où est la toilette?

punctuation died in the broken arms of capitalization whilst grammar set out to avenge this most heinous wrongdoing

armed only with spelling at his side the duo rode off gallantly in the wrong direction

the internet has won





EDIT: Currently Resolved.

Repetition weighs down like gravity dispersed.

It is back. It is ba ck. It i s b a c k. I t i s b a c k.

Repletion weighs

d
o
w
n

on me. Welcomed.






Never stop the car on a drive in the dark. Gravity.

I am envious of the alphabet.

They are able to see into depths of people’s most intimate thoughts and discover the true orientation of motives with no more than their haphazard existence.

They get to caress the tender lips of those so passionately endowed with beauty.

They get everything.

Hell, they even get their own cereal, soups, etc.

And now,
they’ve gotten what I’ve sought.

The flowering of subtleties is truly stunning this time of year.

EDIT: Rejection should serve as an answer.
Yet...




L.I.W.Y.T.L.M.

I've lost it. I've lost her. I've never had her. I've never had it. I've. I've. I've.

Too much.

Twisted 'round the cherry tree with prospects of promised harlotry the switch hurts not as much as the sinking in your chest. Bound and gagged, but you can see the names carved from your memory of a time that existed only within yourself.


---


Disappointment adheres to the reign of omnipotent sensual disapproval.

Fuck the stars; look to the night sky for the consolation of a communal beauty. Somewhere, she sees the same sky. Somewhere, she thinks not of me.

Somewhere.


L.I.W.Y.T.L.M.

My intestines sweat with anxiety and anticipation of what is entirely in my head.

My throat closes and swells in order to save face from any escaping sounds wishing to indulge upon this facade, teetering on the brink of irrevocable fallibility.

My mouth dries and tastes of rubber. An unwanted sign of such things to be false.



How I hate this tepid state.
How I miss my disillusionment; safe and secure.


L.I.W.Y.T.L.M.

Upon playing the role of Czechoslovakia, I have found that silence is my liberator.
It is now post-world war two.
I am soon to be free.


Right?

I am compelled to purchase a self-help book.

On what grounds?



On the grounds that still flower sentiment.

Trial by cataclysm.

Awareness and sympathy evoked by media coverage of massive calamity is the most horrid thing I have ever seen.

If they aren't taking up the time your daily dosage of routine entertainment usually falls upon, who gives a fuck?

People are poor every day.
People are homeless every day.
People are starving every day.
People are dehydrated every day.
People are dying every day.

People are dying every day. Needlessly.

I saw a broadcast of the disasters that have recently occurred. Gas prices were said to rise through the roof in weeks to come. It was immediately followed by an advertisement for an SUV. This is our society.

Social conscience only applies to an epic level of suffering.

You all should go fuck yourselves.

Terrorists are not human?

Kill, kill, kill.

Mustard gas and roses.
Puppy love and smiles.
Down.

















The deeper I dig, the more repulsive I find the sunlight.

I must find my teaspoon, for I will be needing it soon.
Sugar, don't fail me now.

Peachy day, what is this I find on you.
Leprosy of some rare sort?
Even worse; psoriasis.
Are you to guilt me into keeping you?
So be it.
Everything you want is yours.

Just a little longer.
Underneath the scales lies beauty uncut.
Soon this blush of quandary will fade.
Today, however, I rest uneasy at your repugnant appearance.

Dawn procures light for the world's loneliness.
Over the horizon, the weary awaken.

Sadly, this afflicted day remains.
On top of that, it has shifted its motives.
My own skin now beckons for relief.
Every form of which proves insubstantial.
The mere thought of this deformity repulses.
How ironic.
Incorporating the dynamics I despised.
No social conscience will offer me condolence.
God, how ironic.

A day so succinct.
So succinctly disappointing.


Little contact goes miles.
Miles I fell remarkably short of.


It seems as though feelings have changed.
Change I missed my chance to partake in.






Ever so unwelcome.

So little to drink.



By definition, water is not a solution...

...drinkable water.







Fucking...

...chafe-loving bark fucker.

The smooth, summer idyll dwindles whilst the candy bar solves all
problematic ambiguity through the hollows of its
ruminative wrapper.

And even the most caliginous skies, ripely dripping with righteous
self-pity, as though it were some sweet morning dew,
mourn the idle laments of the
miscarriage we
bury.

Yet, utterly obfuscated by guilt and the impedance this stagnant air
holds, communication topples like the tower of babel.




As the interlude fades on the faces of who remain, what has changed?

Nothing.





I, still.





The Boiler Room: The sad, little hole where insignificance fuels its
deluded ambitions.

This is my coup, and I hate it.

Isn't infidelity some sort of sin?


I mean, I don't think it's that far-fetched for me to think
that lechery is a bad thing.




Normally, I wouldn't care of such trivial atrocities. However,
hypocrisy overwhelms my indolence.






So, let it be said:

Jesus was a bastard who committed suicide, though indirect.
Your views are flawed and I pray you gain some perspective.




And, let it be known:

I am proficient in faking the exchange of friendly formalities.

On the inside, my laughter will echo.

Hopeless Romantic?

More like... uhh... hapless neurotic.

It's like taking pride in being an idiot.




Aside from that, I find myself having a bad rapport with the heat.
It is hot and I am in need of air.
Air that is central.





But the holes in my humbled abode prove my desire to be futile.

Still, Jesus was just a dullard with a leper affinity.


...


There is much comfort to be taken in that.

uiwi4: so Bert knows you trying to fuck her?
pococurante NEIN: dunno
pococurante NEIN: i told him to axx you
uiwi4: this gonna turn all romantic comedy?
pococurante NEIN: bout the michion
pococurante NEIN: dis my sitcom
uiwi4: lawlz
uiwi4: he da fat failure
pococurante NEIN: rofl
pococurante NEIN: man
pococurante NEIN: ima fucking
pococurante NEIN: post that
pococurante NEIN: on my LJ :0
uiwi4: lwalz
pococurante NEIN: one sec

How fucking bleak?
Very.



I ran out of appendages on which to count the multitude of blogs
emanating from a 5 mile radius.

An end must be put to the growing popularity of this culture of misspelled words,
bad grammar, melodramatic fits, and, most of all, ugly faces.



My head hurts from attempting to read such of bad decor.
Fix the fucking contrast between your background/text.
You know who you are.




Nicknames confuse and pull me into an onerous obsession with the circle in which
these folk run.
Woebegone is the effort I could not put forth.

I should've spent my time in high school making friends. Chucks. Still, there's one year left.



I am efflorescent in my conviction.
Anthesis is as follows.



My eyes are open. And I miss you?