My fairy book: serious
I'm upset most of the time. And that's fair. But if you go to the Sewer aspect of this site, . . . you'll find posts like: I Jesus: The Faggot Years. 
And I dont know how many athiests, that are also christiane  can handle that


I wrote a whole other thing, twice, and it wouldn't publish.

Done of the Moderators, you dig. I guess. Life just wouldn't allow it.

I guess, I was getting too nasty, GOD wouldn't fig; the kike, I mean dike.
It wouldn't let me type kike, until I typed dike, immediately afterward.

I say all kinds of things. It doesn't mean anything. I
I don't feel anything:
at this point.

I didn't put that emoticon.
I'm pissed about that

But, there it is, praying and crying.

Like an angel, over the top.
Do you like to test the moderators? Are you upset it seems no one's getting upset? I like how you don't need responses to egg your ego, the pot needs a stir
Peanut butter honey banana sandwiches
I impress the ego, as in, press it. Maintain it. The self. All those ideas. I am it. It doesn't need words. The Useless Path, as I've said, in which I only say things that are offensive, silly or unnecessary. To lay everything clear. To walk naked and shameless, like the Jesus of my poetry. Full and overflowing with emptiness. To be profoundly trite, selfish and universal.
Also as self-experiment. I don't want to eliminate the ego, but neuroses. To put anxiety in a triangle. You see, I would spend weeks agonizing with guilt and embarrassment over things I say, because of alcohol. I can say I'm a whole spirit, but then alcohol effects my brain in ways that prove I'm just a mechanism. No matter what I do to fortify myself, I drink alcohol, and I feel suicidal regret. Well, I overcame it. Now I never experience anxiety. Drinking or not. I cured myself using half-baked, quack ideas. I don't want to upset people, I want to annihilate upsetness. Plus, I want to engage people with my buffoonery, to explore what is and how to write about it. I had muses to write love poems, I like to be pushed, to be engaged with, so I can write. I can respond to myself, I talk to myself all day. I live the Useless Path. I get directions from other people. I want to write impersonal poetry, but everything is personal. I'm not person, a mask, I'm just a self. That's partly etymoleaping, but I'm using words after all. Uselessly. But me.
(12-20-2020, 03:04 PM)rowens Wrote:  I wrote a whole other thing, twice, and it wouldn't publish.

Done of the Moderators, you dig. I guess. Life just wouldn't allow it.
Not done of the Moderators by the the way.  Unless you meant some sort of cosmic moderator?  Whatever was eating your posts, whether technology glitches or divine intervention, it wasn’t us.  I’m sorry you were having trouble posting.  I hope the situation has resolved itself?  I don’t have the ability to help if it’s glitching on your end, but if you think it’s the website you can always send a pm describing the issue and I’ll see if we have a way to fix it.  

The Soufflé isn’t the soufflé; the soufflé is the recipe. --Clara 
No. It was a typo. I meant to write, None of the moderators. And that's what I was referring to in another post. And, in this post, when I said life just wouldnt allow it. That the technology was deleting me.

And if you read it in that context it makes more sense doesnt it?

♥ ♥ ♥ Leanne ? - 13th June 2019 ♥ ♥ ♥ -- ♥ ♥ ♥ Billy 10th Feb '55- 10th July 2020 ♥ ♥ ♥

I'm on a computer now, and those hearts are blue. When I was using that cheap phone, the hearts were red.


October 17th, by the way. Leanne's birthday.

She used to have the year too, but; women.
I know what you mean. I sometimes think autocorrect is a malevolent and sentient entity. The more you fight with it the more it fights back.
The Soufflé isn’t the soufflé; the soufflé is the recipe. --Clara 
I've conquered my inner demons. The demons of technological society and its future are still something I have to deal with. Don't worry, conscientious nonviolence is at the top of the list of my Useless Path. So I won't be sending bombs out of my cheap one-room room.

But nastyass shit is still going to come out of my mouth.

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