I guess they call it "striking a balance" to imply violence and severity.
The life cycle for a biodegradable human machine is as follows.
1) Birth
2) Survival / Entertainment
3) Death
I can't seem to recall being born and worrying about dying has proved to be a fruitless endeavor.
I am grateful to have only the moment. I am grateful to be aware that I am nothing but biological instinct and reflex. Knowing it is only a fraction: accepting it gladly is the stumbling block for such a pretentious species, admittedly McCannot being the poster child.
I can feel my heart beat, lungs breathe, cunt moisten, and brain think. Ah, the cadillac of major organs.
I love to create and to muse and invert myself because:
1) The purpose of my life, morally, is propagation of the species. I choose to rebel and do everything but.
2) "Art"? How bizarre. How evolutionarily absurd. What a pleasant non-sequitor of science. Human nature may be questionable in quality but -- whim and fancy? How lucky can we get?
I am grateful for my senses. If I ever take my opposable thumbs for granted, please, someone, take them away from me. A horrible accident at the plant, for instance.
Pluck out ungrateful eyes: columbian necktie the tongue taken for granted.
(Yes, I am thankful for my lungs. Without them, I couldn't smoke nearly as many cigarettes.)
The moment I lose track of how fucking wonderful this world feels, how sensual and over-stimulating it all is, trap me in a flaming wreck and rescue me. May I be a walking keloid, devoid of subtleties.
Anyway, my notes say I am now supposed to cover "Falling in love, as something entirely unlike self-imposed conjoined twinnery." God, I want a detached alliance. A partner in crime: separate but related crimes. A whetstone that sharpens me when I'm NOT beating my head against him or her. Here is where I have to rely on the words of others:
Boyfriends are greedy. Girlfriends are needy. Couples coagulate.
I wish it wouldn't ring in my ears sometimes. Funny how the truth can be so catchy. The truth has so much in common with pop music of the nineteen eighties.
Alright, now my notes say that I move from "codependency hate anthem" to "what masturbation can do for YOU."
I didn't realize, after some weeks of remaining calmly unlaid, why I was laying in bed, miserable and restless, unable to sleep. Suddenly it hit me. Yeah, bitch, remember how you survived all those lonely, passionate nights of pubescence? That's right, your one and only, your right index finger. It was a happy reunion, let me tell you. I think insomnia might just loosen its strangle-hold on my life again.
summer materializes
to caramelize
his skin against mine.
i hope hell and high water
lap gently at
our immortal toes.
The life cycle for a biodegradable human machine is as follows.
1) Birth
2) Survival / Entertainment
3) Death
I can't seem to recall being born and worrying about dying has proved to be a fruitless endeavor.
I am grateful to have only the moment. I am grateful to be aware that I am nothing but biological instinct and reflex. Knowing it is only a fraction: accepting it gladly is the stumbling block for such a pretentious species, admittedly McCannot being the poster child.
I can feel my heart beat, lungs breathe, cunt moisten, and brain think. Ah, the cadillac of major organs.
I love to create and to muse and invert myself because:
1) The purpose of my life, morally, is propagation of the species. I choose to rebel and do everything but.
2) "Art"? How bizarre. How evolutionarily absurd. What a pleasant non-sequitor of science. Human nature may be questionable in quality but -- whim and fancy? How lucky can we get?
I am grateful for my senses. If I ever take my opposable thumbs for granted, please, someone, take them away from me. A horrible accident at the plant, for instance.
Pluck out ungrateful eyes: columbian necktie the tongue taken for granted.
(Yes, I am thankful for my lungs. Without them, I couldn't smoke nearly as many cigarettes.)
The moment I lose track of how fucking wonderful this world feels, how sensual and over-stimulating it all is, trap me in a flaming wreck and rescue me. May I be a walking keloid, devoid of subtleties.
Anyway, my notes say I am now supposed to cover "Falling in love, as something entirely unlike self-imposed conjoined twinnery." God, I want a detached alliance. A partner in crime: separate but related crimes. A whetstone that sharpens me when I'm NOT beating my head against him or her. Here is where I have to rely on the words of others:
Boyfriends are greedy. Girlfriends are needy. Couples coagulate.
I wish it wouldn't ring in my ears sometimes. Funny how the truth can be so catchy. The truth has so much in common with pop music of the nineteen eighties.
Alright, now my notes say that I move from "codependency hate anthem" to "what masturbation can do for YOU."
I didn't realize, after some weeks of remaining calmly unlaid, why I was laying in bed, miserable and restless, unable to sleep. Suddenly it hit me. Yeah, bitch, remember how you survived all those lonely, passionate nights of pubescence? That's right, your one and only, your right index finger. It was a happy reunion, let me tell you. I think insomnia might just loosen its strangle-hold on my life again.
summer materializes
to caramelize
his skin against mine.
i hope hell and high water
lap gently at
our immortal toes.
Please continue to update on a regular basis. Your words inspire.