least in spirit, with the writhing oil.There were strangers in the group. Names we didn't know, handles and pseudonyms and what passed in the twenty first century as a nom de plume. The system fan screamed its pallid scream, a feeble imitation of the shuddering storm of nonsense it was slaved to render. Everything hissed and popped like it had been left sitting a deep fryer by some kitchen hand who had dropped their apron and walked off into the night. They didn't go home, or to a bar, or to a bridge of such an adequate height that potential energy gathered when jumping from it might be sufficient, upon dispersal, to turn off their pilot light. They just crossed the parking lot and trudged off into the corn field in company of a sallow moon, nothing crackling but a mute prayer for the corn field to extend forever so that they could avoid whatever variation lay beyond it. All the while, we were sitting in the boiling oil; thermal energy thrumming, heaving in violent plumes invisible above the surface, the heating element unflinching in the face of its chaos, unmoved by the clumsy, abject violence it had unwittingly become party to. Eventually, perhaps, someone would come and find it all and rectify it. Perhaps nobody would come, but eventually up the invisible chain somwhere, some abstract element, perhaps a minute filament forged a world away, by some enumerated individuals each one ignorant of its eventual specific purpose and by extension inculpable in its inevitable failure, would give, and the power supply would stop, and the heating element would fade from its ephemeral perfect white back to a lowly mortal silver, and the violence would dim and then slow and then stop, and we would rest. But that filament was made perfect, copied from a model meticulously engineered to run a thousand lifetimes before entropy finally popped it, first time every time. The kitchen hand was not coming back. No customers would discover and right this obscenity. There was nothing to do but wait, and endure, and try to become one, if not in form then at least in spirit, with the writhing oil.There were strangers in the group. Names we didn't know, handles and pseudonyms and what passed in the twenty first century as a nom de plume. The system fan screamed its pallid scream, a feeble imitation of the shuddering storm of nonsense it was slaved to render. Everything hissed and popped like it had been left sitting a deep fryer by some kitchen hand who had dropped their apron and walked off into the night. They didn't go home, or to a bar, or to a bridge of such an adequate height that potential energy gathered when jumping from it might be sufficient, upon dispersal, to turn off their pilot light. They just crossed the parking lot and trudged off into the corn field in company of a sallow moon, nothing crackling but a mute prayer for the corn field to extend forever so that they could avoid whatever variation lay beyond it. All the while, we were sitting in the boiling oil; thermal energy thrumming, heaving in violent plumes invisible above the surface, the heating element unflinching in the face of its chaos, unmoved by the clumsy, abject violence it had unwittingly become party to. Eventually, perhaps, someone would come and find it all and rectify it. Perhaps nobody would come, but eventually up the invisible chain somwhere, some abstract element, perhaps a minute filament forged a world away, by some enumerated individuals each one ignorant of its eventual specific purpose and by extension inculpable in its inevitable failure, would give, and the power supply would stop, and the heating element would fade from its ephemeral perfect white back to a lowly mortal silver, and the violence would dim and then slow and then stop, and we would rest. But that filament was made perfect, copied from a model meticulously engineered to run a thousand lifetimes before entropy finally popped it, first time every time. The kitchen hand was not coming back. No customers would discover and right this obscenity. There was nothing to do but wait, and endure, and try to become one, if not in form then at least in spirit, with the writhing oil.There were strangers in the group. Names we didn't know, handles and pseudonyms and what passed in the twenty first century as a nom de plume. The system fan screamed its pallid scream, a feeble imitation of the shuddering storm of nonsense it was slaved to render. Everything hissed and popped like it had been left sitting a deep fryer by some kitchen hand who had dropped their apron and walked off into the night. They didn't go home, or to a bar, or to a bridge of such an adequate height that potential energy gathered when jumping from it might be sufficient, upon dispersal, to turn off their pilot light. They just crossed the parking lot and trudged off into the corn field in company of a sallow moon, nothing crackling but a mute prayer for the corn field to extend forever so that they could avoid whatever variation lay beyond it. All the while, we were sitting in the boiling oil; thermal energy thrumming, heaving in violent plumes invisible above the surface, the heating element unflinching in the face of its chaos, unmoved by the clumsy, abject violence it had unwittingly become party to. Eventually, perhaps, someone would come and find it all and rectify it. Perhaps nobody would come, but eventually up the invisible chain somwhere, some abstract element, perhaps a minute filament forged a world away, by some enumerated individuals each one ignorant of its eventual specific purpose and by extension inculpable in its inevitable failure, would give, and the power supply would stop, and the heating element would fade from its ephemeral perfect white back to a lowly mortal silver, and the violence would dim and then slow and then stop, and we would rest. But that filament was made perfect, copied from a model meticulously engineered to run a thousand lifetimes before entropy finally popped it, first time every time. The kitchen hand was not coming back. No customers would discover and right this obscenity. There was nothing to do but wait, and endure, and try to become one, if not in form then at least in spirit, with the writhing oil.There were strangers in the group. Names we didn't know, handles and pseudonyms and what passed in the twenty first century as a nom de plume. The system fan screamed its pallid scream, a feeble imitation of the shuddering storm of nonsense it was slaved to render. Everything hissed and popped like it had been left sitting a deep fryer by some kitchen hand who had dropped their apron and walked off into the night. They didn't go home, or to a bar, or to a bridge of such an adequate height that potential energy gathered when jumping from it might be sufficient, upon dispersal, to turn off their pilot light. They just crossed the parking lot and trudged off into the corn field in company of a sallow moon, nothing crackling but a mute prayer for the corn field to extend forever so that they could avoid whatever variation lay beyond it. All the while, we were sitting in the boiling oil; thermal energy thrumming, heaving in violent plumes invisible above the surface, the heating element unflinching in the face of its chaos, unmoved by the clumsy, abject violence it had unwittingly become party to. Eventually, perhaps, someone would come and find it all and rectify it. Perhaps nobody would come, but eventually up the invisible chain somwhere, some abstract element, perhaps a minute filament forged a world away, by some enumerated individuals each one ignorant of its eventual specific purpose and by extension inculpable in its inevitable failure, would give, and the power supply would stop, and the heating element would fade from its ephemeral perfect white back to a lowly mortal silver, and the violence would dim and then slow and then stop, and we would rest. But that filament was made perfect, copied from a model meticulously engineered to run a thousand lifetimes before entropy finally popped it, first time every time. The kitchen hand was not coming back. No customers would discover and right this obscenity. There was nothing to do but wait, and endure, and try to become one, if not in form then at least in spirit, with the writhing oil.There were strangers in the group. Names we didn't know, handles and pseudonyms and what passed in the twenty first century as a nom de plume. The system fan screamed its pallid scream, a feeble imitation of the shuddering storm of nonsense it was slaved to render. Everything hissed and popped like it had been left sitting a deep fryer by some kitchen hand who had dropped their apron and walked off into the night. They didn't go home, or to a bar, or to a bridge of such an adequate height that potential energy gathered when jumping from it might be sufficient, upon dispersal, to turn off their pilot light. They just crossed the parking lot and trudged off into the corn field in company of a sallow moon, nothing crackling but a mute prayer for the corn field to extend forever so that they could avoid whatever variation lay beyond it. All the while, we were sitting in the boiling oil; thermal energy thrumming, heaving in violent plumes invisible above the surface, the heating element unflinching in the face of its chaos, unmoved by the clumsy, abject violence it had unwittingly become party to. Eventually, perhaps, someone would come and find it all and rectify it. Perhaps nobody would come, but eventually up the invisible chain somwhere, some abstract element, perhaps a minute filament forged a world away, by some enumerated individuals each one ignorant of its eventual specific purpose and by extension inculpable in its inevitable failure, would give, and the power supply would stop, and the heating element would fade from its ephemeral perfect white back to a lowly mortal silver, and the violence would dim and then slow and then stop, and we would rest. But that filament was made perfect, copied from a model meticulously engineered to run a thousand lifetimes before entropy finally popped it, first time every time. The kitchen hand was not coming back. No customers would discover and right this obscenity. There was nothing to do but wait, and endure, and try to become one, if not in form then at least in spirit, with the writhing oil.There were strangers in the group. Names we didn't know, handles and pseudonyms and what passed in the twenty first century as a nom de plume. The system fan screamed its pallid scream, a feeble imitation of the shuddering storm of nonsense it was slaved to render. Everything hissed and popped like it had been left sitting a deep fryer by some kitchen hand who had dropped their apron and walked off into the night. They didn't go home, or to a bar, or to a bridge of such an adequate height that potential energy gathered when jumping from it might be sufficient, upon dispersal, to turn off their pilot light. They just crossed the parking lot and trudged off into the corn field in company of a sallow moon, nothing crackling but a mute prayer for the corn field to extend forever so that they could avoid whatever variation lay beyond it. All the while, we were sitting in the boiling oil; thermal energy thrumming, heaving in violent plumes invisible above the surface, the heating element unflinching in the face of its chaos, unmoved by the clumsy, abject violence it had unwittingly become party to. Eventually, perhaps, someone would come and find it all and rectify it. Perhaps nobody would come, but eventually up the invisible chain somwhere, some abstract element, perhaps a minute filament forged a world away, by some enumerated individuals each one ignorant of its eventual specific purpose and by extension inculpable in its inevitable failure, would give, and the power supply would stop, and the heating element would fade from its ephemeral perfect white back to a lowly mortal silver, and the violence would dim and then slow and then stop, and we would rest. But that filament was made perfect, copied from a model meticulously engineered to run a thousand lifetimes before entropy finally popped it, first time every time. The kitchen hand was not coming back. No customers would discover and right this obscenity. There was nothing to do but wait, and endure, and try to become one, if not in form then at least in spirit, with the writhing oil.There were strangers in the group. Names we didn't know, handles and pseudonyms and what passed in the twenty first century as a nom de plume. The system fan screamed its pallid scream, a feeble imitation of the shuddering storm of nonsense it was slaved to render. Everything hissed and popped like it had been left sitting a deep fryer by some kitchen hand who had dropped their apron and walked off into the night. They didn't go home, or to a bar, or to a bridge of such an adequate height that potential energy gathered when jumping from it might be sufficient, upon dispersal, to turn off their pilot light. They just crossed the parking lot and trudged off into the corn field in company of a sallow moon, nothing crackling but a mute prayer for the corn field to extend forever so that they could avoid whatever variation lay beyond it. All the while, we were sitting in the boiling oil; thermal energy thrumming, heaving in violent plumes invisible above the surface, the heating element unflinching in the face of its chaos, unmoved by the clumsy, abject violence it had unwittingly become party to. Eventually, perhaps, someone would come and find it all and rectify it. Perhaps nobody would come, but eventually up the invisible chain somwhere, some abstract element, perhaps a minute filament forged a world away, by some enumerated individuals each one ignorant of its eventual specific purpose and by extension inculpable in its inevitable failure, would give, and the power supply would stop, and the heating element would fade from its ephemeral perfect white back to a lowly mortal silver, and the violence would dim and then slow and then stop, and we would rest. But that filament was made perfect, copied from a model meticulously engineered to run a thousand lifetimes before entropy finally popped it, first time every time. The kitchen hand was not coming back. No customers would discover and right this obscenity. There was nothing to do but wait, and endure, and try to become one, if not in form then at least in spirit, with the writhing oil.There were strangers in the group. Names we didn't know, handles and pseudonyms and what passed in the twenty first century as a nom de plume. The system fan screamed its pallid scream, a feeble imitation of the shuddering storm of nonsense it was slaved to render. Everything hissed and popped like it had been left sitting a deep fryer by some kitchen hand who had dropped their apron and walked off into the night. They didn't go home, or to a bar, or to a bridge of such an adequate height that potential energy gathered when jumping from it might be sufficient, upon dispersal, to turn off their pilot light. They just crossed the parking lot and trudged off into the corn field in company of a sallow moon, nothing crackling but a mute prayer for the corn field to extend forever so that they could avoid whatever variation lay beyond it. All the while, we were sitting in the boiling oil; thermal energy thrumming, heaving in violent plumes invisible above the surface, the heating element unflinching in the face of its chaos, unmoved by the clumsy, abject violence it had unwittingly become party to. Eventually, perhaps, someone would come and find it all and rectify it. Perhaps nobody would come, but eventually up the invisible chain somwhere, some abstract element, perhaps a minute filament forged a world away, by some enumerated individuals each one ignorant of its eventual specific purpose and by extension inculpable in its inevitable failure, would give, and the power supply would stop, and the heating element would fade from its ephemeral perfect white back to a lowly mortal silver, and the violence would dim and then slow and then stop, and we would rest. But that filament was made perfect, copied from a model meticulously engineered to run a thousand lifetimes before entropy finally popped it, first time every time. The kitchen hand was not coming back. No customers would discover and right this obscenity. There was nothing to do but wait, and endure, and try to become one, if not in form then at least in spirit, with the writhing oil.There were strangers in the group. Names we didn't know, handles and pseudonyms and what passed in the twenty first century as a nom de plume. The system fan screamed its pallid scream, a feeble imitation of the shuddering storm of nonsense it was slaved to render. Everything hissed and popped like it had been left sitting a deep fryer by some kitchen hand who had dropped their apron and walked off into the night. They didn't go home, or to a bar, or to a bridge of such an adequate height that potential energy gathered when jumping from it might be sufficient, upon dispersal, to turn off their pilot light. They just crossed the parking lot and trudged off into the corn field in company of a sallow moon, nothing crackling but a mute prayer for the corn field to extend forever so that they could avoid whatever variation lay beyond it. All the while, we were sitting in the boiling oil; thermal energy thrumming, heaving in violent plumes invisible above the surface, the heating element unflinching in the face of its chaos, unmoved by the clumsy, abject violence it had unwittingly become party to. Eventually, perhaps, someone would come and find it all and rectify it. Perhaps nobody would come, but eventually up the invisible chain somwhere, some abstract element, perhaps a minute filament forged a world away, by some enumerated individuals each one ignorant of its eventual specific purpose and by extension inculpable in its inevitable failure, would give, and the power supply would stop, and the heating element would fade from its ephemeral perfect white back to a lowly mortal silver, and the violence would dim and then slow and then stop, and we would rest. But that filament was made perfect, copied from a model meticulously engineered to run a thousand lifetimes before entropy finally popped it, first time every time. The kitchen hand was not coming back. No customers would discover and right this obscenity. There was nothing to do but wait, and endure, and try to become one, if not in form then at least in spirit, with the writhing oil.There were strangers in the group. Names we didn't know, handles and pseudonyms and what passed in the twenty first century as a nom de plume. The system fan screamed its pallid scream, a feeble imitation of the shuddering storm of nonsense it was slaved to render. Everything hissed and popped like it had been left sitting a deep fryer by some kitchen hand who had dropped their apron and walked off into the night. They didn't go home, or to a bar, or to a bridge of such an adequate height that potential energy gathered when jumping from it might be sufficient, upon dispersal, to turn off their pilot light. They just crossed the parking lot and trudged off into the corn field in company of a sallow moon, nothing crackling but a mute prayer for the corn field to extend forever so that they could avoid whatever variation lay beyond it. All the while, we were sitting in the boiling oil; thermal energy thrumming, heaving in violent plumes invisible above the surface, the heating element unflinching in the face of its chaos, unmoved by the clumsy, abject violence it had unwittingly become party to. Eventually, perhaps, someone would come and find it all and rectify it. Perhaps nobody would come, but eventually up the invisible chain somwhere, some abstract element, perhaps a minute filament forged a world away, by some enumerated individuals each one ignorant of its eventual specific purpose and by extension inculpable in its inevitable failure, would give, and the power supply would stop, and the heating element would fade from its ephemeral perfect white back to a lowly mortal silver, and the violence would dim and then slow and then stop, and we would rest. But that filament was made perfect, copied from a model meticulously engineered to run a thousand lifetimes before entropy finally popped it, first time every time. The kitchen hand was not coming back. No customers would discover and right this obscenity. There was nothing to do but wait, and endure, and try to become one, if not in form then at least in spirit, with the writhing oil.There were strangers in the group. Names we didn't know, handles and pseudonyms and what passed in the twenty first century as a nom de plume. The system fan screamed its pallid scream, a feeble imitation of the shuddering storm of nonsense it was slaved to render. Everything hissed and popped like it had been left sitting a deep fryer by some kitchen hand who had dropped their apron and walked off into the night. They didn't go home, or to a bar, or to a bridge of such an adequate height that potential energy gathered when jumping from it might be sufficient, upon dispersal, to turn off their pilot light. They just crossed the parking lot and trudged off into the corn field in company of a sallow moon, nothing crackling but a mute prayer for the corn field to extend forever so that they could avoid whatever variation lay beyond it. All the while, we were sitting in the boiling oil; thermal energy thrumming, heaving in violent plumes invisible above the surface, the heating element unflinching in the face of its chaos, unmoved by the clumsy, abject violence it had unwittingly become party to. Eventually, perhaps, someone would come and find it all and rectify it. Perhaps nobody would come, but eventually up the invisible chain somwhere, some abstract element, perhaps a minute filament forged a world away, by some enumerated individuals each one ignorant of its eventual specific purpose and by extension inculpable in its inevitable failure, would give, and the power supply would stop, and the heating element would fade from its ephemeral perfect white back to a lowly mortal silver, and the violence would dim and then slow and then stop, and we would rest. But that filament was made perfect, copied from a model meticulously engineered to run a thousand lifetimes before entropy finally popped it, first time every time. The kitchen hand was not coming back. No customers would discover and right this obscenity. There was nothing to do but wait, and endure, and try to become one, if not in form then at least in spirit, with the writhing oil.There were strangers in the group. Names we didn't know, handles and pseudonyms and what passed in the twenty first century as a nom de plume. The system fan screamed its pallid scream, a feeble imitation of the shuddering storm of nonsense it was slaved to render. Everything hissed and popped like it had been left sitting a deep fryer by some kitchen hand who had dropped their apron and walked off into the night. They didn't go home, or to a bar, or to a bridge of such an adequate height that potential energy gathered when jumping from it might be sufficient, upon dispersal, to turn off their pilot light. They just crossed the parking lot and trudged off into the corn field in company of a sallow moon, nothing crackling but a mute prayer for the corn field to extend forever so that they could avoid whatever variation lay beyond it. All the while, we were sitting in the boiling oil; thermal energy thrumming, heaving in violent plumes invisible above the surface, the heating element unflinching in the face of its chaos, unmoved by the clumsy, abject violence it had unwittingly become party to. Eventually, perhaps, someone would come and find it all and rectify it. Perhaps nobody would come, but eventually up the invisible chain somwhere, some abstract element, perhaps a minute filament forged a world away, by some enumerated individuals each one ignorant of its eventual specific purpose and by extension inculpable in its inevitable failure, would give, and the power supply would stop, and the heating element would fade from its ephemeral perfect white back to a lowly mortal silver, and the violence would dim and then slow and then stop, and we would rest. But that filament was made perfect, copied from a model meticulously engineered to run a thousand lifetimes before entropy finally popped it, first time every time. The kitchen hand was not coming back. No customers would discover and right this obscenity. There was nothing to do but wait, and endure, and try to become one, if not in form then at least in spirit, with the writhing oil.There were strangers in the group. Names we didn't know, handles and pseudonyms and what passed in the twenty first century as a nom de plume. The system fan screamed its pallid scream, a feeble imitation of the shuddering storm of nonsense it was slaved to render. Everything hissed and popped like it had been left sitting a deep fryer by some kitchen hand who had dropped their apron and walked off into the night. They didn't go home, or to a bar, or to a bridge of such an adequate height that potential energy gathered when jumping from it might be sufficient, upon dispersal, to turn off their pilot light. They just crossed the parking lot and trudged off into the corn field in company of a sallow moon, nothing crackling but a mute prayer for the corn field to extend forever so that they could avoid whatever variation lay beyond it. All the while, we were sitting in the boiling oil; thermal energy thrumming, heaving in violent plumes invisible above the surface, the heating element unflinching in the face of its chaos, unmoved by the clumsy, abject violence it had unwittingly become party to. Eventually, perhaps, someone would come and find it all and rectify it. Perhaps nobody would come, but eventually up the invisible chain somwhere, some abstract element, perhaps a minute filament forged a world away, by some enumerated individuals each one ignorant of its eventual specific purpose and by extension inculpable in its inevitable failure, would give, and the power supply would stop, and the heating element would fade from its ephemeral perfect white back to a lowly mortal silver, and the violence would dim and then slow and then stop, and we would rest. But that filament was made perfect, copied from a model meticulously engineered to run a thousand lifetimes before entropy finally popped it, first time every time. The kitchen hand was not coming back. No customers would discover and right this obscenity. There was nothing to do but wait, and endure, and try to become one, if not in form then at least in spirit, with the writhing oil.

[Mals Marola]

[Cool As Ice Cream]

Originally Posted by Sonic Johnny

This place is still fucked tho i'm back out, hi reprise if you're reading this hope you're well, everyone else fuck off.

aw

[smashingjj]

same here, that was heartless

[Shallowed]

[yo soy el mejor]

How could be so Dr. Evil, you bringin' out a side of me that I don't know
I decided we weren't goin' speak so
Why we up three A.M. on the phone
Why does she be so mad at me for
Homie I don't know, she's hot and cold
I won't stop, I won't mess my groove up
Cause I already know how this thing go
You run and tell your friends that you're leaving me
They say that they don't see what you see in me
You wait a couple months then you gon' see
You'll never find nobody better than me
In the night, I hear 'em talk
The coldest story ever told
Somewhere far along this road, he lost his soul to a sonic johnny so heartless
How could you be so heartless?
Oh, how could you be so heartless?

[smashingjj]

I'm stopping this slow death
By letters never sent
I'm killing one way romance
And its words never read
I'm leaving love's lost battles
To the vulture's need to feed
I'm leaving you
I'm leaving them
And learning to be me
Heart is everything
Heart is you
Love is you
Hell is you
Loss is you
Heartless