Personal Taboo

You might as well have been f*cked from behind and you wouldn’t have done anything about it, as well.That feeling is what I’m talking about. That sinking feeling of silent grieving over your inadequacies morphing into shackles that leave you trapped. You can’t even claw your way outside, act suddenly all ferocious and volatile because, well, you’re not. In the first place, that’s probably why you’re standing there as the world unloads truckloads of cum on your mom. Yes, it’s also that. That typical perspective is what I’m talking about. That typical perspective of malicious, dirty and sick thoughts that forms a crust all over the mind. Bubbling, popping each second, the viscous dark green liquid submerging the brain, turning it into an ugly revolting monster soaked in phlegm. So you begin to talk about moms getting unloaded with cum, fetuses boiled in Chinese soups, bosses’ necks tied with a rope, their backs whipped raw, their big mouths stuffed with anything filled with muck,  youngsters brutally raped and murdered. That’s it. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. That kind of perspective which could only come from the most restricted of all beings, the most repressed and compressed. These thoughts are the pieces of garbage, the decaying materials that we just wanna hide and extinguish. But they can’t be extinguished as long as there are people who might as well have been f*cked from behind without ever any fairy nor wizard coming to their rescue. No happy endings to expect, no saviors coming down from the blue heavens which probably scorn our phlegms of existences anyway. It’s all these people can do, watch a freak movie in their heads while other people laugh and spend. Because at times, I think, some of us, we share that tranquil feeling of being run over by a speeding truck, our beautiful guts splattered on the roadside. We share those amusing but disturbing smiles as someone else derives physical sweaty bliss from our tortured state. I’m talking about that because we share that. But few have the time and talent to describe how complex that natural process is, so I did it myself; that complex natural process, a work of genius, of being slapped, tapped, and unloaded on. There’s no solution. You just turn the experience into the myth of the day, and tell every expectant face at home that you’ve had a blast of a time from the moment the alarm clock screamed “Time to live!”

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