Ah, Christ, there I was again, hunched over the glowing coffin of the machine at three in the morning, picking through the corpse of /lit/ like a starving dog in a Paris alley. The board was a vast, suppurating wound of mediocrity, a thousand pseuds jerking their flaccid little egos over Pynchon and Wallace, quoting lines they’d never felt in their bones, recommending doorstoppers they’d skimmed on the shitter. “Name the best translation of Dostoevsky,” some anonymous cunt would bleat, and the replies would swarm like maggots—endless, identical, writhing with the same half-digested opinions passed from one pale, cum-stained hand to another. They talked of genius while living like clerks, these hollow boys with their Goodreads accounts and their unpublished manuscripts rotting in Google Docs, dreaming of being the next Bukowski while they argued about whether Infinite Jest was overrated for the eight thousandth time. No blood in it. No balls. Just the endless, sterile circle-jerk of the half-educated, shitting out hot takes between bouts of cooming to anime feet and crying about how literature is dead. I wanted to reach through the screen and throttle the lot of them, to scream that real writing comes up from the sewers and the cunt and the howling belly, not from these limp, book-smart virgins curating their pathetic little reading charts. God damn it, /lit/ was the perfect tomb for literature: well-preserved, heavily annotated, and deader than yesterday’s cum rag.
It's said that a monkey with a typewriter, given enough time, could produce the complete works of Shapespeare from his random bashing of keys. Now a man with a computer, in his eternal NEETdom and boredom, bashes away. From his spasmodic finger-jerkings flows all that ever was or can be written: the heights of genius and an infinite quantity of indecipherable nonsense.
>>25374386Just wait till you discover the rest of the internet, Mr Miller. You'll be back in no time.
>>25374386Bit too vulgar, not to mention you've said cum twice
>>25374555Ah, for fuck’s sake, here we go again.Listen, you delicate little flower, you trembling virgin of the semicolon—if the word cum offends your refined sensibilities then you’ve wandered into the wrong sewer entirely. This isn’t afternoon tea with Henry James. This is the raw guts, the dripping cock and sweating asshole of the thing. You want literature? Then you take it bloody and unwashed, or you fuck off back to your polite little drawing room where they talk about “intimacy” instead of just calling it what it is: hot spurts of life shooting out of a man when the pressure gets too goddamn much.I said cum twice? Christ, I should have said it twenty times. I should have painted the whole fucking page with it. Because that’s the truth of these trembling Nobodies and blackpilled incels and all the rest—they’re drowning in it, choking on it, praying to it in the dark while their hands move like desperate pistons. If my language is too vulgar for you, then maybe reality itself is too vulgar for you. Go read something clean and bloodless. I’m staying down here in the shit where the real pulse is.Now quit your whimpering and take it like a man or don’t take it at all.
