You look around yourself - to the place you are, that you have touched, that bears your scent and mark - and you think, "What do I think about this?" But your audience is silent. It's just you. You examining you and listening to you talk about yourself, in your thoughts. And you start to think, "Well. That's everything, innit?", and you laugh at the dramatic irony, turning to mug for the camera that isn't there. It makes you feel vaguely uncomfortable, like laughing at your boss' racist jokes when you know the cleaning lady can still hear you.

>>12899206
I was working at a house yesterday and the neighbors' off-leash pitbull came charging at me super aggressively from across the road. Nobody else was around at the time. I yelled at him, Oi!! And to fr*ck off back to its yard. The dog skidded to a stop about 10 ft away from me and wouldn't come closer, but kept circling and watching me angrily for the next 20min or so. I had my pruning shears in my hand, I wouldn't have liked it but I was prepared to kill that fr*cker if he tried me.

Your fortune: Good news will come to you by mail

Where are you, anyway? Not in physical location. Where /are/ you? How many years has it been since highschool, now? What's changed, really?
You still feel the same, don't you? And why does that sort of make you want to cry?
That's not the ticket. Remember when you got all those tickets, back in Colorado? Was it before or after rehab?
Well. Which rehab?
Anyway. You got so many tickets back in Colorado that they took your license away. You didn't even know that could happen, but you never tell people that part with your face all twisted up into a carefully-calculated caricature of yourself, making your eyes convey that "I know something you don't, and you're gonna like it" sort of gleam, as you casually share this with them. They took your license, but you never opened your mail, so you didn't know. For nearly 8 months you didn't know. And in all that time, despite having previously gotten so many tickets they took your license away, you didn't get pulled over - not even once.
That seems like it should mean something, doesn't it?

That's what you want them to think when you tell that story. You're saying "there's something really special about me. I'm favored by God; I'm charmed. I'm possibly an alien." It isn't humor, though you say it humorously. You really think this. But you know that people have to be groomed into thinking that; that's why you put it so casually. "No big deal. I barely think about this stuff." You want THEM to say it. You want THEM to say "Gee, anon, there's really something quite strange and different about you, isn't there? Have you ever considered that you may be blessed by God or some other mystical power?"
It's incredible how small you can make yourself seem in your own head, isn't it? Just by observing; observing and reframing. Over, and over, and over again, until the analysis outweighs the subject.

>>12899229
it's really not that deep anon, you posted a pic of a pitbull so I remembered the story from yesterday
I just post what's on my mind usually
I think most everyone you meet has something strange and different about them in their own ways

Your fortune: Good news will come to you by mail

Pretentious drivel, all.

Too dark, too. You start over.

There must be something good you can think about. You look through the filing cabinets in your head; you start young, because kids are happy, but then you remember your dad, and that's more than you want to think about. A little older and now it's mom, and screw that subject, too. Grandpa - died, terribly. Grandma - died, terribly. Grandmother died. Uncle Buck died. Meg got fat. Shannon turned into some kinda religious nut. Beau left the country. Pretty sure Brittany has brain damage, and Christ, those kids...
You wonder about this sort of thing. Is that everybody's childhood? Logically, bad things happen to everyone. Maybe other people are just better at dealing with it than you are, but why? Is it genetic? Is it learned behavior? Do you need to do something about it? You need to do something about it, but what? Can you even do something about it, if it's genetically learned behavior?
Wait, wait.

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HABEEB IT

You desperately want to avoid being like "them." "Them" is this sort of admittedly sensationalized troglodyte creature that sits, illuminated by their computer monitor, somewhere underground, in a stained shirt and underwear, drooling, with a bottle of lotion and some tissues sat beside. You see them around, going "why is it women won't sex me all i did was spend the last decade getting fat and masturbating to anime," and you think, "Hey, that's not me. I did sex. I even do a job. I must not be so bad."
But this leaves you uncomfortable. You, too, share this space with Them. You've been known to do strange and terrible and disgusting things. One of the best orgasms you ever had was in a dirty motel room with a TV that didn't work with the head of a vibrating toothbrush - your only toothbrush - stuck up your ass. You'd put some plastic around the head so that the bristles wouldn't hurt you. That's some crazy shit, man. Normal people don't do that.
Or do they? If they did, they certainly wouldn't tell you about it, would they?
You grow tired of trying to find your place in the metaphysical pile of all losers. You move on to a different topic.

same tbh

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And to a different location.

Yes, you still smoke, you assert to no one, a little subconsciously. You tell people "I watched 12 angry men when I was a kid, and they looked really cool," or "It's funny, I hated when my parents smoked as a kid, but my first girlfriend got me into it" or "It all started when I was a teenager; I'd smoke a whole pack when I tripped acid, and eventually I got hooked," or "Well, I quit everything else," and none of these things are really false except for the last one, but none of it is exactly true, either. The real reason, that you never really tell anyone, is that it makes you feel like the adult you technically are. In particular, it makes you feel like your grandpa.
You see him, now, with that cringing, apologetic sort of smile, all shriveled up in his wheelchair, pathetically happy to see you. He remembered you up the the very end, even when he was whispering with moist lips to your mom how beautiful she was, his clawed, too-veiny hand trembling its way to paw idiotically at her rear. Even then, he knew who you were. He read Meditations to you when you were young. He was, at 5'6, one of the biggest men you'd ever known. He told you multiple times that you were destined for greater things, and you wonder if he thought the same of himself, before that long, terrible decline into bleary eyes and shat diapers.
You smoke.

You keep smoking. Why not? You have the money for it, though you really ought to be spending it on just about anything else.
You think about the car you bought. You wonder how long it will run. You think about how you've already covered it in cigarette ashes.
Instead of more cigarettes, you really ought to buy an ashtray. You smile at the irony.
Being out in the yard makes you think about The Dog. The Dog has a name, but you just call it The Dog, in your head. The Dog is male, and big, and going a little grey about the muzzle. The Dog is not your dog, though it lives in your house; it's not anybody's dog. You were told as such by your landlord, who you've never met, more than once. He wants you to take the dog. He intimates it; "hey, maybe you could take the dog for a walk," and such. But you won't. It's not your dog, and you'd prefer to keep it that way.
There's a picture of the dog in the house, with a person you recognize as the landlord you've never met and some people that are probably his friends, and the dog is much younger, fatter, and happier. You can tell just from the picture that the dog is happy. These days, when you see the dog - when you pet the dog, as you always do - it seems more like he's trying to be happy, than that he is in actuality. You wonder if you're projecting. You think it's pretty fucked up that the landlord you've never seen just left The Dog here like that, but, you grudgingly admit to yourself, crushing your cigarette out on the concrete - maybe he had his reasons.

The absence of the landlord you've never met weighs rather acutely on your mind, you admit to yourself. While he certainly exists - he certainly exists when rent is due, by way of mobile phone - he isn't really real in some way. He's a sort of ghost. His presence is spread out and around, hollowly, left behind in his things, in his room he isn't in, in the things he decorated his house that you live in with. In The Dog. You feel, sometimes, like you're living in a painting of the man, as though you were cast in a minor role in the greater landscape of his life, fulfilling a need for him. You'd be surprised to meet him in person. You'd suspect he was some sort of body double, or paid actor, though you'd keep those thoughts away from the forefront of your mind.

That's three cigarettes, and that's enough. When you smoke too much it makes you feel sick.

You can feel the phlegm moving around in your head. You snort it back into whatever fleshy chamber it resides in when it's not trying to escape out your face. You think about the tar that the phlegm carries; in your mind, it looks black and vile, though you know from experience it's more of a dull yellow sort of colour.

Somebody's singing. He's not bad!

You think about the place you live. It's big, but not that big. Wealthy, but not ritzy. Homeless problem, but you don't see encampments on the streets, mostly. You think about how when you go downtown you see the people who live around you, and you see how different they look, act and sound from you. About how even the music they listen to is different from the music you listen to. You wonder if they all really have much in common, or if they pretend to, or if they don't pretend to and that's somehow okay for them in a way it isn't for you.
You know other people get self conscious; you've seen it for yourself. You've even inspired it in others, on some occasions, and this little nugget brings up a wholly unwelcome, crystal-clear picture of a beautiful young girl looking at you in a way that genuinely terrified you, because it was Desire, and you knew you did not have what she was looking for, but by the time you've conceptualized that picture you've already hastily slammed it back into a dusty cabinet where it fucking belongs.
You think about the Mexicans. The old, from-Mexico sort of Mexicans. There's a good number of them around where you live, and you see them at the gas stations where you buy your cigarettes. To the best of your recollection, you've never seen one of those old Banditos look or act self conscious about anything. You think about how your old Mexican coworker, who taught you that leche meant milk and marícon meant cocksucker, would roll down his window in the work truck to cat call women walking on the street. It was the first and last time you'd ever known anyone who did that.

tell me about it dude

But the place you live - there's something about it. It's not impersonal and cold, like Denver or Las Vegas, nor does it have that sort of rural malaise you'd experienced out in East Texas and Georgia and New Mexico, though that's closer. It's its own beast. Not decaying, but changing, and not really for the better, but not in a way that's noticeably worse. A sort of translation-in-motion, writ onto an entire town. A geographical identity crisis. A place where the fumes from a methhead's menthol cigarette may waft past the curled lips of a female CEO of a company you've never heard of, as a matter of course. Liberally conservative in a way that inspires gun ownership well over the 10th percentile. Japanese kei cars getting t-boned and utterly destroyed by Ford Tough F-350s, closing the beleagured highway for an entire day, is the sort of place you live in. You honestly can't decide if you like it or not. If nothing else, you like how hard it is to draw analogies between it and anything else you've done with your rapidly-advancing life.

Stfu

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You think about some other people you used to know.

Bennett, the delivery driver, the aryan, who believed in augury by way of crow, vulture, and eagle, at least as it applied to moving drugs across state lines.
Hannah, who never wore a bra, and whose image still causes the barest rush of blood to your groin. Immediately followed by Kayla, your buddy's stripper fiance, who was much the same.
James, whose suspicious teenage wealth ended up being a result of his de-facto pimping of his younger brother to a gay pedophile who owned a local dealership.
Paige, who once told you that you had A-cups, before you shed your baby fat, and then apologized at your reaction and avoided you thereafter.
Beau the Carpenter, who had showed you a song by Jolie Holland while you were driving him back from an AA meeting, and made you think about what it meant. Told you what it meant to him, and explained it.
Nick, the charismatic NA biker, who fell in love with Jodi, and both of whom had relapsed and died shortly thereafter.
Will, who had also relapsed and died, but not before he told you that your nightmares were demons that were attacking your soul while you slept, and that microwaves make food taste worse.
The Party Panther, also known as Carson, fat and blonde, who had offered to find you a source of brass knuckles and illegal switchblades.
Henry, with his Tom Selleck mustache and addiction to Asian prostitutes.

You haven't talked to another human being in days.

Somebody learn this nigga about using "I" statements

its called second person perspective bro

You think about dying.

You'd tried it out, a couple of times, and didn't find it to your taste. You'd been picked up by a cop at the age of 14 as he'd seen you throwing your wallet off the side of a bridge, and morosely counting the seconds it took to land (though you couldn't actually see the splash, which sort of defeated the exercise); 3 years later, you'd come home with a raspy voice and rope burns around your neck, and refused to speak to anyone until your parents brought you to the ER. Later on, you'd called the cops on yourself while high on crack, and gotten tackled and cuffed for your troubles. You remember the cop's genuine, well-meaning confusion, cast at you over one bulky shoulder from the front: "You're a smart guy. You seem alright. Why are you doing this?" Most recently, The Girl had inspired a flirtation with No2, done seriously, the equipment procured while drunk from a welding supply store with obviously concerned employees. You'd actually nearly died that time - could feel yourself drifting off into nothingness before your hindbrain ripped the mask off your face. You sometimes think it gave you brain damage, but, it was probably The Girl herself who left you in this state, honestly, and it's not like you were much better off before her.

Sarah had been a good lay. She was nearly 30 when you'd met her. She liked good music and good movies, and her roommate was in love with her, and hated you, abstractly. Hated what you represented, really. Despite her BPD and the casual-sex angle and the 10 year age gap, that was probably the most normal sexual relationship you'd ever had.
It's about time you got into last night's vodka, but you wish you had a chaser.

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You check yourself in the mirror to see how much you look like Ted Kaczynski, then you leave.

The trip is largely uneventful. You buy two grape crushes, a can of pringles, some gummy worms, and an ashtray.

You listen to Like Real People Do by Hozier, Friend of the Devil by the Grateful Dead, Paper Planes and Pull Up the People by M.I.A. You sing along to them, badly.

On the way home you realize you desperately need to shit - not an uncommon occurance. It's bad enough that you don't take off your boots on the way in. You think about how much money you've been spending on food. You're starting to get fat again.

Your shit is largely unremarkable.

You have a particular way of drinking. First, you open the grape crush, take a sip, and leave it open. You set it on top of that air fryer that you won at work and are thinking about pawning. Then, you take your half-full pint of vodka, and you drink about half of the half, relaxing your throat to let it flow as smoothly as possible, while still keeping the back muscles of your mouth taut to suppress any potential gagging. The cold grape crush is in your right hand. You lower the vodka, and, still holding it, drink from the grape crush. You don't need much, because you swish it around your mouth like mouthwash to cleanse the cheap flavor it's replacing; you've been known to gargle it. You will repeat this ritual, about an hour later.

You pace as you wait for it to take hold, uncomfortably aware of the sound your boots make against the floor, like an expectant father. Thankfully, it doesn't take too long. You feel the warmth blooming upward from just above your stomach, your head growing slightly fuzzy, a pressure building behind your eyes. You take a deep sniff from your wax pen to seal the ascent, holding it a half second before letting it drift lazily from your mouth.

Now, that's better.

The tumbling mind slowly grinds to a halt. You smile, despite yourself; you can feel the smile in the corner of your eyes. You can actually do this at will. You don't think most people can.
You're feeling better now.
You sit down on your inherited couch, ignoring the too-loud clattering of the other people who live in your house, and the large rip in the center of it. You take another little hit off the pen. As a treat.
You're feeling better now.
You think about how, in the grand scheme of things, nothing really matters. You think about how Nietzche and Kierkegaard and Schopenhauer and Plato and Hypatia and Wallace and Thompson and Diogenes and Aspasia and the Buddhists and the Jainists and the Gnostics and the Christians and the Shintoists had all, seperately, desperately, tried to assign meaning to the absurd, and largely failed, and how all that fine, logical thinking amounted to nothing really at all but at the same time persisted enough to reach your own sad mug, and you smile, sitting there on your couch, really feeling much better now. You think about Pierre from the Great Comet, and poor Mushkin from The Idiot, and Thomas from The Unbearable Lightness of Being, and about how many things have been written about Communism and Mercantilism, and Feudalism, and you imagine all the Things You Can Know swirling around you, feeling both smug at which of those pinpricks of illumination are yours to relay and afraid of the infinitude that are not.

You reflect on how many things you really know. The phrase "All knowledge is ultimately based on that which we cannot know" floats lazily across your brain. You feel despair. You feel elated.
You subside.
Suddenly, you don't feel like doing much at all.
Suddenly, you remember where and who you are.
You remember that you've never read a word Nietzche actually said - just what other people said about what he said.
You feel like crying, a little bit.
And you decide to drink more.

lol i do this

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What are you yapping about?
Are you actually writing this on the go?
Holly~

Your fortune: Excellent Luck

And, finally, you reach what you were looking for - oblivion, of a sort. You've successfully become stupid enough to be happy, for a little while. You celebrate with a cigarette.

yeah lol

You turn on the shower and masturbate.

It feels more like you're wrenching cum from your body than anything else. It's perfunctory.
Much the same could be said of the shower, though the hot water feels nice on your back. You climb into bed, completely naked.
"What a great day." You say to yourself, out loud. You laugh.
You think about The Girl. Her name flits around the outskirts of those thoughts, but you leave it there. She was 6 years younger than you, and gorgeous. Impressionable. You'd met her at work.
She'd adored you.
You remember sitting in the parking lot, rain coming down on your windshield, nodding along as she talked about her day. You remember sliding your hand up her shirt. You remember how she'd laughed at your jokes. You remember the look of... triumph? Interest? As she told you she'd slept with her ex boyfriend. You remember the time that you'd both spotted a fire, and driven out to it, moving against the flow of residents still trying to escape, and marveled at the way the flames licked up to pull down the beams of the roof of the house. You remember the way she said your name. You remember how she said it when you tool a wrong turn in the car.
You don't feel anything, of course. You've done it that way on purpose.
You're just checking. You swallow a little bile that's risen in your throat.

You remember one of your old managers - the old guy, the Silver Fox, who, on the day he hired you, said "You're going to accomplish great things." You remember how another coworker said that he'd have nothing to do with women, but he had a kid. You feel strongly that he and you were brothers, of a sort, even though he'd fired you.
You wish, somewhat desperately, that you could cry. You marvel at the hurt you're carrying around inside you. You find it beautiful in a way you can only describe as "gay."
You remember how you'd leave little love notes on The Girl's car.
You remember how you gave her a rose, and she asked why it was red, and you bullshitted some answer, and she said you should've said it was because red was her favorite color.
You remember the way she clung to you as you stood in line for the Tarot reading. You remember how uncomfortable you were.
You remember your dog, who died at 17 years old, trembling and afraid, and you wonder how anyone is expected to bear such a great and terrible agony as seeing the retarded fear in the eyes of such a simple creature.
You reflect on the unfairness of it all, and wish you could cry.
You feel shame for feeling these things.

And - there's no conclusion.

This just goes on, day after day, forever.
Well, not forever. But close enough. Forever from your perspective.
And that's what you think about - the way it piles up. How the bad outweighs the good. How you strive, and strive, and push, and keep going, and, nonetheless, carry this ever-growing burden of dark and terrible things. How you slowly are pushed into the earth until you are a worm. Until you are amongst the dirt. Until you ARE dirt.
And now you really wish you'd bought more vodka.

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And, wrapped in these absurd, stupid thoughts - you go to sleep. This was always your goal.
Tomorrow's a new day. Maybe it'll be a better one.

That's the end. Feel free to share your thoughts here, and thanks for reading my blog.

good blog i read it

>>12899711
dubs confirm, i read it too

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Reading this my head is dumb so I forgot the plot or what you say so I focus what I currently read as I go, there were lots of experience, many different people, words of use, different ways of thought process, feelings... ye I hope things are good for you. Its still a very good writing even if its not my interest.

Your fortune: You will meet a dark handsome stranger

No, it gets to a fucking point and you obviously haven’t crossed that fucking point you haughty fucking nigger

Lower your tone

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>>12899957
Kiss my ass.
I'm incapable of reading something complex.
I read simple novels not high level books.
Like I said its not my thing.

Your fortune: Excellent Luck

>>12899966
tripsdubs!

>>12899969
lol 69

>>12899638
Ilysm

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>>12900644
aw I love you too, internet stranger

>>12900644
i love dubs so much

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>>12901112
do you? then why didn't you GET ANY

>>12899954
its called stream of consciousness dude

>>12901588
becase u stole them alllll 3:< big ebil meanie

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i liked it! i didnt read all of it cause my brain doesnt focus that much, but i kinda scrolled around and read bits and stuff.

>>12901616
these are nice pictures. i like how japanese people do angels

https://youtu.be/eTplxWaAD8o

MOAR

>>12902185
soon probably

i'll make a new thread when i feel like doing more