In your best prose, write whats on your mind

In your best prose, write whats on your mind.

Okay, asking somebody how long they believed in Santa Claus is so stupid, you can't even consider the topic suitable for idle conversation. But if you still wanna know how long I believed in some old fat guy who wears a funky red suit, I can tell you this: I've never believed in him, ever. The Santa that showed up at my kindergarten Christmas festival, I knew he was fake. And I never saw mommy kissing Santa or anything. But I have to say, that even as a little kid, I knew better than to believe in some old man that only worked one day a year. Now, having said that, it wasn't until I got older that I realized that aliens, time travelers, ghosts, monsters, espers, the evil syndicates and the anime/manga/fantasy flick heroes that fight said evil syndicates, were also fake. Okay, I guess I always knew those things were bogus, I just didn't wanna admit it. All I ever wanted was for an alien, time traveler, ghost, monster, esper, evil syndicate, or the hero that fought them to just appear and say "Hey". Unfortunately, reality is a hard road indeed. Yep, you gotta admit, the laws of physics definitely puts a damper on things. I even stopped watching those TV shows about aliens and ghosts and stuff. Aliens, time travelers, espers; of course they don't exist, but a little part of me wishes that they did. I guess I've grown up and realized I can think about those things and still accept reality. But by the time I got out of junior high, I pretty much outgrew that kind of stuff and I guess I got used to the idea of living in an ordinary world. Just like that, I was in high school...that's when I met her.

...

I am thinking. Thoughts are in my head. I should feed the cat. I wonder what the cat is doing. I have a black cat. His name is Jerome. I like my cat. I get up and feed him. He likes his food. It's nice food. My cat is nice.

~ In the style of Hemingway. Wow, such clear and concise prose. Wew, so good.

fuck off facebook shitstains

Have you ever worked with someone that you hate entirely? I'm not talking about the annoying shithead from downstairs that always eats other people's food out of the break room. He's a piece of shit, yeah, but saying that you hate him intensely would be an exaggeration.

No, I'm talking about someone that works right next to you, day in day out. Someone utterly devoid of likeable qualities. Someone you would happily pay to never see again. For me, that person's name is Clara.

Clara is "with the team" maybe a year longer than I am. I'm reasonably confident that she's a sociopath. She doesn't do half of her own work. Instead she bullies and coerces others into doing it for her. When I called her out on this, she went and reported me to HR for harassment. I had to spend a month of my lunch breaks talking through my "unreasonable anger" with some HR spook. When I tried to explain Clara's behaviour, I was told that I was paranoid.

Turns out that I got off lucky. The last person that confronted her got fired. I've started encouraging others to make formal complaints about her. Though I'd wager she could wriggle out of that noose too. If all else fails, I'm going to request a transfer to another department.

My life is measurably Worse for knowing Clara.

I wrote this on r9k a while back. Can't exactly write on demand just yet but this post was in line with the idea of this thread, so here goes. Sorry:

I feel like I'm in denial. I haven't felt excitement in years, and lately I feel like a short man sitting on a footstool. Not a very imposing figure. I feel as if my sense of self is opportunistic, seeing only the good and not the bad, and now it's turned around on me, as if I am clothed, wrapped in clairvoyance of ugliness, of the ugliness of my deeds. At times I think that standing naked I am a saint, like the boy who cried wolf, but it must never be seen, as I'll be persecuted, so here I am, wasting away in front of a screen. How do I make friends? By liking them, of course. Why would I do that? They're all ugly, like me. Never. It will never happen for me. I am a friend. Something like saintliness fuels me, the saintliness of a job well done. I want it badly, to be wrapped in faith so fine you can smell it. My only savior is Allah. My life is procedurally generated, and I admire the gods who put me here. I admire their malice.

I wonder what it all meant.
I haven't moved an inch since yesterday, apart from having stumbled off the stairs and slowly letting my balance persuade me to smack my face into the soft block of polyurethane.
Yet there is a world of difference between the now and then, though it's only spun once.

I remember when I pulled my trousers off my legs, looking at the worn sneakers I wear as a substitute for slippers.
I remember the neurons firing in my brain that fixed my mind's eye on this impending doom; a fear of thought and ideas I had which sparked the gas of this anxiety.
Like the world's most sinister checklist, I crossed off every specific thought that sent me spiraling down this vortex of mindlessness.

But here I sit, at last, without a shred of doubt:
I will be fine.
I will be okay.
I can think. I'm allowed to.

So I wonder what it all meant.
Something up there needed fixing, somehow.

It's a strange thing: to reach into that depth.
I never needed to tighten the screws myself, so how was I supposed to know what to do?

All I could do was try and fail over and over, until the balance tipped in favour of success.

It took me long enough.
Two years is no laughing matter if you have to spend it in a place seemingly devoid of time and reason.
Just a big nothing; a giant veil of shadow cast over this vacuum of thought.

I tumbled into the pupil of the universe: dim lights in the distance like supernovas of dying logic spewing out fragments of once whole a hope.
A thick blind of porous terror and muffled screams of frantic despair.
But always just clear enough for me to throw a glance at what could be and only a second to draw hope from this strobing speck of peace.

I wonder what it all meant, what it was telling me, what I learned now to keep this purging wave at bay..

I wonder too much.

wtf i love the melancholy of haruhi suzumiya now

It is hard for me to estimate the quality of my writing. Whenever I am feeling down, everything I make would seem bad and poor to me. When I feel spiritually elevated and I am filled with a grand vision I am beholding in eye or mind, what I write will bear this euphoria with it. That way it's really hard for me to judge the actual text.

I look back upon the 90s' and realize that I enjoyed life where handheld devices extended to a gameboy color, pagers, and nothing more of the sort due to lack of social media. I am now more disconnected from others as they genuinely expose the extent of their selves to the masses over faucets of social media, tethering their life force to videogames and bottling their ambitions inside the parameters of a pre-manafactured box where both creativity, originality, spirit and soul all lie waiting in decay to be buried beneath the earth in a painless death.

Systems, systems, parking tickets, political correctness, systems, politeness, systems, socially acceptable soirees of useless rituals and systems, how many times am I going to be fucked by systems, taxes, and systems. According to the American healthcare system my life is only worth the equitable sum I produce in financial statistic, which then fuels my nihilism and discontent with the masses of parasitic consumer bacteria.

Me, me, me, all of this is for fucking me, all of this bullshit is for fucking me me me me me, everything in the world revolves around me, look at my fucking balls, look at my balls you fucking bitch, look at my balls.

Endless entertainment, stimulus, shameless depravity, decadence, all of this guiding the new generation into a pacified state of docile lambs to the slaughter where pussies inherit the thrones of positions that will be forced to make choices that require a caliber of man that understands sacrifice, and this breed will die, and I will bear witness to this event at the lowest echelons of poverty in modern society.

Vodka, vodka and orange juice, whiskey and cream, irish cream and whiskey and coffee and mescaline and dope, nicotine, pussy and machineguns.

Intellectuals battling over useless shit, pseudo-intellectualism giving rise to self absorbed and self-loathing systems, individuals who will never understand the function of human flaws, sheltered from the grimmer and darker realities of tomorrow, sheltered from the outside world they freely have the luxury to mock at the wit's end of a keyboard tethered to a digital lifeline projected from a satellite.

Here I am God, witness me, fucking witness me.

I really want to fuck that lady that works at Wendys, and I also want one of those double quarter pounders with extra cheese and vicodin in a milkshake.

Constant revolutions, constant loops, inescapable falling into a narrow darkness, there I am flying into a nothing of which there is only a bittersweet ending. I cast away the aversion to living to defend the ambitious from the image of this abyss and embody a mutual silent suffering so they can live peacefully.

One of these days, I'm going to fuck that lady at Wendys through some precarious encounter at a dirty apartment.

Every time there's three persons in a room there's an awkward feeling of a subtle beligerence between two of those people, while the third one becomes "the one to please". I've seen couples get into fights just because my presence was disturbing their perfect balance as an item; just like an unwanted child in a marriage, the third wheel will always be adressed gently and with care, there will always be measures of caution to not startle him, but the ugly truth is that his presence ruins the dynamics of the other two people by making everything a competition. Inside jokes, humilliating anecdotes or secrets that one of the two swore that never would tell anyone, there's no longer secrets out of the reach of the third wheel.

But why such a horrible dynamic would develop between two people with such understanding of each other? It's not because the third wheel is a hot girl/guy that one of the couple wants to fuck, although it can happen. The truth is that the third wheel is an ice breaker between these two people that already know everything about each other and their reactions to different topics.

Keep practicing I guess...

A personal weather station is a set of weather measuring instruments operated by a private individual, club, association, or even business (where obtaining and distributing weather data is not a part of the entity's business operation). The quality and number of instruments can vary widely, and placement of the instruments, so important to obtaining accurate, meaningful, and comparable data, can also be very variable.

Today's personal weather stations also typically involve a digital console that provides readouts of the data being collected. These consoles may interface to a personal computer where data can be displayed, stored, and uploaded to Web sites or data ingestion/distribution systems.

Personal weather stations may be operated solely for the enjoyment and education of the owner, but many personal weather station operators also share their data with others, either by manually compiling data and distributing it, or through use of the internet or amateur radio. The Citizen Weather Observer Program (CWOP) is one such, and the data submitted through use of software, a personal computer, and internet connection (or amateur radio) are utilized by the National Weather Service when generating forecast models, and by many other entities as well. Each weather station submitting data to CWOP will also have an individual Web page that depicts the data submitted by that station. The Weather Underground Internet site is another popular destination for the submittal and sharing of data with others around the world. As with CWOP, each station submitting data to The Weather Underground has a unique Web page displaying their submitted data. The UK Met Office's Weather Observations Website (WOW) also allows such data to be shared and displayed.

I'm gonna screen cap this thread for the time when one of you inevitably complains about not getting published

I'm an ESL poet though. I just come to these threads to blog and read other peoples thoughts.

gook

It's time to wake up. Time to wake up, you say as every ounce of instinct pulls you back. Your body is sinking, sinking into the sheets. Mirroring the abyss your mind has fallen into. You waited eight years, eight long years. You waited for the way she looked at you, thinking it would bring the happiness you've been searching for. All it has done, all it will ever do, is destroy you. You have waited for nothing.

good. more? i'm interested

PEE PEEEEEEEE PEE BUTT ASS POOPOO DOOKIE WIENER SHIT STAIN DICK

what the fuck does ESL mean?

I liked it

English as a second language

The ammount of Zizek's face pictures on the catalog disturbs me

Clara is a woman in 2017. You're completely and utterly fucked. But you already know this of course.
You can still feel good about the fact that at least youre not married to a cunt like that

Not this nigga but I feel the same so I'll write some shit.

It destroyed you. You swore you'd never look forward to it again. There you go. You're looking forward to it again. Why is that a thing? Do you expect it to be different? Will it be different? You've settled with yourself humans are, as much as everybody denies it, different altogether. But do you really expect it for her to be so different she won't have the same reaction all others had? Maybe she already had that reaction. But in such a soft forgiving manner that it slipped through your overzealous analysis. Or maybe you've just denied it. You don't really know.

I mean, really, you're a thinking man. Even though you deny it. You think. A lot. Haven't you ever thought, while looking at her eyes as she spews some friendly dialogue. And saw flaws? Why didn't seeing them make you shove her out of the imaginary pedestal you put her in? Are you this hopeful that eventually she'll realize she's a lot to you and the only reason you've put yourself out to help her, and also the reason you've been bettering yourself. Fixing yourself. I mean, she doesn't even stop to think if her lines are too selfish. Or if she's showing you she likes your work towards her.

She's shown she doesn't think of you as an annoying beta. That is nice. But really, how nice can that be? Your reasoning has seen that even though she tries to hide it by calling you ''sticky'' jokingly, she doesn't fail to recognize you're only ''sticky'' around her. And in the end. Its all for the best. You've seen her look for you when you're not there. You've seen her ask for you to wait when you out of the blue don't. You've seen her ask you for help when she knew you couldn't. Because she knew you'd try anyways.
You've seen her see you.
You've also looked at yourself and your actions, many times some would say.

But how far has it gotten you?

Maybe you should ask for someone else to give you some input. But will you take it? You're hardheaded as shit. I don't think it would help

Maybe it will. Maybe it will.

Continuation because all of this shitty punctuation has gotten me further into the spiral of betaness.

You asked someone for help. They gave it. You didn't really get anywhere with the help. But you feel like some more will get you long way. So you ask again. You don't really manage to do what they set you to do because of stubbornness, and also because you didn't think it was fitting to do so in that situation. Getting shoved into a wall drives you crazy. It doesn't let you think for long times like you always end up doing. Snap decisions aren't your forte. You've only managed to do it well in that one time long ago. You're pretty ''great'' in contextual jokes though, as lame as that sounds. She said she likes reserved men. So your extrovert self should look out for that, or should it?

You've jokingly said you love her a few times. Mostly because she set you up for it. It seems she also really likes you, because her reaction to your cheeky confession was welcoming. She even muttered it in one of your intelectual dialogues last week. What were you talking about? Oh right. That one subject. Physics was it? You really went far for that subject. I remember you browsing wikipedia and literally studying for no reason.

Have you ever done that before? I'm sure not.

Are you damned? You look damned. I mean, there ARE reasons to stop it. Many. Many reasons. But as many times as you've listed them out. The pros outweight them. They really do.

Alright kid. I'm done. As much as putting the cards in the table seems fun. They never fucking end. You're really as conflicted as my reading of your subconscious says. I hope a burst of courage strikes you and you end up becoming someone else for a moment, so you can finally score. Because you, right here right now, are a pussy. A grade A pussy. You do well in many shit. But the results aren't like other people would get with the same skills. Why are you like this? You're such a hopeful little boy. But being willing to change isn't all it takes to change. You have to accept its what you have to do, and do it. I'm not saying become that one guy that has lots of sex. I'm just saying being exactly like you hasn't, empirically, gotten anyone anywhere. At least love wise.

I'm tired of sitting here. Goodbye kiddo. Your session is over.

My best prose is shit