I Get A Lot Of Enjoyment From The Fact That Bugcatching Is Done With The Hook. Like Imagine Walking Down

i get a lot of enjoyment from the fact that bugcatching is done with the hook. like imagine walking down the street and this 60-year old one-eyed asshole is impaling butterflies and grasshoppers with a rusty hook and chain and shoving them into his pockets. you don't need to do all that sir you can just use like a bug net or something like the rest of us

More Posts from Rhythmsquid and Others

rhythmsquid

3 months ago

Tuesday January 14th 2025 - On The Subject Of KondemningYourSoul / Love Fool

Somehow I'm kind of tearing up, Iim suprised surpsid , ive been sweating all day, and maybe my eyes were a little wet over the course, im suprised im not dehydrated, or maybe I am.. I'm a sickly sort.. I'm a lovefool, I'm really head under heels and congealed blood and fat. My head aches constant, I get some sense of terrible overwhelming pain, flashing of tormenting images in the brain, things I want to see , wnd things I don't, like I'm young again, the mind drifts to places I wish to not go. I constant miss that girl again, I don't understand myself. I miss her , And i miss Her, and then I miss you, and I miss me. Taking a nap, taking a close at the eyes no longer can help, if ever, for these things chase me everywhere I go. Dreams strike at my soul, sickness plagues my peace. Beautiful women, purity in faces, professional curiosity and improfessional unprofessional nonconfessional gaze and impressionable chants of love and taste, hungering and loathing.. My body jolts against the uncomfortabilities of my own skin, I'm no better I'm no worse. I'm in haze, old me return, new me resolve, retribution of spirit, fall short, fall falls short, losing my time .. The tantalizing land of wonder und dreams, drape of shadow which follow my every move, nothing now seems so bright or magnificent, 15:50, put down in mind, wake up 5 hours later when I was busy wishing I never would have. I don't feel up to par, five strokes from the goal and fifty yards from my heart, watch it walk away and feel self slip like some kind of evilous number.. my head hurts still and it's a day later , i feel unreal , UGH . This is the kind of thing called dissociating, this isnt some playground fucking term. This is Hell, this is horrible. I want to be me , I want to feel me, and I can't do either. This isn't fun. This isnt hashtag hash it out with a friend or family, I can't explain it, I can't fix it. Therapy couldnt cure this sickpy feeling, I know because I'm not a fool, and I know the kinds of things these cognitive behavioral bullshit shrinks pull. I have much to write, but it doesn't come out right. I'm having stiflings in the work, the month long stiflings, of the dystopian future and such. 33.8431° S, 151.2843° E Take a leap across the gap in my heart and head. I feel like I'm you, how many times must I write it, before I shall forget I ever knew a relation between you and I? 26-DEEPJOY-88 bpm Ramble and rate, the thimble thunder and debate, sixty six percent six feet under such sexual sequences of soulless abandon, work and work keep on working and living in a place you dont love. Educate me and birth me here, force me to die here, I want to die to take myself somewhere else. I slip through your arms, slip through my own hands, slip like to clay, but all over my arms. Compress and say , Oh dear do I hope to find someone dear some day. I hate the way you look at me, I hate the way you talk to me, pain is all that wakes this ugly fool, half a woman half a hound, good for nothin men all throughout my life, and I'm something half-pint short from just another one of them. Sweating like a pig und living like one too, ayuda me, por favor, lo siento por mi poor favours

Love feels like some kind of lie, for I fail to feel it more often than not. I said I wanted to go to a funeral only because I hate my home and hate this scenery, I feel only slightly bad for the natural passage of what we call time, this thing we call aging, the final passage of this horrid survival, this horrid life. Put on a sad face, or a mourning one, block out the face of multitudinous facial warpings, the faces of a face of another, How can I say how much you mean? When I know not what that might mean, what do you mean? And so I wish I knew, struggle and stry, stray and strawberry, I like to imagine I once knew the taste of you, but I know the truth, that I know not even of how you smell, no fragrance nor scent, not even sweat nor stench.. I pretend instead I may have once felt your blood, and I do so with my own, with my pen, it belongs not to me, and neither do you. This world is not ours, and we are not long for it, sometimes I hope we meet again, in someone else, in ourselves... But I can't be sure I will ever get my own flesh back.. maybe you could say th3 same. I won't pretend I'm you, but I won't pretend either that my mind doesnt trick me, doesnt lead me to wonder sometimes if I'm not so unlike you. Does it get better for women like you? Did it? And how about fools like me? If it never gets better for you, then surely I cannot expect it either.. 10:47 January 15th 2025