Sirrah, I protest. Long hath the blackness of my soul quivered in terrible angst. Yet this thread is a moonbeam of light into the inky black midnight of my damn’ed heart. I yielded my sorrows just for a bit and a trace of a smile cracked my weary face. So I beg the mods, do not close down what is my last bit of happiness, ere the weight of the world shall press me down and I shall snuff it. The wintry winds of deep despair will engulf me and I will pass on, wallowing in abject pity that I shall never find another thread like this. It’s like Trent said, “I will let you down. I will make you hurt.”
Well, I’ve tired of being like this.
**I am getting pretty sick of who I have become.
**
One long moment spent with thoughts drifting turns to months of things naught, of ideas retooled, broken, recombobulated, shattered and reformed like hand kick batter turns to months of despairing hope for the future of my life.
**Every time I think for a minute it ruins my life for over 60 days and makes me sad about the remainder of my life.
**
My life? Such a joke it is, many laugh when I tell it, even without a good punchline.
**When I talk about my life people laugh at me.
**
And a punchline, for me? Even bigger laughs, maybe a few haws, then ravenous vulture eyes peering from the crowd.
**After they are done laughing people start to see me as someone they can take advantage of.
**
They’re hungry, and after me. Why? What did I do to them?
**I don’t recognize any connection between these two facts.
**
Nothing, of course.
**I really, really don’t see any connection between these two facts
**
Such is the nature of the beast, now starved into death, licking me with its hot cold sour breath.
**Human nature is a bitch.
**
This demon isn’t real, it only lives in our heads, and occasionly kicks out, ravenous, stuck in the monotone of a average human’s mind.
**Human nature is less than real because it is a purely mental construct.
**
Nothing to feed it, you see.
**I make no connection between my actions and the reactions of others.
**
All the minds are rot, and that’s the riot. Teenage rot, teenage riot, old man riot, old man rot, it’s all the same when you’re all the same. The same, trapped in the coursing game of life. Why? Who knows.
**Human nature is ageless.
**
The same, trapped in the coursing game of life. Why? Who knows. How long? Too long. Much too long.
**Life is unbearable.
**
In this life I’ve lived too long and produced too little important, released too many negative emotions, released too many noxious gasses, released too many wild hounds that I call my friends onto innocents.
**I have never produced much of merit.
**
I am error, I am fate unto the common man, I am you, and who are you? You’re nothing, like me. Shadows. Shadows acting as beings.
**In the end nothing matters.
**
That’s who we are, what will be, and what we’ll die into and de-evolve to, eventually, in our subjective view.
**We all will seem to devolve from nothingness into, well, something less than nothing.
**
We bulid the light and the cities, and we still remain shadows. What memory will remain but shadows when space travelers come to this spinning globe?
**Our technology has outstripped our evolution yet out base natures will outlast our technology.
**
My brain, this function, is rewired and hotblocked, dysfunctioned.
**I have had a general system error.
**
My sentiments come out as obfuscated, garbled silent beacons of madness.
**My words are both nonsense and unexpressed.
**
Clarity lies in my feet, thanks to my mind. I cannot write with such mongrels of the human function, such commoners and laborers, they are below us.
**I am forced to communicate these nonsensical, silent messages with my hands because I can’t type with my feet.
**
They may be the infrastructure, but they still shame us.
**I am ashamed that I can’t type with my feet
**
I need help. Won’'t you give it to me, give it to me?
**I beg for help
**
No, don’t help me.
**I beg to not be helped.
**
I’ll stumble to it, I’ll mumble doin’ it, but I’ll find a way to a will to do it.
**I’m going to go on typing nonsensical silence without anyone’s help.
**
Not much choice any other way, my friends and shadows.
**Whether I have help or not will be irrelevant.
**
Myself can be turned and dissected, but good will that do?
**Would analysis do any good?
**
Dissection is not a solution, nor is it a problem, thankfully.
**I don’t think so.
**
It might be a middle ground, if such a thing exists.
**Analysis may be neither helpful nor detrimental.
**
Middle ground is for surely rare indeed, when even the nice/good people are extremists towards their system of ideals.
**The average is meaningless when all points plotted are outside two standard deviations.
**
Ideals. Such silly concepts, to try to live up to extemist’s extremes, for that is what they are.
**It is stupid to aspire to anything.
**
Nothing but false hopes and ridicoulous demands to place on anybody.
**Ideals are stupid.
**
It’s a wonder people still exist with ideals shoved down our throats daily.
**All ideals originate externally to the observer.
**
I’m still standing, barely.
**It is only just possible to endure.
**
I cannot do anything to change the course.
**I am not in control of my self.
**
Try as I might, argue as much as I will myself to do, I can’t do nothing but wait for the change to erode itself into the things needing changed.
**If I sit around doing nothing long enough change will happen without me having to take an active role.
**
Things… They leave my mind like a train speeding past, naught but a blur, but hit me like one when I let my guard down.
**I don’t pay any attention to what goes on around me but am surprised when I don’t see things coming.
**
What to do? What to do? Nothing, I guess. Naught.
**Having made these observations I think doing nothing is the best course.
**
I’m crying now, and it’s for all of our sakes. I don’t know why.
**I know why I am crying, because of the human condition, yet I don’t know why I am crying.
**
Maybe it’s because of this nightmare life has become, with everything skewed and shifte to top and bottom, right and left, in a circular motion and a locomotion.
**I am seriously disoriented.
**
Oh, in this life… Nothing.
**The culmination of the above musings is that I have given my life no meaning.
**
So far at least. Maybe next time… Some place nicer. Where I can live for real, not be a shadow of a person.
**I’m counting on reincarnation to solve all of my problems.
**
Why not?
**Why Not?
**
Someday
**I look forward to reincarnation.
**
I am getting pretty sick of who I have become.
Every time I think for a minute it ruins my life for over 60 days and makes me sad about the remainder of my life.
When I talk about my life people laugh at me.
After they are done laughing people start to see me as someone they can take advantage of.
I don’t recognize any connection between these two facts.
I really, really don’t see any connection between these two facts.
Human nature is a bitch.
Human nature is less than real because it is a purely mental construct.
I make no connection between my actions and the reactions of others.
Human nature is ageless.
Life is unbearable.
I have never produced much of merit.
In the end nothing matters.
We all will seem to devolve from nothingness into, well, something less than nothing.
Our technology has outstripped our evolution yet out base natures will outlast our technology.
I have had a general system error.
My words are both nonsense and unexpressed.
I am forced to communicate these nonsensical, silent messages with my hands because I can’t type with my feet.
I am ashamed that I can’t type with my feet.
I beg for help
I beg to not be helped.
I’m going to go on typing nonsensical silence without anyone’s help.
Whether I have help or not will be irrelevant.
Would analysis do any good?
I don’t think so.
Analysis may be neither helpful nor detrimental.
The average is meaningless when all points plotted are outside two standard deviations.
It is stupid to aspire to anything.
Ideals are stupid.
All ideals originate externally to the observer.
It is only just possible to endure.
I am not in control of my self.
If I sit around doing nothing long enough change will happen without me having to take an active role.
I don’t pay any attention to what goes on around me but am surprised when I don’t see things coming.
Having made these observations I think doing nothing is the best course.
I know why I am crying, because of the human condition, yet I don’t know why I am crying.
I am seriously disoriented.
The culmination of the above musings is that I have given my life no meaning.
I’m counting on reincarnation to solve all of my problems.
Why Not?
I look forward to reincarnation.
Bravo, Degrance!
Degrance, I am concerned for your sanity.
Since we’ve moved into South Park territority – I think you meant sticky britches.
OK, so maybe you won’t regret it all when you hit thirty (as that is only next year), but angsty rambling it most certainly is.
All the time you kick and whine at the basic injustice of it all, you’re missing the good stuff that is going on all around you.
Now that is deep!
I think you all are being a little harsh. Just because you went through an “angst phase” does not mean that you know what Kurdt is experiencing. Perhaps he really is perceiving or grasping at something truly profound. It seems to be profound and unique to him at least. Yes, poetically it could be considered bad and in terms of clear communication the op lacks. However, that does not mean that you can pretend to be above and beyond what he is trying to express (especially if you have no idea what that is). I get the feeling that some of you would have mocked Camus, Sartre or the early Cynics if they had posted here. If you have such a deep and bitchin’ philosophy on life that counters all pain and negativity, let’s hear it.
At the very least he deserves an NEA grant, am I right?
If they’d used the word “recombobulated”, I sure as fuck would.
This is called “The BBQ Pit”, not “Fluffy Bunny Hug Land.”
I have livened up the OP, thanks to the pornalizer. With no further adieu, I present to you, Kurdt “Dirk Diggler” Kobain, SDMB Member:
In browns life
Well, I’ve tired of being like this. One long moment spent with raids fingering screws to months of things naught, of ideas gamahucheed, broken, recombobulated, fingerfucked and reformed like hand kick batter turns to months of fingerfucking hope for the raunching future of my life. My life? Such a ballbusting joke it is, many laugh when I tell it, even without a good punchline. And a punchline, for me? Even bigger laughs, maybe a barfing few enters, then ravenous vulture eyes peering from the wad pulling crowd. They’re hungry, and after me. Why? What did I do to them?
Nothing, of course. Such is the spanking nature of the beast, now fingerfucked into death, licking me with its hot cold sour breath. This demon isn’t real, it only lives in our heads, and occasionly kicks out, shafts, stuck in the shafting monotone of a average human’s mind. Nothing to feed it, you see. All the fingering minds are rot, and that’s the riot. Teenage rot, teenage riot, old man riot, old man rot, it’s all the plowing same when you’re all the gamahucheing same. The raiding same, trapped in the deep throating thrusting game of life. Why? Who sex fights. How long? Too long. Much too long.
In fistfucks life I’ve lived too long and deep throated too little important, balled too many negative fucks, released too many noxious squirts, released too many wild titty fucks that I call my friends onto pecks. I am error, I am fate unto the common man, I am you, and who are you? You’re fisting, like me. Sucks. Gangbangs acting as beings. That’s who we are, what will be, and what we’ll die into and de-evolve to, eventually, in our subjective view. We bulid the light and the squirting shafts, and we still remain shadows. What memory will remain but squirts when space travelers come to this spinning globe?
My brain, this function, is pecked and aardvarked, dysfunctioned. My sentiments come out as thrusted, garbled silent beacons of cuntlicks. Clarity smoochs in my feet, fucks to my mind. I cannot write with such mongrels of the aardvarking human function, such gangbangs and titty fucks, they are below us. They may be the spewing infrastructure, but they still shame us. I need help. Won’‘t you give it to me, give it to me? No, don’t help me. I’ll stumble to it, I’ll mumble doin’ it, but I’ll find a smooching way to a will to do it. Not much choice any other way, my fomps and balls.
Myself can be turned and dissected, but good will that do? Dissection is not a solution, nor is it a raiding problem, thankfully. It might be a deep throating middle ground, if such a entering thing cocksucks. Middle ground is for surely rare fingered, when even the fomping nice/good people are felchs towards their system of gangbangs. Ideals. Such silly wanks, to try to live up to extemist’s enters, for that is what they are. Nothing but false enters and ridicoulous demands to place on anybody. It’s a blowing wonder people stillexist with ideals smacked down our shafts daily. I’m still standing, barely.
I cannot do jerking to change the course. Try as I might, argue as much as I will myself to do, I can’t do nothing but wait for the creaming change to erode itself into the smacking things needing changed. Things… They leave my mind like a screwing train speeding past, naught but a banging blur, but hit me like one when I let my guard down. What to do? What to do? Nothing, I fucks. Naught. I’m crying now, and it’s for all of our sakes. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because of shafts nightmare life has become, with smooching skewed and shifte to top and bottom, right and left, in a circular motion and a locomotion. Oh, in this life… Entering.
So far at least. Maybe next time… Some place nicer. Where I can live for real, not be a shadow of a wanking person.
Why not?
Someday.
The whole first page of replies in porn.
Get funky wit it!!
Ah, and my philosophy on life, by Satasha’s request:
Shit happens. Suck it up. Move on. Life’s a bitch. The world is not fair, but karma can be a bitch. If it gets you down too much, seek counseling. You’re not such a special little snowflake that a trained psychological professional hasn’t seen it before. Do the best you can with what you’ve got. Take some time to enjoy yourself. It’s alright to skip work/school if it’s nice and warm, the sky is pleasantly blue, and there’s something worthwhile going on. Pull a Ferris Bueller, cause life moves pretty fast and if you don’t stop and look around, you could miss it. If you do feel like wallowing, put on The Cure or something, write some bad poetry, then go to bed.
If you want pity and sympathy and nice things, post in MPSIMS. If you want to bitch and moan, post in the Pit, but expect to be rated for style. Don’t go in GD, since those people are way smarter than you and want cites.
Oh, man, Road Rash, that’s FUNNY.
Brutus-For the dripping love of all that is good in the banging world, just stop. There is plenty of moody/pensive/shitty poetry and aardvarking all over the Internet; Let the cuntlicked grounds of SDMB stay (somewhat) free of that tripe.
Aardvarking?!
:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:
YOU CAN READ THE WHOLE TITTY FUCKING BOARD LIKE THIS!!!