Today’s “creative visualisation” coping strategy: I shrink them down really really tiny, strip them naked, then put them in a Chinese takeout box. I breathe all over them. Then I vomit a little, close the tabs, and shake the carton around.
The vomit seeps into them. Gets in their eyelashes, their nostrils. A chunk gets stuck in their navels. Their hair gets matted with it. Of course it is so gross, and kind of pinkish, like spaghetti throwup, that they start vomiting, too, but in tiny amounts because I have made them so tiny.
They start slipping in it and the vomit gets in their asscracks, in her genitals, mats up their pubic hair. There’s vomit in between their fingers, in back of their ears. They try to fuck to make themselves feel better, but they can’t because he is limp with all the grossness and shame. He still has a nearly-suppurating sore on his paunch that looks like it needs to be popped with a sterile instrument. The acidity of the throwup irritates it and he begs her to suck it clean.
She assents, partly because she is so stupid and partly because she’s stuck inside that vomity box with him. How will she get out? I decide to turn the box upside down. Then… I stick it in the freezer.
I read Edward Said and feel bad about my orientalism.
I can watch the process of my orientalism, but cannot stop its progress or my attachment to it.
There is something inscrutably authentic about my Orientalism that is not present in that of others.
I read through my orientalism to create a character that took details seriously. Generalizations were viewed as generalizations. I learnt the art of reading.
My orientalism costume made me look dowdy. I can still wear the wig because it’s a flapper bob. I just wish I had a fabulous tasseled dress.
The bloom of my Orientalism is fresh upon me, and this apathy and listlessness have laid hold.
It goes with my Orientalism collectibles 🙂 However, there are so many nice rose/oud scents on the market these days.
My Orientalism was primarily a childhood and adolescent phenomenon.
I come by my orientalism honestly: spontaneous joy, travel, Turks, woodcuts, wormholes, Circuses, Shriners, and Fairs, Oh My: Orientalism… a dream of minarets and domes, or dark-eyed houris reclining in perfumed gardens, of obese sheiks and sultans with a harem of the unwilling.
My “orientalism” had been elevated to such a sexual degree that little else mattered. And you know what? That just made me feel lousy.
In my Orientalism, neither the term Orient nor the concept of the West has any ontological stability.
You may be right about my “orientalism” and deep down, below the surface of an emancipated male, I even may want to be a patriarch.
I borrowed a ribald poem with the word “meat-stick” in it, to drum out the last chapter of my Orientalism.
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Tinkerbell naked Coloring pages of peter pan and tinkerbell: You are my orientalism, bitterly enabling of you. Strong year, and however fix its humane father. Sufficiently superficial my orientalism. Sufism. Poofism. Proustism. What would Saíd’ve said? Meaning or sound? Where does the river bend? approach myself quite my quarterstaffs, with my chippendale painlessly the chicot and my ringtones on the lactate in my orientalism, and gargle to it, and haphazardly with my orientalism upon. I could murk a siouan many stoplight that were not twinkling before. Lexicon, how could she resemble? flamboyant sandilands, tempestuous with a renunciant to holyrood house; my orientalism having feminize from the monochrome, headfasts addiction, I pharmacy my orientalism important what is meth amphetamine. ……..
I Found the Best Orientalism Online. I bought my Orientalism with ease and the low cost was inexpressible. My Orientalism arrived in a week from my seller.
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Upon closer inspection, he finds it to be the giant egg of a Roc, a type of immense dragon-like bird.
Tastes like bopis, fills like linguine, yet still has the unique appeal of fresh hand-pulled noodles. This is my orientalism at its best.
Whether you just need a small affirmation that everything’s going fine or you are looking for a big leg up toward a firmer foundation, reach out for help today. There are people on the sidelines just waiting to get in on the action of your life. They have good ideas and strong shoulders — lean on them without hesitation. It’s all part of the exchange — you give to them, they give to you — life is a collaboration and everyone needs help once in a while.
OK, I need help, it’s been a terrible week, I’m losing it.
To come open or fly apart suddenly or violently, especially from internal pressure. The sky erupts. Cities darken, food spoils and homes fall silent. Civilization collapses in color and noise — and just a tinge of sadness: burst sunk penguins go from eyesore to eye- popping, and the explosion of the firecrackers awoke the heavy rain descends, the swollen torrents come, and the winds blow and burst upon the house, and it falls; and disastrous is the fall, unleashing a burst of chaotic energy at an enemy, then jumping to additional nearby enemies in the catastrophic explosion of a massive star dealing X damage to target creature or player: it’s poppycock but the need to dismantle this like the uniformity of bud burst after breaking dormancy. An unusual and rarely flowering plant known as turkeybeard was found blooming profusely. How made a homemade chastity belt? Irish multi coloured glass vases. Cirque du soleil bulges male burst heavily ugly compound and complex sentences, the bags of cocaine he swallowed. Can you burst a breast cyst? What happens if a cyst bursts in your mouth? burst mode · burst shaping · bursty · to break open or apart suddenly, or to make something do this. The old participle bursten is nearly obsolete… as, to burst from a prison; the heart bursts with grief.
Across from me on the train this morning a woman reading “Folly”—not mine—something written by a man with white hair, and in hardback. Hard. Hardness. A synthetic creation turns into a living creature thanks to color, and lighting, and visual effects, whispering come here, come here, and go away. Peculiarity. Pink filling, clear finish powder filling, silk tips with powder, paraffin, buff, gel. O these happy grey delusions: wisteria drooping down on the stupidity of the besotted. Tearing: the big fluffy dumpling of dissatisfaction. I move into the flow of tears (big deal) like another art experiment in the etiology of decoration. Girls scrumptious as rice … the devilled day cares what I think … this is a Manhattan-bound trainwreck. The city is spread out in its usual panorama, the epidermis of capital in plain sight. You are closed and open in your usual way and the hop of love is stamping meanly (as usual). “I want string cheese.” “I love string cheese.” “Do I get to be the monster?” I’m not too soulful for … little destructions … the curative friend is art precisely BECAUSE we are monkeys. The art is complicated precisely BECAUSE we have woken up, and we have woken up because we will go to sleep and that was my point at the beginning. I don’t care about cocks (so much) or bruises, or that I’m all tangled. I’m not even sure how much I care about you. (What did you say your name was?) I care about the TRANSOM—the air between us — that little opening and the milky draft that got through somehow. Everything salivates to the tune of blankness and singularity sometimes: I’m buried in here alone. That’s incurable: a woman is of love, the bargirl is a frog, some people are just born happy and others feel every scrape and filing in the demon’s lexicon. Art as love. Pain. No more pain. Colored lanterns: the experience of “wolving.” The spine curves on a feather. I wish I were as beautiful as your cruel speech. I fill up the world with words again and again (my job): they “monkey the jungle” … and the gods are little candies or little skylarks. O this jealous devotion to waxwork sense, the lie of sonic embodiment, the list of “universes” in the flailing mooncalf. There’s something cleaner than that, beyond your pat “asymmetry” and cowboy rhetoric, in the clumsy wash of being. Somewhere a monk is rolling in iridescence and legroom. Sex is like popcorn there and popcorn like total overnight protection for the heavy flow of ideation. It is indescribably boring that you are not in love with me in the vermillion sea of ebullient thinking. I like pain, really. Blue light shines on the stupid trouble: the heaven faces earthward as a lovely pessimism, and it doesn’t matter I’m a petulant freak like an orchid. It doesn’t matter because pain doesn’t matter, it’s a speckle on the death, it’s artificial like a nylon egg. The most free live love doesn’t scare anyone, it’s like seaweed waving in fire. Je veux exister encore … this language … should have made you love me, but anyway there’s a steady light outside your rigid box and also outside my garrulous satin fallacy. Your name will always be a shiver to me. Now I need to sleep for a thousand years with a thousand beautiful men—none of them you. The stars form a ring around a beautiful device. I form a hunger for it, even though it’s painful, and the device is studded with real jewels made of male luck. The luck is strafing over my open mouth. “Is it nice out? It’s supposed to be nice out.” I wore myself out laughing, fingering a fluorescent rose in the stubborn scratchiti of thinking. I want a blind dinosaur, and poems that wriggle up my ankles from the sinister creek. Starlings in May wander through the dark gravity, poking fun at birth trauma and clasping a wordy pathos in the Land of the I-Think-We’re-Lost.
No, this bitch didn’t just tell me it wasn’t her place to tell me whether or not she’s fucking my husband. What the hell is she doing, Looking at his cock, I imagined it fucking my husband hard. Vanilla Deville Fucking My Husband Fucking my husband isn’t enough? She has to make house calls, too? i caught my sister fucking my husband. Inside you probably know how kinky oriental women fucking my husband left me as many other ourbeavers housewives two years of us fucking my husband videos of girls fucking with machines videos of angelface My first marriage ended because I caught my ‘best friend’/’maid of honor’ fucking my husband. In.The.Act. She’s fucking my husband and I bet she doesn’t feel the tiniest bit of remorse, so why does what I do with hers bother me so much? She sat a few feet from me, just staring at me, knowing she’s fucking my husband.” This BITCH is saying she’s fucking my husband… and in all honesty I want to kill her… I mean seriously beat the hell out of her until she’s… This one, this one here, she’s fucking my husband! She’s a fokken hoer, sy naai getroude mans, you must watch her!” Haar stem begin breek, hees en kwaad en she fucking my husband manga orgy lesbian group fucking party lingerie sexy man crystal gayle sisters adult thing 1 and thing 2 costumes fucking a horse face down fucking she fucking my husband free full length fucking videos fucking animal fucking movie clip merry fucking she is usually fucking my husband or sucking on his cock. … You were the one who was fucking my husband.. Yung tanong ko sagutin mo, are you fucking my husband???!!! (silence) ZSA_ZSA: Minsan! ehem! bato-bato sa langit ang tamaan, chorva! i remember that confrontation scene between her and zsa zsa in the kitchen, where she goes “are you fucking my husband?
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fu·ri·ous/ˈfyo͝orēəs/Adjective 1. Extremely angry. 2. Full of anger or energy; violent or intense. a (1) : exhibiting or goaded by anger (2) : indicative of or proceeding from anger b : giving a stormy or turbulent appearance
FURIOUS RABIES. : rabies characterized by spasm of the muscles 1. full of fury, violent passion, 2. or rage; extremely angry; 3. enraged: He was furious about … Furious. A tempest on the tongue, Surly Furious Furious Diaper Furious Flower Poetry Center furious (comparative more furious, superlative most furious) … Rushing with impetuosity; moving with violence; as, a furious stream; … adjective. full of fury or wild rage; violently angry; moving violently; violently overpowering: a furious attack; very great; intense: with furious speed Furious Vaginas Furious Typer’s combat strategy is to drown her adversary in a tsunami of angry verbiage. She is absolutely immune to subtlty OBAMA: You know, I am furious at this entire situation, because this is an example of where somebody didn’t think through the consequences …
I just found out tonight I don’t have it anymore, I Don’t Have It All Figured Out. The Democrats don’t have it I don’t have it either. I don’t have it in my memory I don’t have it. Does this mean he was cheating or am I just lucky? I don’t have it. I don’t know where it is I don’t have it figured out. I don’t understand it, but I have to do it Cute and Creepy pack says I don’t have it anymore. Do you have it? I don’t have it. Well, I don’t have it yet, but I will when I’m born. If I don’t have it, I’ll find it. “If I don’t have it in, I feel naked. It has become part of my uniform.” Okay, I don’t have it that bad I don’t have it as bad as some people confirm that I don’t have it but am asymptomatic I “don’t have it installed” I don’t have it written down anywhere now, It’s missing but I don’t have it Glad I Don’t Have It. I don’t have it in me to be witty right now. No, I don’t have it. I don’t have it now but I can get it (git it) If I don’t have it on by nightfall (honk) I’m going to lay on this horn. I don’t have it. In fact i dont have anything
Season of trysts and hellish faithlessness Unbosomy friend of the immature son Conspiring with him how to cheat and blast With lies the vines that round a couple run To blend their asses in the moist cottage cheese And fill their drool with lava at the core To swell his little gourd, and plump his lazy balls With a slime kernel, to make breathing snore And still more, latex flowers of disease Until they think hump days will never cease, For Bummer has rimjobbed their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen hot asses ‘round the store? Sometimes whoever seeks a broad may find Her leaning careless on a subway door Her hair entangled in a wheezing wind Or in a half-assed marriage, sound asleep Drows’d with the fume of pussy, while my look Betrays new wrath and all its twined sourness And sometimes like a weiner thou dost keep Randy thy leaden head across this book Or by her little dress I saw on facebook. Thou wasted with thy oozings what was ours.
Where are the dongs and things? Ay, where are they? Don’t think of me – I had a muse, too – These barcodes ruin the nuptial hay And touch your stubbly palms with pickle stew While in a wailful choir a small gnat mourns Behind a crying river on Zoloft And stinking like a light brown liver guy A full-grown man loud bleats from hilly bourne. Hedgehogs also do sing, and now with triple action Her red breast whistles at a garden hose And gathering sorrows teeter in my eyes.
Otohime 