,,,,



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 02/12/2012 04:18PM by Hatemotor.

breaking bado is sooooo gooooood...

Signatures are for fags

Harry Tuttle Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> breaking bado is sooooo gooooood...


Are you that much of a loser that you need to post about how much you love some dumb tv show?

Yes... Yes, I am...

Are you that much of a loser that you need to post about how much of a loser I am?

Signatures are for fags

,,,



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 02/12/2012 04:19PM by Hatemotor.

,,,



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 02/12/2012 04:19PM by Hatemotor.

Hatemotor Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> Burn Notice is a very good show too,,,
>
> Bruce Campbell plays Sam Axe on USA networks Spy
> drama Burn Notice,,,


The other resident douchebag/tv show loser checks in.

Hatemotor Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> Where's Miz?


Who cares, loser?

,,,



Edited 2 time(s). Last edit at 02/12/2012 04:19PM by Hatemotor.

,,,



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 02/12/2012 04:20PM by Hatemotor.

Hatemotor Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> I don't Wrote:
> --------------------------------------------------
> -----
> > Hatemotor Wrote:
> >
> --------------------------------------------------
>
> > -----
> > > Where's Miz?
> >
> > I
> > Who cares, loser?
>
>
> If you don't care, why're you trolling his
> thread,,,


That's not correct English, imbecile!

,,,



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 02/12/2012 04:20PM by Hatemotor.

Hatemoron Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> Hatemotor Wrote:
> --------------------------------------------------
> > If you don't care, why're you trolling his
> > thread,,,
>
>
> That's not correct English, imbecile!


Why not?

Signatures are for fags

dickums

Attachments:

poop fart shittums

Signatures are for fags

i will bite my dentist's finger

Attachments:

,,,



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 02/12/2012 04:21PM by Hatemotor.

,,,



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 02/12/2012 04:21PM by Hatemotor.

are they gone? let's stealing all food

Signatures are for fags

Harry Tuttle Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> let's stealing all food


English...it evades you.

bump for the fuck of it. ghost cause i want to.

Attachments:

why is it that i get worse razor burn when i use aftershave than i would if i did not use aftershave? whats the fucking deal there eh?

Attachments:

be weary of people monitoring CCT's for they are perverted

Attachments:

if i had a dollar for every fake smile given and received i would be rich

Attachments:

if i had a dollar for everytime i've heard someone say "if i had a dollar" i would have at least two dollars

Attachments:



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 09/01/2011 02:02AM by bloody blisters.

ward bond was a fucking nobody.

Attachments:

i sometimes like to paint zebra (pronounced the british way) stripes on my belly

Attachments:

i was watching a hunting show the other night. it was a predator episode. they were shooting coyotes, it was a sad sad thing to see because you are basically shooting dogs.

Attachments:

im going to watch porn, jack it for a few, then go to bed. it has been fun tonight. not sure the recent boycott of the forum or this thread rather but, keep in mind some still live on.

Attachments:

Tonight's episode is titled "Fun with skanks"...

Brought to you buy premature ejaculation...

...and sponsored in part by Mentos...

If I received a dollar for every time I had unprotected sex with a stranger, I'd have herpes by now...

Californication was a great character actor... I listened to the new Chili Peppers album last week... I think I'm going to need to let it grow on me... All the new Chili Pepper albums take a while to wow me...

Online encounters...that's bad right? Txt 1000EJz to 911 if you feel me, ladies... More about that in a jiffy (tv people say jiffy, right)

Has anyone listened to Don Geronimo Show since he changed time slots? I haven't

So what's new on the forum, guise? I feel like I've missed so much... but it doesn't seem like I really missed a lot.... Do you think 30 is over the hill? Well it isn't... stay tuned for this three part series entitled... I answer questions that only I care about....

The Meade posts seem to be occurring more frequently... THat's bad, right?

No sign of Gulligan in a while... eesh is kinda making a comeback.... Alias.... well.....

No posts from Miz.... HMMMMMM>>>>>>...>.>>>>...

The unregistered "ask eesh" guy is still going strong... up 13 points at the close of the day...

prepositions... Why do I always have a hard time on them?

THat's the breaking news with kermit the frog... and stocks and such...

I drink beers... I over eat... I shit a lot... my asshole bleeds twice a week... It must be from all the sharp cheese I eat... I sleep too little... but enough about me....

Thanks for that heartwarming editorial piece, Harry...

I think lists are funny... I'm going to start listing things...

Oh, someone's already done that?

I think this forum needs an eesh... Even eesh isn't eesh enough... Maybe I should fill his shoes, among other things (yes that was supposed to mean gay sex)...

Thanks for the gay jokes, guisze.....

Now let's go to our teen correspondent.

Emoticons are changing, let's face it... Soon your emoticon will be out of date.... There is a neeeet service that lets you upgrade your emoticon... That's good... and that concludes my presentation....

How sweet.

I saw a bumper sticker that reads as follows "3 nails + 1 cross = 4given"... almost as good as "Knitting is knotty"....

Send in your pictures of the world around you... We might just show them on tehhhh nooooz......

I drink 5 hour energy shots... not every day though... that's for the gay community... ask eesh...

Your mind is like a garden....

Two birds... one cunt...

Know those girls that share a cunt? I do... You just want to tell them to KNOCK IT OFF! Someone should start a knock it off thread... Get on that, postpoptheintern... thanks, you're a real sweety... and kind of sweaty... I know god has a special spot reserved for you in heavin...

LATE BREAKING NEWS BULLETIN only god can judge me...

Has postpoop grown on anyone yet? Me neither...

Remember when I sneezed so hard that I threw up in my lap? I almost did it again...

Remember when I flushed a q-tip down the toilet? I don't flush toilets any more...

I'm about tapped out.... thanks for watching... Download my podcast on iTunes.... thanks a bundle...

Signatures are for fags

P.S. Jack14Duke...

DSEROSEROSERO

CARL oSKELLIES

arizona...

Signatures are for fags

Were you drinking, Harry?

Wow, that was weird.

Weird... That's bad, right?

Signatures are for fags

Ward Bond was a very good character actor....but he was not the greatest of all time. He was in a lot of stuff. And fuck heavy doors! I mean it. They keep fire from spreading......okay?......but if the fire starts in a building, then don't the heavy doors turn the burning building into a death trap. Seems like you'd actually WANT the fire to spread.......OUT of the building. Is this not logical to anyone else but me? I can't do a Russian accent.
Attachments:

prolonged silences are bad, right?

being weird on the phone.....that's bad, right?

saying mean things to someone you really really like because you misunderstood what they wrote to you and you've been eating pills and drinking and you're hot and sweaty and alone in the dark late at night and barely realize what you're doing.................that's bad right?

Russians.......they're bad, right?

.



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 03/04/2012 10:46PM by Alias.

not wanting to end up on food stamps........that's good, right?

girls who's names sound suspiciously like the character "Chun-Li" from Street Fighter who you met at the library and claimed to be fresh off the boat from China........they're bad, right?
Attachments:

being surprised and upset that a girl who's name is very close to "Chun-Li" from Street Fighter blew you off with the worst excuse in the history of not wanting to go out with a person excuses........that's bad, right?

texting a dude from highschool and then having a conversation with him very late at night while he's drunk and babbling.............that's bad, right?

hearing your upstairs neighbor beating the dickens out of his wife/girlfriend/baby momma at 1:00 in the morning...............that's bad, right?

being disappointed that the homeless man you gave your e-mail address to never e-mailed you..........that's bad, right?

finally getting your sewercide cookbook in the mail..........that's good, right?

telling Russian assholes to go fuck themselves........that's good, right?

.



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 03/04/2012 10:46PM by Alias.

Alias, check your Electronic Mail. Chun-Li from Street Fighter is for real.

.



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 03/04/2012 10:45PM by Alias.

Alias, go check out my proof that Chun-Li is not just a figment of my imagination. You will find it fascinating.

.



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 03/04/2012 10:45PM by Alias.

.



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 03/04/2012 10:44PM by Alias.

Alias Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> Mr. Misery Wrote:
> --------------------------------------------------
> -----
> > saying mean things to someone you really really
> > like because you misunderstood what they wrote
> to
> > you and you've been eating pills and drinking
> and
> > you're hot and sweaty and alone in the dark
> late
> > at night and barely realize what you're
> > doing.................that's bad right?
>
>
> yes.

do you understand that I thought you were seriously telling me goodbye, take care, as in forever? And I didn't understand why. And because I completely misunderstood that I felt hurt and upset and it was very late and I had taken my medication and I was alone and hot and sweaty in the dark, and that even then I wrote things that were wrong that I woke up feeling awful about and was emotionally distraught all day because of it.........that's good, right? Or is it bad?

Alias Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> Mr. Misery Wrote:
> --------------------------------------------------
> -----
> > hearing your upstairs neighbor beating the
> dickens
> > out of his wife/girlfriend/baby momma at 1:00
> in
> > the morning...............that's bad, right?
>
>
> yes. not calling the cops is worse.


and then calling the cops and the cops never coming......that's worse, right?

being sorry......that's good, right?


and feeling so awful that you call HT because you're so depressed and upset and sick over what you did that you needed to talk to someone..........that's good, right?

crying and lying in bed all day because you may have lost a friend and it's your fault..........that's good.....right? Bad?

genuinely liking someone and feeling sick to your stomach depressed because you might have done something stupid which you did because you misunderstood and also overreacted.........that's bad, right?

.



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 03/04/2012 10:43PM by Alias.

.



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 03/04/2012 10:42PM by Alias.

niggas, if you are going to share private information with each other, please for the love of all sake keep every detail private. OR, share every little detail said. so simple. fuck this puzzle piece, fill in the blank mentality that has been adopted here. sbullshit if you ask me.

Attachments:

Alias Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> bloody blisters Wrote:
> --------------------------------------------------
> -----
> > i sometimes like to paint zebra (pronounced the
> > british way) stripes on my belly
>
> does that rhyme with debra?


exactly right.,

Attachments:

.



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 03/04/2012 10:41PM by Alias.

cause, my dear alias, niggas be stuntin. tryin to make othas recognize that there is something going on that they are not a part of. so simple.

Attachments:

Unexpected packages... That's good, right?

Signatures are for fags

.



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 03/04/2012 10:40PM by Alias.

Here is an excerpt from the new novel I've been working on that I thought I'd go ahead and share with you all. It's semi-autobiographical, 100% true except for the parts I made up.


Came a beautiful fall day, warm and languid, palpitant with the hush of the changing season, a Virginia Indian summer day, with hazy sun and wandering wisps of breeze that did not stir the slumber of the air. Filmy purple mists, that were not vapors but fabrics woven of color, hid in the recesses of the hills. Fairfax lay like a blur of smoke upon her heights.

The erasure of summer was at hand. Yet summer lingered, fading and fainting among her hills, deepening the purple of her valleys, spinning a shroud of haze from waning powers and sated raptures, dying with the calm content of having lived and lived well. And among the hills, on their favorite knoll, Miz and Conie sat side by side, their heads bent over his iPad, he reading aloud from his favorite Fairfax Underground threads.

But the reading languished. The spell of passing beauty all about them was too strong. The golden year was dying as it had lived, a beautiful and unrepentant voluptuary, and reminiscent rapture and content freighted heavily the air. It entered into them, dreamy and languorous, weakening the fibers of resolution, suffusing the face of morality, or of judgment, with haze and purple mist. Misery felt tender and melting, and from time to time warm glows passed over him. His head was very near to hers, and when wandering phantoms of breeze stirred her hair so that it touched his face, the monitor swam before his eyes.

“I don’t believe you know a word of what you are reading,” she said once when he had lost his place.

He looked at her with burning eyes, and was on the verge of becoming awkward, when a retort came to his lips.

“I don’t believe you know either. What was the last post about?”

“I don’t know,” she laughed frankly. “I’ve already forgotten. Don’t let us read any more. The day is too beautiful.”

“It will be our last in the hills for some time,” he announced gravely. “There’s a storm gathering out there on the sea-rim.”

The iPad slipped from his hands to the ground, and they sat idly and silently. Conie glanced sidewise at his neck. She did not lean toward him. She was drawn by some force outside of herself and stronger than gravitation, strong as destiny. It was only an inch to lean, and it was accomplished without volition on her part. Her shoulder touched his as lightly as a butterfly touches a flower, and just as lightly was the counter-pressure. She felt his shoulder press hers, and a tremor run through him. Then was the time for her to draw back. But she had become an automaton. Her actions had passed beyond the control of her will—she never thought of control or will in the delicious madness that was upon her. His arm began to steal behind her and around her. She waited its slow progress in a torment of delight. She waited, she knew not for what, panting, with dry, burning lips, a leaping pulse, and a fever of expectancy in all her blood. The girdling arm lifted higher and drew her toward him, drew her slowly and caressingly. She could wait no longer. With a tired sigh, and with an impulsive movement all her own, unpremeditated, spasmodic, she rested her head upon his breast. His head bent over swiftly, and, as his lips approached, hers flew to meet them.

This must be love, she thought, in the one rational moment that was vouchsafed her. If it was not love, it was too shameful. It could be nothing else than love. She loved the man whose arms were around her and whose lips were pressed to hers. She pressed more, tightly to him, with a snuggling movement of her body. And a moment later, tearing herself half out of his embrace, suddenly and exultantly she reached up and placed both hands upon Mr. Misery's flabby white neck. So exquisite was the pang of love and desire fulfilled that she uttered a low moan, relaxed her hands, and lay half-swooning in his arms.

Not a word had been spoken, and not a word was spoken for a long time. Twice he leaned back and belched, and each time her body made its happy, nestling movement. She clung to him, unable to release herself, and he sat, half supporting her in his arms, as he gazed with unseeing eyes at the blur of the great city. For once there were no visions in his brain. Only colors and lights and glows pulsed there, warm as the day and warm as his love. He bent over her. She was speaking.

“When did you love me?” she whispered.

“From the first, the very first, the first moment I laid eye on you. I was mad for love of you then, and in all the time that has passed since then I have only grown the madder. I am maddest, now, dear. I am almost a lunatic, my head is so turned with joy.”

“I am glad I am a woman, Misery dear,” she said, after a long sigh.

He crushed her in his arms again and again, and then asked:-

“And you? When did you first know?”

“Oh, I knew it all the time, almost, from the first.”

“And I have been as blind as a bat!” he cried, a ring of vexation in his voice. “I never dreamed it until just how, when I—when I kissed you.”

“I didn’t mean that.” She drew herself partly away and looked at him. “I meant I knew you loved almost from the first.”

“And you?” he demanded.

“It came to me suddenly.” She was speaking very slowly, her eyes warm and fluttery and melting, a soft flush on her cheeks that did not go away. “I never knew until just now when—you put your arms around me. And I never expected to marry you, Misery, not until just now. How did you make me love you?”

“I don’t know,” he laughed, “unless just by loving you, for I loved you hard enough to melt the heart of a stone, much less the heart of the living, breathing woman you are.”

“This is so different from what I thought love would be,” she announced irrelevantly.

“What did you think it would be like?”

“I didn’t think it would be like this.” She was looking into his eyes at the moment, but her own dropped as she continued, “You see, I didn’t know what this was like.”

He offered to draw her toward him again, but it was no more than a tentative muscular movement of the girdling arm, for he feared that he might be greedy. Then he felt her body yielding, and once again she was close in his arms and lips were pressed on lips.

“What will my people say?” she queried, with sudden apprehension, in one of the pauses.

“I don’t know. We can find out very easily any time we are so minded.”

“But if mamma objects? I am sure I am afraid to tell her.”

“Let me tell her,” he volunteered valiantly. “I think your mother does not like me, but I can win her around. A fellow who can win you can win anything. And if we don’t—”

“Yes?”

“Why, we’ll have each other. But there’s no danger not winning your mother to our marriage. She loves you too well.”

“I should not like to break her heart,” Conie said pensively.

He felt like assuring her that mothers’ hearts were not so easily broken, but instead he said, “And love is the greatest thing in the world.”

“Do you know, Misery, you sometimes frighten me. I am frightened now, when I think of you and of what you have been. You must be very, very good to me. Remember, after all, that I am only a child. I never loved before.”

“Nor I. We are both children together. And we are fortunate above most, for we have found our first love in each other.”

“But that is impossible!” she cried, withdrawing herself from his arms with a swift, passionate movement. “Impossible for you. You have been an onanist, and onanists, I have heard, are—are—”

Her voice faltered and died away.

“Are addicted to having a wank in every port?” he suggested. “Is that what you mean?”

“Yes,” she answered in a low voice.

“But that is not love.” He spoke authoritatively. “I have been in many ports, but I never knew a passing touch of love until I first saw you. You are my first, my very first.”

“And yet you have been a wanker,” she objected.

“But that doesn’t prevent me from loving you the first.”

“And there have been women—other women—oh!”

And to Mr. Misery's supreme surprise, she burst into a storm of tears that took more kisses than one and many caresses to drive away. There was no bar to their marriage. Class difference was the only difference, and class was extrinsic. It could be shaken off. A slave, he had read, had risen to the Roman purple. That being so, then he could rise to Conie. Under her purity, and saintliness, and culture, and ethereal beauty of soul, she was, in things fundamentally human, just like any other woman. All that was possible of them was possible of her. She could love, and hate, maybe have hysterics; and she could certainly be jealous, as she was jealous now, uttering her last sobs in his arms.

“Besides, I am older than you,” she remarked suddenly, opening her eyes and looking up at him, “thirty years older.”

“Hush, you are only a child, and I am forty years older than you, in experience,” was his answer.

In truth, they were children together, so far as love was concerned, and they were as naive and immature in the expression of their love as a pair of children. They sat on through the passing glory of the day, talking as lovers are prone to talk, marvelling at the wonder of love and at destiny that had flung them so strangely together, and dogmatically believing that they loved to a degree never attained by lovers before. And they returned insistently, again and again, to a rehearsal of their first impressions of each other and to hopeless attempts to analyze just precisely what they felt for each other and how much there was of it.

The cloud-masses on the western horizon received the descending sun, and the circle of the sky turned to rose, while the zenith glowed with the same warm color. The rosy light was all about them, flooding over them, as she sang, “Goodbye, Yellow Brick Road.” She sang softly, leaning in the cradle of his arm, her hands in his, their hearts in each other’s hands.

First, I really am a professional editor.

I realize you're probably half-joking in presenting this sample, though I also sense you're looking for validation, and I'm going to give you some encouragement because you've earned it. I think your writing sample shows that you are articulate, sensitive to details, and way more thoughtful than I would have guessed by some of your pornographic threads.

As for constructive feedback, I'd suggest you pare down your writing--it's too overwrought with all the modifiers and somewhat awkward metaphors. Starting with an outline can help you stay on track with where you want the story to move.

Congrats on applying yourself to this creative pursuit and keep on writing! Frequent practice leads to improvement, in writing as in all human endeavors.

"It's semi-autobiographical, 100% true except for the parts I made up."

When you become famous MMisery - THIS ^^^^ should be your "Catch-Phrase".

I would buy a MMisry Novel - sign me up...

MMisery - I am an artist (However one defines that word) and work in Graphic Design --- I volunteer to do any illustration or design needed...what would a New-Wave novel by MMisery be without pictures?



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 09/02/2011 11:45PM by postpoppunk.

Harry Tuttle Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> Unexpected packages... That's good, right?


berry good

Attachments:

MrMisery Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> Here is an excerpt from the new novel I've been
> working on that I thought I'd go ahead and share
> with you all. It's semi-autobiographical, 100%
> true except for the parts I made up.
>
>
> Came a beautiful fall day, warm and languid,
> palpitant with the hush of the changing season, a
> Virginia Indian summer day, with hazy sun and
> wandering wisps of breeze that did not stir the
> slumber of the air. Filmy purple mists, that were
> not vapors but fabrics woven of color, hid in the
> recesses of the hills. Fairfax lay like a blur of
> smoke upon her heights.
>
> The erasure of summer was at hand. Yet summer
> lingered, fading and fainting among her hills,
> deepening the purple of her valleys, spinning a
> shroud of haze from waning powers and sated
> raptures, dying with the calm content of having
> lived and lived well. And among the hills, on
> their favorite knoll, Miz and Conie sat side by
> side, their heads bent over his iPad, he reading
> aloud from his favorite Fairfax Underground
> threads.
>
> But the reading languished. The spell of passing
> beauty all about them was too strong. The golden
> year was dying as it had lived, a beautiful and
> unrepentant voluptuary, and reminiscent rapture
> and content freighted heavily the air. It entered
> into them, dreamy and languorous, weakening the
> fibers of resolution, suffusing the face of
> morality, or of judgment, with haze and purple
> mist. Misery felt tender and melting, and from
> time to time warm glows passed over him. His head
> was very near to hers, and when wandering phantoms
> of breeze stirred her hair so that it touched his
> face, the monitor swam before his eyes.
>
> “I don’t believe you know a word of what you
> are reading,” she said once when he had lost his
> place.
>
> He looked at her with burning eyes, and was on the
> verge of becoming awkward, when a retort came to
> his lips.
>
> “I don’t believe you know either. What was
> the last post about?”
>
> “I don’t know,” she laughed frankly.
> “I’ve already forgotten. Don’t let us read
> any more. The day is too beautiful.”
>
> “It will be our last in the hills for some
> time,” he announced gravely. “There’s a
> storm gathering out there on the sea-rim.”
>
> The iPad slipped from his hands to the ground, and
> they sat idly and silently. Conie glanced
> sidewise at his neck. She did not lean toward
> him. She was drawn by some force outside of
> herself and stronger than gravitation, strong as
> destiny. It was only an inch to lean, and it was
> accomplished without volition on her part. Her
> shoulder touched his as lightly as a butterfly
> touches a flower, and just as lightly was the
> counter-pressure. She felt his shoulder press
> hers, and a tremor run through him. Then was the
> time for her to draw back. But she had become an
> automaton. Her actions had passed beyond the
> control of her will—she never thought of control
> or will in the delicious madness that was upon
> her. His arm began to steal behind her and around
> her. She waited its slow progress in a torment of
> delight. She waited, she knew not for what,
> panting, with dry, burning lips, a leaping pulse,
> and a fever of expectancy in all her blood. The
> girdling arm lifted higher and drew her toward
> him, drew her slowly and caressingly. She could
> wait no longer. With a tired sigh, and with an
> impulsive movement all her own, unpremeditated,
> spasmodic, she rested her head upon his breast.
> His head bent over swiftly, and, as his lips
> approached, hers flew to meet them.
>
> This must be love, she thought, in the one
> rational moment that was vouchsafed her. If it
> was not love, it was too shameful. It could be
> nothing else than love. She loved the man whose
> arms were around her and whose lips were pressed
> to hers. She pressed more, tightly to him, with a
> snuggling movement of her body. And a moment
> later, tearing herself half out of his embrace,
> suddenly and exultantly she reached up and placed
> both hands upon Mr. Misery's flabby white neck.
> So exquisite was the pang of love and desire
> fulfilled that she uttered a low moan, relaxed her
> hands, and lay half-swooning in his arms.
>
> Not a word had been spoken, and not a word was
> spoken for a long time. Twice he leaned back and
> belched, and each time her body made its happy,
> nestling movement. She clung to him, unable to
> release herself, and he sat, half supporting her
> in his arms, as he gazed with unseeing eyes at the
> blur of the great city. For once there were no
> visions in his brain. Only colors and lights and
> glows pulsed there, warm as the day and warm as
> his love. He bent over her. She was speaking.
>
> “When did you love me?” she whispered.
>
> “From the first, the very first, the first
> moment I laid eye on you. I was mad for love of
> you then, and in all the time that has passed
> since then I have only grown the madder. I am
> maddest, now, dear. I am almost a lunatic, my
> head is so turned with joy.”
>
> “I am glad I am a woman, Misery dear,” she
> said, after a long sigh.
>
> He crushed her in his arms again and again, and
> then asked:-
>
> “And you? When did you first know?”
>
> “Oh, I knew it all the time, almost, from the
> first.”
>
> “And I have been as blind as a bat!” he cried,
> a ring of vexation in his voice. “I never
> dreamed it until just how, when I—when I kissed
> you.”
>
> “I didn’t mean that.” She drew herself
> partly away and looked at him. “I meant I knew
> you loved almost from the first.”
>
> “And you?” he demanded.
>
> “It came to me suddenly.” She was speaking
> very slowly, her eyes warm and fluttery and
> melting, a soft flush on her cheeks that did not
> go away. “I never knew until just now
> when—you put your arms around me. And I never
> expected to marry you, Misery, not until just now.
> How did you make me love you?”
>
> “I don’t know,” he laughed, “unless just
> by loving you, for I loved you hard enough to melt
> the heart of a stone, much less the heart of the
> living, breathing woman you are.”
>
> “This is so different from what I thought love
> would be,” she announced irrelevantly.
>
> “What did you think it would be like?”
>
> “I didn’t think it would be like this.” She
> was looking into his eyes at the moment, but her
> own dropped as she continued, “You see, I
> didn’t know what this was like.”
>
> He offered to draw her toward him again, but it
> was no more than a tentative muscular movement of
> the girdling arm, for he feared that he might be
> greedy. Then he felt her body yielding, and once
> again she was close in his arms and lips were
> pressed on lips.
>
> “What will my people say?” she queried, with
> sudden apprehension, in one of the pauses.
>
> “I don’t know. We can find out very easily
> any time we are so minded.”
>
> “But if mamma objects? I am sure I am afraid to
> tell her.”
>
> “Let me tell her,” he volunteered valiantly.
> “I think your mother does not like me, but I can
> win her around. A fellow who can win you can win
> anything. And if we don’t—”
>
> “Yes?”
>
> “Why, we’ll have each other. But there’s no
> danger not winning your mother to our marriage.
> She loves you too well.”
>
> “I should not like to break her heart,” Conie
> said pensively.
>
> He felt like assuring her that mothers’ hearts
> were not so easily broken, but instead he said,
> “And love is the greatest thing in the
> world.”
>
> “Do you know, Misery, you sometimes frighten me.
> I am frightened now, when I think of you and of
> what you have been. You must be very, very good
> to me. Remember, after all, that I am only a
> child. I never loved before.”
>
> “Nor I. We are both children together. And we
> are fortunate above most, for we have found our
> first love in each other.”
>
> “But that is impossible!” she cried,
> withdrawing herself from his arms with a swift,
> passionate movement. “Impossible for you. You
> have been an onanist, and onanists, I have heard,
> are—are—”
>
> Her voice faltered and died away.
>
> “Are addicted to having a wank in every port?”
> he suggested. “Is that what you mean?”
>
> “Yes,” she answered in a low voice.
>
> “But that is not love.” He spoke
> authoritatively. “I have been in many ports,
> but I never knew a passing touch of love until I
> first saw you. You are my first, my very
> first.”
>
> “And yet you have been a wanker,” she
> objected.
>
> “But that doesn’t prevent me from loving you
> the first.”
>
> “And there have been women—other
> women—oh!”
>
> And to Mr. Misery's supreme surprise, she burst
> into a storm of tears that took more kisses than
> one and many caresses to drive away. There was no
> bar to their marriage. Class difference was the
> only difference, and class was extrinsic. It
> could be shaken off. A slave, he had read, had
> risen to the Roman purple. That being so, then he
> could rise to Conie. Under her purity, and
> saintliness, and culture, and ethereal beauty of
> soul, she was, in things fundamentally human, just
> like any other woman. All that was possible of
> them was possible of her. She could love, and
> hate, maybe have hysterics; and she could
> certainly be jealous, as she was jealous now,
> uttering her last sobs in his arms.
>
> “Besides, I am older than you,” she remarked
> suddenly, opening her eyes and looking up at him,
> “thirty years older.”
>
> “Hush, you are only a child, and I am forty
> years older than you, in experience,” was his
> answer.
>
> In truth, they were children together, so far as
> love was concerned, and they were as naive and
> immature in the expression of their love as a pair
> of children. They sat on through the passing
> glory of the day, talking as lovers are prone to
> talk, marvelling at the wonder of love and at
> destiny that had flung them so strangely together,
> and dogmatically believing that they loved to a
> degree never attained by lovers before. And they
> returned insistently, again and again, to a
> rehearsal of their first impressions of each other
> and to hopeless attempts to analyze just precisely
> what they felt for each other and how much there
> was of it.
>
> The cloud-masses on the western horizon received
> the descending sun, and the circle of the sky
> turned to rose, while the zenith glowed with the
> same warm color. The rosy light was all about
> them, flooding over them, as she sang, “Goodbye,
> Yellow Brick Road.” She sang softly, leaning in
> the cradle of his arm, her hands in his, their
> hearts in each other’s hands.


mizery, i am certain there is some creative genius amongst the text, i know it. but god damn man, you are alienating all those who are visual people. i didnt read this. i dont read books without pictures. im not a child, that is just how my brain works. visuals are most stimulating. you have great "artistic" (i quote because i hate that term) talent. utilize this. apply it.

Attachments:

hatermotet, whats the count?

Attachments:

MrMisery Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> Here is an excerpt from the new novel I've been
> working on that I thought I'd go ahead and share
> with you all. It's semi-autobiographical, 100%
> true except for the parts I made up.
>
>
> Came a beautiful fall day, warm and languid,
> palpitant with the hush of the changing season, a
> Virginia Indian summer day, with hazy sun and
> wandering wisps of breeze that did not stir the
> slumber of the air. Filmy purple mists, that were
> not vapors but fabrics woven of color, hid in the
> recesses of the hills. Fairfax lay like a blur of
> smoke upon her heights.
>
> The erasure of summer was at hand. Yet summer
> lingered, fading and fainting among her hills,
> deepening the purple of her valleys, spinning a
> shroud of haze from waning powers and sated
> raptures, dying with the calm content of having
> lived and lived well. And among the hills, on
> their favorite knoll, Miz and Conie sat side by
> side, their heads bent over his iPad, he reading
> aloud from his favorite Fairfax Underground
> threads.
>
> But the reading languished. The spell of passing
> beauty all about them was too strong. The golden
> year was dying as it had lived, a beautiful and
> unrepentant voluptuary, and reminiscent rapture
> and content freighted heavily the air. It entered
> into them, dreamy and languorous, weakening the
> fibers of resolution, suffusing the face of
> morality, or of judgment, with haze and purple
> mist. Misery felt tender and melting, and from
> time to time warm glows passed over him. His head
> was very near to hers, and when wandering phantoms
> of breeze stirred her hair so that it touched his
> face, the monitor swam before his eyes.
>
> “I don’t believe you know a word of what you
> are reading,” she said once when he had lost his
> place.
>
> He looked at her with burning eyes, and was on the
> verge of becoming awkward, when a retort came to
> his lips.
>
> “I don’t believe you know either. What was
> the last post about?”
>
> “I don’t know,” she laughed frankly.
> “I’ve already forgotten. Don’t let us read
> any more. The day is too beautiful.”
>
> “It will be our last in the hills for some
> time,” he announced gravely. “There’s a
> storm gathering out there on the sea-rim.”
>
> The iPad slipped from his hands to the ground, and
> they sat idly and silently. Conie glanced
> sidewise at his neck. She did not lean toward
> him. She was drawn by some force outside of
> herself and stronger than gravitation, strong as
> destiny. It was only an inch to lean, and it was
> accomplished without volition on her part. Her
> shoulder touched his as lightly as a butterfly
> touches a flower, and just as lightly was the
> counter-pressure. She felt his shoulder press
> hers, and a tremor run through him. Then was the
> time for her to draw back. But she had become an
> automaton. Her actions had passed beyond the
> control of her will—she never thought of control
> or will in the delicious madness that was upon
> her. His arm began to steal behind her and around
> her. She waited its slow progress in a torment of
> delight. She waited, she knew not for what,
> panting, with dry, burning lips, a leaping pulse,
> and a fever of expectancy in all her blood. The
> girdling arm lifted higher and drew her toward
> him, drew her slowly and caressingly. She could
> wait no longer. With a tired sigh, and with an
> impulsive movement all her own, unpremeditated,
> spasmodic, she rested her head upon his breast.
> His head bent over swiftly, and, as his lips
> approached, hers flew to meet them.
>
> This must be love, she thought, in the one
> rational moment that was vouchsafed her. If it
> was not love, it was too shameful. It could be
> nothing else than love. She loved the man whose
> arms were around her and whose lips were pressed
> to hers. She pressed more, tightly to him, with a
> snuggling movement of her body. And a moment
> later, tearing herself half out of his embrace,
> suddenly and exultantly she reached up and placed
> both hands upon Mr. Misery's flabby white neck.
> So exquisite was the pang of love and desire
> fulfilled that she uttered a low moan, relaxed her
> hands, and lay half-swooning in his arms.
>
> Not a word had been spoken, and not a word was
> spoken for a long time. Twice he leaned back and
> belched, and each time her body made its happy,
> nestling movement. She clung to him, unable to
> release herself, and he sat, half supporting her
> in his arms, as he gazed with unseeing eyes at the
> blur of the great city. For once there were no
> visions in his brain. Only colors and lights and
> glows pulsed there, warm as the day and warm as
> his love. He bent over her. She was speaking.
>
> “When did you love me?” she whispered.
>
> “From the first, the very first, the first
> moment I laid eye on you. I was mad for love of
> you then, and in all the time that has passed
> since then I have only grown the madder. I am
> maddest, now, dear. I am almost a lunatic, my
> head is so turned with joy.”
>
> “I am glad I am a woman, Misery dear,” she
> said, after a long sigh.
>
> He crushed her in his arms again and again, and
> then asked:-
>
> “And you? When did you first know?”
>
> “Oh, I knew it all the time, almost, from the
> first.”
>
> “And I have been as blind as a bat!” he cried,
> a ring of vexation in his voice. “I never
> dreamed it until just how, when I—when I kissed
> you.”
>
> “I didn’t mean that.” She drew herself
> partly away and looked at him. “I meant I knew
> you loved almost from the first.”
>
> “And you?” he demanded.
>
> “It came to me suddenly.” She was speaking
> very slowly, her eyes warm and fluttery and
> melting, a soft flush on her cheeks that did not
> go away. “I never knew until just now
> when—you put your arms around me. And I never
> expected to marry you, Misery, not until just now.
> How did you make me love you?”
>
> “I don’t know,” he laughed, “unless just
> by loving you, for I loved you hard enough to melt
> the heart of a stone, much less the heart of the
> living, breathing woman you are.”
>
> “This is so different from what I thought love
> would be,” she announced irrelevantly.
>
> “What did you think it would be like?”
>
> “I didn’t think it would be like this.” She
> was looking into his eyes at the moment, but her
> own dropped as she continued, “You see, I
> didn’t know what this was like.”
>
> He offered to draw her toward him again, but it
> was no more than a tentative muscular movement of
> the girdling arm, for he feared that he might be
> greedy. Then he felt her body yielding, and once
> again she was close in his arms and lips were
> pressed on lips.
>
> “What will my people say?” she queried, with
> sudden apprehension, in one of the pauses.
>
> “I don’t know. We can find out very easily
> any time we are so minded.”
>
> “But if mamma objects? I am sure I am afraid to
> tell her.”
>
> “Let me tell her,” he volunteered valiantly.
> “I think your mother does not like me, but I can
> win her around. A fellow who can win you can win
> anything. And if we don’t—”
>
> “Yes?”
>
> “Why, we’ll have each other. But there’s no
> danger not winning your mother to our marriage.
> She loves you too well.”
>
> “I should not like to break her heart,” Conie
> said pensively.
>
> He felt like assuring her that mothers’ hearts
> were not so easily broken, but instead he said,
> “And love is the greatest thing in the
> world.”
>
> “Do you know, Misery, you sometimes frighten me.
> I am frightened now, when I think of you and of
> what you have been. You must be very, very good
> to me. Remember, after all, that I am only a
> child. I never loved before.”
>
> “Nor I. We are both children together. And we
> are fortunate above most, for we have found our
> first love in each other.”
>
> “But that is impossible!” she cried,
> withdrawing herself from his arms with a swift,
> passionate movement. “Impossible for you. You
> have been an onanist, and onanists, I have heard,
> are—are—”
>
> Her voice faltered and died away.
>
> “Are addicted to having a wank in every port?”
> he suggested. “Is that what you mean?”
>
> “Yes,” she answered in a low voice.
>
> “But that is not love.” He spoke
> authoritatively. “I have been in many ports,
> but I never knew a passing touch of love until I
> first saw you. You are my first, my very
> first.”
>
> “And yet you have been a wanker,” she
> objected.
>
> “But that doesn’t prevent me from loving you
> the first.”
>
> “And there have been women—other
> women—oh!”
>
> And to Mr. Misery's supreme surprise, she burst
> into a storm of tears that took more kisses than
> one and many caresses to drive away. There was no
> bar to their marriage. Class difference was the
> only difference, and class was extrinsic. It
> could be shaken off. A slave, he had read, had
> risen to the Roman purple. That being so, then he
> could rise to Conie. Under her purity, and
> saintliness, and culture, and ethereal beauty of
> soul, she was, in things fundamentally human, just
> like any other woman. All that was possible of
> them was possible of her. She could love, and
> hate, maybe have hysterics; and she could
> certainly be jealous, as she was jealous now,
> uttering her last sobs in his arms.
>
> “Besides, I am older than you,” she remarked
> suddenly, opening her eyes and looking up at him,
> “thirty years older.”
>
> “Hush, you are only a child, and I am forty
> years older than you, in experience,” was his
> answer.
>
> In truth, they were children together, so far as
> love was concerned, and they were as naive and
> immature in the expression of their love as a pair
> of children. They sat on through the passing
> glory of the day, talking as lovers are prone to
> talk, marvelling at the wonder of love and at
> destiny that had flung them so strangely together,
> and dogmatically believing that they loved to a
> degree never attained by lovers before. And they
> returned insistently, again and again, to a
> rehearsal of their first impressions of each other
> and to hopeless attempts to analyze just precisely
> what they felt for each other and how much there
> was of it.
>
> The cloud-masses on the western horizon received
> the descending sun, and the circle of the sky
> turned to rose, while the zenith glowed with the
> same warm color. The rosy light was all about
> them, flooding over them, as she sang, “Goodbye,
> Yellow Brick Road.” She sang softly, leaning in
> the cradle of his arm, her hands in his, their
> hearts in each other’s hands.
Attachments:

that said, we're open for bid'ness
Attachments:

bloody blisters Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> MrMisery Wrote:
> --------------------------------------------------
> -----
> > Here is an excerpt from the new novel I've been
> > working on that I thought I'd go ahead and
> share
> > with you all. It's semi-autobiographical, 100%
> > true except for the parts I made up.
> >
> >
> > Came a beautiful fall day, warm and languid,
> > palpitant with the hush of the changing season,
> a
> > Virginia Indian summer day, with hazy sun and
> > wandering wisps of breeze that did not stir the
> > slumber of the air. Filmy purple mists, that
> were
> > not vapors but fabrics woven of color, hid in
> the
> > recesses of the hills. Fairfax lay like a blur
> of
> > smoke upon her heights.
> >
> > The erasure of summer was at hand. Yet summer
> > lingered, fading and fainting among her hills,
> > deepening the purple of her valleys, spinning a
> > shroud of haze from waning powers and sated
> > raptures, dying with the calm content of having
> > lived and lived well. And among the hills, on
> > their favorite knoll, Miz and Conie sat side by
> > side, their heads bent over his iPad, he
> reading
> > aloud from his favorite Fairfax Underground
> > threads.
> >
> > But the reading languished. The spell of
> passing
> > beauty all about them was too strong. The
> golden
> > year was dying as it had lived, a beautiful and
> > unrepentant voluptuary, and reminiscent rapture
> > and content freighted heavily the air. It
> entered
> > into them, dreamy and languorous, weakening the
> > fibers of resolution, suffusing the face of
> > morality, or of judgment, with haze and purple
> > mist. Misery felt tender and melting, and from
> > time to time warm glows passed over him. His
> head
> > was very near to hers, and when wandering
> phantoms
> > of breeze stirred her hair so that it touched
> his
> > face, the monitor swam before his eyes.
> >
> > “I don’t believe you know a word of what
> you
> > are reading,” she said once when he had lost
> his
> > place.
> >
> > He looked at her with burning eyes, and was on
> the
> > verge of becoming awkward, when a retort came
> to
> > his lips.
> >
> > “I don’t believe you know either. What was
> > the last post about?”
> >
> > “I don’t know,” she laughed frankly.
> > “I’ve already forgotten. Don’t let us
> read
> > any more. The day is too beautiful.”
> >
> > “It will be our last in the hills for some
> > time,” he announced gravely. “There’s a
> > storm gathering out there on the sea-rim.”
> >
> > The iPad slipped from his hands to the ground,
> and
> > they sat idly and silently. Conie glanced
> > sidewise at his neck. She did not lean toward
> > him. She was drawn by some force outside of
> > herself and stronger than gravitation, strong
> as
> > destiny. It was only an inch to lean, and it
> was
> > accomplished without volition on her part. Her
> > shoulder touched his as lightly as a butterfly
> > touches a flower, and just as lightly was the
> > counter-pressure. She felt his shoulder press
> > hers, and a tremor run through him. Then was
> the
> > time for her to draw back. But she had become
> an
> > automaton. Her actions had passed beyond the
> > control of her will—she never thought of
> control
> > or will in the delicious madness that was upon
> > her. His arm began to steal behind her and
> around
> > her. She waited its slow progress in a torment
> of
> > delight. She waited, she knew not for what,
> > panting, with dry, burning lips, a leaping
> pulse,
> > and a fever of expectancy in all her blood.
> The
> > girdling arm lifted higher and drew her toward
> > him, drew her slowly and caressingly. She
> could
> > wait no longer. With a tired sigh, and with an
> > impulsive movement all her own, unpremeditated,
> > spasmodic, she rested her head upon his breast.
>
> > His head bent over swiftly, and, as his lips
> > approached, hers flew to meet them.
> >
> > This must be love, she thought, in the one
> > rational moment that was vouchsafed her. If it
> > was not love, it was too shameful. It could be
> > nothing else than love. She loved the man
> whose
> > arms were around her and whose lips were
> pressed
> > to hers. She pressed more, tightly to him, with
> a
> > snuggling movement of her body. And a moment
> > later, tearing herself half out of his embrace,
> > suddenly and exultantly she reached up and
> placed
> > both hands upon Mr. Misery's flabby white neck.
>
> > So exquisite was the pang of love and desire
> > fulfilled that she uttered a low moan, relaxed
> her
> > hands, and lay half-swooning in his arms.
> >
> > Not a word had been spoken, and not a word was
> > spoken for a long time. Twice he leaned back
> and
> > belched, and each time her body made its happy,
> > nestling movement. She clung to him, unable to
> > release herself, and he sat, half supporting
> her
> > in his arms, as he gazed with unseeing eyes at
> the
> > blur of the great city. For once there were no
> > visions in his brain. Only colors and lights
> and
> > glows pulsed there, warm as the day and warm as
> > his love. He bent over her. She was speaking.
> >
> > “When did you love me?” she whispered.
> >
> > “From the first, the very first, the first
> > moment I laid eye on you. I was mad for love
> of
> > you then, and in all the time that has passed
> > since then I have only grown the madder. I am
> > maddest, now, dear. I am almost a lunatic, my
> > head is so turned with joy.”
> >
> > “I am glad I am a woman, Misery dear,” she
> > said, after a long sigh.
> >
> > He crushed her in his arms again and again, and
> > then asked:-
> >
> > “And you? When did you first know?”
> >
> > “Oh, I knew it all the time, almost, from the
> > first.”
> >
> > “And I have been as blind as a bat!” he
> cried,
> > a ring of vexation in his voice. “I never
> > dreamed it until just how, when I—when I
> kissed
> > you.”
> >
> > “I didn’t mean that.” She drew herself
> > partly away and looked at him. “I meant I
> knew
> > you loved almost from the first.”
> >
> > “And you?” he demanded.
> >
> > “It came to me suddenly.” She was speaking
> > very slowly, her eyes warm and fluttery and
> > melting, a soft flush on her cheeks that did
> not
> > go away. “I never knew until just now
> > when—you put your arms around me. And I
> never
> > expected to marry you, Misery, not until just
> now.
> > How did you make me love you?”
> >
> > “I don’t know,” he laughed, “unless
> just
> > by loving you, for I loved you hard enough to
> melt
> > the heart of a stone, much less the heart of
> the
> > living, breathing woman you are.”
> >
> > “This is so different from what I thought
> love
> > would be,” she announced irrelevantly.
> >
> > “What did you think it would be like?”
> >
> > “I didn’t think it would be like this.”
> She
> > was looking into his eyes at the moment, but
> her
> > own dropped as she continued, “You see, I
> > didn’t know what this was like.”
> >
> > He offered to draw her toward him again, but it
> > was no more than a tentative muscular movement
> of
> > the girdling arm, for he feared that he might
> be
> > greedy. Then he felt her body yielding, and
> once
> > again she was close in his arms and lips were
> > pressed on lips.
> >
> > “What will my people say?” she queried,
> with
> > sudden apprehension, in one of the pauses.
> >
> > “I don’t know. We can find out very easily
> > any time we are so minded.”
> >
> > “But if mamma objects? I am sure I am afraid
> to
> > tell her.”
> >
> > “Let me tell her,” he volunteered valiantly.
>
> > “I think your mother does not like me, but I
> can
> > win her around. A fellow who can win you can
> win
> > anything. And if we don’t—”
> >
> > “Yes?”
> >
> > “Why, we’ll have each other. But there’s
> no
> > danger not winning your mother to our marriage.
>
> > She loves you too well.”
> >
> > “I should not like to break her heart,”
> Conie
> > said pensively.
> >
> > He felt like assuring her that mothers’
> hearts
> > were not so easily broken, but instead he said,
> > “And love is the greatest thing in the
> > world.”
> >
> > “Do you know, Misery, you sometimes frighten
> me.
> > I am frightened now, when I think of you and
> of
> > what you have been. You must be very, very
> good
> > to me. Remember, after all, that I am only a
> > child. I never loved before.”
> >
> > “Nor I. We are both children together. And
> we
> > are fortunate above most, for we have found our
> > first love in each other.”
> >
> > “But that is impossible!” she cried,
> > withdrawing herself from his arms with a swift,
> > passionate movement. “Impossible for you.
> You
> > have been an onanist, and onanists, I have
> heard,
> > are—are—”
> >
> > Her voice faltered and died away.
> >
> > “Are addicted to having a wank in every
> port?”
> > he suggested. “Is that what you mean?”
> >
> > “Yes,” she answered in a low voice.
> >
> > “But that is not love.” He spoke
> > authoritatively. “I have been in many ports,
> > but I never knew a passing touch of love until
> I
> > first saw you. You are my first, my very
> > first.”
> >
> > “And yet you have been a wanker,” she
> > objected.
> >
> > “But that doesn’t prevent me from loving
> you
> > the first.”
> >
> > “And there have been women—other
> > women—oh!”
> >
> > And to Mr. Misery's supreme surprise, she burst
> > into a storm of tears that took more kisses
> than
> > one and many caresses to drive away. There was
> no
> > bar to their marriage. Class difference was
> the
> > only difference, and class was extrinsic. It
> > could be shaken off. A slave, he had read, had
> > risen to the Roman purple. That being so, then
> he
> > could rise to Conie. Under her purity, and
> > saintliness, and culture, and ethereal beauty
> of
> > soul, she was, in things fundamentally human,
> just
> > like any other woman. All that was possible of
> > them was possible of her. She could love, and
> > hate, maybe have hysterics; and she could
> > certainly be jealous, as she was jealous now,
> > uttering her last sobs in his arms.
> >
> > “Besides, I am older than you,” she
> remarked
> > suddenly, opening her eyes and looking up at
> him,
> > “thirty years older.”
> >
> > “Hush, you are only a child, and I am forty
> > years older than you, in experience,” was his
> > answer.
> >
> > In truth, they were children together, so far
> as
> > love was concerned, and they were as naive and
> > immature in the expression of their love as a
> pair
> > of children. They sat on through the passing
> > glory of the day, talking as lovers are prone
> to
> > talk, marvelling at the wonder of love and at
> > destiny that had flung them so strangely
> together,
> > and dogmatically believing that they loved to a
> > degree never attained by lovers before. And
> they
> > returned insistently, again and again, to a
> > rehearsal of their first impressions of each
> other
> > and to hopeless attempts to analyze just
> precisely
> > what they felt for each other and how much
> there
> > was of it.
> >
> > The cloud-masses on the western horizon
> received
> > the descending sun, and the circle of the sky
> > turned to rose, while the zenith glowed with
> the
> > same warm color. The rosy light was all about
> > them, flooding over them, as she sang,
> “Goodbye,
> > Yellow Brick Road.” She sang softly, leaning
> in
> > the cradle of his arm, her hands in his, their
> > hearts in each other’s hands.
>
>
> mizery, i am certain there is some creative genius
> amongst the text, i know it. but god damn man, you
> are alienating all those who are visual people. i
> didnt read this. i dont read books without
> pictures. im not a child, that is just how my
> brain works. visuals are most stimulating. you
> have great "artistic" (i quote because i hate that
> term) talent. utilize this. apply it.


got damnit bb, can't you tell a misery impostor from the real thing by now? I did not write this drivel. Look for the "." in "Mr" and "Misery". Leave off the last "S" for savings.

Mark Addy portrays King Robert I Baratheon on HBO's new fantasy drama series, Game of Thrones.
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Alias Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> bloody blisters Wrote:
> --------------------------------------------------
> -----
> > cause, my dear alias, niggas be stuntin. tryin
> to
> > make othas recognize that there is something
> going
> > on that they are not a part of. so simple.
>
> ah... then im a nigger.


Alias is being racist.

where are my niggers at??

Mr. Misery Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
>
> got damnit bb, can't you tell a misery impostor
> from the real thing by now? I did not write this
> drivel. Look for the "." in "Mr" and "Misery".
> Leave off the last "S" for savings.


forgive me, i have been fooled. still though, please consider what has been said.

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just because dirty filthy niggers live in your neighborhood doesn't mean there is a lot of crime there. Spics, chinks, kikes, wops.....that's another story.

never said that, some blacks live up the street and there hasnt been any problems.

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bloody blisters Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> Mr. Misery Wrote:
> --------------------------------------------------
> -----
> >
> > got damnit bb, can't you tell a misery impostor
> > from the real thing by now? I did not write
> this
> > drivel. Look for the "." in "Mr" and "Misery".
> > Leave off the last "S" for savings.
>
>
> forgive me, i have been fooled. still though,
> please consider what has been said.


you didn't enjoy my Dr. Dre piece?

bloody blisters Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> never said that, some blacks live up the street
> and there hasnt been any problems.


I'm surrounded by blacks and they're all really nice people. This.....this is progress, people...

I love fucking dumb sluts up their dumb slut asses

I'll punch a bitch in the teeth

where's the man like Tuttle?

come on man, we both know he is working to support his motherless child.

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in case you live under a rock...

you need to see this.



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fuck me, i just inhaled a fungus gnat.

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bloody blisters, you like Augustus Pablo?

Mr. Misery Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> bloody blisters, you like Augustus Pablo?

Harry Tuttle is preparing to fight Loomis.

So this asshole yute missed hitting me with his car by about half an inch as I was walking. I could have just let it go and say to meself aw the assholenish of yute. The yute was one of them trendsetters with tatooes up both arms, them black circular things in his ear lobes and a military/ baseball cap adjusted just right on his head and large black framed glasses. A strike for individuality only I see that stupid look repeated time and time again. Well i says to the yuteful turd "you almost hit me with your car and i hope you get ass cancer and die a painful bloody death on the toilet. Was that bit strong. The yute didn't say anything as if I didn't exist. I waited for the yute to leave and i cut him off with my car. boy he got mad. I laughed and laughed. So i don't exist in your self centered world huh asshole

not putting the sign out tonight cause nobody's here. How many Mexicans are there?

.



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 03/04/2012 10:22PM by Alias.

chutes and ladders, bros and bro-ettes...

Signatures are for fags

sorry nigs, i was ridin the grave-y train.

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total garbage. Not a god damned person here tonight. F this S.

holy hell.......not a GOD DAMNED single post by a registered user since before 9:00 tonight....and it was by 6X, of all people......totally disgusting.

maybe you should try staying up later? maybe you should not "hang out" on the forum when nobody of interest is posting.

my elk likes to please himself.

its "normal" for cats to masturbate.

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totally disgusting. I'm done, guys. I'm just not feeling it anymore. I've tried and I've tried and I've tried. But when the man like Tuttle all but disappears from the forum...........what's the point anymore?

If Tuttle's done, I'm done.

End of story.

F this S.

I quit.
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