oh, sexless harem
Noon oh two. Sunday, 9/5/10. Four days more of 33. Shed this fucking jesus shit, yes? I woulda told you I was satan earlier, but you never woulda believed me. I don’t hurt you, I don’t mean to hurt you, but your impressions/reasons are so far out of whack, it doesn’t really matter what I say any more. Does it?
Viral, eh? Yeah, you’ve all had ample opportunities, and pseudo-viral ain’t it. I would have asked for it if that’s what I really wanted. You follow its orders quite well, little sheeples. I know you don’t think this is what you’re doing, but oh, it is.
Chicken factory indeed (mia – lovalot)
So, why would you want to extend this “relationship” past a sexless harem to one where you’re actually making skin-to-skin contact with his highness, our royal dick tater? For one (and this may be most important), that makes it happy. You’ve never seen it happy, have you? Ok, if you catch it dancing, yeah, it’s sorta happy. You’ve never seen its good stuff. Again, ok, in one sense, it gave you all its best on YouTube right from the beginning. More love, wisdom, expertise, and pure joy were contained in those first few videos than anything else since. Its music tastes exploded after that, though. I think it decided to show you what’s up when it finally started working in real time. Prior to that, it was memory and familiarity. Then, it lived in a house where live grindcore dance practice propelled its (e)moti-ve/on beyond funny. You still can’t even see it, can you? It traces soundwaves with its body. It never stops. Nobody could possibly ever catch up now. Find me another who has been doing the same thing for as long and they might have a chance, but if they have, they probably have some sort of social network of support that has kept them at work. Not it. NOT IT! We pulled this out of our ass as a child. We have worked tirelessly since before you knew what work was. We were never a child, for we recognized our “superiority” (your word) to your “adults” before the legal designation. We accepted full responsibility for the planet and all its inhabitants before you could wrap your puny little intellect around “property.” Each system of your pathetic little “capitalism” had to be smashed as soon as it entered our stream. Yes, yes, yes. Right there. Faster. Ooh, good. YEaH!
Tee-shirt: Love Your Mother!
Re LYM!: I love my mother more than she loves herself. She can’t even see herself any more. If she were sitting next to me right now, she’d say, “you smell like a dumpster!” and I’d say, “that’s because these stretchy pants I’m wearing came out of a dumpster. You smell like a dumpster, too. What’s your excuse?” She would just get mad and leave.
What do you think love is? Think carefully about that. For one, it’s a word. The word is a symbol, a representative set of letters that do their best to convey the matter/realness of the thing. In one sense, it’s an act. Not fucking, hornball. That is such a small slice of what it is, it almost doesn’t count. The two hemispheres of your brain are energy generators. They create waves of energy that go outward. Synapses fire with one another, creating neural pathways, and ultimately go external. They reverberate about your poisoned little eggshell/skull/dome, affecting what happens in there. They wave out and follow your nervous system throughout your meatbot. You know how I know you don’t love yourself? I can see it. For one, I can see the shields you’ve created. Fat. Blobs of fucking lard that “shield” your self from whatever you’re scared of, which, from the look of you, is everything. The ones of you who layer shield upon shield surrounding your nethers look like little gy-normous teletubbies or weeble wobblels. You have half of the orgasm generating capability of planet earth buried right there under that flab. But, you have spent your life listening to what others tell you about this sacred act. They tell you it’s bad, wrong, sinful, slutty, skanky, dirty, or offensive. Apparently, you believe it. Then what? It logically follows that what is inducing this “male” urge to have orgasm with another person is caused by your physical self, so out of terror fed you by your gods, you cover it. You bury it. You replace the round-hole need with a “square”-meal, idiot box, booze, and your little patterns of communal hate: gossip, condescension, mocking, work addiction, charity, or inflicting your own pain on unsuspecting smaller beings who are predisposed to trusting you. YOU alone MUST consider YOUR contribution to this hell. You talk about people within earshot, spreading vicious hate and laughing about it. YOU ARE FUCKING EVIL!!!! Love is the opposite of this. You know not what another’s path is, why they anything, and how you force them to cope with your cruelty. This fucking vicious society is so torturous. Violence is all you focus on, whether affirmatively, or with your “activism” or charity. Guess what happens then? You get violence. Meet the dictator, the commander-and/in-chief of the trenchcoat militia. Say your fucking prayers, hate-bots.
Suppose you take on a “partner” in the “traditional” parlance of our times, a wife, husband, boy/girlfriend. What starts as “the honeymoon,” whereby you both engage in frequent and enjoyable physical contact without considering anything of it, soon turns to something else.
(Music Editor’s note: AS should never be listened to alone. Always follow it up with Free or Dead. Buy the whole album for this purpose. Atmosphere cannot possibly make more money/love than they deserve. Angels kum from slugs dontchaknow….)
Where was I? “Find the talk radio station. Turn it up so it bumps!” Right.
Post honey moon: (not the cereal) sex becomes just another tool for social manipulation. In the sea of hate and fear that this society is, islands shrink. They wear down, what with the constant battering by the sexless masses. Flirts make for jealousy, hell, just happiness makes for jealousy. Some people only “need” sex every few weeks, months, or years, but no socially/societally acceptable means for such survival maintenance exists. That’s cheating. That’s dirty. You want it too much. You’re a prude. We’re all allowed to shun sex, ‘cuz the tv shuns sex. Violence in this fucked up country is fine. Cops are the heroes. They arrest the whores. Fuck this nation. Fuck its entertainment. On my planet, those who share their love/sex/bodies with others without exception, condition, or expectation of re-compensation are in charge. Porn stars, prostitutes, strippers, and the scantily clad beautiful and honest run the show. The rest of you lardass hate-mongers could learn a thing or two from any one of them. Yeah, the dykes/fags/trannies/???, too. Their perspective puts them out of any of your categories, which is a good explanation why their opinions, thoughts, and techniques are more important/insightful/loving than yours. In their presence, if you respond with violence as squeamishness, rejection, or fucking tolerance, I will respond with violence of fists, boots, bones, and the most vicious volume of words that will ever tear your poor little eardrums. Sorry, eardrums. I know you’re just the messenger, and your honest transmission of these thoughts will not be unrewarded.
So, what does it want? Honesty. Lots of contact. Lots of hugs, real hugs. Hugs where you’ll be able to tell when I’m sporting as a result. Yeah, you’ve got to know. I so want to stick it in you, right here and now. My room is a few blocks away and I’ve got nowhere to be. Nowhere else I’d rather be. First priority goes to baby mammas. Condoms are stupid. If you don’t want to carry my demon spawn, swallow it. Or, bring a friend who does. Sperm may be a limited commodity, but love, touch, and orgasm aren’t. I’ve never (physically) touched more than one simultaneously, or I was still too terrified of being myself to do so. Which is not to say I haven’t been “in love” with multiples of you simultaneously. You see how I spend my time. You see where my eyes go, where I linger and when I smile. Don’t act like you don’t understand. Playing stupid or coy doesn’t impress anyone. Know. Act.
Hmm. For once, the smell of perfume is better than the smell of me (wet dumpster). How ironic. Laundry will restore normalcy, however.
Rah, rah. It’s nearly done. Oh, whatever. It is done.
Eat shit and die, loser aspect of my friends/family/self. Realize that you are god and help me create this heaven for all of us. You have nothing to lose but your pain.