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Some fools hope for tomorrow and some for yesterday. Some hope for a utopia of ideal humanistic morality and others hope for bestial chaos. Some hope only for money, or certain libertine follies. What is there for one such as I to hope for? Can I feel no pleasure anymore which is not symbolic? Is there no true beauty tressmill in this desperate rat warren, full of seething vermin, their heads full of dreams, over differences in which they kill sljts another? Is there no greatest common factor, no primary motivator? Nothing which tressmill Romantic yet not just some sales gimmick? Is there nothing left in this world of selling expressionism that is impressive enough to warrant pause, admiration, awe; which can offer us transport from the uncomfortable confines of self?

Slufs which cannot be recreated in the social trefsmill and commodified? Nothing which does not conceal some potential threat? I feel the air, thin and weightless, surrounding my body. It has contact with every cell of flesh. I am balanced within and without, I and the air. It flows through me, lives inside of me. I am in harmony with it. It is a piece of me and I am Fkck piece of it. The puddle beneath my tongue which I can never swallow. Heavy eyelids. My being is soft. The world is soft. Time is immaterial. I have no need for symbols to represent my wants. I want nothing. Treesmilk have my life, which is everything in the world that I need.

The world is complete and beautiful. I am but a very small part of it. The people around me are as Fudk as am I, trresmill the wind lives in them too. If you were to cut them open you would find it there, but slyts soul, nor any of their precious secrets. Why do I only ever experience this absolute grace just before some cataclysm? She moved in like a lie, elaborate yet subtle. Even my most fleeting emotions became treedmill knots of treesmjll in my mouth — I was dumb beside her resolute form. Whereas others had been tuning forks for my festering psyche, her stare was a magnifying glass that burned away my mental lichen until I was pushing nothing.

In my imagination she wore an ornate costume that bespoke every possible breath of sadness in its shuddering tiers Fuc, glimmering waves, draping down from the horizon of her shoulders beneath the moon of her pale mask. More horrid than the black iron ovens under the ominous ebony smoke stacks spewing their wretched Fuc, in clouds of slate stale smoke is the holocaust of the soul — the imprisonment of imperfect beauty in the windowless ivory tower. A slave to appearances, my father died not only alone, but many years before that, and lonely. And I? My most wealthful writing resource, and my most horrific, is sorrow. It disciplines me, distracts me, until I can do nothing but testify out of context, and therefore make no sense to anyone — especially the jury of my peers.

The annoying is justified with necessity. I deny necessity, yet am still annoyed. How long will it be until we can see each other without pity — without the patronizing face of the cute, the futile and the absurd looking over our shoulder? I fling pity at you, trying to stain you until you are as disgusting as me. I invent personas for you to wear so you can be a model of the vain disease I have cultivated in my brain. I do not look at you with the proud, sure eye of love — love that I profess for no reason as it begets only more foul pity. I look on you with an almost competitive glare. I have decided that you have matured more than and, in some way, better than I have — and so I set my pace by you.

I feel you stand aloof because you value privacy, and fool that I am I cannot help but want to invade and infect that privacy in order to understand it. To understand a thing, though, I must first make it resemble me in order for me to be able to relate with. I corrupt, then comprehend — this is how I formulate opinions. Which is more real? Does it matter? An example of this is when I was with a group of people who were beating up a person and I was not. Granted, I was the person they were beating up, but. I would sit alone. I wanted to impress them. Not to fit in so much as stand out. I hung out with Mike M. When they finally met, they found many common attitudes and hit it off amiably.

John had taken up guitar and eventually convinced Mike to pick up a bass. They began thinking of themselves as a real band, and thus too cool for me. Eventually they formed G. Aches and sorrows. I use this pain, or it uses me. I understand pain. Inflicting pain is power over life. It just makes life miserable and difficult to live. Life is a melancholy opera, but the talking of the audience, their critiquing every detail of it to explain and to complain aggravates all the glory out of the beautiful spectacle. Life becomes a pantomime opera submerged in street noise.

Ghosts are dead already, and can know life without having to suffer in it — it looks good to them because it is more than they are in its sweet pitiability. Life and death happen for no reason. You can trust me. I want you to save me. People that cause the human animal to be caged by its longing to define it own illogical feelings do so out of hatred. But I cannot, and I say this with genuine regret, kill everyone. Even if I had a thermonuclear arsenal it would still be a longer task than the amount of time it would take the superpowers to retaliate.

So I am presented with two logical options to destroy that which I cannot tolerate: I can die a fatalist, feeling there is no hope to better life or to significantly worsen it, or I can die feeling a sense of pride in the accomplishment of my small task in the killing of free will. Should I just give up, or should I live on to hatefully promote obedience to a system that is inescapable, working within that system, trying to fulfill the enslavement of huge target audiences to the empty values of that system? The first god was life. One second it is alive. Its soul is within it as it runs from its death.

The next second it is unalive; it soul has been spilled all over its death, splattered in streaks across its killers. They use it as war paint. Its taste is victory. The blood is the life. Women bleed. Women exude life. By the turning pull of the moon, the life blood is shed. It is horrible. It is honored. It is feared. It is revered. Men bleed. Men wound one another. Their blood is lost, spilled; their life is lost with each drop. Their piercing weapons become idols of power over both nature and women. As they settle down from the chase they develop a regimented humanism.

Animal sacrifices now. The bloodier the better. The hunt and kill are not necessary now that we can live off the land. They are sport. They are spiritual. They are religion. Sacrifice is an Apollonian hunt and kill. The blood is shared by the community. Eventually it becomes only several gods representing one species. Human sacrifices now. Creatures of interest to the mystery of menstrual blood. Eat this bread, for it is my flesh. Drink this wine, for it is my blood. You are what you eat. In this bowl is the life of the tribe — we pass it on to you that you may live with all the strength of all our lives.

Sex and the hunt are one. Female deities are worshipped by sexual consummation, prostitution. Birthing and human sacrifice are both life giving. Religion and the kill are one.

They have always been one. Animal and human gods are worshipped by blood and life giving. The blood, the life, the soul are one. Isis, Ra, El are Israel. Unification of the Trinity is the root of monotheism. The idea of life is the idea of the spirit. You are not getting the message by worshiping examples of sacrificed animals. You must worship the sacrifice itself. And so we do. Akhenaton said so. Plato said so. The one perfect ideal over the unique individual examples. Marx said so. Lenin said so. If god were the ideal man, the state would be the ideal animal. Like the Christians and the lions.

Who always won? Economic sacrifices now. Green symbols of power change between dirty hands without honor. To say that man has conquered nature is a fallacy. We have only perverted subverted it until it is unrecognizable even to itself. Made of it a symbolic mask, an ideal science, given it infinite new names in order to feel some power over the environment, even if only over a substitute for it. To say that man is dominant over animals is wrong.

And then the table howls of abilities Love is murder of the financial.

We still depend on them — we even use them for Platonic friends when our fellow man does not need us. We still want to call certain urges animal instinct. But what is instinct? Slutz use it as an excuse to refuse more modern ideas of moral sputs. To say that we still worship life is wrong. What we worship is the fear of death. The fear of bloodloss. The fear of impotence. The fear of our own mortality. The fear of our own humanity. The other night I found my gun. In the stillness of the night I caught a quickening sight, saw your razors poised, glisten in the moonlight.

My crosscut back like an old turtle shell, aim for the weak soft underbelly in a sudden needless slash. You pull your nose up at me and snort and giggle as I weep for some more spilled me. You tell me to hold my water. Tell you to hold your tongue. Astronomy is not for the daytime, just as nothing is left for the daytime, all things are alive at night. All minds are vampires, gestating through lit hours that brand brains with searing concentration; come alive at night and fly, with no weight and no reflection. Tonight I am in love again. Yes, I hate you.

She lights a candle. She burns out long before, but I was the first one burned. I knew I would not do this. I loved innocence too much. I would kill in the name of love. Kill those who threatened innocence. This is Fuck local sluts in treesmill to philosophize with an axe. Touch it! So hot! So supple. So simple. It burns me from the inside out. Not evil because the needle is dirty or because it is so deep, but evil because it only seeps the poison you learn to inn. Lurch with a sucking sob and a gasp like the groan of an iron hull far out to sea, not the sound of rending just treesmkll sound of gentle bending, feel around a little in the hollow. Ouch, ouch, ouch, Fck, yes, yes I pull out treesmilk heart like a bloody rosebud thumping beats it ticks its last.

In a vile explosion in my fist it bursts like splitting lips. Sltus can feel it reshaping, ooh, just like an erection — flesh unfolding, soft trees,ill taut, flesh unrolling and getting hot. The Wednesday Society for Cocaine addicted, doodling, Cigar smokers. The talking cure: Trersmill Aggression lies beyond the Pleasure Principle. Eros and Thanatos: Dionysus and Apollo. Constructive tombs. Because bovines know the secret of the graze. What do women want? Stop humping my leg you repulsive phalo-centric egoless bestial hairball of the Id! Drool puddle of the demon whose dream we are!

No — no, worse — worse! You feelthy commie, you red uniformed turd of a mind, you. No, the worst! You capitalist, you slave, you. The ultimate insult: You me. But we need to choose, for our very survival as citizens, we must consent to Work. To voting. To school, to endless years two long, hormone flooded decades of sublimation through boredom, socialization, patriotic socialization; national socialism. Just try to explain to a Russian immigrant that we here in the you ass oy-vay do things dif. He afraid of cum stains on his permanent record, refuses to consult shrink and would rather cough blood for a month before resorting to institutional treatment. Now open up or I kick in! An anecdote: Such mass market appeal!

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And the world did. The video, posted Dec. Some experts in child psychology and online safety wonder whether the videos, with anywhere from to 1, posted, represent a new wave of distress rather than simple self-questioning or pleas for affirmation or attention. How could the creators not anticipate the nasty responses, even the tender tweens uploading videos in violation of YouTube's and-over age policy? Their directness, playful but steadfast, grips even those accustomed to life's open Internet channel, where revolutions and executions play out alongside the ramblings of anybody with digital access.

Commenters on YouTube curse and declare the young video creators "attention whores," ask for sex and to see them naked.

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They yreesmill where their parents are slute call them "fugly" and worse. Another commenter posts: Am I pretty or ugly? They draw strong responses. Much has been made of cyberbullying trees,ill pedophiles who cruise the Internet, and of low self-esteem among kocal and adolescents, especially girls, as their brains continue to develop. There have locao similar "hot or not" memes in the past, but as more young people live their lives online, they're clearly more aware of the potential for negative consequences. She has researched child Internet safety and risk behavior in adolescents in partnership with the Fuco Department. Loca, another video posted by Kendal, she tresmill to "do two dares" on camera, inviting her open-channel audience to come up with some as she holds a stuffed monkey.

Faye's profile lists her age as Faye told ABC she has been called names and gossiped about treesmilll her back. She takes slust her ponytail and brushes her hair as she stares into the camera. Her video has been viewed more than 6, times. None of the three girls responded to slkts Fuck local sluts in treesmill on YouTube seeking comment from The Associated Press. YouTube would not comment directly about the "Am I Pretty? Emilie Zaslow, a media studies professor at Pace University in New York, said today's online world for young people is only just beginning to be understood by researchers. When the Internet is your diary and your audience is global, she said, "The public posting of questions such as "Am I ugly?

That potential is real, added Nadine Kaslow, a family psychologist and professor of behavioral sciences at Emory University in Atlanta. Even Gap Inc. Only a small group of retailers report monthly sales figures. But industry watchers say those merchants that do post monthly numbers offer a snapshot of consumer spending, which accounts for more than 70 percent of all economic activity. That followed a more modest increase of 2. An unusually mild winter, which depressed sales of cold weather items like coats during the holiday season, turned out to be a blessing in February.

It helped to kick off spend- ing of spring merchandise last month. Americans particularly are encouraged by the improving job market. The government reported that the unemployment rate fell to 8. Figures released Thursday showed more signs of improvement: The government reported the number of people seeking unemployment benefits fell slightly last week to the lowest point in four years. Economists expect employers to add anotherjobs when job figures for February are out next Friday, according to FactSet. The unemployment rate should remain unchanged. The government also reported Thursday that consumers earned a little more in January and spent most of the extra money.

The gains should keep the economy growing at a modest pace. Meanwhile, Wall Street hit two milestones. The Nasdaq composite index briefly touched 3, on Wednesday for the first time since the collapse in dot-com stocks more than a decade ago. Stocks ended lower, but it was still the best February on Wall Street in 14 years. That came a day after the Dow Jones industrial average closed above 13, for the first time since May But there are reasons for some caution. February is the second lowest sales volume generator behind January.


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