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09-06-2019, 07:53 AM | #4771 |
Just Hook it to My Veins!
Location: all over the Internet
Posts: 44,548
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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.
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09-06-2019, 09:41 AM | #4772 |
Braindead
Posts: 18,608
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ok
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09-06-2019, 09:42 AM | #4773 |
Braindead
Posts: 18,608
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It was a syntactically sound sentence, but
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09-06-2019, 09:42 AM | #4774 |
Braindead
Posts: 18,608
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ok
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09-09-2019, 07:56 AM | #4775 |
dumb
Location: $8.6 million embezzled funds
Posts: 11,368
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(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) |
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09-09-2019, 08:28 AM | #4776 |
Just Hook it to My Veins!
Location: Donald Trump of Netphoria
Posts: 37,218
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I know exactly what you're talking about.
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09-10-2019, 06:44 PM | #4777 |
dumb
Location: $8.6 million embezzled funds
Posts: 11,368
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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 |
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09-12-2019, 09:52 PM | #4778 | |
Minion of Satan
Location: An oasis of horror in a desert of boredom
Posts: 7,755
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Quote:
We’re playing 3 of the gnarliest fucking fatherfucking Tom fills in here |
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09-12-2019, 09:53 PM | #4779 |
Minion of Satan
Location: An oasis of horror in a desert of boredom
Posts: 7,755
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Anyone die of vape lung, yet, in here
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09-12-2019, 10:32 PM | #4780 |
Braindead
Posts: 18,608
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I'm trying, okay?
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09-12-2019, 10:39 PM | #4781 |
Minion of Satan
Location: An oasis of horror in a desert of boredom
Posts: 7,755
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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
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09-13-2019, 01:18 AM | #4782 |
Apocalyptic Poster
Location: AA meetings
Posts: 4,026
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09-13-2019, 03:26 AM | #4783 |
Braindead
Location: TX
Posts: 16,289
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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 |
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09-13-2019, 08:46 AM | #4784 |
Braindead
Posts: 18,608
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Dude it's fucking Slayer.
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09-13-2019, 11:28 AM | #4785 | |
dumb
Location: $8.6 million embezzled funds
Posts: 11,368
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Quote:
all i got is a JC tattoo on my left foot. for better hihat tempo clicking |
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09-13-2019, 11:40 AM | #4786 |
dumb
Location: $8.6 million embezzled funds
Posts: 11,368
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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.
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09-13-2019, 12:39 PM | #4787 |
Socialphobic
Location: Your god damn living room
Posts: 10,000
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was the drinking to overcome the fact that you were head over heels for a girl w/ a bible tattoo?
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09-13-2019, 12:53 PM | #4788 |
real estate cowboy
Location: if Monsanto and Purdue Pharma had a baby
Posts: 36,903
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09-13-2019, 01:03 PM | #4789 |
dumb
Location: $8.6 million embezzled funds
Posts: 11,368
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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. |
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09-13-2019, 01:41 PM | #4790 |
Through Silver In Buds
Location: Centralia
Posts: 16,502
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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.
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09-13-2019, 01:42 PM | #4791 |
Through Silver In Buds
Location: Centralia
Posts: 16,502
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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.
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09-13-2019, 01:47 PM | #4792 |
Janis Jopleybird
Location: Let me see you do the booty hop. And now make the booty stop. Now drop, and do the booty wop.
Posts: 6,571
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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.
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09-13-2019, 02:55 PM | #4793 |
Socialphobic
Location: Your god damn living room
Posts: 10,000
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09-14-2019, 03:28 AM | #4794 |
Just Hook it to My Veins!
Location: František! How's the foot of your turtle?
Posts: 32,743
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09-14-2019, 03:53 AM | #4795 |
real estate cowboy
Location: if Monsanto and Purdue Pharma had a baby
Posts: 36,903
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same here, that was heartless
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09-14-2019, 05:55 AM | #4796 |
Braindead
Posts: 18,608
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09-14-2019, 08:48 AM | #4797 |
Just Hook it to My Veins!
Location: all over the Internet
Posts: 44,548
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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? |
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09-14-2019, 12:30 PM | #4798 |
real estate cowboy
Location: if Monsanto and Purdue Pharma had a baby
Posts: 36,903
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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 |
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09-14-2019, 12:34 PM | #4799 |
Just Hook it to My Veins!
Location: Donald Trump of Netphoria
Posts: 37,218
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You're standing in a corridor
Where our paths never seem to cross The hands of the clock meander The conversation devolves Our timing is always off My time, your time But we sense the love Inside the hearts Of those we're out of sync with I meet your gaze From a great distance Over and over, we fail and then forget I want to tell you what I'm thinking Each time we disconnect My time, your time A couple out of sync Finds love in each other's hearts Finds love in each of their hearts (dedicated to smashingjj's pussy, "jigs") |
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09-14-2019, 12:47 PM | #4800 | |
dumb
Location: $8.6 million embezzled funds
Posts: 11,368
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so i have a rehab intake appointment at 11:30 tomorrow morning.
i love you all but i'm scared. we skipped out on the last one cause it was mostly christian abstinence nonsense Quote:
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