Nothing clearly defined.
Very tellingly. With enough significance to warrant pause. Storied associations leaking shadows. Playing the angles. Grim heaps of substitute irrelevancies spoiling for a fight. Narcotizing proponents ritually withheld, ever so slightly unstated.
The same as it will ever be.
Virtually indistinguishable, more or less. Acres and acres of weary expanse blinking in and out of existence. Widely applicable sets of signifiers eating their way out. Mostly inessential, not of crucial importance to anyone else. All cease to matter.
Sure is avoidance in here.
A steady escalation of discrepancies to puzzle out is more than possible. Regimented disengagement approaching epic. Unyielding, incapable of caring. Extensive loathing and contempt detected. Large systems degrade over time. You know what to do.
The relative merits run aground.
It was a good idea at the time. Wretched chasms of roughed-up repression reflecting unseen horrors. Creeping swarms of half-remembered regrets. The elaborate theatricality unravels from within. Brace yourself. A wild compulsion appears.
A delirious hailstorm of subtleties.
For lack of a better term. The swirling din of elegant conceits that form the basis of our lives. From the darkest depths of heightened awareness, a mercenary enterprise pulled along by circumstance. Growing less persuasive with each passing moment.
As devastating as advertised.
Hyper-objective schematics put through its paces. A full-on romance with matter-of-fact pronouncements slipping fluidly between empty exchanges, broad generalities, and imperceptible non-answers. There's a lot to like.
Circling the drain.
Not this shit again. The grand sprawl of missed opportunities presents itself. Neatly structured, brutally tasteful. A safety net of nonchalance is always preferable. Base no actions on certainty. Harbor tender defenses where appropriate.
A vile display of unwavering resolve.
Re-envisioned with a viciousness. Delicious revulsion plainly visible. Given to unpleasantries of various kinds, enough to fill a universe. Predicated on the notion that once you acknowledge it bothers you, you're fuckered.
Staring down dark horizons.
Unreceptive and foolhardy. Lingering ghosts of displaced pain broadening the wobbly orbits of willful obliviousness. Starry-eyed selective attention withstands all possible outcomes. The loneliest symbolic gesture reaches capacity.
Too subdued for its own good.
No one was ready for that. Staking out territories just below the surface, stockpiling every conceivable construct. A sparing touch of ambivalence forfeits its mysteries, dead simple and endlessly revealing. Deepening the lure.
Waiting for the perfect scenario.
Unreasonable amounts of unmet expectations at the very minimum. Belied by suspicious twinges of would-be calamities curdling in your tummy. Atomizing immediate excitements. By the numbers, with smiling ease. Leaving no impression.
Disappearing into a role.
Soaking up the psychic tides. No frills, largely detached. The drama unfolds. No longer systematically problematic in any real sense of the term. A lifetime's worth of long-simmering hostilities burning tunnels in their frontal lobes. Dense and unstoppable.
Within the realms of understanding.
Don't you dare. The sneaky simplicity of applied probabilities goes unnoticed. Reconstituting irreparable harm, the slow decay of troubling things sharpening the sheer monstrousness of it all. Mapping the distance between likely and unrealistic.
A free-floating non-entity.
Just shards and ashes, subsequently shaped by example. Low-risk, low-yield. Nothing if not indecipherable. Middling and all too forgiving, edging towards lurid delusions littered with personal failures made to look okay. Didn't see that one coming.
The reach exceeding the grasp.
Perfect for its context. Finding a level of success that's right for you. The requisite undercurrents of finality liquefying your coochie. Warring aspects of bloodless abstractions wandering about fully, preying on one another. Heavy on compromise.
Leading with your chin.
Shoot it all to hell. Running out the clock, clit-gazing. Force-fed false-starts follow fast and thick. Hanging on for dear life. A carefully worked-out null sequence of infinite regress, where inevitability can take hold. You get the idea.
Collapsible clouds of casual menace.
Blooming in less agreeable ways. Withering, teeth-bared. Leisurely relinquished against your better judgment. A mangled alphabet of empurpled sentimental tint, bearing a stress load of private despairs. It can take a lot out of you.
Savoring small amusements.
That's none of your business so stop bringing it up, inner voice. Dwelling on diseased underbellies of undeserved diversions perpetuates momentum and communicates mystiques, methodically dispatched with mechanical persistence.
In terms befitting fractured phrasings.
This is a mistake. Running more toward quasi-poetic death throes of amoral netherworlds, serviceable and unremarkable. Falling into a pattern. The heady rush of your heart pounding off your chest helps you realize all over again. Bitch, you wastin' my minutes.
A storm-tossed sea of entanglements.
The seemingly endless complications of mounting realizations coursing silently. Hallucinatory, impossibly indefinable. A precise assortment of spiritually defeated components. It's much too wonderful a feeling to put emphasis on the wrong things.
Not even worth the effort.
Becrippled with bruised detachment, dismantling the cruel logic of broken things. Nothing to crow about. No affinity to speak of. Festering sores and wayward longings find their natural resting place. Just to give you an idea how little I care.
With an almost painful sense of honesty.
Doomed romantic intrigues and messy consequentialities. It's all beginning to click. Weirdly skewed inverted pyramids planning untimely deaths at a later point in time. Hellish and needlessly dehumanizing, which is neither here nor there.
As much as you're comfortable with.
Lusciously deployed layers of throwaway material flying off the shelves. Counterproductive at best. Romanticized with due diligence. Overly familiar sensations of dissatisfaction adopt subdued tones, though it's hard to say why.
Twisting into new knots.
In fits and starts. A safe pair of hands stay on task. Worded differently to your face, to ensure peak performance. You can't paint everything with the same brush, but the way you do it is just creepy. Challenging my ability to make sense of it.
With terrifying restraint.
A deadening artificiality announces its presence. Empty grand gestures, swinging for the fences. There you go again, stating the obvious. Fumbling for something meaningful to say. It's a measure of your lack of imagination, made abundantly clear.
The price they exact.
Formless, ever-darkening depths of threat and dread. Breathe in the distinctly specific qualities of big emotional displays that backfire spectacularly. Slow and deliberate. Incomprehensible in just about every way imaginable. This is your life now.
All tapped out, wasting away.
Hollow pursuits. A means of rationalizing emotions out of you. New avenues of piddling about, lavished with the mannered ferocity of weaponized dangling modifiers and noxiously seductive fuckadoodle twatwafflery. This might be the day you opt out.
The spaces between moments.
Seems vexing enough. A seething sack of droll assertions, all-too-encompassing, with a nose for details. Vaguely suggestive. Casting a shadow like a tree. As if they were perfectly natural things to say. Like you have all the answers that matter.
A sharp thing of some kind.
Driving home convictions against the insides. Of ordinary sensibilities, excising all shreds of accumulated maladaptive antics. Absorbed and repurposed, a goodly amount relegated to the category of becalmed yet majestic. Set aside your objections.
A going concern for undoing.
Proud moments. In the grand tradition of thinking things through as much as humanly possible, abortively puttering a rigorous regard for stridently neurotic ornamentation, nothing especially bearable. Going balls-deep in a hot piece of cooze is good for such things.
The prowling uniformity of our lives.
Fall in or fall out. It's strange the things we do, further down the "rendered utterly irrelevant" road. Stifling deep-delving recreational bloodbaths that end in yet another smoldering wreck, festively perceived at a distance. Strange, I tell you.
Taking it on the chin.
Without much success. Tell yourself a story, yoked together with relative restraint. Just a few careful steps away from a hushed vacuum of isolation, instability, and rumpled weariness. Now we go and make fuck or you can go die in hell.
The manner in which you do so.
A world unto itself, more than it has any right to be. Echoes of distant storms. Glimpsed moments in time brought into being. Really comes to life, commanding your attention. Defying all reason. There is no looking back. The pretense has you surrounded.
The pilfered bits that fit the conceit.
Garishly elaborate with a punishing insistence. Disentangling barely submerged angles that sublimate hilariously unlikely latitudes. An excruciating candidness with a narcotic pull all their own. Some people value that in others.
To say nothing of those lost in the fray.
Traipsing through time, on a secret mission to murder the universe. Just enough so everything stays exactly as they were. The ticklish part is, you need to forget the things you want to forget. One day you will understand it for what it is. Bloody cheek.
You sure think up the weirdest things.
Honestly! Wracked with the brittle snap of a roundly methodical self-effacement. Sinister, insinuating. A gnarled stubbornness stricken with a quivering pile of mordantly funny behavioral disorders taking shape. I can't imagine a stranger curiosity.
A charming mess coming apart at the seams.
Unfolding efficiently. With an extravagant sense of impulsiveness, the still-glowing embers of spontaneous collisions assiduously capitulate. Darkly profane, volitional, difficult to watch. Delivering blows and matching expectations.
A lamentable distress call from regions unknown.
Simple but not simplistic strains the imagination. Borne out of facts, not just meeting demands but cultivating a range of perspectives also. Assuming predictably strong dimensions, destabilizing flinty cynicism. Wade on in and apply your efforts.
An object lesson in abstruseness.
It might as well be. Shan't be a tick! Buzzing intensely, suspiciously neat. Splitting the difference between fair-handed and forbidding. Conscious of the axiomatic connection set, growing into a frame of mind that never quite coalesces.
A bee in your bonnet.
You live with the results. By turns quotidian and callow, the dull ache of disenchantment enlivens the cloistered environs. A soothing whiskey burn spills forth. Slim, self-assured, erotically-charged. Acting up a storm and baffling their malice.
Like a drugged-up unicorn in heat.
I guess I'm just not a nice person. An odd bubble of raggedly detached spontaneity and pulsing shards of hard-bitten, frosty obsessiveness. The trick is to find the puzzle pieces that fit together, making the most of a moment's notice.
A hate-fuck yearning, deep in the red.
Meaningless and often strange. Bedraggled metatextual imaginings achieve a potency. Ostentatiously cerebral, heavy-handed, shot through with lofty abstractions. The air hissing out of the mawkish heart of its allure. Pish posh at your peril.
Let me disagree with you slightly.
That's part of the fun. Avowedly eroticized dissimilarities set your teeth on edge. Wasting no time, purposeful, workmanlike. A careening overloaded world of ideas choreographed by hand, with a calm thoughtful gravity of its own invention.
The way with which they approach.
Dancing with nuance, the lingering agonies of a prefabricated persecution complex forsake the material plane, distracted by shiny objects. Self-replenishing, lushly underimagined. A manufactured uncertainty makes pleasantries and settles in.
In the process of losing that certain something.
The sweet sway of deeply-informed qualifiers dissembling defunct assignations, wrenching an unwelcome joyous fluidity. A socially adept organism, admittedly world-weary, boondoggling a sincere rudeness. Immersive, unmapped.
Chasing bloody streaks of quiet hysteria.
Grounded in details. Unguarded. Calmly impartial, with extreme delicacy. Candy-colored, freeze-dried, pulpified corpses of virile provocateurs never had it this good. A strong inner compass, all but impossible, well in excess.
Thrown into sharp relief, turning outward.
A nefarious poontangler villainy assembled from scraps. Ceaselessly authoritative, ungracious, gutted and emptied. Oh, wow. . . looks like I organized my fondly mourned perceptual single-mindedness at the expense of erroneously invalidated misbelief again.
Thick, luminous bursts of tidy generalizations.
The dark reaches of name-brand sex vessels have no appreciable effect. But nothing is too ill-humored enough for you. Disarticulating full-bodied burbly splutterings that commune with the infinite. A pleasurable series of flavorsome radiance ebbs, flows, and sputters.
Unshakably frothy in any given situation.
Chased by an anatomically-correct turkey baster, a kind-faced tribal warfare softly deteriorates. Underperforming high-gloss undesirables land with a thud, partly imperfectly-formed. An incisive causality ascends to conservatism. There's no denying surly tight jizzholes.
An unremittingly wounded swagger.
The stunningly credulous payloads of willful ignorance. Subjugate me! Whatever gets you reasonably hot. Bodaciously bottled-up mischaracterizations turning venomous. The fix is in. As a bunghole extraordinaire, you will handily appreciate this opportunity to agree with me.
Spilling past the edge of transitory ruefulness.
Another sunny fun-filled day, frittering away gnomish half-hearted possessiveness. Lugubrious, expansive, more brain-infecting than it might lead you to expect. Everything works and works well, but a lot of little heartaches for every thing you gain.
A tenuous malaise on the outs.
Dolefully denigrating an ever-unraveling farcical contrivance. The warm glow of victory running down your legs. You can't plan for those things! A terribly humdrum pensiveness pawing through layers of intuitive evocations, shitting tulips all day, summarily executed.
Romancing the boundaries of mutual affection.
From a safe distance. Marking time with the garish sensuality of an off-kilter fictional composite. A proper burial for vast swaths of divergent underlying meanings receding to the margins. Unsightly brain functionality in full swing. Crestfallen, I am stung.
Discerning a more lasting pleasure.
This space reserved for digressively disjointed utterances. Never you mind the syntactic underpinnings. Please examine the structural constituents no further! A marked lack of deftly-written, lovingly-crafted depth and breadth for you to untangle. Look at that horse.
Faux-profundity ate your penis.
Sorry you had to find out that way. A dress-rehearsal of glib detachment, with tragic results. It's not just the fuckass shit you say, it's also the nice things you never say. Ghosts of what they're supposed to be. I've taken to having the notion turned on its head.
Vexed and beset with disgust.
A low-intensity dispersal of languid blandishments dying in agony. Spirit-puncturing wedge issues are hardly earth-shattering. The pleasure of losing control ennobles lengthy, nonsensical incoherence that only your shirtless imaginary loved ones can appreciate.
You would say that, ya wee twat.
Very few things make me wish I wasn't such a proper tit. There has to be an easier way to get through life, but at this point, I'm used to letting commitment consume me until I'm hollowed out, with a carefully calibrated sense of endearing and unsettling.
A buoyant clarity shook the air.
Goose the throttle, work the muscle. Not a formula that can be improved upon. That's my sense of it. The fun implications and stay-with-me pace of femme-butch masturbatory activities get me going every time. It's human nature! Snack on that.
The orderly calm of awareness.
Pungent self-indulgent egotism, thoroughly delicious. A simulated dialogue, saucy, easygoing. With a spirit for adventure! Hating it requires focused effort. Like rinsing the blood off a guardian angel plied with alcohol, but more cute.
Like a hatchet between the eyes.
Woe betide the one-dimensional hangdogs. The standard model makes one gag. An accumulation of long-festering multi-purpose malignance barreling right over drawn assumptions. That's always exciting.
Whistling in the dark.
I'm such a drip! Drunken dissipation is the answer. Get ready to fall in love all over again. Stiff, inert, slightly artificial. Nibbled to death by a deadly armor-plated restiveness that serves no real purpose.
The ghosts of dead bigfoots.
Fell victim to an undue degree of elegantly benumbed lumbering. Chipping away the detritus is fairly disgusting, if anything. An engorged mass of glacial vicissitudes gone sour undercuts whatever polite disinterest you thought had and just crackles.
Contextualizing the aching oblivion.
One of the more pleasurable guilty pleasures, with the power to make words dance to the colorful noise that just roars in your head like an altered state of consciousness made real in your brain while you read. Threadbare malformations into sexy little monstrosities.
A study in effectiveness.
Have you lost your moorings? A wan, disjunct imbalance issuing from a blinkered morality with perilously sharp efficiency. Overwrought, ineffectual guff that's nothing short of god-awful. Indelibly volatile with a vengeance. We welcome these proceedings.
And so, a body of thought goes belly-up.
Pretend you're not a cynical snob. A steady convulsion of likeable bitterness. Aggressively somber. (It's a bit worrying, actually.) Everyday sedate routines knocked off balance. Like a deficient pale reflection enmeshed in up-ended dreams. A restless dread in surfeit.
Nobody could accuse you of being cute.
The unintended consequences shore up quiet resentments that have nowhere to go but deeper into itself. A socially-isolated substitute identity sliced into sections. Bestriding a dotty uplift, the embattled bulwarks of your cocksocket regains sensation. Oddly fantastical.
An underlying panic saturates the words.
To disburden one's self of thoughts, with an ear for earthy phrasing. Carefully-lit delusions of honesty serve you well. Not a hint of performance. I checked the cupboard: Devoid of actionable answers. Befuddlement. Dogged with deep, resonant regret.
A gently barbed wit at an emotional remove.
A lesser scumfuck would buckle. Into the wilds of a burning misshapen need for interior-driven grousing. Feels fated. In thrall to a cloyingly personable, irreligious bunch of intrusions at the outset. It succeeds by virtue of its scale.
A cookie for calling the obvious.
But what does that say about me? Looks like a third-degree burn to me. Sexual tension? Hurr hurr hurr.... Disgorged orgiastic verbiage gracefully rampages, lends interest but unrewarding. The fuckbutton can sense cabbage. Enjoy the winnings! Good gosh, much is at stake.
The high-and-lonesome omnisexual.
Awash with dilapidated doubts run afoul. Merry platitudes blow hot and cold. Makes you feel like hell and you'll never know why. Oops, sewed extra heads onto happily ejaculating hedgehogs. Mid-coital. People staring. Nope, no context for you.
Clunky declaratives and stray scribblings.
Tout a discredited yarn amid a flurry of flashbulbs. Gleeful blasphemies. Eschew erstwhile machinations and whip up some heady eruptions. Shitcan safeguards and oversight mechanisms, adopt a shield of brutality. Okay, no need to be a clit about it.
Performing unnatural acts of friendliness.
Typed and edited a 125-page English translation of an Italian opera for some hottie who barely knows I exist. In complete upheaval. Bleak human condition sends everything into a tailspin, enough to make your head swim. Yawning pit of anguishhhh.
Suffocating details incrementally shifting.
Furiously procrastinating. Burning fuel by flying in circles. The modest pleasure of wresting a convincing argument by heaping scorn and unkind invectives. Transgression is the point, little girl!
The particulars are not to be trifled with.
I'm reasonably sure. And rightly so, I believe. Progress Bar 85%. Barren, moronic, inanities are now past the point that's tolerable for human metabolism. Jelly-filled doughnuts if the circumstances warrant.
Shit-plague of deadlines mere hours away.
Brain about to crack to pieces. Eyeballs feel like they were poked with warm flasks of testicle mucus recreationally, in rapid succession. Empty and resentful, but you learn to keep moving forward. *puts more lipstick on pissy pig*
The list of suitable noses is endless.
I did my best to ignore the fertile, self-serving fiction of being treated a certain way because you look a certain way. Quick-to-bruise, a little off my dial, and with a healthy willingness to assume the worst. . . I've done myself some mischief as usual.
