A Description of a Really Nice Sausage
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
  No, actually, I had a good day. I hate school. I loathe my car. I hate my apartment, detest my poverty, cannot stand my president or a good deal of the government that goes along with him, I find idle distractions like "blogging" odious, breathing is arduous and irrelevant, hearing sounds brings me to the height of rage — for every fucking synapse that goes off and yes even now while writing about how much I hate it I cringe harder and harder, trying to compress my hateful little self into a singular pinpoint mass of infinite malevolence. Being composed of matter disgusts me. I sneer at extended objects, hiss and snarl at things-in-themselves; I want to destroy it all and leave no shred of me behind to be smirking, contented, smartassery incarnate, happy at my cute endeavor.

But like otherwise, everything's going okay.
 
Comments:
Well isn't this cute? How long did it take you? Like, 3-4 minutes?

You know, it's liberals like you (I won't give you the pleasure of the term, "progressive") that are bringing America down with this incessant, and now I have enough evidence to say, gratuitous pessimism, beyond schadenfreude, baby, very much ultra-schadenfreudue, some kind of weird perverse homosexual-loving masochism. Don't you feel even the slightest ashamed about that? Then again, that probably makes you feel good deep down in your demented soul, to be ashamed, replete with memories of soiled panties and babysitter stroking-spankings, eh, MR. ADOARNS?

I certainly hope you and your message die some agonizing, horrible little whimpering death, and save America its virgin sensibilities.

FasLigand
"The history of liberalism, alas, is lies." --Henri Bievre
 
Enjoyed your comment. First of all, I think you should rethink your sig — most scholars of the period are uncomfortable with Bievre, and something definitely smells fishy there.

But anyway, I understand where you're coming from. It's a small hollow, reeking of the small scraps of flesh yet undevoured from the half-chewed bones of children, set damp and gangrenous under an Old World bridge and into which the occasional and salient communication of a sewer brings you smiles and a sense of being taken care of. Have fun there.

adoarns
 
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