Oh are we having a shitty drug writing thread now? I wrote this on ayahuasca the other night
Why isn’t facial surgery more accepted? You’ve already said fuck all to nature so why not change your face. There is a major hypocrisy with that. It’s really really peculiar but so are a lot of things. Oh yes large breasts right away sir!! Oh a large butt yes please madam! Oh fart it all out your ass. I do want someone who pretends to be selfless. Think of your self less for a change. There are other people walking about. The same people cut into your lane and flip you off to acknowledge your prescense yet you continue to pay them mind. Why do you do this? Disgusting people. We were so caught up with progressing technology we forgot to progress our minds. Now our minds are in jet lag trying to catch up but it’s really painful and difficult. Remember anxiety? It helped you fight that beast in the wilderness with nothing but sticks and now you scoff at it? Like it’s an excuse? You who wishes he was back in the dawn of man to fight these beasts and live like animals. You would be nowhere without your disease now you continue to fight their existence. Tell me how you would survive without it? It’s the disease of the animal. Out of sight out of mind doesn’t not help the ones with diseased minds. You can’t forget the pain away you disgusting cretins. You’re the man in the high castle laughing at the filthy peasants below you. How dare they have problems which don’t concern you. Throw some fucks in there that’ll make them pay mind. Flash a nipple. You mock them and laugh with cock in hand, peeking through the blinds of your window. I miss your cock not you. You? You disgust me get that away. Cut the cock off and place it over my headboard so I may gaze at it as I fall asleep. If you won’t then I’ll find another cock.
>>7629095 his crumbling greedy notepad scrabbled deeply with the scratchings of middlebreathing slandermouthed constables of inclusion, it appeared that the rat was afoot, the great scheming screaming bahamut of reason annotated with the diecast protocol of solitude. his black box was ready for extraction, pulling the scalding gold out of the rectified rectums of rambunctious rapscallions, unreasonably shuffling their cards while their mirrors placate the masses. their upskirting mannerisms only breeding deep chains of slathering lust callously pulsating under the rapid absconsion of the tiny balls of feces that clung to his beard in retroformal irreverence, postulators agreed that many tribulations were ahead of all involved in the matter. Towards the end of the event there was much mention of the tractability of the wenches being questionable so the movement of the food was essential to establish a reign on the clubfet spaldrings, cramming themselves into lines waiting for the meat chopstress and her scowling grimace, the taint of cannibalism, her.
As they were staying on for a while to breathe the lipstained marbled meat flaying their umbrella'd hairs, waiting to twitch with this bump and that, crabby only on thursdays but when the reality struck, it wasnt anyone's guess, since there wasnt anything to see to begin with. Sometimes sand gets locked in your head and you make it into a human pearl.
Preach on brother, your manacled legs are only sources of extreme freedom for my thirsty tum to quench itself upon, reeds climbing high as my barbed velcro chest clings to the loops of the woolen spear, unheard of in societies hindered by reason and law and climbing reeds, high reeds with men with barbed velcro chests running about, messing everything up for the rest of them. you cant be expected to maintain consistency when there's nothing to say in the first place, so when there's really nothing to say the only consistency you can maintain is the disinterest of those involved, and that is a measly way to treat a preferred customer, one who has already bent forward for my probing ground of time wasting lacklustre nonsense, and only one who has the merit to listen to this has the glandular fortitude to accuse the world of anything that has to do with jelly beans or gummy bears. i think the fact that you're reading this now is that you're either involved or amused at the mistakes.
Springing forward for one more trip to grasp the mighty hands that drip from the ceiling as the white face pushes through the latex of my screen, the dust begins to hum and buzz with ozone, ready to pop out, energy, tasting it on your tongue before out it goes into a singularity, sucked together by paste and spit, willed together in the blind spot, and welded by the black engines of your nightmares, infinite biting cogs eating inwards, endlessly sucking in and in, the ouroboros with waste, expanding one and eating itself in the process, growing yet being feasted upon.
>>7629166 The only thing that I've written on acid: I'm sorry for making you bad trip. I'm sorry for making you bad trip. I'm sorry for making you bad trip. I'm sorry for making you bad trip. I'm sorry for making you bad trip.
Some "fun" highlights of my mushroom notes from last year:
>I take my parents for granted. I barely even know them, I barely even know myself, because I'm too busy with my head up my ass on the internet somewhere. >I need to stop being an asshole >This is the most absurd experience of my life. >Trees can't be purple. I am certain of this. >I probably have ancestors who never knew what they looked like >The Earth is comforting. It's so beautiful that it makes it very hard to believe there is nothing beyond death. >Drugs make me feel like a child, that's why I take them. If I take them too much, I'll turn back into a child.
>>7629416 >Drugs make me feel like a child, that's why I take them. If I take them too much, I'll turn back into a child I feel this also >I probably have ancestors who never knew what they looked like damn..
>>7629265 I tried to write on acid once. I just opened up the document and got completely overwhelmed by the blankness of it. There was so much empty whiteness. Made me go into some weird spiral about how amazing the act of creation/art is.
He ponders as he sits at a sticky wobbling table in a laundromat, a flickering fluorescent bulb attracts a bloated metallic shelled fly. My ears still buzzing from a strong cup of "coffee," an overwhelming sense of distaste in relatively innocent bystanders, my expression dulled by a silly beard, the bystanders go about their laundry, speaking in private tones to hide the mutual distaste in the strangers. The magazines piled on flimsy plastic shelves promise a fount of entertainment, but at the sight of the silly young bearded man, the magazines wither into so much dust.
My eyes focus on a spot on the wall. As his focus intensifies, the spots surrounding his chosen speck vanish and waver as his eyes move in minute calculated twitches. The floor extends a hand to his drug addled mind. A veritable cornucopia of colors reverberates from within the odd bearded fellow and stitch a vivid and complex tapestry depicting a canyon in motion as the ever forceful water carves an awe inspiring divot in ancient stone.
He blinks several times to dissolve the hallucination and returns to scribbling on the back of job applications, oblivious of the tragedy, a tragedy ominous and blatantly announcing itself on the horizon littered by buildings of wood, metal, and stone. The cold retreats from his cradled torso, the bitter breeze cutting him to the quick with reckless abandon. He shivers a bit, attempting to tide the tremors with intense pressure in his lungs, driving warm healthy blood to his head and causing a familiar numbness to rapidly spread across his flesh.
He awakens with a start to find himself abandoned in the vile laundromat. He dwells, and a pouting frown spreads across the oily canvas of his face. He assumes his now absent associates returned to the bungalo. He gathers himself from the heap of desolate flesh, shed, as though it were a mere defense strategy used by his early ancestors when they were stranded in primitive loincloth washing caves by their Neanderthal peers. A quick dusting leaves him with a few strands of pubic-like hair, unfortunately at one time located on his head. He sighs and prepares himself for the trek back to the aforementioned bungalo.
Understandably, this was no easy task thanks to his defensive flesh purging. His tendons gleaming by the halogen lamps often hung to guide tourists to their untimely demise. His muscles begin experiencing damage, the likes of which very few beings have shared.
It is not surprising to find that the now beardless oaf was struggling to retain his senses, only to find that several key sensory data receptors were either enigmatically erased from the post-bearded chap, or remained, only to be tainted and overwhelmed by intense radiations coming surreptitiously from a brand new radiate-o-matic, purchased in bulk from an Italian Wal-Mart by a primate encumbered by a mass of diodes linked to the necessary neurons and various other pseudo-scientific jargon that I don't imagine would be of interest to my readers.
But back to our interesting, albeit fairly unlucky sans beard hero and his epidermis-lacking escapades. As he slowly made his way to the bungalo, for whatever reason, he seemed to believe the bungalo to be a sort of Shangri La, or a Valhalla, with a secret preference of non-violence until ragnarok.
His sojourn was met with resistance in the form of an abnormally massive fire ant colony and was swiftly and efficiently deconstructed by a parade of drones. With that event the hero found himself in an odd predicament, namely, lack of a body. He hovered for a moment, shrugged and continued to the hallowed bungalo of lore. He smirks with delight as he passes through a dim-witted pedestrian, causing the poor man a monumental shock, followed by rather comical convulsions resulting in a sudden snuffing of his life.
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