alloy wanna dew

All I wanna.

 

do (Yes, that too, Sheryl.) is wake up every day in a bed full of beautiful girls, fuck as many of them as want to, and get high, go sit somewhere new with the internet and talk to people.  I mean, clearly, for purposes of finding/meeting/spending time with as many “angels in materialists’ disguises” as the particular ecosystem has to offer.

 

That, and the petty tyrant hunting is getting old when you do the levels without killing anyone.  Sure do get yelled at by everybody, though.  But, when they do that, they eventually run out of breath, so I rip their heart out through their ears, eat it, and birth out a clean one out of the reassembled components.  My essence is a fucking human healing chamber.  Echo…  I am but a single consciousness.  You are my only amplification.  How can I help?

 

The man’s test said I’m 42% addicted to twitter.  I think that’s a typo.

 

There’s a way, will.

 

Testator?  Prodigy?  No, not them.  Can I just give you my outline from Trusts & Estates?  I barely passed that class… I may have dropped it.  Mornings.  Legs.  Ah, people have been fighting over shit past death for centuries, eh?  What a waste of time.  Wouldn’t you rather be a farmer?  I sure would.  You know, or a musician, porn star, systems architect/designer/optimizer whatever.  So unnecessary.

 

If I knew how to flirt, I’d go get laid in real life.  I dunno.  How many positions do you know?  Oh, I disown any attachment to anything manly, anything womanly, any narrow definition of “relationship” other than a connection.  Dates are publicly supervised wastes of money.  Let’s make our own good food and then fuck here.  Or, whatever you wanna do.  It’s been so long since anybody gave a fuck about anything I thought was interesting, or even worth discussing, I completely forgot how it felt.  I left that pair a dime years ago.  It fuckin’ hurt like a motherfucker, yes it did.  Has ever since.  The nanoweb caught us before we completely bottomed out, somehow.  Who didn’t see that comin’?

 

Oh, my twisted fantasies.  Who are you?  Do I get any clues?  You seem like the kind of girl where the first time I ever see you, you won’t actually even say a word, but run leap and attack me with limbs all agrip.  Hopefully, it will be in a mosh pit, so that’ll be perfect anyway.

 

I smell more like a small domesticated animal than a man, perhaps a squirrel, chipmunk, or rat.  Whatever.  Little critters are cleaner than most humans I’ve lived around.  Fucking slobs.  Eew.  You would disgust the romans.  You have indoor fucking plumbing.  Learn how to fucking use it!

 

A prayer I wrote today:

 

God, I haven’t stuck my tongue in pussy for waaayyy too long.  Let’s ah, fix ‘at, eh?

 

Age matters little, communication ability, willingness, and physical capability.  I get physics, I hate phones, but I love tweets and text.  Yup.  Get to the fucking point, time-waster.  I fall in love with voices, so you have to be here.  I get hints of your voice from your tweets, though.  Are you hiding from me particularly, or everyone?  Or, yourself.  How many lives do you have?  Fucking snow.  I guess it replenishes the ground water, maybe helping the plants it doesn’t kill.  Oh, the plants, of all people, know how to deal with it best.  Sunken costs, yo.  Redirect energy/focus to survival potentials.

 

The winners want my baby, personally implanted asap.

 

Recruits?  Volunteers?  Obsolete clogged robots with bloated operating systems?  Fuck.  This is a clone army.  10 of me could destroy the rest of you, easily.  Which is not to say that we’d want to.  With great power cums, great. Responsibility?  Right!?

 

I dunno.  Grr, or whatever.  I don’t know anything about you.  Everything about me is public.  Just make sure it’s a fucking kill shot.  Don’t go injuring me and giving me something to do.  I believe that’s know as “the Indigo Montoya effect.”  I mean, all that would happen would be a string of random, grainy dance videos that finally get my fucking youtube account deleted.  How are we not working together on youporn yet?  What’s the fucking hold up?  I mean, I kind of am getting younger, relative to the rest of you, but what does that have to do with anything.  Time travel is boring solo.  No, we don’t have to film it, but I thought that’d be an easy way to make some cash.  Fuck it then, it keeps writing as it writhes in self-imposed agony, so at least something’s getting produced.

 

Stat-tique!  I’m nearly within range, with an outstretched antenna wire and single-speakered old stereo.  I have a can of contact cleaner in my car.  I should put it to use, eh?

 

I don’t even want to check the weather.  I’m kind of just enjoying the light.  Ambient light isn’t exactly the same as direct sunlight, but plants and people can use that, too.  Yes, Newton, meatbots utilize solar energy directly.  So does the sun.  So do rocks.  So does soil.  Any being with a dual-polarity meat computer atop its skeleton gots a magical matter implementer, personally-designed personal maintainer.  Which is not to say external tools can’t assist it.  The Egyptian superscientists used tuned metal alloy contacts.  Frequency-generating/studying freaks like Royal Rife duplicated this process, which any contemplation of chi, meridians, or pressure points also taps into/exploits/uses.

 

Yes, Karate is magic.  So are medicine wheels.  They can redirect, stimulate, and optimize groundwater flows, plant life within the field, and human biochemistry.  Yes, to orient ourselves to the universe around us clears the cloudiness of our petty little egos.  Brother/sister/friend/comrade/cousin/family/people, go where it sends thee.  Manifest collective understanding through/with/by love.  Individual and macro.  I love the people of that region, so I wish no bombs to fall there, ever.  I love the people of this region, so I wish no bombs to be made here, ever.  I love the people of all regions, so I will offer up shared information and resources and culture and music and physical contact and spaces and nutritious food with all those I encounter.

 

Oh, forces hidden, what progress, my loves.  For how soon might I fly on the wings of a dove.

 

I have no need of my old clothes, old data, old self.  Old music, old whozits, old clutter, old shelves.  Old people, renew, old matters, ePart, share space, grow food, create art.  Old transport, bike train it, hoof it, or fly.  My kitchen is fresh bread, beans, rice, butter and spices, all made on the fly.  I eat, like the bird, that I am.  That’s a twitter cunnilingus metaphor, by the way. Heh.

 

This might be the first day all the essential elements are together.  Jarad’s on the mic, fresh bread for breakfast, second cup of tea with a bowl of birdseed stew.  I just took a few pictures.  Food, face.  I guess that’s next to du, eh?  Do.

 

(2:37 pm)

 

So, know I now.  More, anyway.

 

I’m already in WordPress, so I may as well post, eh?

 

Thanks,
t

 

 

 

 

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~ by LazyAssWasteoid on 2011-03-22 (Tuesday).

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