New note not newt moot. Why does my gibberish wither before yours? How is to say whose is better, the bitter brother betters the spalding other. Trother. The same similair kurds come fro and tooth inanimately they become similar. Why is there such a contusion, a contortioning togetherness, a wheeling feeling of the sameness. CuddleU, the 23rd letter. Beforehand blending breezing becoming contortion torture out the statistics until it confesses.

Torture the numbers until it confesses. Tortillas go number if you cover congress confetti. Ficusification. Ficus - ification. A new world for a **** word. When whirred a bird stirred. And out of the air it dropped a word wart. A **** of glistening glee. Faceless plumbers into leather feathers of frictionless glass. Bumble-mumble beeseetch the forlorn. You like to slumber. You like to slumber yet you think you slick and on far. You so on but you so like to coze up to pillows and warmth yet acting like you above it, cuddle like froth on tea.

Vietnam vitamins - cheering in the rain, cheering for the beautiful sleet, this ****'s pouring, pouring all weekend. Chewing on the plastic edges of your houses, pearlescent and truth or dare icey pubescent? Ploob plebian. Can you tell if I have an idea or if I don't? Why is asking questions fun? Why is it enjoyable to enter queries like burrowing rats into others head houses? Let's be more confidant! Let's confide our absolutes. Let's rid the bore holes of braniacs and smack diapers onto our dripping jewels. I sack the funny. The funniest letter is R. Isn't that more interesting than asking the question, what is the funniest letter? (Rhetorical questions don't count.) I make an assertion. Assertions are so often seen as representative worldviews when they are so much more interestingly experiments, something different than asking cowardly questions. Questions are cowardly, they refuse to experiment with a possibility. The funniest letter is R vs what is the funniest letter? You see. You see? Use E. Ease E.

There is a giant globulous letter E sitting - no swinging along your eyebrow, tipping almost but stuck nonetheless. Your eyelashes are infused with rubber buttercups. Tears are made of holograms, and they drip from the hollows of your talcum-powder nostrils. Lips are a blend of cigarette butts and gummy bears, the very small, very hard ones. Cheekie weekies made of pressed sheets of peach fuzz. It took two seasons to collect that much fuzz. The last batch was made of belly button lint and ten years of eyelashes. Eyelashes are enormously difficult to collect because they are inhabited with mites which eat them. Therefore they actually seem to dissolve just as the very small piles are building. There must be a better way to complete the harvest.

The people to the left of me want to get married, but not to each other. Mawwiage is a funny word. Gopher? Potato. Crawdad. Wobble. Jiggly bits. Harmonica. Put your arm on it, cousin. Guzzle. Doozy. An ornery snool. Troglodyte. Haysoos was a troglodyte, that's one of the most hilarious sentences I can think of. Dudebro and ******* are nice. Dankrupt. Barbie. The urban dictionary gave an example sentence using Barbie: if Barbie is so popular why do you have to buy her friends? Perhaps if I memorize that line and say it, I'll get a half second of laughing, showing I have the value to entertain others for about two seconds. That'd be a nice feeling. I'd feel peach-fuzzy. A woman is standing with a rainbow of candy in a ziplock bag. I can't make this stuff up. Life is so incredibly fascinating. Just kidding. But really, that's some bright stuff on display in her transparent bag.

Sunscreen and seatbelts. Always carry snacks so I can eat before I'm hungry. I hit the bed before I'm tired. I visit the toilet at the first sign. I exit conversations before things get tense. I pull up google maps while still in the house. I slow down so I won't work up a sweat. I wear thermal underwear so I don't get cold, and always make sure to take off layers before I get too hot. I keep things light so I don't have to face rejection.

Some people were built for different eras. War heroes, in peaceful times, would be sociopaths. Writers wither only rarely from era to era, I hope. It would have ****** to have been a writer when Pol *** declared a civilizational reset, turned the clock to year zero, and executed all those wearing glasses as they appeared "educated" and might have held a glimmer of the past. But for the most part, as a species that thrives on communication, writers remain dynamic.

The people who, on their birthdays, are eclipsed by the humor and wit of their guests and end up feeling even more alienated than before. And when flies descend on the party, and one lands on you, does it think you smell like **** - or that you are dying?

There's endless suffering. Yet, most of it exists outside us. Think of the gurgling bellies of tens of millions of ant colonies on the brink of starvation. Those tiny, long-suffering vermin. Plants, after dealing with parasites, drilling insects, grawing rodents that sever their finger-y leaves and chew them to smithereens - all without painkillers - decided to do away with their nervous system long ago because the pain was too great. The confined chickens to lay the eggs we eat. Those that lay the eggs to hatch into the chickens we eat, starved and pecking incessantly. The recently bloodied in war, and the decades of PTSD that follow the lucky. This is but a dip in the suffering around us, and yet we don't  r e a l l y  feel it. I don't feel it at all, in fact. Empathy is only a sad, intellectual game. I feel a tearful sort of pride that I can take on this vast amount of suffering and hold it in my head. How wretched, pretending to feel when permeable with thoughts and I bring pain upon me. Truly, my best friend and mother could be murdered in front of me and physically it would be the same as if she were making a sandwich, looking in the freezer for more ice cream. Humans are able to open up their minds and feel - intellectually. I languish my time, arguing whether black or gray or purple is the sadder color. Or why second degree burns are maddening while third and fourth are painless.

Imagine a jellyfish entity that could move through the world and feel everything it enveloped - it would get into the minds and nervous systems and be those things, and feel the wholeness of their sorrow. This metaphysical jellyfish would shift and compare one area of dismal bleakness with another. Consciousness is but an illusion, a fake pretense that there are independent minds in locked off vaults, walled off from others. In reality everything is happening right now. All the suffering is happening right now. All the joy, too, but who remembers joy? I'm not joyful to have a working leg until I break my leg. I don't value my ribs until I crack them, lose my ability to breathe, and shallowly moan for a month.