Breaking news: Exclusive umbrella owners' club rallies in streets: nonmembers described as "Soggy"
In other words, the rain hesitated to let up for eleven hours, until I took a shower. This is because I am the center of the universe and personally hurt its widdle feelings.
It's kind of like saying "Forget this biggest cock in the whole world right in front of me, I prefer a tiny dildo."
Well, it's nature's fault entirely for failing to include "Giant Almighty Water Heater in the Sky" in the blueprints. Luckily, as usual, mankind has stepped in to correct this gross conceptual error. And charge me "money" for water. And for this "money," I must work. What a brilliant system.
Okay, I must tone down "instinctivism" due to the compelling sensation that my biologically-driven vehicle is just that -- I look down and see this odd little hotrod, this tool, this mannequin to dress up in costumes. This superficial and delightful doll to lay me down to sleep next to others like it when I have the chance. My internal monologue refers to me as "Self" or "It." Maybe this all stems back to gender-based detachment.
There is still the "observer" feeling to be reckoned with and reasoned down to mythical status. But why shouldn't the "driver" be just as mechanical and soulless as its vehicle?
Remember, Self -- your brain is an organ. Absolute carbon-based self-consciousness is a lot to ask.
Okay, so my Intinctivism morale ought actually to be cranked to eleven. Party on, artfag.
Philosophical development for me is your standard controlled burn. Sear off the fumes of extremism and leave just the moderate pith of conviction. (Albeit, reality has a definite liberal bias.)
Although, a lot of people feel a lot of conviction. Mine is obviously superior because it's MINE and MINE is all I can aspire to. Thank the lack of a god.
Fuck the guilt of not accomplishing things as manically and rapid-fire as I expect myself to. I am more or less doing invisible brain surgery. Trying to set my sparks firing deliberately and objectively. Engineering my brain chemistry into keeping my chin up independantly.
Love is a chemical addiction. Love is crack and sex is cigarettes. (I am only willing to be addicted to cigarettes. All else of the above is too goddamn dangerous for this delicate little tiger.)
To make a long story longer, I am finally taking my father's advice and getting an "attitude adjustment."
Do-it-yourself version.
Fuck the prefabricated Jesus kit.
(Today my wifebeater says "I make Jesus roll in his grave.")
This entry brought to you by "quotation marks."
In other words, the rain hesitated to let up for eleven hours, until I took a shower. This is because I am the center of the universe and personally hurt its widdle feelings.
It's kind of like saying "Forget this biggest cock in the whole world right in front of me, I prefer a tiny dildo."
Well, it's nature's fault entirely for failing to include "Giant Almighty Water Heater in the Sky" in the blueprints. Luckily, as usual, mankind has stepped in to correct this gross conceptual error. And charge me "money" for water. And for this "money," I must work. What a brilliant system.
Okay, I must tone down "instinctivism" due to the compelling sensation that my biologically-driven vehicle is just that -- I look down and see this odd little hotrod, this tool, this mannequin to dress up in costumes. This superficial and delightful doll to lay me down to sleep next to others like it when I have the chance. My internal monologue refers to me as "Self" or "It." Maybe this all stems back to gender-based detachment.
There is still the "observer" feeling to be reckoned with and reasoned down to mythical status. But why shouldn't the "driver" be just as mechanical and soulless as its vehicle?
Remember, Self -- your brain is an organ. Absolute carbon-based self-consciousness is a lot to ask.
Okay, so my Intinctivism morale ought actually to be cranked to eleven. Party on, artfag.
Philosophical development for me is your standard controlled burn. Sear off the fumes of extremism and leave just the moderate pith of conviction. (Albeit, reality has a definite liberal bias.)
Although, a lot of people feel a lot of conviction. Mine is obviously superior because it's MINE and MINE is all I can aspire to. Thank the lack of a god.
Fuck the guilt of not accomplishing things as manically and rapid-fire as I expect myself to. I am more or less doing invisible brain surgery. Trying to set my sparks firing deliberately and objectively. Engineering my brain chemistry into keeping my chin up independantly.
Love is a chemical addiction. Love is crack and sex is cigarettes. (I am only willing to be addicted to cigarettes. All else of the above is too goddamn dangerous for this delicate little tiger.)
To make a long story longer, I am finally taking my father's advice and getting an "attitude adjustment."
Do-it-yourself version.
Fuck the prefabricated Jesus kit.
(Today my wifebeater says "I make Jesus roll in his grave.")
This entry brought to you by "quotation marks."
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Remember, Self -- your brain is an organ. Absolute carbon-based self-consciousness is a lot to ask.
I find this very difficult to remember in the midst of an orgasm.