Lol Anchor Stores

Lol Anchor Stores

Mauly Mauly finger bangin’ in the midday sun.

So, the internet’s still not working here in Ye Olde CenterPoint Mall.  It’s kinda too bad, but it gave me another excuse to talk to my sewing friend.  She’s a good Christian, so she keeps me at arm’s length, but she’s in a networking hub kinda position.  Perspective.  Yours assists me in ways you can’t imagine.  Besides what I call my “art” or the “work” that I do, damn near everything I say is what one of my friends said before me.  I’d cite every single one, but what’d be the point of that?  You all affect me.  Every time you put something out there, it affects me.  I feel the frustration and pain of your frustrated and painful tweets, and I feel the longing of your horniness.  Thank you for over-sharing.  Another way I think about it is that you never know which piece of information, which bit, will ultimately prove your shared humanity with another human.  So, share all of ‘em.  Really?  You’ve never had any embarrassing things happen to you?  You’ve never been without friends, even though the tormentors that surround you claim otherwise?  Yeah, well, you can keep lying to yourself all you want.  I’m not gonna lie to you.  I see no point in it.  If you’re not ready and willing, nay, desirous even!  Get the fuck out of my way or help me find a friend.  I’m not a permanent fixture here.  I get that.  I don’t exist.  Fine.  You don’t like how I look.  What the fuck ever.  You don’t like the words that I use.  Join the fucking club.  My friends make you uncomfortable.  Heh heh heh heh.  You’re stupid.  My friends are the only fucking decent people on this planet.  It’s assholes like you that make it suck.  Leave me the fuck alone.

Back on Sole.  nuclear winter volume one.  It’s growin’ on me.

The unemployment brochure is gone from the plastic “area information” kiosk thingy.  See my blog.  Oh, wait, that’s, like here.  Whoa.  Meta.

I have no idea what word combination puts you in that doozy woozy fuckable place.  From the look of ya, ya never been there.  Oh, I don’t doubt that you’ve had sex before.  You ain’t never been fucked proper, far as I can see from here.

Fine.  Another angle.  Send me the damaged goods.  That’s what you usually do with a healer, right?  Dump the most fucked up trash on them, so that they fix all of the problems that nobody else within earshot has the balls to do anything about.  You blind, silent, fucking slaves.  Participation is akin to cooperation.  You are THE problem.

I had other shit to fucking yell at you about.  I had thoughts of a “tv show” format YouTube uploading binge.  Not happening.

I never stepped (out from) behind the 4th wall, so I don’t have to stay anywhere.

Adorable kid portrait with that winter tarp as a background.  Adorable mommy brain freeze.  I love the way you torture me.

I have to periodically brush errant beard hairs off of my desk and pull them out of my keyboard.  I have no particular attachment to this beard.  It’s a novelty, I suppose.  I’ve been growing it for 15 months now, and it’s a fucking monster, but I would rather be hairless, warm, and touched than bearded.  What’s the difference?  My mind is still my mind.  You’re the ones who attribute all this fucking importance to shallow looks.  I care about your health, and I can see through all of your defenses.

Dude with a bleeding ear just walked past me.  I love this mall.  I want it.  No, seriously, I’ve been thinking about it, and I think you should just give me the mall.  I know it’s just a human torture chamber.  That’s why I should be the one to repurpose it.  Look, I know you’re just going to incorporate some of my ideas, but at heart, you’ll be a using a capitalist, slave-driving retard mindset, so the ultimate ends of your efforts will be as stupid and worthless as you yourself.  Get the fuck out of my way and let me fix your problems.  No, because you don’t know how to think.

I have no idea why small towns act this way.  In big cities, the most technologically advanced and wealthiest places, they design cities to have the feel of neighborhoods in many ways similar to neighborhoods in this town.  Yet, the people who run the downtown of this little Podunk seem convinced that making it look like the ass side of a highway-facing warehouse is a better use of our space.  Oh, and rather than just doing the work, you know, using the city full of skilled individuals who no longer have jobs, any semblance of American-dream-style “manhood,” or means of single-handedly putting their minds, hands, or backs to use, we should pay an outside group of fat rich white men to hire other “educated” assholes to give us the “industry standard” in fascist people corrals.  Ok, I know there are people growing food right down the street.  But then we can’t sell the slaves our field-poisoned addictive comfort mush.  Mouthfeel, people.  Down the gullet.

Fine.  My first commercial is gonna be me seducing a beautiful young lady who’s never had sex before.  I’m gonna pop her cherry in private, but I’ll let you all watch the seduction itself.  Then, I’ll sell myself as a sex-skills educator.  Guess what?  If you’re daughter ain’t been schooled in sucking and fucking, she ain’t nearly as marriageable as if she had been.  Oh, daddy already did that and don’t wanna be sharing his ‘tang?  Well, then, sir, how badly do you want to live?  She don’t belong to me neither, and she never will.

The first thing I’d do with this mall is create a living space for me.  Huge solar shower.  Yes, I’d schedule my showers by whether it was a sunny day or not.  You got a fucking problem with that?  I know that you do.

Hey, guess what.  I can talk about all of you without caring what you have to say about it, too.  I don’t think it’s retribution, because you were never trying to help me by talking “about” me anyway.  You don’t even know how to help yourself.  This is because you can’t think like all of us.  You still think you’re not the sex slave Dick Cheney keeps chained up in his basement.  You think you’re not the child who works his little fingers to the bone sewing your designed-for-disposability status/hierarchy notifiers (ie your clothes, bags, and shoes).  You think you’re not the frail, fat, over-busy-worked and terrified, tv and poison-“food” addicted family-loving man/woman who sees no “hope” in our present course.  Fuck hope.  Act.  Nobody is going to fix this planet for you.  You have to think.  I don’t know if my fucking ideas are better than anybody else’s!  Most of ‘em are fucking stupid.  If they were worth a damn, I’d be getting so much pussy I wouldn’t have time to tweet, or, fucking eat for that matter.  I have the personal capability to run circles around any task you put your fat, diseased, meatbot to.  I can show you how to move.  I can show you how to eat.  I can show you how to talk.  I can show you how to love.  All I want to do, for the rest of my life, is fuck, and dance.  I want kids everywhere.  A fucking army of foul-mouthed, redheaded, single-parent geniuses who can help their beautiful mothers to deal with this fucked up mind-fuck torture.

Fuck.  I’m almost out of weed.  Can you tell?  Last batch I got sucked ass.  Shoulda known.  Never buy from a pusher, kids.  Find yourself a good, fellow “depressed” chronic who is functional enough to maintain healthy silent relationships with the government employees who steal this shit from poor people in other countries.  Fuck the local farmers living off of its illegality and charging gold-standard prices.  Oh, settle.  The cops will back the fuck up when their kids run to hug me Indiana Jones style.  I read the pied piper, too.  Anything your “gods” have ever said can and will be used against you in the court of LAW.  You’re all guilty.  Be glad you get to live.

That must mean we’re ready to go read some follow Friday shit.  Or, we have to pee again.  Pfft.  Whatever.

Lateskis,
t

p.s. Linksaved from between the retweets:

2010-12-18 Sat. Uh. Dae

How’s the way where I say it like you’re really pretty and I like you a lot?  That’s the, uh, one I meant.  Too many.  You gotta pick.  Fucking gang up on me, why don’t cha?  You think I won’t be able to handle it?

Ghandi told us.  Quit participating with the institutions that are killing you.  There’s no necessary attachment between you and them.  This is the purpose of the community land trust.  Well, that and the social leveling.  Yeah, you have to commit your entire family’s inheritance to the betterment of the whole of humanity for all of eternity.  No political system or court will last that long, so it’s a safe bet.

So on the walk over here, I was trying to compose a tweet about traffic.  It’s not that people here wouldn’t hit you with their car if they could.  If you’ve lived amongst them long enough, you know not to give them the opportunity.

Plus, you know, that strict drug regimen to keep my mind limber.

Miracle on 34th Street was on AMC at the bar, with subtitles, twice last night.  What a horrible thing that that piece of propagandistic shit is a “holiday tradition,” if only by TV-scheduling standards.  That, my friends, is your torture.  Adorable, starry-eyed and rosy-cheeked children fantasizing about… toys.  Courtroom lies.  Governmental proof.  And who the fuck was that guy with a cigar boner?  What the fuck is wrong with you people and your goddamn ENTERTAINMENT???  I’m at a loss.

I suspect there are many people who can read typing clicks.  It must be like reading lips.  We’re all capable of reading minds outright, so what’s the point in going through an intermediary?  Use the most direct means of communication possible.  Skin.  It has visual impact.  It has auditory impact.  Snap, clap, and pop.  Fucking use that meatbot for something!

So, I just edited yesterday’s shit.  I like it.  Gonna go post it.

The décor in here is so fucking hilarious.  This mall is my hero.  This mall is so fucking lame, the cool kids don’t even graffiti here.  There’s a graffiti wall in the basement of a nearby church, so, you know, all the good Christian kids can get their huff on.

How about this:

Dance Studio Proposal

Free lessons.  Free workspace.  Free napspace.  Free music space.  Free meditation space.

Free computer workstations.  Free coffee.  Free food.  Free childcare.

Would DVDs sell?  Would CDs?  Why do I have to “sell” something.  Where is this money coming from?  Why do you need to use that?  This studio will be the community hub of an ancient local currency, too.  We back on the hours, people.

We also back on Fuck The Facts.

I gotta get to the library before it closes.  And, ya know, shit.  Heh.  See ya soon.

Love,
t

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~ by LazyAssWasteoid on 2010-12-18 (Saturday).

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