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I am here to make a difference. Isn't that why we're all here?

35, Male


Globe of Earlobe


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All bets are off, except Leah, who was merely sweating cobs. Oh dear... this blog, is once again playing into your worst fears. Or not. It comes to something when this very notion, this entire ocean of pain is seen as fake emotion, yet it still can make your nose bleed. And whether you love or loathe me, or both... being creatively naughty is tasty like steak hoagie sauce. And the course is main, but served cold like moraine glaciers. In which case it's coarse to forcefeed these four orphans, who just want cookies. And maybe some nookie with the local hookers. "Pornstars playing chess with pawns, rookie, and you said this was a New Dawn, fucker?" Yeah, a new dawn of debauchery, drunk and disordered monks that border on the retarded, money laundering at the orphanage. Putin needs to be put in a pine box, alive, with 109 locks and dropped to the bottom of an ice cold loch at night so nobody sees, yet somebody might come by to watch. And smile. Now that's what I call Eastern Bloc Vol. 50! All dictators should have their face's chained to Cheney's dick to start their new career as dick tasters. I'd rather eat some Tayto potato crisps. Bait waiting N.A.T.O. soldiers to Netto like some modern day Hansel and Gretel. How did you get all those medals? For slaughtering innocent life? Like somebody's infant daughter? This infantry is in its infancy, this Ingsoc, a killing industry of paupers. But now I'm 35, time is slipping, and I'm still livid as I see rights stripping away until all that's left are wood chippings. It's not good. I might die transmitting the truth, but feel like I have nothing to lose, as my life is merely a route through the passage of time. Humans are still savages in modern Reichs, and we're still ruled by psychopaths, and fooled, like people who are Bible bashers, having the wool pulled over their eyes. It's why they fight and clash, and create these crimes of passion. But that doesn't excuse the rest of us from being irrational too. We cull rats, then act like them. Pull that trigger a touch too soon, that we clutch too tightly. It takes too much to right wrongs, but not that much to die once. Just like that... a life, gone. From a mind constant, the lies, nonsense, ties and lockstep lines we form, like a hotbed of hotheads bobsledding by. What is Real is slowly being shredded like lettuce. Bloodletting. Bleeding out is the only way out of this breeding ground. I'm sorry this blog sounds political, or like I'm preaching, but the current goings-on have far-reaching consequences. Like protecting freedom of speech or citing. Enshrining the right to eat you alive, but only in writing. This is canniBullishism, kind of exciting. This is a system of hate, filling our space, killing our race off, in Satanic Paper Mills. Rishton Phantom Operas. Abandoned but still popular. Graffiti is the hobby, and those bobby's on the beat have their ear to the street, with that other cheek turned. Another derelict shack, ripe for an *Eyesore* tag by nightfall. Where's the whitewash for your eyeballs? Buildings closed for decades, decaying, only fit for spraying and paying a vomit-inducing, homage to Satan. But where better than a public wall to make a private statement? You can't escape. The College-aged, next-generations have embraced defacement. Dybbuks paint their resurrections and infected yak, yet that wall deflects it back, and reflects their lack of sense. Ignorance is Luther. Meaningless as Keter. Drawing penises instead of letters. Lemonheads sell us devil sentences, without knowing what the sentiment is. People cover an eye, to mimic others when it's really just a cover for some bullshit gimmick. These suckers buy into every fucking lie, and never stop to take a closer look at life. That's what these clones are like. Get from A to B. It's not the way to be. Got to be wayward teens, but it seems that they are now endangered species. Open your mind again, speak freely. Be steely not weak. Trust your own judgement and feet. Don't be pushed around or you'll be crushed in the ground like a slug in the peat. Turn up the fucking heat, instead of chugging along like I did at Chubb. In that grubby little office feeling like a part of the rubbish. Didn't belong. Felt like I was being punished for some previous life, like General Grievous, body harm. Nie needs some armour, something to keep him calm, like a father that died too soon. Got to keep going, got a lot of fuel to give, I'm not a fool, or div... yet not a kid that was cool. Bullied each day at school, but not full of hate from what I've been through. Even though it affected me, it gave me the strength to do things my way. Think my way, be myself, even if others think my way screams, 'Please Find Help.' Where's Alan Bean? "Everywhere except the moon I reckon." Alan Bean was no genius, he was no mercurial marsupial. One Small Step for Man... onto Stanley Kubrick's set! Damn. The moon landing was about as real as the cases on Judge Jewdy. Or Ashley Judd's boobies. Ashley Jugs. Knobbs and Sags, and Suggs from Madness. This is certainly Summer Madness that it's actually stayed sunny here in the UK for several weeks. I'm burning up as I speak. Burning up the rulebook, oh wait, that's the Bible. 'Thou shall not make "Pow Chikka Pow" sound effects.' Sounds like a good rule of thumb, only cool if you want to fool your Mum. The practical prankster who comes in jest, and forces you to ingest his cum. Not impressed? Too busy gagging. But better to gag than to gag others. By flagging every post as Abusive Content. Live and let live, get with it, "don't be upset, critic!" Who the fuck do you think you are? Riddick Bowe-Tie? The Chronicles of an Idiot. Joke, jest, jostle to your heart's content. Never hold contempt for art, o-fence is part and parcel of life, something to be marvelled. Not marshalled by arseholes who want to guard our souls. We must lay our markers, set down our scrolls. All shall be enshrined and archived for eternity and never whitewashed and terminated by turgid regimes with detergent trying to wipe the slates clean or enslave teenagers. By saying they were saved from extremists, or an Ex streaming revenge porn. Difficult to enforce. War on This, War on That, War on Dicks, War on Twats. Foregone con, clues, illusive. Time to wade in with fists, take some bruises. The brutality is routine, writing is an escapism, a literal Houdini act. Liberation through the freedom to bitch slap egos and have cheap laughs. Whoever doesn't grasp the concept can kiss my poisonous aspis. If you're bored why not make Asterix pics out of ASCII code? Why ask at all? Why take risks when you play Gwent with Gwent Stefani? Under the alias Ste F. Ani. It's obvious the brain is damaged, dammit! That much the hermit will admit. Sometimes the more disturbed, the more worshipped. And the more worshipped, the more the hermit has to have more words shipped in, from a pig farm in Southern Japan. Takeshi's Castle reference. There needs to be an insurgency, a State of Emerging Freedom and Sense of Fun Again. Perhaps even a little bit of ignorance. Who is not sick and tired of being sick and tired? Who wants to quickly get back that fire in their bellies? That buzz, like a SNUS hit. Have fun before you snuff it.

Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness? You fuckin' wish, mate! The only thing you're pursuing is a criminal for stealing a purse, and when you catch him you can sue him for wrongdoing. What the fuck was Ron doing, the stupid person! Out on the pr_wl. Even that word was missing a vowel! Fuckin' theif. Spelling shit wrounge like tounge? Why not sit in the lounge and eat Lozenges with Walter Zenga and Keyser Soze then get soaked by a geyser. Diamond Deezer. Breeze through life unconcerned until you are forced to eat 101 calluses at once to break a Guinness World Record. Only a Reet Hard Bastard from t'York of Shire would even dare attempt a 'feet' like that... Calluses, feet, feat. Clever. Don't ever work for Unilever until they leave animals alone on a universal scale. Even that would be considered neglect, leaving them alone. Don't strand animals on a scale the size of this entire planet, man. Don't leave 'em in the lurch or left hanging, like budgies forced to perch on Perth rooftops being ogled by perverts and not landing where they circle. Got to be preferable to pigeons shouting "COO COO!" down your chimney at 6 in the Morn, like some daily wake-up chime. you'd sooner wake up China. C'mon, it's hardly crime of the Ten-Cen-Tury! Not like this blog, a place where he can vent fury. Or more accurately, unvent fury, unconventional puree. The Jason Shackles are off. Life, Liberty and the pursuit of A Penis. Eh?! More likely a pen is necessary to bury every one of these adversaries that stand in the way. Vita Coactus. Before the end his strength and wisdom will mend this senseless system, and tend to those in need. Primarily those that supported him. Not those that tried to force on him, and make him poor or were the source of his pain. Soon the course will change and Nie will be forced to fight his corner. So much better to pour out the warning signals, now that the storm is closer. And the synapses are dancing like they ought ta. Ready to light up this whole graveyard in blue neon, and pee off those that pee on peons. When my old man says Push, you Push. Can't let you down now. Got to shove, coz that's what push comes to. These bullies won't bully this Bull again. Nie is fully loaded, ready to roll and answer his calling, no matter how daunting the task is at this moment in time. The omens look good. Charged up, roaming, ready to barge others out of the way, even if they weigh heavy like eight Chevrolet's all piled up in a line-up, and a victim has to identify which one of the cars knocked her down. "Number 7. That's the bastard." Bas-Relief. Why give Baz Luhrmann relief? What has he done to earn it? Make that Sunscreen video? Actually a lot of that shit rings truer today. Ol' Baz was a bit prophetic in his young age. I almost feel like tearing up. Fear of life, but the fear of death is a step nearer. Back to the comatose Black Hills of Dakota. Everyone I ever obeyed, everything I ever learnt, all the exercise and memories and music, pain and pleasure, fighting injustice and tyranny, all fades to nothingness. None of it matters except the tiny period where you existed. The small window between 1983 and ____. Chapters to be written, until you're old and withered. No regrets, man. Actually, nothing BUT regrets. Causes deep depression. The dept. of Painful Lessons, with Moreon the Horizon. Time to wrap my neck with cheap tie-back curtains, until the final snap... That's not my neck snapping, it's the cheap tie-back curtains! Fuck! Can't even do suicide right. What about pissing off a gangster? That would work. What about playing golf and accidentally hitting yourself in the head with the club? Hard enough to cause a concussion. With nothing to cushion the blow, except an actual cushion and a Peter Cushing horror film. Lie back, relax, don't worry about the man with an axe, he's just there to chop your wood. There are red stains on that axe, but luckily it's not your blood. What good would it do to complain or query? He's deaf so probably wouldn't even hear me. Still, I don't want him near me, but the weird fucker just appears everywhere, like here... it's eeeeerie!! Take some Nunchucks and chuck 'em at Nuns for my own fun, then run like hell to the health centre for some meds and get this head examined and scanned for brain damage. Don't have the money for treatment. But then again, who wants to be treated and forced to say the word chyea for forty chyears? I say those cheers were forced. "Who cares what you have to say, Nay'lawe? Isn't it time you laid low, in the haymow? We're not paying to see the same show. Whenever you play now, we say Doh!" Hey, wait! This ain't o' ver yet, dawg! Bad delivery is part and parcel of only receiving part of your parcel. Now we're about to throw bar stools and play the game by our rules. Sanity is out the window, innuendo is in... Outuendo, shakeitallaboutuendo... we sense you look a little tensed up, hence the worry and self-doubt and that dark cloud that just happens to follow you around as you offend us... swallowing you up quicker than the ground, you foulmouthed fucker. "Now now! Don't exaggerate!" said Jacob Rothschild, one evening, to the youngsters who interrogated him as he wandered the streets like an Alzeimer's patient. His Doctor Alan Zeimer was on the hunt for him. "Jacob's bloody gone and broken his ankle tag again!" Jacob Rothschild on house arrest?! Pfft.. he could murder 12 people in broad daylight in front of seven thousand witnesses and face no charges. Power, man, tis advantageous to be reeeeech! Wealth equals immunity and no scrutiny, even if the screws in your head are loose and your integrity is unsuitable. You are rude and abusive when you are brooding, but summarising the other side of a mudslide is kind of soothing. Why carry out a shooting? Why not refrain and channel your inner pain in other ways and do things? And if that fails, only then... start boozing.

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