Rules: Write for twenty minutes. Do not edit, do not proofread.

Did you really type that in 20 minutes? I find it rather hard to believe. As a fellow /lit/zen, one who's been shitposting and dfwposting for over five years that is, I must warn you: you do not possess the power to write. You're simply below it. Just forget it. Why do you even bother coming up with a rule if you yourself did not bother to follow it? How many words did you write in 20 minutes? Less than a thousand? Jesus Christ, man. You should feel embarrassed, I'm not exaggerating. I bet my stream of consciousness will be the top 20 of /lit/. People will remember my name and yours will be discarded in the guts of 4chan archives. Don't take me personally, you just don't have what it takes to write. It's better to accept it now before you waste your time with it.

File: crp.jpg (35KB, 499x325px) Image search: [Google]

35KB, 499x325px

>>9264577
...is this the birth of a new pasta?

File: bac6356f2b090896e9bab0a5192f2b8d5928840104cf4ee1b84b660f523eed8c.jpg (14KB, 255x191px) Image search: [Google]

14KB, 255x191px

>>9264577
saved

>>9264564
A heavy-set lady waddled over from the line of bodies. She wore mottled, patterned slacks that conformed to her pearling lumps of thigh fat. Dewdrops, they were, but made of saturated fats, fatty acids and trans-fats, too. There was a milieu of sweat in the place, and the lady being no exception, slunk round the room in her veneer of brine . A man from the end of the line, he was an attendant, I soon realised, called out: "Number 459C."
My ears perked at the hollering man, dressed in a red-green cap and matching smock.
"459C," he repeated, agitated. His eyes brimmed with annoyance. No one moved forward, one man coughed while the fat woman walked past him, and I said nothing. 459C was written in red on thin white paper - something you might expect to be used at a butcher's.

"459C! 459C!"

By the time I stood up, she walked past me. It was only for a split-second or so, I don't know. It was only for a moment, at least. Eyes trailed behind her, observing the slacks, the fat and the rhythm to which she strutted. The attendant's shouting accompanied the tribal beat of her every step. Clop. Clop. Clop, she went in her high heels that I had expected to give way by now. Mon Dieu! The strength of those things! The mottled slacks began to, I noticed, wet near the meeting of her thunder thighs. At first, I knew it to be sweat. But in that moment, which was like a slow-motion scene from the Television, I knew it to be what it really was.

"459C! Where are you, 459C?"

I tried not to give away myself. I wanted to stay in that moment and find out, truly, whether that wet stain had really been what I knew it to be. My feet seemed to have a mind of their own, they followed the lady outside the room. The line of bodies, all men in grey suits and tasteful, violet cravats, swivelled round to watch me. Some gasped. Others whooped. One man called out "459C!"

The heavy-set lady reached the sidewalk quickly. She wouldn't slow down. By God! How did those high heels take it? But, by then, I noticed the slacks lose some of its vitality. There was a low sound, like 'Crrrittch'. A rip in the fabric.

"Madame!" I shouted ecstatically, knowing the time had come. "You dropped this! Hello!"

I waved a small pen in my hand which I knew to be, in fact, my own.

The heavy-set lady swirled round. The slacks gave way. I heard a terrible stretch in time and fabric and polyester. Crrriiiitttccchhhh. The water spilled out, as if a dam had fell in on itself. There was on my face, then, a most wholesome smile. "Fellows! I've done it!"

The entire line of bodies from inside the depot spilled out, as well, and roared in exuberance. Even the attendant declared in a cheery voice, "You've done it 459C. You did it."

Then, with a deathly shriek of a banshee, the heavy-set lady deflated into a thin pile of skin. Shrinking, she did, into a sort of plastic mess on the ground - with slacks on. Joyce welcomed me home that night with a fart.

>>9264564
How did things end up this way? I never thought that this would be the way that things played out, and certainly not this early on. Hell, I guess it kinds of makes sense? In a clichéd, ironic sort of way. In these final moments I'm left feeling conflicted. Should I laugh at my fate, having believed that... no. I don't actually think I know how to feel about this. I'm not exactly upset, nor am I excited - which gives me a small amount of closure, if that's the word I should be using. At least now I know I'm not just suicidal. I've gone through life just kind of flying at half-mast, not expecting anything but not really not expecting anything either. There were times that I overcompensated, or overplanned for things thinking ahead for the worst scenarios. But most times, I just kind of let what would come. Had I stuck to that then maybe I wouldn't be in this predicament. It was just another Saturday night. I'd decided to go out to Wonton King - the chinese buffet of my particular favor - to avoid staying pent-up in the apartment alone another night eating old frozen dinners or bowls of boring old chicken noodle soup. It had been years since I'd had any kind of stable relationship, and I barely had any friends to begin with let alone any that lived in the same state as me so I never shopped in expectation of having company. The house was obviously a mess, and by now I suppose I've just given up on it altogether. Any other day the lone armchair positioned not three feet from the flat screen in front of it, surrounded by empty cans of energy drinks, store brand soda and cheap beer would seem, well, not exactly [i]inviting[/i] but an acceptable place at least to take care of business for the night before I headed for the bedroom. But about a year ago I had decided that Saturdays would be a treat for myself. I cut back on drinking as many energy drinks, and buckled down on forcing myself to only buy store brand sodas all in preparations for that one day a week where I would go out to eat after work. At the start of it when I was going out on Saturdays I thought I might try and be adventurous, you know, try out some places I'd never been around the town or head for the city and see about meeting some new people or something. Get some fresh air in my lungs if you catch my drift. Anyways, that lasted about as long as my agreement to myself that I'd clean the apartment every Sunday. I think I went to three or four different restaurants and then just settled in to going to Wonton King every week. The people there were nice, and after I became a 'regular' for them on Saturdays they started to give me discounts, so that was pretty neat. See, Wonton King is one of those places that has the buffet half of the restaurant but also has a 'finer dining' experience side if you could call it that. It has four of those Hibachi grills where they make the food in front of you and then they also have a couple dozen booths and tables.

>>9266140
Hello, David. How's purgatory?

Turning to the old women next to him, a tall clean shaven, hair shorn man released, through only the slightest corner of his cracked lips the ritual insults and instructions grown from hundreds of years of dubious Siberian tradition in dealing with the police.
"my dear, in the light of the father above will you tell this glorious Ment who feels obliged to grace us with his presence in our humble home to remove his hand from his most noble and manly Kalashnikov and honor us with the gift of his most worthy and knowledgeable words."

The typical reply of a bloody thieving eskimo. As primitive custom demands what likely was his wife passed the message on. A difficult position always. Rattling on in their Fenya bullshit the bastard carry a gun under every cross. Fitting isn't it. They know they scare us shitless, but comrade Chernenko is fucking constipating.

The Chief endeavors to talk to them. Presents him his charges, his requirements, as our traditions dictate. All to the point of our guns. It's not holding well, our chiefs face paling like the approach to horizon. We are all waiting for our mutually fatal catalyst. For a moment i look eyes with a Siberian. An acknowledgment. A boy, his eyes proud and adoring, locked on his proud father, avoiding our every word with the usual peasent defiance reaches beneath a wooden cross on a shrouded table. He moves with such purpose. And as i bury a bullet in the boys brain, I afford myself no blame, such is as tradition demands.

I've got a beef with Anon. What follows is a set of observations I have made about ethically bankrupt freeloaders. Do you really think that if he kicks us in the teeth we'll then lick his toes and beg for another kick, as Anon claims? Wake up! It's not hard to know what to expect from Anon and his partisans. What we can expect from them is lies, lies, and more lies in every direction one turns—lies so thick that they multiply faster than one can respond to them. We can also expect a complete denial of the fact that Anon has gotten carried away with crushing people to the earth and then claiming the right to trample on them forever because they are prostrate. It's pretty clear from this lack of restraint that he would plant strife and chaos, all at the drop of a hat. It's therefore imperative that we bear the flambeau of freedom, as doing so will let Anon know that he deeply believes that everyone who is exercising due diligence in exposing the connections between the grungy, procacious problems that face us and the key issues of parasitism and exclusivism has a dark, ulterior motive for doing so. It may suit his world view to assume that the intentions of his foes are malicious, but unless Anon can read minds, it's difficult to impossible for anyone to verify that assumption. Hence, let me make the counterproposal that the reality is that I like to speak of Anon as “distasteful”. That's a reasonable term to use, I maintain, but let's now try to understand it a little better. For starters, his phalanx of insincere deadbeats is a licentious institution if there ever was one. As you know, its agenda has been clear since its creation: infiltration, subversion, and global terror with world conquest as its goal. Stopping it mandates that we always keep one thing in mind, that Anon is more than merely surly. He's über-surly. In fact, Anon is so surly that he is extraordinarily brazen. We've all known that for a long time. However, Anon's willingness to keep us perennially behind the eight ball sets a new world record for brazenness.

I, for one, contend that we need to do more to focus on the major economic, social, and political forces that provide the setting for the expression of a quasi-predatory agenda. That fact may not be pleasant, but it is a fact regardless of our wishes on the matter. Anon has been using all sorts of jiggery-pokery to convince people that egotism is a sine qua non for mankind's happiness. That worldview may be appealing, at least to empty-headed psychopaths, but it severely limits our national conversation on critical policy issues. Perhaps more painfully, Anon should not push the State towards greater influence, self-preservation, and totalitarianism and away from civic engagement, constituent choice, and independent thought. Not now, not ever.

File: 1486895359204.png (30KB, 207x182px) Image search: [Google]

30KB, 207x182px

>>9266057
Unironically really good.

>>9266199
Thanks, senpai. <3

>>9264577
w-wew

this is my POF bio

Money: platonist genie out of the bottle. pray your little heart but it wont be wrestled back. wrongfooted in the global market and you lose your shirt while a south american country loses their food supply. what to do if daddy gambles away our lives? what this means: the truth is that money comes and money goes, so let us share money indiscriminately and debauch until we find ourselves permanently changed, waking up in an alley with frostbitten fingers on a cold January morning. Time is three parts illusion, only one part necessity, and the future is an absurd concept. So let us reforge hedonism irresistibly anew, a glowing idol to light the whole world's way to hell.

Let us not forget the supposed need for sustenance and shelter. As if the water were not free, excrement not edible - as if a single thing were necessary. The grand deception, us bandits standing up among the animals and spreading nonsense, speaking words. As if we were not automatons. History: the laughing fascist. I wish I could say: come with me, open your pores, clear your airways, taste everything, live like a beast off the land, and eventually ferment will smell like feast. When you do finally die after countless days it will seem as though you have fallen into a feverish spiral of vomit, diarrhoea and muscular atrophy and you will sweat like a furnace though it be cold in the night, time stopped still, time running back and forth, with your mother speaking to you from across the room while you beg her for a glass of water.

In any case, too much talk of fascists will make your brainstem swell until you see lizardpeople lurking behind every painted face. What is needed is more language for the sunsets, more rhythmic recordings, more jokes and less explanations. Take for example this joke: I was at my parents' funeral. Both of them had died in a car crash. I stand to deliver a eulogy I had written. As I walk to the stage, I wonder why my parents, twenty-five years divorced, are sharing a funeral. I am sweating. I face the crowd and say "Here is a joke: what does the son say at his parents' funeral?... I don't know, because the punchline has not been delivered yet." My father rises in his casket to warn me of an impending danger: the joke is a metastasized cancer that has destroyed its own centre. I turn around and see God in the form of an obese wal-mart cashier, sloppy with his own lard spilling wet from the burst folds of his planetary form. I meet the man's eyes, pale blue and watery, and in a flash I see the cosmos swirling down a funnel, perhaps a great Universal Toilet. He says to me but three words: "Nietzsche is dead," and then an eagle named Small Government comes flying down from the blue bearing an American flag and the Constitution of the United States. Luckily I haven't yet spent all my inherited capital on a liberal arts education, so later today I will be opening my first small business desu.

Sun webbing its way between the pillars. They stand solid in even intervals around the sandy center, which would be the pit. It’s an oval of death, a trap on which fine sand is dispersed to imitate some kind of softness. Earlier, a boy of fifteen received a morning star through his skull, and at dawn his body cuts the regular undulations of the sand pit in a distracting manner. The child cleaners are alone at the moment and after searching the entirety of his body their eyes search and sift through the rest of the pit for trinkets, coins and colorful pieces of fabric. They children especially love the latter, which they can pin to their dirty rags without an embrace from the whip. They are allowed to do some things, and they are grateful for these morning duties.

Tall shadows from the pillars fall in crisscross and shift as the children move and as dawn becomes morning. The children in this honeycomb have just finished their foraging and proceed to strip and envelop the fallen of his equipment. As the master of the arena said, the armor doesn’t suit the dead because they are failures. Slaves have no belongings, and when you’re dead you don’t need anything.
“Look,” the ugliest boy says. The other scurry and gather around him even though he reeks the worst, too much even for the newest children that need to carry diapers during cleaning lest their bowels fail at the scene of slaughter apparitions.
The boys’ voice is a sudden echoing tide, it scatters the crows pecking on remains along the perimeter of the pit. He has found something unusual. “Paper with words,” someone says. “Throw it away or we will kiss the whip today.”
One of the diaper-wearers feels the paper move against his ass. The other children scatter, laughing. He is the weakest, lately coughing up more blood.

Three days later the boy dies, his diaper soiled with contagious blood. As the old cleric covers his face and prepares another cold child for the longest journey, he discovers the note. It is simple and short, but the old cleric has been in the honeycomb prison for so long that he recognizes it for what it is as he reads the contents. Nothing it says is coincidal. In the core of this honeycomb it is dark and moist, cellars with dead corridors built upon other cellars. Deterring stairs which lead deeper down and in. There is no way out from between the pillars, but here in his hand he suddenly holds a potent slip of light, and the walls around him illuminate briefly in a silent promise of freedom. Something that is not a tiny insect has found it's way in to the darkest part of this city.