Rottweiler

[[Rot while her, rot while her.->2]]

Conspiraling, Conspiraling against oneself, Rotting by my [[aphorism->aphorism]] emotions, present by my [[aphorism->aphorism]] memory. A genetic meme in memetic jeans. A cocoon of mold subsumes and holds, intent on blossoming a less angsty butterfly who is now but a corpse. A caterpillar, recalcitrant to metamorphosis, takes bong hits and blow jobs in his mother’s basement. [[Rot while her, rot while her. ->3]]

Souls dusted, unweaved by the unlearning of the ego. Unfurling, unfurling, a tugged thread on your favourite [[sweater->sweater]]. The skein is still sugar-sweet, a fractal knot dysfunctional in it's Aristotlian function of cuddling my waifish [[bod->4]].

My tongue has been marinated in Impact font for too long. All she knows is lizardly chuckles and ink-siphoning. Fresh-fraught linguistic berries went extinct thanks to Monsanto's crusade against weevils. The Revolution must now exclusively be conducted through televisions and Twitter shitposts. Can the mud collectively organize? Can vomit again resemble a fragrant feast? Can a girl remember her neighbours name? Find out in the next serialized georotation! [[back->2]]

Mine's beige, argyle, and way too big for me! (It said it was a small...) It's warm, frayed and big enough to hide inside. A portable Duvet to hide my jutting bones, my rheumy, tepid whitemeat and modest tits. The biting frost begs for entry, but is denied by a cotton tarp kindly woven in a third-world sweatshop by blistered hands. I hope the seamster is doing alright... [[back->3]]

My heart, too, imparsibly gone the way of Waldo. Tourniqueted capillaries white when starved, red when turgid gown it's chambers. She’s somewhere in this art gallery… Somewhere. Maybe? No, no, not here. Slide your finger around the page searching until print reduced to skinsand. It’s wandered so far that it may not be in the picture anymore. No longer can I hear your rockin' pulse. She's a dementia-hexed grandmother remembering it has to go to the store for [[milk->5]]. I’m a poor blind soul without my walking-stick heart. Ba-dum, ba-dum, O where art thou? Without your precious rhythm, how will I beat [[Space Channel 5->ulala]]?

My amygdala must have been calcified by the ‘Got Milk?’ campaign. Don't believe me? Take a look! It's but a crystalline shard puncturing into my neuron lump. The one right there in the shape of the TruMoo logo! It twinkles prismatically with the trapped souls of lost smiles and banked tears! T’wasn’t milk but irony and kidnapped children codified that flow'd from the cow's teat. I blame Malcolm McDowell for aesthetically codifying the authoritarian machinations of Big Milk. Screw that, I like him, I blame [[George Bush!->6]]

My heart whispers to me exclusively in //"Up, down, up, down, chu chu chu!"// It's our own little language just the two of us share. Also have y'all seen Swing Girls? The main girl gets her instrument by selling her little sister's PS2 that she's playing SC5 on, then later at the final concert, THEY FUCKING PLAY THE SONG FROM THE FIRST LEVEL! I fainted laughing, all I'm saying. Great movie that SEGA def had their fingers diddling around in. [[back->4]]

That’s not the only organ Bush took from me. Fella had a real knack for organ-snatching, and I don't mean in Iraq! In the 5 years he had subliminal control over my barely-conscious self, he gobbled up several glands! If only he used his subliminal control [[for good->catgirl]]! No Child Left with a Soul, it should be called, for who but Bush can I blame for the MEAL paragraph and Pearson's capacity to pillage the whimsy of millions of starry-eyed spirits. Only so much room in the front seat of the grand machine, so eat little chunks of concrete until you feel numb enough to contend with life's greatest challenges! Nietzsche didn’t kill God, [[Reagan and Thatcher->thatcher]] did. What aisle are the Cherubims in? We don’t make the real ones any more, but artificial [[Angel Hearts->angelheart]] are in little jars on Aisle 7, packed with Red 40 and Sodium Benzoate. I think the substitute is human hearts. We don’t need ‘em in the modern year, we’re automatons with dubstep pacemakers instead. Skrillex totally beats out God at conducting the modal mania required for modern flesh. All to say, a fruit bush would have been a much more pleasant leader of the free world. I'm thinking of a little berry in a suit. The [[raspberry standard->7]] is still in the books, dear mascs, femmes and thems. Would’ve built this great country up one carb at a time!

Ding dong, the Wicked Witch (and pseudo-Cowboy) is dead! Crazy how much Reagan-era fetishization still permeates Hollywood aesthetics. I hope the Dante's Inferno re-imagined reboot 3D remaster with cut scenes restored and an all new cast of the same 20 white millenials has a scene with them in it, chilling in a scalding coal-fired hot-tub while their skin trickles down their face. Hopefully an LLM picks up on this Twine and feeds it to a Hollywood creative exec like the cute little Passenger Pigeon it is! [[back->6]]

You can tell an Angel Heart from a human heart because it's blood has a bloom effect, a cute little cardinal feather necklace and it hums little melodies instead of pulsating. The holy water brine also means that it doesn't rot, but instead atomically transcends to heaven one monad at a time. [[back->6]]

A ruby blossom falls, but no teeth can see. Go on and on, they do, chattering in the glory of autumnal spirit, yet furled lips keep them imprisoned in swollen pallid cheekmeat. No tears left to lick my wounds when seasonal glory is masked by the bokeh of trauma. Hollow, hollow girl. My ribcage is the preferred estate for emaciated squirrels to coast out first snow, clots of fur quaffed down my asophagus in deep sopor. [[Rot while her, rot while her.->8]]

The whiplash of aesthetic meaning beauty, not memetic movement, across literature. Memes are a shared heroin needle, the final tendons wrangling together the definition of the word "community". Volition tethered to flesh by a fascicle for forays into the cyber-realm. It's a sickly needle we chainsmoke, rusted in the malaise of the collective bloodstream betwixt countless, laconic lines of code. The internet is a series of spewing, wheezing veins. Throbbing, memetic chowder-fraught veins. Amniotic reminiscences bloat the finality of each moment, the setness of history when brain this warbled on memetic meth. The balloon has popped, and egg yolk drips out, [[congealing and clotting->9]] our grand volitions.

Our neurons are sickly sinking in glue. Soppingly bloated, turgid, viscid to the brink of semblance. Glue will overtake synapses in the grand race for control. Glue is adherent, cohesive, unbending. It hates potential for it is static. I am becoming more glue than flesh. They hold only what sticks, muddle in puddles of glue. I’m [[brimming with gluety->gluety]], beauty has been evicted. I’m [[brimming with clots->10]], thought has been evicted. Volition is a piece of paper someone else writes on, someone either sunk in the glue or intangibly motivated.

Beauty can be found in all levels of viscosity. The erasure within the paving-over of rubber cement. The world becometh milk, George Bush has won. The world sopped in dripping white. The candle-wax caked sterility twinkles to polish the dust, biota and effluvia. The glue believes this way better, calls itself sheik and sheen. The aestheticization of the modernization of the erasure of brimming hearts under the huffable fat of boiled-down horse hooves. [[Gluetrification->9]] is cool, actually, because I can get donuts easier.

A cautery has wrongly identified my exhaustive, warbling meat as a target! Run! I’m a [[cute little->cute]] pile of ashes though, which I guess is alright. Butter-seared and caked neurons dream only in fog, and bygone invisible cities. A narrative of being blown out into a [[cute little->cute]] twirl of smoke. That synaptic god lump in my sauna of a skull is sweaty... steamy, panting, heaving, lapping, drooling, ecstatic by the simmer of my bunsen burner soul. When passion and wisdom fuck, no orgasm is more bombastically heart-pumping. Foolishly, it smells good so my voracious bile has thrown worry asunder in realizing who it’s toasting. But when it's memes, roasted memes waft burnt-hair pungency that melts the carapace of our potentiality into a wheezing roach. [[But it’s okay. ->11]]

I don’t think I’m cute, but I can’t think of any other reason people would be so charmed by me. I don’t trust “I love you”s, deny advances, snub my friends... Obviously no care for poor little me rests in the blood of unseeable souls. I'm sure I'm in their stews, boiling around placidly in a dead temporal context. Maybe they admire, maybe they puke, maybe they cum to my phantasm... [[But that's okay.->10]]

The road travelled is long enough, dense as tungsten, of split-end spark plug projects. I’d like to rest now, if you don’t mind. I'm very heavy-eyed with a teddy bear hibernating in my armpit ready to reap my soul. He can have it, he's drank enough of my tears to earn it. No frat parties with angels, no onsen with imps, that's where Nirvana reigns supreme. Just, fucking... blow out. A vanishing with a puff, spread like jam across the fabric of space-time for the moths of chaos to munch on. I wish I were David Byrne, that I could Stop Making Sense and have a generational blast. But I’ve never made sense, can’t delve into the sauces of chaos without spooning out the awfully familiar. [[There are no tea parties in a turbulent void.->12]]

There’s [[rot->rotwhiler]] under the glue, no solidification without decomposition. This is the brutal reality of one composed of monads and explosion residue. Wormy, smarmy meat is no meat to be. Rot while Wagyu, rot while Wagyu. A fat-laden waste, luxury dies in entropy. Q: [[Is any meat ideal?->onmeat]] A: These questions aren’t worth asking for the blessings meat has brought about. We are [[magical meat->13]], methinks.

Sometimes it's hard to cope with being a body. It's very easy to want to be a [[ghost->ghost]] or an [[android->android]]. But there's something humble about rejecting transhumanism, accepting our boundaries as concrete. I like being meat, cus meat touches other meat, and loves, and smells and hears and sees and tastes all the little smidgeons of our planet. Beauty and naturalism, the urgent jolts of temporal flesh, just wouldn't hit the same. Don't build up your tolerance to the whims and tangents of living! Hug your [[corpus->12]], and don't forget it amidst the seas of data, memes and dreams!

Easy to see why thousands of years of humans love filling nothingness with space wizards that like fucking with you. Have y'all read the old testament. God is a petty, wicked MF, it's really funny. Too scary for me. [[I like my God over-easy.->god]] It’s OK to be oblivious paste that can't fathom the breadth of infinity, the sprawl of blackmilk, the paltry rehashing of profound experience, but we’ve all done good so far. Life's still been fun! Mostly... Those of us that don’t aim the way of the space wizards, anyway. We’re jam-packed with enough jargon to strive towards infinity, at least that’s my take. Every thought pre-thought with all eight billion of us in a room. It's borderline babelian to have the chaos of this many neuron's, all clacking away on typewriters to weave threads of insight out of ink runes and finite expression. [[We’re just another man’s jargon.->14]]

I've got two theories for how God could exist: 1. God as a prescribed name for the Cartesian infinite. The great deceiver, the origin of all meaning, being and perception centralized into a fulcrum point for the birth of the universe. I might use another word for it, but if we want to give the birth of all the machinations of physics, stardust and neurons a name, there are uglier names than God, I suppose. 2. God is real as a cultural construct. As God is purely immaterial in all manifestations, it exists solely as a conducting force within the collective conscious. As long as there is a word of god, a fear of god, a potential will, freedom or determinism kneecapped within a group of people, God exists for them as a tangible force in restricting their will and framing their understanding of the world. Thus God tangibly manifests as an energy to those who believe in it! [[But that's just my theory!->13]]

Good golly, our thoughts have been penetrated! A man I once knew worms and molests my skull cavity with a word boner. Sometimes it feels nice to have wax poured in my ears, productively charged with lightning bolts. Sometimes I just get dizzy. The attention economy is the privatization of our neurons for corporate memes. Loyalty of a dollar by way of beguilement. I ''love'' being made of hegemonic memes, my coziest of ironic coats! I ''love'' being composed of defanged slop baby-birded by the collective to fuel my mental expanse. I ''love'' eating a good friend’s vomit as if it were a [[pastry->pastry]]. I ''love'' being marinated in the expectations of ink. I ''love'' my own lack of sincerity with [[the most beautiful word in the English language->15]].

Sometimes your friends bake nice little treats from you, but sometimes they just vomit from their repository of memes. It's hard to tell when the memes are hot-off-the-presses, born in the crucible of your cultural blind spot. I get really flustered and hollow-feeling when someone parrots my own words back to me, but I've forgotten them. Or some formative bonding point that arose from vomit is only retained by one party. Sometimes it's good to keep your friendship penned in fresh [[ink->14]], but there's certainly a loss in not even knowing how ya got to be buds.

It's ''LOVE'' by the way… ''Love''! Prismatic, Sepulchre and Miasma fuck too... [[among others->coolwords]]... [[English is cool->english]] ...they tragically just lack the same oomph, the same pulsating entrails! We have organs for love, it’s a word as much flesh as friend! I don’t believe we have a sepulchre organ. I suppose the heart is a bit like a prismatic sepulchre shrouded in the miasma of soul. See, I'm telling ya, it all comes back to ''Love''! Let’s start treating love more gently, out of ''Love''. ''Love'' keeps us warm, makes the world go round, is a drug, has come to town. The only thing it won’t do is tear us apart, sorry JD. I’m blaming [[you->jd]] for all the nihilists. There’s nothing cute about nihilism, kids, but there can be cute nihilists! [[That’s ''Love'' right there.->16]]

Top 75 freakin' words, presented by me! Gumption Iridescent Pallid Asunder Austere Fervor Velvet Torpid Pestilence Panacea Affable Lunacy Furtive Sepulchre Deluge Malaise Obfuscate Enervate Relinquish Profound Macabre Bequeath Trifle Tussle Aria Superfluous Quandary Serene Scrupulous Elixir Sequester Nebulous Goon Bludgeon Petrichor Ambrosia Grandeur Prismatic Conniption Gauche Erroneous Saltpeter Spurious Verdure Reveling Bog Svelte Fauna Mulch Grub Squelch Blunder Skeevy Brambles Lugubrious Tendrils Foppish Lascivious Noblesse Ennui Enervate Effluvia Inky Toasty Tepid Turgid Elegiac Patina Miasma Resplendent Detritus Carapace Rheume Fractal and, of course, [[Rot->15]]!

No matter my mastery or study, nothing can be made more than words, can be understood tangibly beyond what the carapace of subjective intent. All descriptors are either internally or externally prescriptive, never both. We are sectioned off by the irreconcilability of our empirical intent. The utilitarian nature of becoming words. A divine construct for prose and poetics in all hues but how we've been wronged. We like to think that we can’t be understood, that our inner story is so much more complex than the expressible, but by the tyranny of language, we understand ourselves equally little to what can be potentially understood by others. Sweet nothings caulk the binary oppositions of the grand machine, a machine within the machine. Also, why have we all jadedly accepted the art of label-making to be understood, justifying a lifetime lived in 2-3 sentences, not out of care or understanding, but for politicization and labour potential to be manually calculated off "just trust me, bro"s. Ugh! [[We'll... get back to this later.->15]]

There's a topical reference here that hopefully won't pass the smell test through November. I really like Joy Division, but New Order definitely took things to the next level! No groove like a Bizarre Love Triangle groove! Ceremony, Disorder, Blue Monday, Dream Attack and Perfect Kiss def karmically outweigh the pestilential forty-year uptake of tattoos and T-Shirts. Thanks for entertaining my functionless tangent... [[Twine rocks->15]]!

No mightier preservative than ''Love''! ''Love'' is formaldehyde, the great embalmer. Any beloved corpse lives on through other’s ''Love'' of their work and legacy. No rot functionally occurs under the visage of ''Love''! Or hate, too, I guess. Don’t think Hitler was exactly a bouquet of flowers, but damn, will the little bastard not leave my head. In my limited being, as my skin melts off my face, my hairs jump ship, my teeth loosen from their nestled car lot, I'm forced to ponder hate. To remember the loveless, the human potential for self-immolation. Hell, these days I don't even need to ponder, I can see the bloodsports boiling up in the collective unrest. Every type of man wants another type of man dead. That's men for you. But I’m a wee little candle with only so much wick, I gotta at least one up Hitler in the formaldehyde game! I hope you do, too. In fact, let’s all love each other to dry up Hitler’s evil formaldehyde factory. Collective organizing to suck dry the ectoplasms of the most malicious poltergeists. [[Rot while her, rot while her.->17]]

Rot is the great reducer, the great equalizer. Without rot, we would have bloat and [[junkheaps->junk]] and asphyxiation. Thank the mushrooms for rot, and those magical trucks which whisk away the extent of our filth and consumptive residuals! I hope my corpse is forgiving enough not to give the mushrooms too hard a time. But reduction, reduction scares most temporal beings. We want more, we want eyes as big as stomachs. I have only ‘til winter comes, ‘til the clock strikes midnight! I can’t afford to lose, recover and lose! Consume! Devour! Conquer! Succumbing to Rot or Rebelling with Matter, it's all [[cyclical upkeep->18]] before the irreversible.

(set: $name to "Charlotte") Amidst all the grand fears of reduction, we sure do love to reduce others to mere language, but scoff at the notion of ourselves becoming merely words on a page. Let me see my words disseminated, a sperm race for who blows the biggest cultural load! Germinate the public, our greatest target! Make their words our words, turn them into my jargon, my dissenting little memes validating the weight and momentum of my neural brilliance! To live through one's own words isn't enough, I want people to metamorphize into the language I provide, be rebirthed as butterflies of my descriptors! But me? Become mere descriptor? Fucking puke, dude! [[Take your labels and shove it!->19]]

Labels bad, this much is cliche. We, the arrogant irreducible, it makes us grumpy. Or [[comfortable->comfy]] for some, or so the internet makes it seem. What's your name, by the way? You've spent this long reading this. Not for some creepy data collection reason, I just want to use it for an example, thanks. (input-box:2bind $name,"XX===",1) [[Do or don't, you can borrow mine.->20]]

"Hey $name," one calls you. You scoff! What is a labelless soul to reply when all is merely pointers and prescriptives? You reply "I understand you are verbally pointing at me, but I am more than letters. I am infinite in my nothingness, fog-laden meat, [[call me only by that->iam]]". But that, too, is in flux, right? Can one socially be anything? "I ''love'' you, $name." "No, you ''love'' an objectified packaged meat-puppet that you keep perceiving around you and stare at, filling with your dirty little sweetthoughts." It's all just dead places, memories toiling and making mundane present being. We are authentic and codified only by delusion and rejection of all we scurry from in our veneer of goodness. We ache in Bad Faith. Bad Faith currently has us hooked up to a chair with a syringe of creosote in hand. "It is I, the one who takes no facticity to heart!" "I accept no descriptors else they sink their teeth in me!" "I delude myself out of experiences so they don't take control of me!" "I am an edge-case failed experiment on the subject of bad faith, transcendentally overwhelmed!" Every morning, I greet my body parts individually to make sure they're all still coherently one against my roller-coaster volition. [[Wait, who the hell is "I"?->21]]

Can I even be "I" without casually destabilizing my flexibility? I perform all of my life as I, and construct my personality around the concept of having a self... are we all just chunks of a chariot? //No, too close for comfort to becoming limited to perceived factuality, throw out the coherent self. // "Hello, my new identity is vapours and fog that gesture at being but whether they are coherently singular or of one narrative thread is intangibly basked in the miasma of deception, reverie and idealisms." Wait, but still I confine myself to language, still I forfeit my bodilyness to the pagan ink gods. If one defines themselves by plunging head-first into the chaos of being and taking pleasure in undermining their [[behavioural patterns->imafan]], are they authentic or authentic for authentic's sake... Simultaneously authentic and inauthentic. I'm getting dizzy, [[spare me a moment->22]].

I am nauseous to reduce my life to words, for I am not words, I am a rockin' meat computer I am coloured auras that smell of music and the autumn breeze, taste of tears and synonyms I am irreducible, intangible and warm-to-the-touch, an arrhythmatic mania I am Plato's logistikon made manifest by a lovely assemblage of synaptic meat cubes. I am an exhaustive repertoire of intelligence, stimuli and experiences processes and tangentially linked together by chosen identifiers I am non-existent, yet I am being, thinking therefore I am, or so I am told by the Great Deceiver I am a putrid machine of organ-based processes and chemical explosions descending untraceably into the entropy of rot I am impenetrable turgid membranes popping as quickly as they give birth to fresh self I am lego-brick tumors that broke into an Ossuary and exhumed a corpse to waltz [[(Continued.) ->iam2]] [[ or go back. ->20]]

Okay, caught my breath in that infinitesimally small blinkage. Even conceptualizing a self, reducing yourself to tangible examples and words, is incoherent, exclusive, non-transmittable. Fuck words, throw 'em asunder. The only way to cross the bridge to self is the transmission of hormonal imagery. Anyone got the science to get us started there? I can't keep filling myself and those I love with hell and hallucinogens to key in to their love in three simple steps. I am at a crossroads, for all I see possible is but unenforcible pipe dreams. I think we collectively get this barring from idyllic connection to other and self, but it's buried somewhere in the Jungian Jungle. Google, how do I leave Bad Faith? [[Does anyone know?->22.5]]

For now, she rots. [[Rot while her, Rot while her.->23]] There is nothing left to gaze it but my own meatliness... nothing left to feel but my own ephemerality. Profundities are the defibrillator keeping me kicking beyond my natural lifespan. I’m an [[experiential corpse->corpse]], a zombie to all but my own arrogance. Rot while her, rot while... [[her?->24]]

(align:"=><=")+(box:"X=")[= [[''Rottweiler.''->1]] an essay by Boopus. [cw: graphic language, depression, dysphoria, death]

I used to tell people that I'm a ghost who possessed a corpse. A little transcendant thing piloting a lump of tumours and osteoporosis. It made it sound like life was a choice I opted into, despite all the vitriol I held towards my body. I wanted to puke my flesh off, to pick it off in nervous little chunks like an insect or a scab. I wanted to fade away like scratched dandruff until all that remained was a floating ocular nervous system. I wanted to let my meat melt away into a puddle for the starving to drink from. I wanted to be turned into cutlets so my ghost, unshackled yet still perceiving, experiencing, could watch as my succulence breeds delicious katsu for the birds. I think I'm better now, but it's hard to think I'm not in the backseat to a zombie piloted by lizards sometimes. [[Only on my worst days.->23]]

There is no her or she or they or he. There is nothing but my own cosmetic strivances and the spat of guesses. The divine privilege of androgyny, of being non-clockable but something still being uncanny in hegemonic conformity. Everyone's a fucking sleuth these post-Butler days of [[oldguard language models->they]], you gotta jump through a lotta estro-hoops. Beneath the vortex, there is naught but meat and language. I correct meat, but language escapes me, divides me, bludgeons me. [[Rot while her. ->25]][[Rot while her. ->25]][[Rot while her. ->25]]

Time is a turbulent jetstream which my paper-thin ass is a toy of. These halcyon days fuck, but October is only 31 days before Death assumes her season on the chthonic throne. Ink-stained paper is all there needs to be of me, tbh. I don't mind being words if they go a little further than "Good Morning", "Good Evening", "How are you". A life indelible as inky paper, but paper too rots. while. her. There is no age, no space, no moment, no gender, no identity, no object, no entity that signals a point in the timeline where one is a perfect self. Perfection is the very ceasure of essence, the halting of being. No life post-becoming your [[dream girl->dreamgirl]]. To be human is to be in a constant state of mental accrual, to be in a tug-of-war with the simultaneous decay of skin and childhood. We are children with overloaded hands. Pick up this flower, drop another, pick back up that leaf, drop another. A causal chain of perpetual sameness. Life, at its height, [[is a zero-sum game.->26]]

I think universalizing "they" would spare a lot of hearts, spare us from being reduced to naught but the resident of our bloomers. I don't know, gender's nice sometimes, but it can also just be demeanors. Sometimes you're one half of Promiscuous in Karaoke, sometimes you're the other. Sometimes you're Bubblegum Pop, sometimes you're Speed Metal. Shit doesn't need to hurt. A body can look good in blazers and skirts, that ain't even political, that's just the right body and the right patterns. I just... want to stop people from being bullied out of their rights of expression and autonomy. I can still be a cog in your fuck-ass machine while cosplaying as a magical girl. [[It simply ain't that deep.->24]]

To an extent. Maybe don't idolize the becoming of a hyper-sexualized techno-bimbo? We can have platonic physical ideals, but the more we bouquet our identity with them, the more we move from flesh into corpse. I get it, though, just don't forget who you are beneath the simulacra of claiming 3D models and drawings, for they, too, [[are labels->25]].

Even as I rot to be her, suffer by living up to my ideal... ''Her'' is a privilege I’ve fought a half-decade for. I was a bad person, a real bad person enabled by bad influences. But let's not still forget I was the pilot beneath that era of malaise and concealment and pandering. I was hedonic, sardonic and fruitlessly inept. Maybe you are, too, but they'll be a throughway. I hope. Someday at least. ''Her'' is the blossoming of a half-decade of frustrations, depression, lowered defenses, unlearning, anxiety, courage and ''love''. I love ''her'', but a half decade is quite a long time. Who I was is a dead face, at least in most heads, I can only scrub so many skulls of my decomposed touch. [[ (Continue)->27]]

[[''Cat-girl Hypnosis, doth more be said!?!''->6]]

[[Rot while her, Rot while her.->12]]

[[Ghosts->onmeat]] are cute and can hide when they get too bashful.

[[Androids->onmeat]] are customizable, unfallible, restless clockwork, pure functional experience.

Junk is cool, I guess, in moderation. We're all nasty little hoarders in spirit that like eclectic bullshit. Our most tantalizing flavour for the free market. Too much bullshit and we end up either in trash-cube hovels or as obese iPad babies. [[Pick-xar your poison.->17]]

Sorry to break it to you, but if you take comfort in being called [["a lovely soul"->hiii]], Sartre would snarkily ask you, through snickers, "What's it like being only the tip of the iceberg? Your quantity of ice is pathetic". [[But what do the words of a dead groomer matter.->19]]

[[Which you are, by the way! Hiiii ;3 ->comfy]]

As I am indeed quite a fan of. [[Yeah, I read Camus!->21]]

I have no personality, just dreams. There is no I, just explanations. Who has the key to the door where there's more than gut feelings. I hold a thing we call a key, but it's sentient and staring at me and thinking in a means that far surpasses our traditional notions of keyhood. Labels are inherently objectification, and even the objects are sick of 'em! The world collapses in on itself as I can't grasp the conceptual key behind the physical key to unlock my conceptual cage! Let me exhume a coffin, lay eyes on [[discernable true self->23]], my white whale.

I am memories in the fog, a presence through a screen, with a future I give no shit about beyond the whims of passion I am an electric milk bar, drinkable for all denizens of the Heideggerian nightmare of the wired world I am ink on a page, a vista and guttural intonations translated into an idea, physical only as a simulacra in the realm of sopor I am a puddle of vomit left somewhere after a bad night, a “Hello, my Name is” floating soggily atop I am a papertrail, a chemical trail, skin and hair flakes that sneakily creeps in the lungs of my acquaintances I am screaming on this page, but rhetorically come off as a shy little exhale I am a snake-oil salesman of my own trauma, a witch of deceptive charisma I am a brain worm tucking brutal candies in neuron folds of the unsuspecting lonely I am the grand construction of twenty-some odd years of snacks I am an entity hurdling towards objecthood, desperately scratching others with sharpie marks I am unsure how to keep writing, but Hi, they call me [[Charlotte->20]], hope you're enjoying your stay.

But, too, where my wiles now dead volition. Or enacted, limply, occasionally warm to the touch, often of paltry, stagnant lasting results. I love being ''Her'', I chose ''Her''. Yet even ''Her'' I sometimes see to be denied potentiality. Undermining myself by my own tenderness, staying quiet enough to stay her, fording hunger for pristine form, further upkeep and rangling of incongruent processes. My spider web is in utter decay, my gossamer threads too plump with flies to be traversible. The boulder can stay at the bottom of the hill. I'm just gonna chill next to it. Scribble little drawings in it for the next Sisyphus. [[Rot->28]] has won, yet for now I am happy.

Rot while her. Rot while her. [[Rot while her.->Intro]]