Write what's on your mind

Write what's on your mind

in the style of your favourite author

and others guess who it is

Boredom complacence boredom again hit on the home stretch of M and C and the poke came out to the dyke's pomade niggerhands

Faulkner?

Nein

The father left and the son was alone and the son thought to himself Dad, you son of a bunch, you're gonna pay for this, so the son took his credit card and spent 90 dollars on Amazon and the father would never be the wiser.

Oh my God! Who is this mongoloid?

You prayed to see it. There in front of you, smooth moist lips rawly parting: beachscented incense, milk and coins.

Looking at her split apart in the turquoise and pink light, I realised I was a footnote to her current perception and thoughts, a shadowy figure draped in some gelid cloak of irrelevancy in some forlorn and dilapidated chair in some apartment stripped bare by a minimalistic—perhaps misguided--approach to better understand some unknown cataclysm. I was nothing; now another man with whom she attributed amiable feelings to as a tint and converted to a number to be filed away. Perhaps this would happen again, or maybe my abhorrence to this situation would suspend by hand and dissuade me, but I could not tell, as at that moment I did not care, at the very least it allowed me to wallow further in my self-abasement which was the only tinge of dumbed pleasure I could feed.

Du sohlst ja! Du bist ja besoffen!

Das kann angehn!

Ach!

The sun is hot and my arms are tired.

Cormac McCarthy

Ignatius is that you?

Jimmy Joyce?

Not quite.

Yeah. I think it was easy.

It was the "milk and coins" that tipped me off for some reason.

>footnote
DFW

hemingway

I'm wondering to myself some potentially uninteresting thoughts. This is probably dangerous. Am I going to eat eggs tomorrow morning?

Stross sat in his far cubicle of ZeppCorp, typing away at his telebong and inhaling some grape vapor of the usual kind.
Debrah, arms crossed across her pouting breasts, sighed and handed him her Compupad.
"He's here, by the way," she said.
"Who?"
"God, and he's a real sonofabitch tonight"

Sausage McMuffin, my stinky little whorelet, what hosannas might I say to you. QUOS AMOR VERUS TENUIT, TENEBIT. I would be particularly deelighted to taste the whole of you, your greasy ploppyslop. Do not mind one bitty if I lick you ringroundabout yes first the ketchup yes and then the cheese and then Mickey Muffkins your filthy, naughty patties and egg yes. I will devour you like a sweating mother sow at the trough.

Bingo

And but so I'm having trouble parsing the question w/r/t my penis.

Go to bed, Ignatius

This is like The Road before the war, or whatever the apocalyptic event was, happened.

Joyce? Either way, this is amazing!

In a deep yellow, rugged sweater,
The sexy man puffs the reeking blunt getting real high,
As his dark smoke cascades into the blue sky--
Nigger!

DeLillo?

Her grey-blue sweater with an ant colony movement-like pattern mesmerized him a bit too long.

He was in a brighter state of mind and much of him was feeling fit and competent. He didn't feel at all like getting lit up as he usually does when things go awry. His impulsiveness was subdued and he was stalwart against acting like a fool in his usual way.

All in all the tedium was getting to my head. By then I was absolutely exhausted... and I was surrounded by absolute idiots! People with nothing in their brains but flies and shit! And the worst kind of idiot is the idiot who thinks he's worth something. That's a fact. Now here they were telling me their current thoughts, in the style of their favorite authors. Magnificent! Splendid! Such a blatant, proud display of the emptiness in their minds! It's the kind of thing that's always a marvel to behold, and I mean that sincerely... human stupidity is one of those forces that always seem to find a way to outdo themselves. To watch this process is to watch, and therefore understand, the very nature of man's progress.

I'm only being a douche because he's a douche.

Yeah, Joyce. Th-thanks, user.

Jesus! I thought. If this keeps up it will surely slip out of our control. I could already see it now; an army of little girls, as ugly and scowling as John Tenniel's Alice, marching – lolloping, rather – under the gigantic visage of that 21st century Nixon, and chanting about proper revolver use. Was this what America was bound to become? If so, I guess the only option would be to kill the bastards and shut down the whole operation. Shit, we could make a decent profit out of it; there are surely millions out there who would want to watch the spectacle. It would be the event of the century.

"I'll bet you don't know me, my good Dr. Cubas," he said.
"I can't recall..."
"I'm Borba, Quincas Borba."

I slumped edging the clay tablet. Being here I don't want but not knowing why I won't leave. There was a roach in the slat of the stone. Snatched in the roughhewn brick line you can see its copper legs kicking kicking. Lem from above lurched and caught me in the cool of the shadow.

Got a stoge?

Ye. I spat.

Cormac McCarthy?

Ye

Jack Kerouac or HST

lol

>HST
yeah

The Pepto Bismal was pouring again, after a little too much Bacardi and not quite enough self-control. Donavan Whitereed in his good enough apartment, spread onto the couch one leg up because it felt better that way.

my diary desu

the night is soft. The night is cold. The rain taps on the window asking permission for the moonlight. The jungle breaths fresh air that howls and hides the sounds of the animals, but the ambient is hot and moisted.

E. L. James

Dr. Destouches. Assez bien, user.

Beach scented?

Sounds like Camus to me.

We moderns have been amiss of one thing: we NEED convention to love. Lust, as instinct, is manifold and insatiable; commitment, as convention, relies on the expectation of metaphysical fulfillment to confine two people together. But knock down the edifice - peel away the surface of convention - and what do you have left? That is how people loved in the golden age of romance: the sentimental songs, the flowers and chocolates, were rituals that people NEEDED, they were the necessary lies that made it possible to love. All of this is behind us now - and what? Should we - lament? How now? Should we not rejoice? Is this not a triumph for - science?

Y a la pesanteur de la vie... Les autres, ils cherchent la légèreté sans même voir qu'elle cache la perversion, le vice, le péché même !... Et ce poids, c'est celui de la mort, qui regarde par dessus l’épaule, qui surveille... Le moindre faux pas et c'en est fini de la valse. Soit ça te trotte dans la caboche et puis ça te prend aux tripes, soit tu fais semblant de rien voir en espérant qu'à force de feindre, tu pourras parvenir au bout sans trop d'embuches...

Classic romanticism isn't the only 'love'. Redefine it and its subsets instead of blaming science, or whatever you did there at the end.

holy fucking reddit

McCarthy.

T H E B E A C H