The cunt next door has landscapers with leaf blowers. 7AM second day this week. Maybe today will suck. Felt great in the shower. Then looked askance at the soap. Glanced slightly left to check on the Lever 2000 and it crippled my neck back and shoulder in a way where sitting or standing or lying down is painful. OK. The cunt next door needs constant landscaping. Tony Iommi Iron Man drone of gas powered lawn tools screaming and groaning at all times to tell her she’s made it. She’ll pay 7 dollars an hour ten hours a day 8 days a week for a mariachi band with the tubas hooked up to Phil Lesh’s 32 foot speakers from the Grateful Dead’s 1974 Wall of Sound just to keep me from making a fucking blog post before work. From performing my quarantine work from home in a competent manner. She wants me to be miserable, get fired and have my penis fall off. She’ll succeed.
Book out 3 days. My eyeball’s red, I’ve got the Joe “Fingerblast” Biden exploded eye hematoma. Fuck man, I’m laughing just thinking about it because it’s so disgusting, my eye’s swollen and red like it’s about to pop and I can feel it. Wake up at 4:30 every night for some reason. Maybe because the book’s out, I spend all day refreshing the fucking sales page.
It’s not a #1 hit. Selling more than the others did. But not coronavirus exponential growth. Too bad, because I want to be famous and have money. Yes I care about “artistic integrity.” That’s why I write niche books that no publisher would touch. That can’t be made into a movie. That nobody reads and that most people, if you show it to them, actively hate. But I also want money and fame. I want it in that Last Psychiatrist way. Where I don’t compromise at all but I’m just given it because I’m so special. He’d go on and on about how this was malignant narcisssism. Nerd prescribing speed for himself doing all nighters writing mean nerd shit about people. Even he couldn’t keep blogging. This post was absolute genius though—seriously, you have to read it.
I want huge money and fame instantly. I’m slowly building minuscule money and fame over decades with grueling labor. In the least relevant, most difficult art form possible. That the fewest pieces of hot pussy are into. Tacos you’re a genius.
Fun to write this blog bullshit instead of carefully crafted “mature” pieces like I did for the exclusive content of my new book, Savage Spear of the Unicorn, available wherever Amazon products are sold. Fuck shit penis et cetera. On fucking house arrest in my 1910 cabin practicing primitive agriculture out back, baking bread, doing archery, lifting weights running up a mountain a few times a week until I’m panting like an asthma attack, I’m eating spinach broccoli and carrots; I look like a Greek statue but none of us may ever get laid again.
When will it end. National consciousness re-normalizing. Buzzfeed went from Ten Million Will Die to Corona: Trumps’ Fault to With Campuses Shut Down, Trans Students Lose Their Safe Space. Back to trivial horseshit in six minutes. People get that corona’s only real in New York. Worrying elsewhere like when oxy towns outside Milwaukee gave their cops tanks after 9/11. No one outside America has heard of any place that isn’t New York, and neither has corona.
People tired of being locked in houses taking pay cuts still working. The nation’s tired of my clients still emailing. Middle age yearbook nerds still eager to suck out time and life for projects that go nowhere. Listen: people died for this vacation. Cunt next door has a weedwhacker going. Chinese AIDS was supposed to save me from this.
delicioustacos 
When Laura Loomer was kicked-off the internet she was pulled away from the only reality she had come to know. A bag of guts resembling Laura Loomer cried and screamed on talk shows, threatened suicide, and hand-cuffed herself to an office building- but none of this mattered, because Loomer was already dead. If the self is meaningless when not translated to a language that can be understood by the other, then Laura Loomer was erased. She’ll survive, but she’ll need to become someone new- a different mixing board, a new set of social rules- but one without all the Twitter followers and attention. Only she can answer whether that’s a life worth living.
This Space Between Us
https://killtoparty.com/2020/04/13/this-space-between-us/
i don’t know the relevance of this post, but i’m glad i read it
Thanks for sharing that Bradbury interview, Lou. He’s always been a favorite of mine & I didn’t know that story. Very much wishing I could get my library books out of storage today.
good morning kind sirs what is source of this panty punci goddess in your photo, i need to pleasure myself to her digital visage
nice porn bro. super disgusting
“Holy shit I wanna cum,” the professor thought, hurrying from class to his office. The thought had come to him in the middle of his lecture, as it often did when he thought of Mary Rowlandson, whose account of her abduction was his favorite primary document to teach at the beginning of each semester. Each time he taught it he was brought back to the first time he had read it, and being unable to control himself at his desk keeled over and started busting on his dick, slamming it until he came all over the textbook.
He understood the urge and had tried to tease it out of the class. “Rowlandson leaves it ambiguous as to the full extent of her relations with the Natives, notably King Philip, who she describes as ‘calling women’ during his drunken episodes. Now,” the professor had had to swallow here—there were quite a few beautiful young girls in his class, and he could not show there was any attitude beyond the purely analytical in his approach of the question. “Of course Mary makes it clear to the audience at the end of the work that the Indians committed no violations of this sort onto her, but we have to pause given this situation of a man with all the power, a woman with none, in private. Who can say? Perhaps Mary had audience concerns in disclosing the full truth—of course, her husband had to read this, and she knew that.”
“And perhaps Mary stripped naked,” the professor thought, back in his office, door locked, crumpled over in a fit of ecstasy. “Maybe she got naked and showed her plump white ass to the natives—plump white ass—and maybe in the wigwam King Phillip forced her—yeah maybe he forced her to do whatever he wanted—maybe he made her plump white ass come over to him—plump white ass—“
As he neared his climax his thoughts became a panicked rush of “holy shit I wanna cum, holy _ shiddiwanna _ cum, holy _shidiwannacum_,” until he came.
And when he came all over the Norton Anthology pages, onto the print of a painting of a woman from the 17th century, with smiling, rouged cheeks, soft, beautiful white skin, he was not proud. No—the professor was not proud.