>Waking up to a loud crash rarely means something good is happening. It’s never “CRASH! Mom made pancakes!” or “CRASH! We decided to adopt a Golden Retriever!”
Rewrite in the style of an author of your choice, other anons try and guess who you're aping.
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Why not a Greyhound?
Adorning desolate plains,
The prior foes surmounted;
One enemy remained,
Or two if god were counted.
That's almost tautological. Of course a crash is bad. It's the sound of something crashing.
Crashing never awoke mama. Nor did the dog as it brushed her hanging hand. No sound of horns came her alive - not in this life, I know.
cuuuute doggo! ^_^
When in morning rose, sweet things
As yet unmade, and in wafts roam
To spaces long relaxed, filling with their
Sc'nts and sounds, ones coupl'ng of
The covers slept, apple sugars brown'd
In battered cakes, woof of hounds
At lick and nosing hunger eager greet,
Await the easy day inhibitor;
To it an ease of habits one will take, for
Soft day an easy thing first for then of
Ones habits makes, till ruin wanting
Ruin will with calamity keep eager
In her company, rising warm to greet,
No honeyed shafts of sc’nts ‘n song,
Bedlam's hue and cry alone.
and but so mom made pancakes 200
and so but we adopted a golden retriever 201
wew lad stealing my meme challenge
Holy....I want more.....
yuckers
It was back in Cleveland when me and the Calico--or the Crocodile as some called him--were lifting junk of this noise kid. Anyway me and the Calico took to this bridge where we were fixing, river water and those ghast matches that explode and roil even in the wind. They called him the Calico cause he'd collapsed all the veins on his lefty, and more and more his right as well. So the Calico tries the shot; it bubbles under; he draws it back; tries the shot up higher, bubbles under again.
The dope was goo-brown cell matter by then but Calico wouldn't accept anything other than a mainline. So the scabby Calico pulls out his dick and plunges the whole gooey river mess right in. He stagers and comes down under, on the trellis. I just shot mine and can feel a hot nod in the works, so I quicked down a few of the Benzedrine papers I was keeping. Calico was gone for though--face already sallow and waxy, chest barely on.
I kicked him a few times as they bennies took over, saying, "Let's get some pancakes, or a dog or some." The Calico was out though, dead on that one.
Only one CRASH! remained; two if you counted the pancakes mom was making.
>Awaking to such a crash so rarely signifies a pleasant morning. Never the busy clattering of pans as mother prepares hotcakes; never the excited galloping of father's young golden hound, not yet accustomed to the tile floor.
Crashsh
t. Saroyan
Crash! The epoch of bourgeosie rationality is finally ending as the masses release themselves from the false consciousness of the spectacle. These large shifts in the material conditions of society rarely mean anything good for the dominant class: first the King, who derived his mythic authority from God in the age of Feudalism was toppled as the industrial revolution began, then the bourgesoie, the fractured entity that toppled God and qualitative life and now presides over an industrial society of slaves begins to be toppled as it produces the technology that will eventually destroy it.
Burroughs
What if the sound of the crash actually came from the ceiling fan randomly falling on and killing a serial killer who broke into your house quietly mere moments ago?
Waking up with a crash.
There is no illusion:
This day will be trash.
Fate to me no joy will deliver,
no pancake inhabits my delusion
Nor does a golden retriever.
CRASH!
YUM YUM? NO!
DOGGO? NO!
OUCH? YES!
Where did this "Waking up to a loud crash" meme originate from?
"CRASH!", it echoes through my solitary room, "CRASH!", it's closer now, a noise permeating through the building. Muffled barks and shaking walls, the everyday life of the neighbours which I have never made contact with. I remember an offering of food once, waffles, something edible I was prompted with, I was coming down pretty hard on whatever I was using so it's all brain fog and mush which has dissipated. I declined, probably.
It's very real, my experiences in this building. All the people, spectres like me, festering. My neighbours are regular, not like the rest of us aggregational pavement divers.
~~
Guess the narrator
...
Discordant crashes rarely signal an optimistic physical origin. "Pancakes, my dear?" No, not from that quarrelsome woman i once called my mother. We'd simply grown too far apart, found other surrogates for our affection. She gave a knowing smile, "surely you weren't expecting a golden retriever, love?"
To wake up to a crash is never good. It is always good. Mother made pancakes, did she? She didn't. And then there was the dog, there was a dog, or wasn't. Let's just say there was it doesn't matter.
Nice
Goddamnit
>Something that we call good must happen sometimes otherwise it would not be called some, nor thing, nor even good; but of the metastasized teleological offshoots that we can ascertain that it never coincides as it were with, the most prominent such offshoot is CRASH. This CRASH is never accompanied by some, by thing, by good, or by any permutations thereof, thus things like pancakes or golden retrievers don't have the necessary preparation to manifest in the vicinity of CRASH.
Trump?
Awoken: by whom: Mother?: yes, maybe. Crash? Bold crash. Loud voice. Mother's adopted a dog: a Golden Retriever by the sound of it. Yes, Golden Retriever.
Suus orarent pancakes pro ientaculo. Crash again? Suspect there's nothing good happening downstairs, no nothing good. Perhaps pancakes for breakfast, yes perhaps, Mother's Sunday pancakes, yes, sure enough. Fat lumps of butter. Sizzling grease. Oh yes, we can hope. Crash. Dogbark? Pancakesizzle? Oh yes.
My sweet caring mother, I did as you told me, you darling thing, and woke myself up when I heard your crashing. I am delighted that you do like making pancakes for me. Yes, now I can remember that morning when I dined with you for so long, so hungrily. It was the fluffiest batch of pancakes you ever gave me, mother. My fork was stuck in my mouth for hours, shoveling in and in those lovely steaming hotcakes. I felt your craftsmanship on my tongue and saw the care you used in your baking. At every bite I took the marvelous flavor came bursting past my lips and if I chewed it for a while longer than usual, lovely gobs of syrup came rushing from the dough. I had a plateful of pancakes that morning, mother, and I ate every single one, big turgid ones, flat cakey ones, round fluffy ones and a lot of tiny little hotcakes ending in a lovely feeling of euphoria. It is wonderful to eat from a plate of fluffy pancakes when each cake reveals another one under it. I think I would know my mother's pancakes anywhere. I think I could pick hers out of a table full of pancakes. It is a rather light batter she uses, not like the thick flowing one I imagine other mothers make. It is creamy and soft and sweet like what a master chef would prepare for the most high paying of his customers. I hope you will make no end of your pancakes in my kitchen so that I may know their taste always.
Stately, plump, golden retriever descended from the staircase with a CRASH! A mirror and a razor lay crossed on the bowl of pancakes mom made.
Son: Sirrah, mother, I have heard a crash
Should it be the morning maids awake me
With sweet day-break treats?
Or hast thou acquired us a golden pup,
To make merry this Michaelmas?
Mother: Aye, my boy, but 'was not I,
Nor the serving girls that crash,
Thou shouldst knowst tis never good news
To be woken by yonder crashing.
Enter First Murderer
*fart*
Jesus fucking christ user
10/10
hahaha
Both perfect
isnt this shameless
another shameless
man
stealing another womxns
work , identity
the thunder
us women now hold
that our mothers never did
that us
bitches
never could voice
now we know
that the thunder
is good
for no one
good for
nothing
On the 7th year of my reign a noise like thunder came and terrible conquests were made. I attacked the city Pan-Kayk of the Mommites and slew 40,000 of them. In the 8th year of my reign a noise like thunder came and I sacrificed 23,630 dogs for the glory of Ashur.
It's that Reddit pleb who wrote Judgement day, isn't it?
Daniil Kharms?
I'm so certain it's Kharms that I'll be disappointed if you never confirm or deny it
lol
Здecь?
Who is this supposed to be?
For too long have I suffered by the hand of mankind
But 'tis no longer any matter, I have a solution
O! Beautiful blondes, our fingers never intertwined
Off I fly to engage in my just retribution!
I gave them a chance, yet their iniquities persisted-
I'll spin you a tale of how my world became twisted
The story of my life is a story complete
With sadness and anger and hatred replete
It is a story of a war against cruel injustice
Of a gentleman refused despite visage fair and lustrous
Now I begin, and I shan't omit a word or detail
Take heed my incel brethren, and beware you females!
>no dog
>this new
everyone's favorite lil macchiato boy
i wouldn't touch those pancakes if a dog stuck his nose in them
Not even if a dog stuck his nose in them?
You must really hate pancakes
A crashing noise is a sign of chaos and the foreshadowing of bad events.
>Judgement Day
Oh dear Lord, what a title.
threadly reminder to kill yourself if you have EVER made a lebbit account
What if my name is CRASH?
How spooked can you possibly be
Awakening from Cyberian artificial death and discovering that the Deleuzoguattarian qabbalistic technocapital singularity has hyperstitionally deterritorialized itself is infrequent. It's never "CRASH! The blockchain has solved the problem of spacetime!" or "CRASH! Numerology has conjured techocthulhu from the dead cybercrypts of the future!"
prime example of lebitting right here
uh huh
