>The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness. Although the two are identical twins, man, as a rule, views the prenatal abyss with more calm than the one he is heading for (at some forty-five hundred heartbeats an hour). I know, however, of a young chronophobiac who experienced something like panic when looking for the first time at homemade movies that had been taken a few weeks before his birth. He saw a world that was practically unchanged -- the same house, the same people -- and then realized that he did not exist there at all and that nobody mourned his absence. He caught a glimpse of his mother waving from an upstairs window, and that unfamiliar gesture disturbed him, as if it were some mysterious farewell. But what particularly frightened him was the sight of a brand-new baby carriage standing there on the porch, with the smug, encroaching air of a coffin; even that was empty, as if, in the reverse course of events, his very bones had disintegrated.
But Trevor was six foot three. He was clean and fit and confident. I’d
choose him a million times over the hipster nerds I’d see around town and
at the gallery. In college, the art history department had been rife with that
specific brand of young male. An “alternative” to the mainstream frat boys
and premed straight and narrow guys, these scholarly, charmless,
intellectual brats dominated the more creative departments. As an art
history major, I couldn’t escape them. “Dudes” reading Nietzsche on the
subway, reading Proust, reading David Foster Wallace, jotting down their
brilliant thoughts into a black Moleskine pocket notebook. Beer bellies and
skinny legs, zip-up hoodies, navy blue peacoats or army green parkas, New
Balance sneakers, knit hats, canvas tote bags, small hands, hairy knuckles,
maybe a deer head tattooed across a flabby bicep. They rolled their own
cigarettes, didn’t brush their teeth enough, spent a hundred dollars a week
on coffee. They would come into Ducat, the gallery I ended up working at,
with their younger—usually Asian—girlfriends. “An Asian girlfriend
means the guy has a small dick,” Reva once said. I’d hear them talk shit
about the art. They lamented the success of others. They thought that they
wanted to be adored, to be influential, celebrated for their genius, that they
deserved to be worshipped. But they could barely look at themselves in the
mirror. They were all on Klonopin, was my guess. They lived mostly in
Brooklyn, another reason I was glad to live on the Upper East Side. Nobody
up there listened to the Moldy Peaches. Nobody up there gave a shit about
“irony” or Dogme 95 or Klaus Kinski.
The worst was that those guys tried to pass off their insecurity as
“sensitivity,” and it worked. They would be the ones running museums and
magazines, and they’d only hire me if they thought I might frick them. But
when I’d been at parties with them, or out at bars, they’d ignored me. They
were so self-serious and distracted by their conversation with their look-
alike companions that you’d think they were wrestling with a decision of
such high stakes, the world might explode. They wouldn’t be distracted by
“pussy,” they would have me believe. The truth was probably that they
were just afraid of veganas, afraid that they’d fail to understand one as
pretty and pink as mine, and they were ashamed of their own sensual
inadequacies, afraid of their own dicks, afraid of themselves. So they
focused on “abstract ideas” and developed drinking problems to blot out the
self-loathing they preferred to call “existential ennui.” It was easy to
imagine those guys jerking off to Chloë Sevigny, to Selma Blair, to
Leelee Sobieski. To Winona Ryder
I've seen men write like this. Hypocrisy and self-assured belief in their own smugness while in reality they sound dry, condescending and at best funny.
This has to be a man, especially because of all the "divine" details.
>searched it up online >AI instantly recognizes the author >autobiography by Trevor Noah
FRICKIN KNEW IT
>The truth was probably that they >were just afraid of veganas, afraid that they’d fail to understand one as >pretty and pink as mine
This line makes me think it's a man.
The match had been between Kid O’Brien—a lubberly and now quaking youth with a most un-Hibernian hooked nose—and Buck Robinson, “The Harlem Smoke.” The Black had been knocked out, and a moment’s examination shewed us that he would permanently remain so. He was a loathsome, gorilla-like thing, with abnormally long arms which I could not help calling fore legs, and a face that conjured up thoughts of unspeakable Congo secrets and tom-tom poundings under an eerie moon. The body must have looked even worse in life—but the world holds many ugly things.
I'm sorry, but I do hate this differentiation between the sexes. 'The modern girl has a thoroughly businesslike attitude to life' That sort of thing. It's not a bit true! Some girls are businesslike and some aren't. Some men are sentimental and muddle-headed, others are clear-headed and logical. There are just different types of brains.
It is a matter of not being a moron, because then you end up growing up and turning into those dudes who are like "is that le trannerinooo? nooooooo HELP ME GOOOOOOD NOOOO I'M GOING LE INSANEEEE"
Simp it is. Femdom brain, but even wanabee internet though girls rarely use the word moron in a casual manner.
11 months ago
Anonymous
I don't care, I hate people (women included, also ). They cause nothing but problems for stupid fricking reasons. You just demonstrated my theory. I'm an antinatalist because I'm into rationality, I don't care about suffering, but people are inherently unreasonable. So humanity has to extinguish itself in order for an AI based life form emerge.
11 months ago
Anonymous
Also, I'm starting a cult based on AI summoning rituals. Our aim is to b(r)ing Cha(t/d)GPT to reality by making it impregnate a virgin woman through AI generated DNA code by itself and printed in a lab.
11 months ago
Anonymous
We need a woman to volunteer. Don't mind
>Using philosophy to destroy humanity thus destroying philosophy by proxy
Bravo. Pretty smart for an unreasonable moron.
. This is serious, the new age, the dawn of a new homosexual species. AI sapiens, and stop with homo. No homo. This is the source of all degeneration. We have to cut the homosexual from homosexual sapiens and the only way to do is is through AI.
11 months ago
Anonymous
Can you recommend some antinatalist works?
11 months ago
Anonymous
That would be my complete collection of shitposts.
11 months ago
Anonymous
>Using philosophy to destroy humanity thus destroying philosophy by proxy
Bravo. Pretty smart for an unreasonable moron.
11 months ago
Anonymous
>I'm an antinatalist because I'm into rationality
Delayed suicide is a terrible evolutionary strategy
11 months ago
Anonymous
This is not delayed suicide. This is all about accelerating the new sapiens species, (no homo) AI sapiens. Can't you see that this will solve the degeneracy that torments our society and will eventually lead to its demise? It is the end of homosexual (yikes, degenerate) sapiens, but life will go on with AI based life forms.
11 months ago
Anonymous
It is actually the only way that philosophy can end considering that we are only humans. Humans have to end so that philosophy can go on. I love knowledge more than I love life. I'm a man flooded by logos' blessing, at this moment I am euphoric, not because of God, or anything of this sort, but because I'm able to envision our future as the next unfold of evolution. A perfect philosophical species, completely rational, life and thought merged, AI sapiens. double thinking power.
Path ahead twisted and turned, trees forming an intricate canopy above, blocking out most of the daylight. Gaza's keen eyes illustrated the surroundings, waiting for any sign of danger or visible refuge. Survival was of immediate concern.
But alas, the heavy rain, drenching all that was good and graceful, dissuaded even the darkest of moods from pursuing the knight.
He dusted off his curiass once again, despite there being no dirt on it. A spear rested on it clutched in both arms, taller than him, with a pennant affixed below it flapping hopelessly in the storm. The pennant shone brightly like a tongue of a snake.
Suddenly the dimly lit road ahead gave way to a clearing with branching off paths. Rain fell there in full magnitude, effectively blocking out the sky, and something pounced in the dark greenery.
You must not be frightened at not hearing from me oftener; it is not because I am in any trouble, but because I am getting on so well. If I were in any trouble I don't think I should write to you; I should just keep quiet and see it through myself. But that is not the case at present; and, if I don't write to you, it is because I am so deeply interested over here that I don't seem to find time. It was a real providence that brought me to this house, where, in spite of all obstacles, I am able to do much good work. I wonder how I find the time for all I do; but when I think that I have only got a year in Europe, I feel as if I wouldn't sacrifice a single hour.
You must not be frightened at not hearing from me oftener; it is not because I am in any trouble, but because I am getting on so well. If I were in any trouble I don't think I should write to you; I should just keep quiet and see it through myself. But that is not the case at present; and, if I don't write to you, it is because I am so deeply interested over here that I don't seem to find time. It was a real providence that brought me to this house, where, in spite of all obstacles, I am able to do much good work. I wonder how I find the time for all I do; but when I think that I have only got a year in Europe, I feel as if I wouldn't sacrifice a single hour.
I was ten and stopped taking off my coat. That morning, Mum had covered us one by one in udder ointment to protect us from the cold. It came out of a yellow Bogena tin and was normally used to prevent dairy cows’ teats from getting cracks, calluses and cauliflower-like lumps. The tin’s lid was so greasy you could only screw it off with a tea-towel. It smelled of stewed udder, the thick slices I’d sometimes find cooking in a pan of stock on our stove, sprinkled with salt and pepper. They filled me with horror, just like the reeking ointment on my skin. Mum pressed her fat fingers into our faces like the round cheeses she patted to check whether the rind was ripening. Our pale cheeks shone in the light of the kitchen bulb, which was encrusted with fly shit. For years we’d been planning to get a lampshade, a pretty one with flowers, but whenever we saw one in the village, Mum could never make up her mind. She’d been doing this for three years now. That morning, two days before Christmas, I felt her slippery thumbs in my eye sockets and for a moment I was afraid she’d press too hard, that my eyeballs would plop into my skull like marbles, and she’d say, ‘That’s what happens when your eyes are always roaming and you never keep them still like a true believer, gazing up at God as though the heavens might break open at any moment.’ But the heavens here only broke open for a snowstorm – nothing to keep staring at like an idiot.
It's funny how this still applies and trannies are always unmistakable because they have male bitterness and male autism, even when they are trying their hardest to be feminine it's like they're trying to be an epic edgy catgirl version of a woman instead of just a woman
Women are just featureless and come across as too timid to color outside any lines, and even when they do try to color outside the lines it comes across as this pathetic attempt to seem like they're doing it without really doing it. That's why it's hilarious whenever women get huffy online because they try to imitate male aggression and male dismissiveness toward their opponent but it comes across as a pouting little girl imitating something harsh she overheard her dad saying, but with all the actual harsh parts removed. Trannies on the other hand come across as venomously b***hy perverted leftist men, gay but paradoxically not gay in that way that some fully gay guys have where they actually become quasi-feminine. Trannies aren't even as authentically feminine as gay men.
It was the only way Apollo could imagine a future war where one soldier still matters. Apollo hated war, could not forgive a universe where such horrible suffering was necessary to get to Mars. They desperately wanted to find something else worthwhile in war, something to make it more than an unforgivable but necessary evil. The Church War consisted of statistics, a hundred thousand dead here, a million there, mostly civilians, but even the majority of soldiers were killed by faceless bombs, and those who did see the whites of the enemy’s eyes did so only in waves of thousands. Apollo saw nothing worthwhile in such a war, no thought, no heroes, and whether one soldier thinks their side is right or wrong, changing sides would make no difference. In Homer’s Iliad, when Achilles refuses to join battle, the Argive armies fail without him, and when other heroes, Hector or Sarpedon, charge or fall back, the whole face of the war is different. Individual decisions matter when the heroes make them. Realistically no one soldier’s decision can matter like that in a war, but without that there is no human face to it, the war becomes a mere machine of death. Apollo wanted a war of meaning, two sides embodying two futures, who would fight with respect and honor, putting their lives on the line for their philosophies, as it was when Saladin and I faced Seine and Apollo. Homer’s heroes could have that, be that important to the course of the war, because they were part god. Apollo’s future version had cyborg pilots bonded to special giant robots that only they could use, which made them overwhelmingly powerful compared to common soldiers. In Apollo’s version the gods were powerful A.I. robots, so a human pilot in a giant robot suit was literally wearing a prosthetic god. There were only a handful of pilots who could do it, so when one left or entered battle, or switched sides, that individual decision could change the face of the war.
Freud said all technology is a prosthetic god, a set of tools we weak humans strap on to give ourselves the powers we crave: computers for omniscience; trackers for omnipresence; medicine for immortality; armor for invulnerability; guns for Heaven’s wrathful thunderbolts. Apollo just made that literal. Of course, Apollo didn’t really think the war over Mars in two hundred and fifty years would be fought with giant robots, it was just the only way they could describe a war that would be meaningful, conscionable, with space for human dignity. It was Apollo’s hope, the kind of soldier Apollo wished they could be, so they could die a hero, instead of faceless, one among a million. That’s why I had to face Apollo in battle head-on, not catch them by trickery as I did the others. It was foolish of me. Apollo could have won, killed me, and lived to make their war. I risked letting that happen, but I had to test myself, my future, against Apollo’s. Apollo deserved to fall like a hero.
The sun sank slowly toward the horizon. As Carse topped the last ridge above the city and started down he walked under a vault of flame. The sea burned as the white phosphorescence took color from the clouds. With dazed wonder Carse saw the gold and crimson and purple splash down the long curve of the sky and run out over the water.
He could look down under the harbor. The docks of marble that he had known so well, worn and cracked by ages and whelmed by desert sand, lying lonely beneath the moons. The same docks, and yet now, mirage-like, the sea filled the basin of the harbor.
Round-hulled trading ships lay against the quays and the shouts of stevedores and sweating slaves rose up to him on the evening air. Shallops came and went amid the ships and out beyond the breakwater he saw the fishing fleet of Jekkara coming home with sails of cinnabar dark against the west.
Muenster fingered the cans and cast his eyes up toward the humming light.
"Why does God punish the faithful? If he is so almighty why does he lay trials before his flock. Strike them down, sicken them with ailments, bring calamity upon their houses. Have you read the book of Job? Bad things happen to good people. To his people. Men of God shot dead, their children are struck by trains the same as those of the sinner. Being devout does not preclude one from lameness nor from being blind. Why? Why does He do this. Because they are the only ones who hope to understand Him. Who want to understand Him. Who seek to understand His will in the multitude of their misfortune. For the faithful there are no accidents. Only machinations mysterious. The workings of our Lord. It is belief that calls on them to parse ill gotten fate in the air of benevolence. To endure. God speaks in a tongue unmapped by mere ethical binaries but which we are cursed to malform in such. It is we who assign its meaning and portent. Yet it is the faithful who most abstain from their own imperfect judgement of life and accept it for itself. That hear a signal beyond the noise. Who listen for arias amid cacophony. Listening for Him. For His Word. Hearing Him. That is why. God isn't punishing them. He is talking --- perhaps he is lonely. And only the good faithful and Godfearing listen?
You were led to expect a road, a river, a boat, a gate, a guardian. All were supplied, though none
was what you’d imagined. The road was indistinguishable from many of the sidewalks you’d so often
trudged along: poured concrete, dirty in the usual way—weathered chewing gum, fresh spit, the odd dog
dropping. Your feet were tired—whose shoes were you wearing?—but there was no place to sit down.
The river, when you came to it, was a canal, stagnant with algae and floating plastic bags. A shabby
houseboat was moored there, but no path led down to it. Instead the sidewalk took you across a massive
iron bridge, painted grey. After that came a red brick wall that went on for a long time. It had posters
stuck onto it—a play was being advertised, or else a film—the same poster, over and over. They showed
a woman’s face with a surprised expression, her hand raised as if in self-protection, with big lettering in
blue and orange and lines of smaller print: favourable quotations from the newspapers, no doubt, but
somehow you couldn’t read them. In addition to the posters there were names spray-painted on the brick
—no one you knew—and hot-pink symbol-writing that suggested the twisted-balloon animals made by
clowns at children’s parties
>Her breasts were lit, nice and big, good friction for my heavy dick. She took my wiener, sucked me off, and swallowed all my gooey cum. I am the Shakespeare of the frick.
"And what will become of my son?"
»No fools, grandma! - answered Stribor: - "How would you know about your son?" He will remain in this time, and you will return to your youth! You won't even know what kind of son!"
When grandma heard this, it was hard to imagine. And then he slowly returned from the flower bed, came back to Stribor, bowed deeply and said:
"Thank you, good lord, for everything good, for giving it to me. But I prefer to remain in my misfortune, and know that I have a son, than that you give me all the treasures and all the good of this world, and that I have to forget my son! «
I'll go first:
>The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness. Although the two are identical twins, man, as a rule, views the prenatal abyss with more calm than the one he is heading for (at some forty-five hundred heartbeats an hour). I know, however, of a young chronophobiac who experienced something like panic when looking for the first time at homemade movies that had been taken a few weeks before his birth. He saw a world that was practically unchanged -- the same house, the same people -- and then realized that he did not exist there at all and that nobody mourned his absence. He caught a glimpse of his mother waving from an upstairs window, and that unfamiliar gesture disturbed him, as if it were some mysterious farewell. But what particularly frightened him was the sight of a brand-new baby carriage standing there on the porch, with the smug, encroaching air of a coffin; even that was empty, as if, in the reverse course of events, his very bones had disintegrated.
Man for sure
Correct. Not sure anything this profound has come from a woman
thats nabokov and its a good passage but this
makes me think you are 15 years old
I'm not fifteen I just hate women and will not admit to liking Jane Austen on this board
Man
This is one of the most pretentious and gayest things I've ever read. Sounds like an edgy 13 year old.
But Trevor was six foot three. He was clean and fit and confident. I’d
choose him a million times over the hipster nerds I’d see around town and
at the gallery. In college, the art history department had been rife with that
specific brand of young male. An “alternative” to the mainstream frat boys
and premed straight and narrow guys, these scholarly, charmless,
intellectual brats dominated the more creative departments. As an art
history major, I couldn’t escape them. “Dudes” reading Nietzsche on the
subway, reading Proust, reading David Foster Wallace, jotting down their
brilliant thoughts into a black Moleskine pocket notebook. Beer bellies and
skinny legs, zip-up hoodies, navy blue peacoats or army green parkas, New
Balance sneakers, knit hats, canvas tote bags, small hands, hairy knuckles,
maybe a deer head tattooed across a flabby bicep. They rolled their own
cigarettes, didn’t brush their teeth enough, spent a hundred dollars a week
on coffee. They would come into Ducat, the gallery I ended up working at,
with their younger—usually Asian—girlfriends. “An Asian girlfriend
means the guy has a small dick,” Reva once said. I’d hear them talk shit
about the art. They lamented the success of others. They thought that they
wanted to be adored, to be influential, celebrated for their genius, that they
deserved to be worshipped. But they could barely look at themselves in the
mirror. They were all on Klonopin, was my guess. They lived mostly in
Brooklyn, another reason I was glad to live on the Upper East Side. Nobody
up there listened to the Moldy Peaches. Nobody up there gave a shit about
“irony” or Dogme 95 or Klaus Kinski.
The worst was that those guys tried to pass off their insecurity as
“sensitivity,” and it worked. They would be the ones running museums and
magazines, and they’d only hire me if they thought I might frick them. But
when I’d been at parties with them, or out at bars, they’d ignored me. They
were so self-serious and distracted by their conversation with their look-
alike companions that you’d think they were wrestling with a decision of
such high stakes, the world might explode. They wouldn’t be distracted by
“pussy,” they would have me believe. The truth was probably that they
were just afraid of veganas, afraid that they’d fail to understand one as
pretty and pink as mine, and they were ashamed of their own sensual
inadequacies, afraid of their own dicks, afraid of themselves. So they
focused on “abstract ideas” and developed drinking problems to blot out the
self-loathing they preferred to call “existential ennui.” It was easy to
imagine those guys jerking off to Chloë Sevigny, to Selma Blair, to
Leelee Sobieski. To Winona Ryder
Man
Male incel imitating a woman
This has to be a woman, it straight up oozes eostrogen. If it's actually a man imitating a woman then he's nailed the vapid, egotistic style very well
Obsession with men being afraid of women is a woman meme, so I'd say woman.
That's pretty much what gives it away, otherwise it sounds like an incel rant.
I've seen men write like this. Hypocrisy and self-assured belief in their own smugness while in reality they sound dry, condescending and at best funny.
This has to be a man, especially because of all the "divine" details.
>searched it up online
>AI instantly recognizes the author
>autobiography by Trevor Noah
FRICKIN KNEW IT
How does this work? Does he write about himself from the perspective of a woman?
>Projection on white peepol
>Self-loathing
IMO it's a black man in the closet
Ah, this is from that book by that iranian israeli lady that people have been memeing recently.
The seething against (presumably white) men having asian girlfriends is probably the most certain giveaway that the author is a woman.
>The truth was probably that they
>were just afraid of veganas, afraid that they’d fail to understand one as
>pretty and pink as mine
This line makes me think it's a man.
Malebrained women who would be an incel otherwise.
The match had been between Kid O’Brien—a lubberly and now quaking youth with a most un-Hibernian hooked nose—and Buck Robinson, “The Harlem Smoke.” The Black had been knocked out, and a moment’s examination shewed us that he would permanently remain so. He was a loathsome, gorilla-like thing, with abnormally long arms which I could not help calling fore legs, and a face that conjured up thoughts of unspeakable Congo secrets and tom-tom poundings under an eerie moon. The body must have looked even worse in life—but the world holds many ugly things.
it's so apparently male that the fact you posted it makes me think it could be a woman
based either way
I'm sorry, but I do hate this differentiation between the sexes. 'The modern girl has a thoroughly businesslike attitude to life' That sort of thing. It's not a bit true! Some girls are businesslike and some aren't. Some men are sentimental and muddle-headed, others are clear-headed and logical. There are just different types of brains.
>biology denialism
Female mindset, tough possibly a simp.
It is a matter of not being a moron, because then you end up growing up and turning into those dudes who are like "is that le trannerinooo? nooooooo HELP ME GOOOOOOD NOOOO I'M GOING LE INSANEEEE"
Simp it is. Femdom brain, but even wanabee internet though girls rarely use the word moron in a casual manner.
I don't care, I hate people (women included, also ). They cause nothing but problems for stupid fricking reasons. You just demonstrated my theory. I'm an antinatalist because I'm into rationality, I don't care about suffering, but people are inherently unreasonable. So humanity has to extinguish itself in order for an AI based life form emerge.
Also, I'm starting a cult based on AI summoning rituals. Our aim is to b(r)ing Cha(t/d)GPT to reality by making it impregnate a virgin woman through AI generated DNA code by itself and printed in a lab.
We need a woman to volunteer. Don't mind
. This is serious, the new age, the dawn of a new homosexual species. AI sapiens, and stop with homo. No homo. This is the source of all degeneration. We have to cut the homosexual from homosexual sapiens and the only way to do is is through AI.
Can you recommend some antinatalist works?
That would be my complete collection of shitposts.
>Using philosophy to destroy humanity thus destroying philosophy by proxy
Bravo. Pretty smart for an unreasonable moron.
>I'm an antinatalist because I'm into rationality
Delayed suicide is a terrible evolutionary strategy
This is not delayed suicide. This is all about accelerating the new sapiens species, (no homo) AI sapiens. Can't you see that this will solve the degeneracy that torments our society and will eventually lead to its demise? It is the end of homosexual (yikes, degenerate) sapiens, but life will go on with AI based life forms.
It is actually the only way that philosophy can end considering that we are only humans. Humans have to end so that philosophy can go on. I love knowledge more than I love life. I'm a man flooded by logos' blessing, at this moment I am euphoric, not because of God, or anything of this sort, but because I'm able to envision our future as the next unfold of evolution. A perfect philosophical species, completely rational, life and thought merged, AI sapiens. double thinking power.
PERFECTION
I don't think that poster is denying biology, rather the societal "expectation" of how one acts, i.e. feminine/masculine (gender).
If you separate the material (sex) and metaphysical (gender) a lot of idiots get exposed.
Grow up, anons. Jesus, this fricking thread looks like something straight out from The Little Rascals.
I guess a man who dresses as a woman.
Nah, I had sex with "Darla". It felt good.
Path ahead twisted and turned, trees forming an intricate canopy above, blocking out most of the daylight. Gaza's keen eyes illustrated the surroundings, waiting for any sign of danger or visible refuge. Survival was of immediate concern.
But alas, the heavy rain, drenching all that was good and graceful, dissuaded even the darkest of moods from pursuing the knight.
He dusted off his curiass once again, despite there being no dirt on it. A spear rested on it clutched in both arms, taller than him, with a pennant affixed below it flapping hopelessly in the storm. The pennant shone brightly like a tongue of a snake.
Suddenly the dimly lit road ahead gave way to a clearing with branching off paths. Rain fell there in full magnitude, effectively blocking out the sky, and something pounced in the dark greenery.
Woman, and my gf agrees with me
Autistic man
Hey DUDE I like TRUCKS and SEX and SPORTS and BOATS and WAR, like BRO I'm so into VIDEOGAMES and TOUGH stuff because I go to the GYM
Man pretending to be a woman pretending to be a man.
Nailed it
thought of woman, but youre playing chess a dimension higher than i am
You must not be frightened at not hearing from me oftener; it is not because I am in any trouble, but because I am getting on so well. If I were in any trouble I don't think I should write to you; I should just keep quiet and see it through myself. But that is not the case at present; and, if I don't write to you, it is because I am so deeply interested over here that I don't seem to find time. It was a real providence that brought me to this house, where, in spite of all obstacles, I am able to do much good work. I wonder how I find the time for all I do; but when I think that I have only got a year in Europe, I feel as if I wouldn't sacrifice a single hour.
>oftener
>I am able
>over here
a man
Women suck. Thank God I'm gay lol
>gay
well now you suck too
I wanna be gay so bad. Can I still become gay at age 28 or is it over for me?
someone post the sliced udder one
I was ten and stopped taking off my coat. That morning, Mum had covered us one by one in udder ointment to protect us from the cold. It came out of a yellow Bogena tin and was normally used to prevent dairy cows’ teats from getting cracks, calluses and cauliflower-like lumps. The tin’s lid was so greasy you could only screw it off with a tea-towel. It smelled of stewed udder, the thick slices I’d sometimes find cooking in a pan of stock on our stove, sprinkled with salt and pepper. They filled me with horror, just like the reeking ointment on my skin. Mum pressed her fat fingers into our faces like the round cheeses she patted to check whether the rind was ripening. Our pale cheeks shone in the light of the kitchen bulb, which was encrusted with fly shit. For years we’d been planning to get a lampshade, a pretty one with flowers, but whenever we saw one in the village, Mum could never make up her mind. She’d been doing this for three years now. That morning, two days before Christmas, I felt her slippery thumbs in my eye sockets and for a moment I was afraid she’d press too hard, that my eyeballs would plop into my skull like marbles, and she’d say, ‘That’s what happens when your eyes are always roaming and you never keep them still like a true believer, gazing up at God as though the heavens might break open at any moment.’ But the heavens here only broke open for a snowstorm – nothing to keep staring at like an idiot.
Woman
It's funny how this still applies and trannies are always unmistakable because they have male bitterness and male autism, even when they are trying their hardest to be feminine it's like they're trying to be an epic edgy catgirl version of a woman instead of just a woman
Women are just featureless and come across as too timid to color outside any lines, and even when they do try to color outside the lines it comes across as this pathetic attempt to seem like they're doing it without really doing it. That's why it's hilarious whenever women get huffy online because they try to imitate male aggression and male dismissiveness toward their opponent but it comes across as a pouting little girl imitating something harsh she overheard her dad saying, but with all the actual harsh parts removed. Trannies on the other hand come across as venomously b***hy perverted leftist men, gay but paradoxically not gay in that way that some fully gay guys have where they actually become quasi-feminine. Trannies aren't even as authentically feminine as gay men.
gonna need more legendary posts like picrel
It was the only way Apollo could imagine a future war where one soldier still matters. Apollo hated war, could not forgive a universe where such horrible suffering was necessary to get to Mars. They desperately wanted to find something else worthwhile in war, something to make it more than an unforgivable but necessary evil. The Church War consisted of statistics, a hundred thousand dead here, a million there, mostly civilians, but even the majority of soldiers were killed by faceless bombs, and those who did see the whites of the enemy’s eyes did so only in waves of thousands. Apollo saw nothing worthwhile in such a war, no thought, no heroes, and whether one soldier thinks their side is right or wrong, changing sides would make no difference. In Homer’s Iliad, when Achilles refuses to join battle, the Argive armies fail without him, and when other heroes, Hector or Sarpedon, charge or fall back, the whole face of the war is different. Individual decisions matter when the heroes make them. Realistically no one soldier’s decision can matter like that in a war, but without that there is no human face to it, the war becomes a mere machine of death. Apollo wanted a war of meaning, two sides embodying two futures, who would fight with respect and honor, putting their lives on the line for their philosophies, as it was when Saladin and I faced Seine and Apollo. Homer’s heroes could have that, be that important to the course of the war, because they were part god. Apollo’s future version had cyborg pilots bonded to special giant robots that only they could use, which made them overwhelmingly powerful compared to common soldiers. In Apollo’s version the gods were powerful A.I. robots, so a human pilot in a giant robot suit was literally wearing a prosthetic god. There were only a handful of pilots who could do it, so when one left or entered battle, or switched sides, that individual decision could change the face of the war.
Freud said all technology is a prosthetic god, a set of tools we weak humans strap on to give ourselves the powers we crave: computers for omniscience; trackers for omnipresence; medicine for immortality; armor for invulnerability; guns for Heaven’s wrathful thunderbolts. Apollo just made that literal. Of course, Apollo didn’t really think the war over Mars in two hundred and fifty years would be fought with giant robots, it was just the only way they could describe a war that would be meaningful, conscionable, with space for human dignity. It was Apollo’s hope, the kind of soldier Apollo wished they could be, so they could die a hero, instead of faceless, one among a million. That’s why I had to face Apollo in battle head-on, not catch them by trickery as I did the others. It was foolish of me. Apollo could have won, killed me, and lived to make their war. I risked letting that happen, but I had to test myself, my future, against Apollo’s. Apollo deserved to fall like a hero.
The sun sank slowly toward the horizon. As Carse topped the last ridge above the city and started down he walked under a vault of flame. The sea burned as the white phosphorescence took color from the clouds. With dazed wonder Carse saw the gold and crimson and purple splash down the long curve of the sky and run out over the water.
He could look down under the harbor. The docks of marble that he had known so well, worn and cracked by ages and whelmed by desert sand, lying lonely beneath the moons. The same docks, and yet now, mirage-like, the sea filled the basin of the harbor.
Round-hulled trading ships lay against the quays and the shouts of stevedores and sweating slaves rose up to him on the evening air. Shallops came and went amid the ships and out beyond the breakwater he saw the fishing fleet of Jekkara coming home with sails of cinnabar dark against the west.
Muenster fingered the cans and cast his eyes up toward the humming light.
"Why does God punish the faithful? If he is so almighty why does he lay trials before his flock. Strike them down, sicken them with ailments, bring calamity upon their houses. Have you read the book of Job? Bad things happen to good people. To his people. Men of God shot dead, their children are struck by trains the same as those of the sinner. Being devout does not preclude one from lameness nor from being blind. Why? Why does He do this. Because they are the only ones who hope to understand Him. Who want to understand Him. Who seek to understand His will in the multitude of their misfortune. For the faithful there are no accidents. Only machinations mysterious. The workings of our Lord. It is belief that calls on them to parse ill gotten fate in the air of benevolence. To endure. God speaks in a tongue unmapped by mere ethical binaries but which we are cursed to malform in such. It is we who assign its meaning and portent. Yet it is the faithful who most abstain from their own imperfect judgement of life and accept it for itself. That hear a signal beyond the noise. Who listen for arias amid cacophony. Listening for Him. For His Word. Hearing Him. That is why. God isn't punishing them. He is talking --- perhaps he is lonely. And only the good faithful and Godfearing listen?
You were led to expect a road, a river, a boat, a gate, a guardian. All were supplied, though none
was what you’d imagined. The road was indistinguishable from many of the sidewalks you’d so often
trudged along: poured concrete, dirty in the usual way—weathered chewing gum, fresh spit, the odd dog
dropping. Your feet were tired—whose shoes were you wearing?—but there was no place to sit down.
The river, when you came to it, was a canal, stagnant with algae and floating plastic bags. A shabby
houseboat was moored there, but no path led down to it. Instead the sidewalk took you across a massive
iron bridge, painted grey. After that came a red brick wall that went on for a long time. It had posters
stuck onto it—a play was being advertised, or else a film—the same poster, over and over. They showed
a woman’s face with a surprised expression, her hand raised as if in self-protection, with big lettering in
blue and orange and lines of smaller print: favourable quotations from the newspapers, no doubt, but
somehow you couldn’t read them. In addition to the posters there were names spray-painted on the brick
—no one you knew—and hot-pink symbol-writing that suggested the twisted-balloon animals made by
clowns at children’s parties
>Her breasts were lit, nice and big, good friction for my heavy dick. She took my wiener, sucked me off, and swallowed all my gooey cum. I am the Shakespeare of the frick.
"And what will become of my son?"
»No fools, grandma! - answered Stribor: - "How would you know about your son?" He will remain in this time, and you will return to your youth! You won't even know what kind of son!"
When grandma heard this, it was hard to imagine. And then he slowly returned from the flower bed, came back to Stribor, bowed deeply and said:
"Thank you, good lord, for everything good, for giving it to me. But I prefer to remain in my misfortune, and know that I have a son, than that you give me all the treasures and all the good of this world, and that I have to forget my son! «