I'm the woulda, shoulda and coulda and if I'm not even that yet then I'm on the fast track to there. There. Right fucking there with all the other human lumber in the eternal pyre. Fuck. Fucking all of everything... especially fuck this cruel realization and the weakness in my soul that requires any motivation on my part to require monumental momentum. God dammit why cant I keep the eye on the prize. Why does the prize have eyes for those other guys. This is the exact moment that I could kill another human being without hesitation.
Right now I will eat a fucking optimist.
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Saturday, August 9, 2014
Hair Flippin
08-08-2014 16:15 Holy hell I can almost see the words I'm typing. Those with fully functional eyes won't be able to sympathize with my exaltation, fuck them.
So, I've let another week slip by. There's nothing to say about that I think. This doesn't even have to be a journal entry, though I do need to write some sort of entry before too long, as well as a letter to Merys. I also need to get my arms going again. I'm weak and sore from stasis.
The chair I'm sitting in is moderately nice. Fairly nice. I wouldn't kill anyone for it unless they were a particularly horrifying person and those who were oppressed would reward me with a chair for their assassination. I wonder, what is the most bourgeois gift has ever been given in exchange for murder? I'd like to think it would be some sort of gift card or coupons. Actually, paying anyone anything besides cash for a murder seems potent with hilarity.
"I will give you a Dodge Dart in exchange for my husband's head."
There's a pair of children on the other side of the room I'm in playing and I don't hate them. I've really grown up I think. I wonder if anyone else I used to know has changed in this way. So many of them were motivated by the pursuit of "lulz" Have any of them developed themselves? What of empathy Bastard Joe? Have you been changed by any sort of suffering into second guessing your position on dead baby jokes? If not, thne should I hate Bastard Joe and the rest of the those terrible souls? What would I have thought of myself back then. Probably the same as I think of myself now. What would old me have thought of new me? Hell, what will I think of me in several years from now? I hope the answer is god fuck I'm sexy as shit.
What to make of people who masturbates to themselves. You would be staggered by the amount of professionals who do.
Speaking of people, I just took too long a glance at hot mom in the corner. She looks like she could use a massage. Maybe I could offer her one. Pardon me madam, might you fancy a rub down? I fear nothing, bring on your answer.
Then I look to my mp3 player and on it is an image of that girl I'm so into. She's making an adorable face in the photo. I wish I could dive into it and do perverted things with her. Well no, not really. Perversion isn't all it's cracked up to be. It's more like, some sort of condition that has to be addressed with a proper procedure in order to alleviate madness to a point where you are able to function like a goddamn human being. I would love to alleviate all over her and then have a lovely discussion and cuddling.
It's August 8th, 2014 and I'm starting to wonder if there's any Gaza left. Russia has been portrayed recently as being stubborn about the sanctions placed onto it by several countries over the goings on in the Ukraine, but I wonder if we're being portrayed over there as not having any scruples to spare over Israel raping Gaza in front of an international community that is collectively closing the shutters and muttering something about it being "none of our business."
What's that? World events? No time for that now some beautiful young woman just sat across from me and thanks to my peripheral vision I can see her looking over at me. Surely she's not interested in the only other obvious thing in this direction, my 200 dollar Asses laptop. Well maybe she is. Maybe she's a fan of budget computers. An Asus groupie. Yearning for the easily attainable for those with at least a part time job. It would be lovely to have some sort of practical fetish like that. Wait is she still looking at me? Quit distracting me beautiful lady I'm trying to write about a hypothetical fetish you probably don't possess. "I get so fucking hot over canned goods from the Dollar Tree." Yeah you do, fifty cent cans of spaghetti-o's.
I really wish CNN wasn't on the television here. I refuse to forgive them for running a story on their website about how Kim Kardashian writes like James Joyce. The article ended up being fluff about a website that you paste a wall of text into. The site then ignores the actual text and submits to you a random author that the text supposedly resembles in cadence and style. Fuck CNN. Fuck the people on it. Do you hear me Wolf Blitzer? I hope your beard blooms with poisonous mold. Richard Dreyfous looking motherfucker.
Wow there is something about the girl across from me. Some sort of energy that I can detect. Interest can be a powerful aphrodisiac but there's something else in the mix here… Can I really trust my brain in moments like this? It's burned me too many times. Oh god she's playing with her hair. You know what would be funny right now, if I shit myself. She'd assume she had some sort of tangible power over men, and I would add the incident onto the pile of memories I'll probably end up forgetting until some incidental happening makes me recall the moment. Happens all the time.
THE KEYWORD IS CHRISTIAN! A man leaving this office saw the word "Christians" on the screen and had to stop to look for about fifteen seconds. "NOT ON MY WATCH" was the look he had. Onward christian soldier, go back to your Tundra, there's nothing you can do. Those christians are in Iraq and you'll be sorely fucked if anyone thinks you'll lift a finger for them. Then I look up for just a second, still playing with her hair looking over. It's got to be the Asus, budget fetish, and I look like a hobo so she must assume that I know cheap places to do all sorts of fun things.
So, I've let another week slip by. There's nothing to say about that I think. This doesn't even have to be a journal entry, though I do need to write some sort of entry before too long, as well as a letter to Merys. I also need to get my arms going again. I'm weak and sore from stasis.
The chair I'm sitting in is moderately nice. Fairly nice. I wouldn't kill anyone for it unless they were a particularly horrifying person and those who were oppressed would reward me with a chair for their assassination. I wonder, what is the most bourgeois gift has ever been given in exchange for murder? I'd like to think it would be some sort of gift card or coupons. Actually, paying anyone anything besides cash for a murder seems potent with hilarity.
"I will give you a Dodge Dart in exchange for my husband's head."
There's a pair of children on the other side of the room I'm in playing and I don't hate them. I've really grown up I think. I wonder if anyone else I used to know has changed in this way. So many of them were motivated by the pursuit of "lulz" Have any of them developed themselves? What of empathy Bastard Joe? Have you been changed by any sort of suffering into second guessing your position on dead baby jokes? If not, thne should I hate Bastard Joe and the rest of the those terrible souls? What would I have thought of myself back then. Probably the same as I think of myself now. What would old me have thought of new me? Hell, what will I think of me in several years from now? I hope the answer is god fuck I'm sexy as shit.
What to make of people who masturbates to themselves. You would be staggered by the amount of professionals who do.
Speaking of people, I just took too long a glance at hot mom in the corner. She looks like she could use a massage. Maybe I could offer her one. Pardon me madam, might you fancy a rub down? I fear nothing, bring on your answer.
Then I look to my mp3 player and on it is an image of that girl I'm so into. She's making an adorable face in the photo. I wish I could dive into it and do perverted things with her. Well no, not really. Perversion isn't all it's cracked up to be. It's more like, some sort of condition that has to be addressed with a proper procedure in order to alleviate madness to a point where you are able to function like a goddamn human being. I would love to alleviate all over her and then have a lovely discussion and cuddling.
It's August 8th, 2014 and I'm starting to wonder if there's any Gaza left. Russia has been portrayed recently as being stubborn about the sanctions placed onto it by several countries over the goings on in the Ukraine, but I wonder if we're being portrayed over there as not having any scruples to spare over Israel raping Gaza in front of an international community that is collectively closing the shutters and muttering something about it being "none of our business."
What's that? World events? No time for that now some beautiful young woman just sat across from me and thanks to my peripheral vision I can see her looking over at me. Surely she's not interested in the only other obvious thing in this direction, my 200 dollar Asses laptop. Well maybe she is. Maybe she's a fan of budget computers. An Asus groupie. Yearning for the easily attainable for those with at least a part time job. It would be lovely to have some sort of practical fetish like that. Wait is she still looking at me? Quit distracting me beautiful lady I'm trying to write about a hypothetical fetish you probably don't possess. "I get so fucking hot over canned goods from the Dollar Tree." Yeah you do, fifty cent cans of spaghetti-o's.
I really wish CNN wasn't on the television here. I refuse to forgive them for running a story on their website about how Kim Kardashian writes like James Joyce. The article ended up being fluff about a website that you paste a wall of text into. The site then ignores the actual text and submits to you a random author that the text supposedly resembles in cadence and style. Fuck CNN. Fuck the people on it. Do you hear me Wolf Blitzer? I hope your beard blooms with poisonous mold. Richard Dreyfous looking motherfucker.
Wow there is something about the girl across from me. Some sort of energy that I can detect. Interest can be a powerful aphrodisiac but there's something else in the mix here… Can I really trust my brain in moments like this? It's burned me too many times. Oh god she's playing with her hair. You know what would be funny right now, if I shit myself. She'd assume she had some sort of tangible power over men, and I would add the incident onto the pile of memories I'll probably end up forgetting until some incidental happening makes me recall the moment. Happens all the time.
THE KEYWORD IS CHRISTIAN! A man leaving this office saw the word "Christians" on the screen and had to stop to look for about fifteen seconds. "NOT ON MY WATCH" was the look he had. Onward christian soldier, go back to your Tundra, there's nothing you can do. Those christians are in Iraq and you'll be sorely fucked if anyone thinks you'll lift a finger for them. Then I look up for just a second, still playing with her hair looking over. It's got to be the Asus, budget fetish, and I look like a hobo so she must assume that I know cheap places to do all sorts of fun things.
Saturday, August 2, 2014
Al Gore Rythms
08-02-2014 17:50 Cue the Social Network soundtrack. Sit here on a laptop in public looking like a deranged homeless man pretending to be a pretentious computer fuck. Also, I think the music while I sit here is impeding my writing. Is it? When it's quiet I seem to write more and write the kinds of things I don't immediately delete. Maybe I should save the music for the brainstorming instead of the actual typing. Let's turn it to something loud and obnoxious and see how that goes.
Hrmm. Nothing obnoxious on this soundtrack. Fuck, I just realized my saying the word soundtrack is putting in motions advertising algorithms. Gears of mechanized and digitized greed start to spin and the word "soundtrack" acts as chum in the waters and here come the sharks.
"Why did he use the word soundtrack?
Does he want to buy something?
Money money money."
You won't get my dollar internet. Dollar internet, there's an idea, I'll be rich. All I have to do is advertise the shit out of my new idea and money somehow will appear in my bank account. Ugh what the fuck am I talking about. I can't get comfortable. Also I don't like how I look as I type. I can see my reflection and I hate how my hands have to converge into a small space in order to use the keyboard. I wish I could have two separate mini keyboards for each hand so I could keep my arms spread and take up more space which is one of the key components to finding a mate. Imagine the joy in a woman's heart when she sees that homeless looking shitbag at the Taco Bell with his arms wide open. Creed begins to play in here mind and it's one of her favorite songs and she loves me for reminding her of things she loves. She's had so much trouble with other people in the past, could I be the one? Wait for a sign my dear, I'm about to give one to you.
When I scratch my nose she surrenders the last of her self control and comes to me. Halfway through my shredded chicken burrito I see her coming and know that look from all the times before. Ever since I had bought that fantastic new 2 piece keyboard I've been causing women to lose their minds. It upped my 'sexy' into the 'xtreme.' More than love she wanted to give me money in appreciation for the keyboard I am proposing. Women will throw money and sex at this product. Take that back to your masters you motherfucking algorithms.
Not even halfway done and I can hear a guy talk about his mother's weight gain. Another gem on female bodybuilders: "That's what I call those girls, steroid girls." Sir, I wish to subscribe to your newsletter, where can I reach you if I wish to send you some money? I don't like this seat. I don't like this posture. What is different now from before when the lightning was well and greased. Also, it may have something to do with the fact that there was a terrified family sitting across from me. They were all using their "don't assault me" eyes to great success. Sometimes I think I should walk up to people to let them know that I'm not going to follow them home and eat them. But then what if I change my mind later, I'd be a terrible person for lying to them like that.
These entries are numerous but seem to lack the explosiveness I felt with some of the older, better ones. As long as I get it done though. Quality will follow quantity because that's how this sort of thing always goes. No, I'm excited for the future though. Really I am. Though I've probably always been excited for the future if you were to read a lot of the shit I never took off the internet.
Earlier in my visit here a stranger shook my hand and introduced himself to me as I was setting up my computer and listening to the Social Network soundtrack. Quick gem from the guy across from me: "Get more epic with it." I wish to fuck you sir. No, this other guy, the one who shook my hand, was very friendly and proper looking but I wonder if he intentionally transmitted some sort of something to me through hand contact… My god… he was well dressed and clean, what if he was an ad man? THE ALGORITHMS! They're working pre-emptively now and I have no defense for that but a suicide attack. Now, having said 'suicide attack,' a completely different set of algorithms are kicking in and tracking these words. Ham and the CIA may be the only people who ever read this post, or maybe the court once the powers that be realize I have no means to defend myself legally and decide to shit into my lungs to prove some kind of point about not using certain words on the internet.
"Let the fisting begin."
And yet more algorithms are set loose.
This entry is awash in zeros and ones trying to sell to me or imprison me or recommend strange sexual fetish forums for me. Did the person who invent the zero ever envision the terrible powers it would one day wield? Did the inventor of the blowtorch ever envision the terrible things it would weld?
I'm going to be a stickler about the thousand words rather than cutting it short. Discipline remember? Of course you do, I've only used that word seventy fucking times the past few days. I think it's going to be important to start writing more boring things. I want to see if my garbage detector can be subdued. Well, obviously it can be, look at the past 900 or so words. It's getting better though, and all to do now is throw these words up into the interpsace and forget they ever happened.
Hrmm. Nothing obnoxious on this soundtrack. Fuck, I just realized my saying the word soundtrack is putting in motions advertising algorithms. Gears of mechanized and digitized greed start to spin and the word "soundtrack" acts as chum in the waters and here come the sharks.
"Why did he use the word soundtrack?
Does he want to buy something?
Money money money."
You won't get my dollar internet. Dollar internet, there's an idea, I'll be rich. All I have to do is advertise the shit out of my new idea and money somehow will appear in my bank account. Ugh what the fuck am I talking about. I can't get comfortable. Also I don't like how I look as I type. I can see my reflection and I hate how my hands have to converge into a small space in order to use the keyboard. I wish I could have two separate mini keyboards for each hand so I could keep my arms spread and take up more space which is one of the key components to finding a mate. Imagine the joy in a woman's heart when she sees that homeless looking shitbag at the Taco Bell with his arms wide open. Creed begins to play in here mind and it's one of her favorite songs and she loves me for reminding her of things she loves. She's had so much trouble with other people in the past, could I be the one? Wait for a sign my dear, I'm about to give one to you.
When I scratch my nose she surrenders the last of her self control and comes to me. Halfway through my shredded chicken burrito I see her coming and know that look from all the times before. Ever since I had bought that fantastic new 2 piece keyboard I've been causing women to lose their minds. It upped my 'sexy' into the 'xtreme.' More than love she wanted to give me money in appreciation for the keyboard I am proposing. Women will throw money and sex at this product. Take that back to your masters you motherfucking algorithms.
Not even halfway done and I can hear a guy talk about his mother's weight gain. Another gem on female bodybuilders: "That's what I call those girls, steroid girls." Sir, I wish to subscribe to your newsletter, where can I reach you if I wish to send you some money? I don't like this seat. I don't like this posture. What is different now from before when the lightning was well and greased. Also, it may have something to do with the fact that there was a terrified family sitting across from me. They were all using their "don't assault me" eyes to great success. Sometimes I think I should walk up to people to let them know that I'm not going to follow them home and eat them. But then what if I change my mind later, I'd be a terrible person for lying to them like that.
These entries are numerous but seem to lack the explosiveness I felt with some of the older, better ones. As long as I get it done though. Quality will follow quantity because that's how this sort of thing always goes. No, I'm excited for the future though. Really I am. Though I've probably always been excited for the future if you were to read a lot of the shit I never took off the internet.
Earlier in my visit here a stranger shook my hand and introduced himself to me as I was setting up my computer and listening to the Social Network soundtrack. Quick gem from the guy across from me: "Get more epic with it." I wish to fuck you sir. No, this other guy, the one who shook my hand, was very friendly and proper looking but I wonder if he intentionally transmitted some sort of something to me through hand contact… My god… he was well dressed and clean, what if he was an ad man? THE ALGORITHMS! They're working pre-emptively now and I have no defense for that but a suicide attack. Now, having said 'suicide attack,' a completely different set of algorithms are kicking in and tracking these words. Ham and the CIA may be the only people who ever read this post, or maybe the court once the powers that be realize I have no means to defend myself legally and decide to shit into my lungs to prove some kind of point about not using certain words on the internet.
"Let the fisting begin."
And yet more algorithms are set loose.
This entry is awash in zeros and ones trying to sell to me or imprison me or recommend strange sexual fetish forums for me. Did the person who invent the zero ever envision the terrible powers it would one day wield? Did the inventor of the blowtorch ever envision the terrible things it would weld?
I'm going to be a stickler about the thousand words rather than cutting it short. Discipline remember? Of course you do, I've only used that word seventy fucking times the past few days. I think it's going to be important to start writing more boring things. I want to see if my garbage detector can be subdued. Well, obviously it can be, look at the past 900 or so words. It's getting better though, and all to do now is throw these words up into the interpsace and forget they ever happened.
Friday, August 1, 2014
I Don't Actually Like One Of The Words I Used
08-01-2014 18:25 I think the most interesting thing that's happened today was hearing a parent talk to their child whom they named "Ernie." There are still Ernies in the world and that makes me smile.
On to the next thought. I've noticed that's how I roll these days when it comes to my writing. Here's a thought, then another unrelated thought, and so on and so on and so on. What's an antonym of disciplined? Well I am that, in all areas of my life, and yes if you look back at a lot of my earlier writings I have always been undisciplined. There's only one way to fix this, but I lack the discipline to see it through right now.
No, remember WHY you do it. For one reason it's fun as unprotected fucking. Plus, there is a synergetic effect that comes with the discipline in writing where I am able to retain discipline in working out and mind building. And a by product of these things is all the wild sex that comes from it. Some might not see the correlation between those things, but anyone who has been known to party and dwell deep in thought knows it to be true. Fucking is a part of living, and I am ready to live again but I have to be prepared for it. You cant just jump waist deep into a river of ass and hope to stay afloat without knowing how to swim. Yes that sentence was perfect. Here's another perfect sentence: I fisted Petunia last Thursday. God damn English is a beautiful language.
So I feel the physical weakness creeping up on me as I try to maintain proper posture. The desire to slouch is strong but I am on my way to becoming a better being and part of that involves good to decent posture. It helps you live longer or something. At the very least it just looks better, and if I'm ever going to have late night living sessions again I'm going to need to use sweeter bait than I'm putting out now. An appropriate illustration of this would be… a pot of honey laced with ecstasy there, where I want ot be, and a leaking burlap sack filled with rancid chum, which is here, where I am. Though maybe I should give myself some credit. Yeah, I think I will. Good job on the not dying so far old man. You've safely navigated the treacherous waters of sitting on your ass and paying probation fines. I deserve a medal.
This is the part that gets tricky. I wan't to write something personal but since I'm going to post this to the online word depository there is a chance that people I want to keep the words from will see it. Then again nobody reads this, so fuck you grandma. Also, if you can ever help it, don't let yourself fall in love. It's like being hooked on hard drugs, it's so wonderful that it will ruin your fucking life. Irrational thoughts and inclinations, several highs and many many lows. One of the interesting things love has done to me recently is make me fucking hate another human being for no other reason than they like the same person that I do. The person I hate, from what the things I hear that aren't my own piercing howl of heart hatred, is a pretty good person. But I hate them. If i had the chance to destroy them in every way I would, and if I had the chance to repeat this destruction I would spam whatever button I had to push to make it so. I would completely devestate this human being over and over and over and over again from now till the heat death of the universe without hesitation… but if they suddenly said they didn't like the same person I did, I'd probably like the person. Hell maybe I'd befriend them. But they like the wrong person therefore I am perfectly capable of the most insane cruelty toward this fucking sack of shit oh my god I want him to die.
Maybe I should write some jealousy letters. They're like love letters, but full of desperate agony and vengeance. There's only one person I could write them to anyhow and I doubt that she'd want to read them. She's more of an "adult" than I am. Fucking adults. Fucking children. Where is the middle ground? Teenagers? Fuck them especially. I wonder what Beyonce would do about this. We share the same birthday, maybe we have some sort of psychic connection that I can exploit. "Beyonce… come in Beyonce… yonce… Queen Bee do you read?" She's probably busy, I'll try again never.
So I've got a problem ahead of me. I need to create a schedule and keep it. Floating down a river of benadryl is no longer an acceptable course of action. Let's see… mornings: Drink. No, no drink, cant afford drink…
Fuck this is hard, I need a drink. Can't spare the money for it though, and I can't afford the only kinds that I'd want. I've retired rotgut from my menu on account of I want to live past my 40's now. There will always be a place for cheap, untamed whiskey in my heart, but for the sake of my future I must move on to stronger and higher quality spirits. Speaking of spirits, I really love women's breasts.
My brain is responsible for all of this. You relentless bastard. Is this revenge for all the poison I've pumped through you? You? Why you, you are me?
What? Wait… who's talking to who here?
I'm talking to me. Me and brain are synonyms. We're the same entity.
Prove it.
Entity… titty.
Oh my god it's true. Then why do I feel like I've got a new sibling rather than a new dimension of my own being? I don't know. Wait, I'm not talking to anyone, only myself. This seems to happen way too fucking much.
On to the next thought. I've noticed that's how I roll these days when it comes to my writing. Here's a thought, then another unrelated thought, and so on and so on and so on. What's an antonym of disciplined? Well I am that, in all areas of my life, and yes if you look back at a lot of my earlier writings I have always been undisciplined. There's only one way to fix this, but I lack the discipline to see it through right now.
No, remember WHY you do it. For one reason it's fun as unprotected fucking. Plus, there is a synergetic effect that comes with the discipline in writing where I am able to retain discipline in working out and mind building. And a by product of these things is all the wild sex that comes from it. Some might not see the correlation between those things, but anyone who has been known to party and dwell deep in thought knows it to be true. Fucking is a part of living, and I am ready to live again but I have to be prepared for it. You cant just jump waist deep into a river of ass and hope to stay afloat without knowing how to swim. Yes that sentence was perfect. Here's another perfect sentence: I fisted Petunia last Thursday. God damn English is a beautiful language.
So I feel the physical weakness creeping up on me as I try to maintain proper posture. The desire to slouch is strong but I am on my way to becoming a better being and part of that involves good to decent posture. It helps you live longer or something. At the very least it just looks better, and if I'm ever going to have late night living sessions again I'm going to need to use sweeter bait than I'm putting out now. An appropriate illustration of this would be… a pot of honey laced with ecstasy there, where I want ot be, and a leaking burlap sack filled with rancid chum, which is here, where I am. Though maybe I should give myself some credit. Yeah, I think I will. Good job on the not dying so far old man. You've safely navigated the treacherous waters of sitting on your ass and paying probation fines. I deserve a medal.
This is the part that gets tricky. I wan't to write something personal but since I'm going to post this to the online word depository there is a chance that people I want to keep the words from will see it. Then again nobody reads this, so fuck you grandma. Also, if you can ever help it, don't let yourself fall in love. It's like being hooked on hard drugs, it's so wonderful that it will ruin your fucking life. Irrational thoughts and inclinations, several highs and many many lows. One of the interesting things love has done to me recently is make me fucking hate another human being for no other reason than they like the same person that I do. The person I hate, from what the things I hear that aren't my own piercing howl of heart hatred, is a pretty good person. But I hate them. If i had the chance to destroy them in every way I would, and if I had the chance to repeat this destruction I would spam whatever button I had to push to make it so. I would completely devestate this human being over and over and over and over again from now till the heat death of the universe without hesitation… but if they suddenly said they didn't like the same person I did, I'd probably like the person. Hell maybe I'd befriend them. But they like the wrong person therefore I am perfectly capable of the most insane cruelty toward this fucking sack of shit oh my god I want him to die.
Maybe I should write some jealousy letters. They're like love letters, but full of desperate agony and vengeance. There's only one person I could write them to anyhow and I doubt that she'd want to read them. She's more of an "adult" than I am. Fucking adults. Fucking children. Where is the middle ground? Teenagers? Fuck them especially. I wonder what Beyonce would do about this. We share the same birthday, maybe we have some sort of psychic connection that I can exploit. "Beyonce… come in Beyonce… yonce… Queen Bee do you read?" She's probably busy, I'll try again never.
So I've got a problem ahead of me. I need to create a schedule and keep it. Floating down a river of benadryl is no longer an acceptable course of action. Let's see… mornings: Drink. No, no drink, cant afford drink…
Fuck this is hard, I need a drink. Can't spare the money for it though, and I can't afford the only kinds that I'd want. I've retired rotgut from my menu on account of I want to live past my 40's now. There will always be a place for cheap, untamed whiskey in my heart, but for the sake of my future I must move on to stronger and higher quality spirits. Speaking of spirits, I really love women's breasts.
My brain is responsible for all of this. You relentless bastard. Is this revenge for all the poison I've pumped through you? You? Why you, you are me?
What? Wait… who's talking to who here?
I'm talking to me. Me and brain are synonyms. We're the same entity.
Prove it.
Entity… titty.
Oh my god it's true. Then why do I feel like I've got a new sibling rather than a new dimension of my own being? I don't know. Wait, I'm not talking to anyone, only myself. This seems to happen way too fucking much.
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