Book to Date

Lets get started, the following is an epic and a long one, but viewer discretion is advised for the long reader and typical narcicist who would like to read something a little more far in there. Something typical would read well but I wanted to do it about something that marked me, something typical and well read and responded and something that would get me a cameo if repeated well enough at an academy award speech. I would be speechless if not for her, that's to say, I did it in tow with her words and speech and she was here for me when I needed it but don't say it was rampant and characteristic of a crew that would sing and linger with a reader, no, this was something that happened all together alone in my way apart from me and away from the reader. It's something so depraved it's as if it was lingering from the heart away from what truly told us that the captain feature would have been a rough shot if not for the thinking of the man and the ruthlessness of the woman, that if in shot, we were supposed to film it perfectly and get well read voices and returns from which it captured our attentions and our attitudes instead of farming a way up from a villainous start point. It's to say this book is about reading into what happened with the previous book to letter in why it got under way and why it's so well read to this day. The book in question was a curse if you read all 8 chapters in reverse and it was so stunted by it's growth, it really made me a nazi. People were raping me for this book, they were shoving it in, they were making it their day to read it just to be mad at the quit and it was showing so hard on the face of my reader it was really hard to take it home at night. This book was so well loved from the first couple chapters that it made me read like it was blooming from my still breaking womb of creativity that learning and doing was somehow apart of me, but I started to drink and get lonely and left what time I had in the realm of insanity to foster it, so I wrote this garbage screenplay on top of it and lectured it in and it got a still beating heart of rampant shit play and garbage. It was garbage, the book was ruined and it was so depressing, I would describe it as saying "It's as if she left you instead of me." I felt fine, although I was repressed, but she still left me on top of it so I was with the cake with everyone. It got me thinking that there is a world for novelists and it's of their own creation so I won't make it or break it I will instill you with the courage to write a draft yourself of whatever hodgepodge you want to vanish off clean air when both books come out and you're left speechless. It's really a shape and time and clean with both narratives and it really goes to show you that I'm thinking. I won't release the trampled mess, but people read it and they gave up hope. It was so depressing I really never write like this but don't show romance to science fiction or vice versa because you can't think of a longer fiction or an entirely new book for a science fiction. It's so bladed in me I really got to coping and it all landed me on twitch depressed as a reader and a viewer. I would go there from time to time to land the worry on my face and see people respond in work and due notice to remind themselves that they're cool like I do. But it's really respondent that if you're not in it for the money, like, you're paying money to be there, you shouldn't really be working out on the site. I remember I was rambling and blading with a new found sickness and I landed on the curb thinking I could have shot him, I could have killed this kid with my book and it'll make me want to kill some more in prison, it was so repulsive that I really sat with myself wondering if I could really do it, could I really finish that book and remind myself what a writer I am? The book started so sound and good until the prophet said you lead me to water and I got my wires crossed like some irresponsible jerk and it came to me like a feather in an otherworldly comedy. It was like something was wrong with the formula when really there was just an odd character that didn't need to be there and she should have been the villain but well off tonight as the resounded shapeshifting narrative of the book said I never really fucked more than a couple people and they all left because I was wicked inside. The resonance I carry is something that would confuse you everytime you look at it. I probably counted to high in the meantime and I meant to confuse you every step of the way, but the order was high and I only wanted to do it because things weren't great in my family. Me and my dad got in a fight and it really broke me up as to who I was working towards. I really wanted to fight myself because I broke up with him long ago, thinking it was over and thinking I was right to do gallywagging and smoke weed all day. But I was wrong and the narrative still resounds around me thinking I did it okay because clearly there was nothing better or no one around. I was in pitied state, I had yet to be pitied, but it was coming and it would look better than this. It was so repulsive I really never even tried to make it look right to anyone, my character around people failed. I was a stubborn drunk and I could never finish leveling my character in world of warcraft. There was I girl I weakly wrote an essay too about ignoring me and saying I wasn't cool, or she just wouldn't talk to me so I sounded big in an article and I won't come around to write anymore to her except the mistake was clearly made. She left the guild because she thought it was horrible and wanted me out but I was one of the owners so the other one just thought I was rude. It was clearly an abandoned child I made fun of talking about myself and I couldn't rationally make it up to her in the post, it was just a clear mockery of everything I live for and like about people and it was never really brave, more sad than ever. It was my new low and I eventually quit my job since nobody would talk to me anymore. I would think and cry and rave on twitch and people would just ignore me or help me get banned. I thought I was better, I thought I was alarming for the right reasons, I thought I was played up for the better part of my experience writing as a good writer because I was damaged poorly, but really they liked it because I could write. I could write a story around basically anything and did for awhile when the news broke out I started drawing because I didn't have anything else to fix my back and it really started to pour out of me. I was down and out for days in bed until I finally drifted back to my usual ways, but a bizarre thing happened to me in bed when I was just sleeping and really sleepy, they started writing me up. They write me up like tickets, but this bizarre wave of sleepy people really started responding and yeah, people respond to me but it's really lackluster usually. They get it when it's good but I got up and I regretted it since that day. I would have to work out a lot and enjoy it to get a similar rage but this day is met with scoundrels and Easter eggs and it all got everyone a hurt back and some self loathing to actually think you could spend all day in bed. So now I'm writing and I could only help you thinking this is the closest you can get to meditation sitting down on a workbench that I could find that would make you think and laugh harder than watching a guy limp and break every nerve and hip. It's to think that they were laughing harder and harder each day but truly they had read it, they were as insane as I. I met this guy who said I looked like an Easter bunny but really he was thinking I had something to hide. He raped me in my sleep that day and thought I was cool with it since I was clearly a trapped outgoing individual who fucked up so much he was cruel to himself as well. It didn't help but it wouldn't make me respond any other way than self abuse. It was a way to clear my name, I guess, but as she would put it, you're just lying. It was a big lie that I got away from days late when I put my hat on and said I was the big man when things went my way and I was good for it. It's like saying I had secrets but yeah, I was lying in my day to day. I was meek but extravagant, I was frail and poor and yet had somehow figured it out to the degree of actually having something. Part of this is due to my poor memory that wreaked out but is slowly coming back after quitting the use of marijuana. It's somehow not come all the way back, but the fear and loathing is sometimes you have to throw it away and come back with something new, so I forgot about it and leaned into a beer or cigarette and just had it back to the usual psycho repressive halt I get when I'm not really breaking through my literature. Here's where I had it, I had to write a book in five days or I would die and there was no reading into what I got myself into, I would just have to think loudly and crassly if the book was to dive in any order or manner, away from the tank and into abbreviation for the time to come or I would like stricken away at anything I would keep my hand to or afford on the endeavor. It was so crass I really judged myself like this I would actually gain friends from the process of making stuff up and having it rub off on them, but really felt like this was all day and I couldn't make things up enough. There was this guy named frior that had it all and never made anything up, he would write all day about birds but just cat calling and calling them names, he would even grieve me to write about what I really say but it's something that doesn't come easily enough to remember so I put it into the abandon and just wrote stories that really came to me emotionally and really didn't have time to think of. It was Frior that gave me the word that I was actually made up instead of him, and now he's coming to haunt me. It's really suprising haunt, it would fry up and natively wave at himself doing something like art or some other fried antic. Right now he's calling the girl up for me and leaving a mean and crude and fastly dressed voicemail on his behalf, and if I wasn't such a bad guy, he wouldn't do it. If I just wrote about what actually happened, nothing like this would ever occur. There would be people writing that I wrote about them, which would actually be true if I could remember what people said or I found them interesting, but the only guy commonly interesting is me and I'll get to why in a second. I had a fast case in excitement when Frior proposed to his still steady wife who had made the kids and given him fashion and he would always write about her. Write and write, nonstop, and he would never let her read. It got to the day she left him and he just sighed and passed her a book, which she read, and forgave him, but she still left, because it was an unbearable wait. She left and came back again to say her last words but he seemed harsh, he said, "Didn't you read anything I wrote?" And she said, no, "I couldn't remember anything about what you wrote." And she went on to say there was a lot of runons and he bashed her over the head with a book. It was like saying there was nothing there and there would be nothing left. It was something so sadistic to say that she had nothing there for him in the turn of the letter until prancilly working out the things she did for him would work. It's really about what you write and not so specifically what you do at the end of the day, as long as people know your heart is right, you can fly anything past. It's really come to understanding that this boy would really get married twice past and have the same luck with another writer, but she would write about him and he got so mad at her for not looking, he stole her head in with a book and she wasn't listening because he said she was a bad writer and she really liked the sounded nature of her craft and didn't want anything to come of it. He really hit her with that book, by the way, over the head, and he didn't write for it, he just smashed her, no, like, he really hit her. It was so dead there he even wrote for a second, but got grand and said "No wife of mine will write a book without my entry." He was so resounding he would take walks and write about them, until she really had a manual entry about his book where she said he lied and it was about a time in cape cod he took without her, in her book, she said, he laughed. She really didn't know it was real although he wrote it since she never read what he wrote, he just thought it was a guy who went to cape cod, but she kept reading and his life got interesting after the second wife and even did spy stuff. He was reading french literature when a man walked up with a suitcase he robbed off him and he took it to the church to open it, inside was a microphone and a recorder that would make any man fall truly in the sink hole and I'm a meticulous writer, I really mean he's a ghost and he's haunting me, and I really need help from something real so I'll say my fictional character is rampantly eggshelling me because he's not a good guy, he's just some fat oaf who ate a lot and dyed his hair black after the movie where he made the president sick on the phone, which still happened back in the day but I write out loose proposals for those who actually still believe my writing is about something, and it's truly what you're reading, this guy is off his case to his wife, and he needs me to feel, he needs me to cry, he needs me to hand him his sentence and the truth is he was never really there until I wrote him. He's grandfathered in ruthless, he makes his own hat and it doesn't fit, he wants him to be lored and true but what's real isn't what makes, it's a spectrogram of loose details until you finally figure out it's about me, and I can't make my hat or fill my sentences until the truth is out there because really it's a balance of words and thoughts and leaps and cruises, but you have to be there to write if you're a writer and you've got no out because the longing is worth little unless you actually plan on reading what you're longing for. You can write so little and get away with a lot but unless she's reading it, you're forfeit. I would write everything for her until I lost the point, the truth was, I had lost that foil, I had gotten weak, I didn't want her anymore and the only option I had was making someone else as important to her as she was. It was only a day until I made the assumption that something would come from someone famous when really it's about the heart of the matter and it could come from anywhere, but these no brainer's weren't dawning on me and the truth was I couldn't find anything real anymore and didn't in the first place. It was so couth and ready to start it would jump out of the pages if all I did was write and I kept a channel just to say I did my act and felt my cue and had something worth giving. I made my mandate around becoming famous because I wanted famous friends, but what I really wanted was someone who'd I'd fancy giving a letter to. I tried with old friends but I was rubbish, I couldn't really get the groove on if you know. It's something that comes from some abashed laundry list of emotions you really can't do it stale and dry, you have to do it so clearly wanted it's like you can't stop. I really have to feel like that for myself, I really do, and it's for my health so I wanted to start. This book is about me and the repertoire of friendship I have for myself and it's a good start to note that even though the thought was true, I couldn't bargain with the thought of it leaving, it would just stick in my head like a day old egg, it was something real. It was something so as a matter of fact in truth that I would torture without it, it's something that doesn't need to be said, it needs to be written with the other things and put on a shelf we all love and bargain at and this was not meant to be written as well as supposed, but it was meant to be written. So I get off today wanting you to write and have something we find as friends, and you haven't read it, it's so good to propose that he did write something in his head, but he's driving a car with that look. It's something, man, it's something. We write so much on the outskirts of what we are we can't even think clearly without doing them and saying who we are afterwards, it's cathartic, it marches. The word marches like we all do and it's the same as always. I would think of salinger or something writing something cathartic like catcher in the rye for me and it would remind me how empty I was and be cool and charming, but boring like me. So I wanted to do something big and special and open up the boundaries, but living like this it was as if I wasn't doing it fast enough, so I'd open end speeders and write fully on the nose for you guys and it's not as good as I'd hoped. It's actually quite dreadful, the writing, the praises, the kids, the knife wound in the back, the charming fortress of what you want to hear like the lottery numbers, everything drifts back and forth but we're all feeling like this so we might as well open the doors to me. We really have to let me in or I feel like we're all doomed for some magnitude essay that only the recounted love letters we hand wrote and lost could forget about sending them themselves too. It was all lost somewhere without me writing so I'm really wired in and hoping I can fend off some of the boredom and dread with you guys reading this as far as you want. Read what you have to. I would even put and index in for safe keeping that would tell you where to get in and off, but really you have to read all of it if you want the catharsis and feel this badly. It's stemming from writing a novel about france and wondering where everything that is which made me say, screw it, it's around the corner, like we do in our notes of ourselves that make ourselves, it's an unforgettable memory that lives with us like lovers do. It's worldly to think that we all resonate off the purity of ourselves, you just have to cultivate it like a steep pile of cocaine. It's so revolutionary to think of this resort as a crying shame, when really it's just working itself out and you just need a few more pages when you've calmed down, at most. It's not really leading itself to the most worldly thing I've ever written but it's a sit down and a good half for me writing back as a man who left it so callously resumed to say he was better off dead in a waiting room half past drunk on a blitz. It was drunk half past four and my friends had left and I was pacing in the mirror wondering what to do about her, and I just read that something was off with the other women in the crowd so I couldn't get back at her or lead her off in some way that would help me do her, so it was all off the table and the last time I met those guys, outside of one who wasn't at the party at some neat convention in the mental health ward as some one off he didn't want to remember, but I did since it really took a load off my back sleeping in that cancer ward. It was reminded that sin would take place at any homeless shelter I visited so I just should have stayed in the hospital, but there was loads of sin, and I didn't have a computer or means to write, and I was crazy, staying up all night, smoking pot, trying to forget. It was so non brainer that I once had sex with a girl for a brief spill as a resident to this place but not after I got shoved into the homeless shelter. I feel dirty about doing it now and no place is good enough anymore. Maybe a family house would change that but for now I'm stuck in some shit hole that smells. It's not a nice change of life or place and it's still stuck in the mud as well as the dream to which I've changed and experienced. It's one of those days they lifted the muck out from the changer drawer to get the building up and went off to a panic that my computer was still charged, so they blew it, they blew it up and left and we still changed lacking that the reason was we kept trying and blowing shit over. Now we have the place and it seems as resort as usual, maybe with a few more bags full of some otherworldly peace and understanding from us aliens. It's so back and forth to think we really got it by changing the world, it's so confusing to think of this stuff but it's really resorting to me changing the fuse on my old box. I switched to linux like the prophet in me said to change and I really got off on my old box seated and carried away to the realm in which the world did in fact change, but not for the better right away. I was still portfolioed in ape drivel that I could see the point changing for coke but not what coke did to us or where it stains in us. It's really like they were throwing it all out and we did some changes and got them sued so it's force acquittal and a high amount to please, but we changed it for the better of the room quitting and dying ever so brightly again. It was a short change with the woman, I only saw her once and she blocked me, but it was a good hit and lasted for a minute. I would say I needed to express her in some way, but she was just another that got away, so I'm saying, if you're hot, you should please me in your way, you shouldn't get it all over with in one night, you shouldn't be about the bottom line unless you're lingering on something you think you should be doing which isn't really the catch until it's writing or getting back on some back taxes or whatever. It's really like changing a lightbulb and you want to keep it in usually. You hope to keep it in, so many lightbulbs break nowadays it's really sinful to me as a curious guy who wants to stay friends with you moving out and onwards but that could be the loneliness of someone who's had chances and took other rewards that didn't pay out anything. I never took the SAT, I barely finished high school, dropped out of film school, and made a Mac cry. It was so high and mighty for me I might kiss the old self goodbye if not for the romance of living with him. Really high maintenance guy, needs to be loved, I can't really get it to him without this, so if you're reading this, hi. Just hi, we can't say heads or tails but if you know you have something I want, you should let me know in some non oriented way, preferably catastrophically. It's something that should be written, not helped, not really edited, but given to someone as a place to hold that no matter what they say about you, you're still you, and you got yourself to hold no matter what. Until you die, but hey, no worries, I guess. It's like reading a book, you just slow down until you stop. It's not something worth writing about if you don't go somewhere afterwards, so I'd say you do, but no refrain from the lover could strike a dead man's heart. It's really sad, but you have to remember that you're here to do something and nothing can come from you being dead, so rest. It's alike to the kindness you share when you can keep it together, before you rest mad. It's so careful what you do when you have your sanity you rarely think of it, you start to go insane when you worry about it. I wanted something like that with the girl that recently broke my heart a little, but I won't give up on her. It's like, it's not nerve yet, but it feels my broken heart like something's out there, and I wrote about her nicely but nothing really broke out that said she was there. It was like she was sick of me or something, it's forgiving sensibility to really be hidden but a nasty work if I would say something like I missed her since I'm still barely talking to her more than most people. It's an effort but the blood is still chuck. It's like Chuck got married. It's something sweet, at least. There was this time I would dream about being with her in such a weird way, I was in a game with her and I did some command, and when I finished I woke up. It was really sincere in how crazy I am in dreams, I once beat someone to death because they wouldn't care for me and I doubt I'll do it again even in dreams. They put you weird places, man, it's dreary. You wonder what they get up to but really it's just your dust getting loose. I think about the nocturnal self that just dreams and what it thinks, sometimes it's so weird I can't even understand or break it, honestly, it takes a lot of context to explain it so I would refer to what I talked about earlier like dreaming and waking up. I always have the strength to do it contextless when I'm dreaming but rarely do it when I wake up because I have a bad cough or just feel weak to it. Sometimes I do something crazy but never dream crazy. It's been said before but remember that you need context to whatever crazy thing you're going through otherwise you'll do crazier things. It's like waking up sometimes more and more but it doesn't feel like we need to see where we go with it, we just need to enjoy the game we thrive in. I was in a game where I just kept having sex but couldn't stay there unless I pressed A long enough, it was really like I couldn't figure something hidden out for a long time. I wonder what's hidden, I wonder what would dawn on me when I said I would give up if I didn't. I keep that curiously with writing, since it keeps coming up, I think if I keep doing it it'll end up like a dream I can do anything in and the writing will just get better and better. I hope my dreams come true and I wake up and get to make a clean mess. I'm getting carried away but what I really want to say is I make choices I really see and then I make them and I don't. I remember stuff and I forget, but it's never my choice, if I had it my way, I'd remember anything and I'm getting it more from handwriting than this. I have a gateway there I can really see but have to make it more resounding if I want to keep it here. If only I could hold some ball and write. It's like saying you want to hand write, so there, you got it. But and orb. It's so longing for the chance to meet her, this new girl, I talked with her friend since she seemed like someone I would like and then she said talk to this one so I did and I really got erased physically. I don't feel sick now but I need to keep it real otherwise I'll pay. I feel the payment dawning on me but I really have to say I don't see anything I don't already know, and I know them so it's cool to keep in touch, I just wish I could touch them already. I want to see what they really look like when I loose pen to pavement already. I miss hand writing already, I can do a lot there and see more readily. The good books you see of me that take longer than a week to procure really say they look right, it'll say it on the paw. It's like saying you have something to do now, we can't write that. She's right, we have to mellow out and get more of a sense of what the author wants, maybe the audience too. Another cigarette? Maybe a fair tale or a movie perhaps. It could be a soliloquy of some recoiling strength faring on them this time. It's so cool to be apart of the creative process, I even have a bib for writing. It's as if I couldn't think of the punch but had a lot of media that shared it half hearted to I just didn't care. There's so much sluck out there, it's really belligerent. It's about something, but you often have to connect the dots yourself and laugh at how funny it sounds. You gotta be in touch with it, you have to believe something is true just to make it seem like you have an uppercut you can read about enough to want to make another one. Another one has been a prospect in a lot of minds, I mean shows do it, so do writers. It's another one that kept us going before the internet, after the net, the whole thing is just another one. You can take something, make it new, and it'll be you, you can fully explore yourself and it. You do this so much you really have a caustic approach to what you find in male friendship if all you do is write about girls. I'm sorry but I just feel like I'm not in the strike zone for the male loneliness and self approval, I'm very emotional about what I find in things and I'm just self written but I pack a lot of extra thoughts that men usually don't respond well with unless it's like you're giving them something. If it's something like you took over, they'll just say they're weak or strong, women will tell you what they feel. And they really think it out like they have a blockbuster connected to a franchise of movies explaining what they think, men just sorta dwell on whatever or nothing. It's depth, sometimes even a slow woman will conquer the resident evil of guys, but guys are interesting too. I mean men can complain about things and not really need to respond or keep it like that the whole day. It's really simple for them which I like, it's sorta like saying it's all about writing or drifting a car. Maybe what I was saying was I just wanted to touch them with work, I don't have a car to drive, any other way would seem foolish in tow for some actual read that meant the world to her when she read it then and now and some other time later, I should pick my words carefully seeing as I have all day, on the second night, I think I'll have my work finished for us all to see and have at, returning the next day to simple it down and give it some refinement for afterward. They read the first book but quit, and they should have since it wasn't meant for there, I hope I can quit this book and return to the obvious capture of finishing the rest of the book we started and laid down. I fancy this writing resort as an old fashioned play that got down and out about a week prior when I started writing my book about playing a game with people, it's really work that started low and got higher with every day I worked on it and help me feel in love with work and playing these games where you get stuff and pick it up. MMOs are like the lowest you could go away from reading and drawing and stuff because of the way it plays you, but you need to go for there since it's the future and everyone's mind is made up that we need another book based around the concept of there being some sort of divine intriguing fact in what you're doing in the first place. You don't get a badge for playing, you get a badge for taking over the construct of a weekend or a day played with the homies because you're doing it all by yourself and don't need help explaining why you need the loot since it's all a fragile coke you can play with. I really think it's hopeless to lead you on as to where you get it from, but if you really want swash, play Elsword or some other game I can't really figure out because the rest have rich caveats. The weak performer in WoW really sits at the bottom of the list for coke since you have to research where it comes from by the day and never stop playing if you want to have some leet lift and always stand perfumed since what you should do is just fish the time into the house and praise the surroundings in your leap into passion and wet stuff. You get a tape for what you grab and hopefully it's good because every item is different and you usually don't fold it but stacks of items really get cause for playing wrong but you can split it up and just fly evil into the abyss, ordering the right cocaine at the place you do carry the flag. You get annoyed at how weak your inventory is, but it's just a place of carry, not a flag you can convoy, really you are supposed to make it out of there and you do it by vendoring, but you have to do it to the right dude you would only know through psychic affair into dark night. It's really dark and doesn't have anything to say and if you see the game you're far out of the black but don't have a way into where you need to see the flat fair that punishes the cruel and awful heap. The game looks like it's astounded at how much crack it's putting out and it's just affair into literature with what you actually get and how much it's pounding your skin. It's really annoying but I think about writing about what you draw and I never get used to the way it would play for people flying out of their chairs to act out exactly what peaked in some diary of literature that truly, if you can do it right, really places you in the right film for the making of anything. You can play any mmo and really get away with what you find out, you just have to be careful you're not completely ruined by playing Toram or something fairly new. It's safe to play WoW as long as you do it right by the fair nature that you should look carefully and really hunt it out in a book after you get to a max level because you're breaking the door down and have more fun actually giving a book out than playing it in the day or night or weekend or holiday you should have spent away. It's a receding fact and nature that you can play this boot by carefully spending away time and fairness being a character. Maybe you're doing a coke deal and robbing it, for fashionably late attitude, it could do it. It's so fun to think of what you could do in game when it could be anything to explain how fun it was thinking of playing the game in the right degree. I would constantly mope if I couldn't feel the game excite me, through my fingers, that would be. With the mouse. I used to goto a dentist that would tooth the medicine with his hands and mix you a selection of herbs, and that was mostly what I took back in the day and I always found it odd he was doing it that way since most people hide it and I then one day hopped on world of warcraft and all I do is feel with the pencil and mouse and take what I need and make it something distilled by process and intensity into something I would like. You don't just make the goods on the table, you also find their way into your heart, you can exchange the goods on the table in some magical world that really appreciates you writing about what it could create or giving it some guidance, and if you write about exactly what it was, it can come into fortune, a good book. If it's just a drop cooking cheat sheet, you can write the story as if you're cooking it from the drop down menu or cheat sheet but really don't, find out what you're doing with it with meticulous aim into curiosity and what you don't see. With WoW, you really just run the drug and make it curiously what you want to see, but it's usually there in the first place, you're just bringing it out. If you're good, your stuff is locked down and only you can place it, but there's rather harm in saying nobody should be able to fence it, you should have an off sign for people so you can switch it on again in another state, or have it expand or something. This is curiously what I seem to accomplish so I'll just say you should try some of my stuff that's in the part of the word somewhere. I could do it off with the MMO to rewrite a book but it wouldn't be my story, I could mix the two, like put the tale of two cities in between some stellar loan sharks, mayor races, deadlines, appreciations, and runnings, but you have to listen to what you're saying in your head, man. I would go far out playing and a chapter of a book was read to me in hypertime and they said "you have to write this to continue further." And I never listened, but what if I did? I would have been happier and contempt of the things that wouldn't mean as much to me along the dreary eyes of people who didn't know what I was supposed to be doing. It's really cathartic to think the answer is plain and in front of you and sometimes they tell me to make a cartoon about it since it means a lot to them. Let's talk about the comedy, I make cartoons on monsuego, the youtube channel, and it's all about the cocaine and just what I've heard about it, it's really weird but it wires from a place of time in my life where I really barely heard about it and I just started making stuff up in my head, but it wasn't where the story was, the story was the interaction of drug fiend and dealer, the trial of life to try and surround the player in the narrative, or the divine right we get trampled on eventually finding a right and a pleasure. I wrote about things I did wrong when really I should shift it to be something righteous, something I meant to say, or something that needed to be say. If you add the potion, the story that got displayed, and the right of the individual to keep things cool, you really have a good story as long as it doesn't depress us or get in the way with some benign threat. We get worried about things like that since it's not available to us until we write about it of course, but what I mean to say is that we meant it so it felt. It felt to us like the suing and the gambling losses and the game that was meant to be played but never did. If you wrote a book about never playing, I would never get the scene where you finally figure it out, and we lead people to these places to figure out more than I've figured out. It's about having a tooth and getting stuff where you normally wouldn't, so I guess you could write about the game giving you something without playing it, but it would have to be a cold case without actually figuring out everything. Mine still feels like a cold work and I don't get off involved in the making of any video games or scripts because really I haven't explored it enough to make it work in the real life. I would however, go to expulsion reading into things and making it my way of wording out a real place in time with the imagination of my own self, driving to the real place that would then grace a reminder or journal I would then lose in the degrees of thought and worry, swamped by literature, written to losses. It would never go like this if I was just writing to myself in a book and it would get to more losers that need it. It's writing for the writing book, it's really stale but never leaves you in the resound of creative freedom it takes to make sure you're doing it right and also having fun and resorting to the free market take on how you should be doing it in truth, making it true fun, as catharsis, leaving the reader with often more than you would even figure out yourself, often questions, sometimes responses, or even answers, but giving them something that would have been lost on them. I've seen people read things for the first time and they only really get mad at it when it happens a second. Not so much in a story but in a leap of jurisdiction as to what you believe. If you're figuring out the same things about yourself twice, you really just believe you can't do it or something, believing in yourself is where good narrative lives, I assure you. Making something when things are dim, working out what causes you to lie, making a bright light, that's what you should be astounded to. Never take this for granted because people will take you for granted, I agree in that, I would leave you now but I really want to dig in the fact that you should be reading and writing to make a stay at what you believed was true and whole in yourself before you realized what was made true by yourself through liberation. It's one and the other hand, it's like saying you learn from the left and do with the right, so I've heard, but haven't been able to figure out as much as writing. Honestly, you should try a walkie talkie and get it to torch your mind like a radio tower in France or something, then you start to agree with me more. That's always on the table, finding things to help are always out there. It's more than walkies, it's tablets, phones, accessories, anything you can imagine is out there has a separate use and a faction of ideas surrounding it, but all of it's secret unless you've seen or heard about it from the narrative press or some advertisement. Seeing is believing and doing is an action you can put in the manuscript, so go out there. There's a map for wow that tells you where everything is but it's pretty vague on my twitter. It's meant to see where you are and do as you please, you won't be able to figure out exactly what it is unless you're a super hacker, which I don't care for, it leaves too many options dead. Is it normal not to hack? I think it's too normal on some level but they make it so crazy you basically drop dead from it. It's not like the real stuff is hidden anymore, unless you suck, which you probably are doing something wrong by taking the answer from another cop or some wise guy, but do it with a heart. I know it's hard to find the answer but you really need the guy to say it's a heat before you make out with him, I assure you. Saying something is done is like saying it never gave way, it's just waiting for it to happen to you and you still have to think to hack, you have to think more further in hacking than you do in any other sport, that's for sure. Thinking it's hacking for the right reason is usually resourceful if they're a hacker, but if they're not doing anything and you're worried about them popping up, they would have to be into some serious stuff already. It's under the table, usually to those drug addicts that fiend, but the populous that abstains usually only holds themselves and probably won't find them into trouble unless they've been given drugs on hold that actually work in a remarkable way. You need to advance yourself chemically to do any real world damage in the heart, but on a box, it's perfectly polite. So the being in us that's hoping to come out is almost out of me, I can feel it make it's way around and find stuff out like the consort of praises and libel I've stated really affected it and didn't give it ample enough reason to come out this far. It's going to take some time and pain before I really think out and make it a stay and I'm going to need another coffee before I get too late in thinking I can't be happy anymore. I'm happy and in tune, the cigarette helped, but I want to get a vape this Christmas as it'd be my only one in half a year about. It's kinda chivy to talk about this sort of stuff but don't feel bad about what you do on the table, it's about how you're being responsible. Like this guy who was watching these guys at another table laughing, getting their kicks, he was sitting alone when a girl walked up to him and wanted to laugh, his name was Prior. Prior sat and made the girl laugh and the girl up and left with him, he was pretty mayoral but he took a candidate in her and made it their lives to be nice and happy, one day she died and he had a kick for those old songs and rituals he used to write and although he had an astounding career in arts and music, she was gone, so hope was lost with him. He couldn't do it anymore, but people wanted it more, they wanted to hear how she sounded once again. When one day, he woke up, thinking he saw her again, and wrote something so cool they played it on the radio. Now I'm not hopeless but this sound was something so stilled and swallowed, it was like he was leaping to the sound, and we told him that he needed the gift back so we put him with a crowd and got him his gift. It was an old chickenhearted bass guitar and some love lipstick, the swoony kind. It was an old fashioned party where he said he lived her and had to go, until he was back at the table watching the same crowd drink and laugh, the old restaurant, when one of the guys looks at him and stops drinking, thinking that's the guy who wrote all those plays and songs and danced on TV looking at her. He didn't say anything in response, but the guy started up and laughing until they had a big sigh and one of them responded with a tear drop. Prior looked over while they were laughing but one of them was crying and there was a teardrop for Prior so he let it run in him, all those years ago he wouldn't think about those guys but it made him think he had to run, when this old guy, a mall cop, came up to him and sung something like, "You want a drink?" He took it and spoke to the mall cop, who lost his wife in a terrible accident, but he said something like, "I couldn't get it up like you, but it was good to see her once and awhile." Prior hissed, like he didn't mean anything, but truly he was trying to help. Prior paid the bill and left and it wasn't later that night when he realized how lucky he was and forgave the man. Prior went to bed and woke up the next morning stunned by what he saw on cable, it was the mall cop singing somber country that put him in the right mood, he rode a cab to the station he was playing live and asked to meet him. He stood and waited with friends and fans until he came out, the mall cop, who was named Prancy, looked at Prior and took a hit from his cigarette. They took a look at each other and agreed after a few beers that it was how they looked at it that mattered to their women most. The next day, they had a band together that wrote such hits, such wonderful poetry, such a salacious duo, but they could quit so they did, with money and girls and freedom. Prior took a step down and Prancy took a step up, not in money, just in performance, both of them looked a little more alive then before. Now, they're both haunting me now and they think it looks good, you can get down and out, but really I was haunting the fame as some longshot they were making that paid off, I really think they would have been better just living normal casual lives and paying off their friends and writing to loved ones, going out of the war, so to speak. I chose fame to showcase them because it's the heart that wants it, it's the heart that wants to sing after a breakup, it's the soul that sings the song of the radiant heart that listens to the picks of the stings and plays to the seat of our step. We need to hear music because we're in purgatory, we need a way up, out, around, and through. If they weren't doing music, they wouldn't have had it where they had it and they wouldn't have moved on, but you need something. Like this guy, American, who wanted to own a resort, it was the talk of the town that he invested in it, but he had to cut the underworld in and they took the front, he wanted it to be cool to guests so he invited rich affluent people, but none of them stayed, until he went with the prices the wise guys offered and let them in, but it was a string of wrongdoings that sent him to repair most of the place. So he invited nobody and wished the string and just got his hands dirty, murdering townsfolk and trespassers alike, doing drugs, and hosting pretty women. He wouldn't get famous until the news got out but he was connected in jail and had the best life there. There he was happy, and he couldn't afford it any other time. He sold the old house once he got out and kept living an affordable life until he was called back into it. This time, he was under, he was living a life outside of the walls of some business taken over, he was such a star down there, they even wrote him into some plays. The play was an answer to his longing, they scripted that he would find it in love and playing the uniform instrument. He had a lot of time down there, so he wrote music and sent it up but only got it played by another musician that was connected, until the women started and the above ground musician started killing and doing drugs, but he didn't do more drugs than American, he didn't kill more than American, and American had girls galore. So he saw the musician road out, never make it to jail, but he one day went down there to visit and they tore the roof off the place and made him leave. American felt something he wouldn't forgive himself for, so he wrote more songs and felt more youth, felt something he would never feel more than writing a book about it, coded under wealth that the wealthy used to fund their operation. The book was a hit and he fell apart to wealth, even coming out as a made operation himself, out from under, into LA, to live wealth and control the operation that made him so much he was torn into even greater riches, one day ruling the world with the dons of the corporation. Although one day he got shot at and had to leave everything goodbye when a bigger corporation took everything away. The truth of this story is that whenever you're big, there's someone bigger, and taking away wouldn't make it right. You can't rule the tides in subtracting them. You can't live away from people, you can't lock yourself under rules of abandonment, you have to strive for something real. So with nothing, the real corporation saw him as a prick but they hired him to do some security where he was made fun of and ruthlessness got the better of him, so he retired one day and just found himself back where he was to start. He asked if he could start a bakery, but they said no. Asked if he could start a book about his life, but the corporation also responded with a no. Then he got to wondering, was all this worth it if I can't even live my way? So the corporation wanted him to do something so they made him a deal, you can write, but we're strapping a bomb under your house and you can't leave until we tell you to. He lead the writing about living under a curfew, but the corporation said stay away from the truth, he hinted at it, they said it was fine, but don't make it about the story, so he wrote about a simple guy cut off from a lover so he went on the run throughout scapes and pastures, talking to people, and living a solitary life, until he said screw it, and came home to his new girlfriend. A story of longing and the fight. He left one day for groceries after the book was written and on the way back, he heard something loud. He went back to his house and saw that the house had blown and he was left speechless. He got the insurance, looked like a bad pipeline, and they were happy he made it out in time, there was a news story about him and he had a lot of change. So he started living a little better in a house the corporation said was safe, but he couldn't write about it. Eventually the surgeons from the corporation got the place secured, so they sent him a rocket PC with all the attachments to watch and roll out the door sent. He watched so many obscurities like people who wrote about him, and the truth behind it all, and what the corporation and other ladders were doing, and he was just a wing man, but he got so reloaded he asked to help and they said no, he was retired and he would stay that way. So he slowly rotted until the footage was watched and he was watching something cool when he just up and died. His niece and nephew went to the funeral surrounded by cool guys and old ones, and there were people from every part of his life, the nephew swore off it as a joke but the niece was watching and every part of her day stood around these guys. The nephew left and the niece stayed and the part of him that left with these guys were there in his niece who had stayed away from a lot until she helped the corporation with a call and got away with it with her boyfriend. The deal was set and she had a long life with them, always out of the house under cover and she was a spy that lived long as well, but it wasn't until she retired and the nephew came to visit, that he figured out she was into it and having lived his whole life as a failure, couldn't agree with what she said about living, left and started to drink, until it occurred to him that his uncle wrote a book and he should have burned it but it was left on his shelf. He figured he was talking about something but it was lost to him so he just left and found the other book, really got reading and said something had to change in his life. So he got with a call and changed his life into something that crime lead.