a reputation of being alive

Making love to a woman only for her to wake in the dead of night to find me perched on her fire escape like a gargoyle and I whisper “Dont tell the world about my penis” before I extend my arms like the Crow and drop backwards, breaking every bone in my body on the pavement below

@DeathlyPrice Bomberman also had this feature. The winners could stream themselves jacking off to the losers.

@KAaSuSQDndVyK0F Lol this video has shown up on my feed like 20 times in the past 4 days

トイレ駆け込んだらコレで鬱

HowlingMutant and I once had a very pleasant dm exchange where we both reminisced about being caught masturbating on 9/11. Suffice to say, I would die for him

magacock

when i die i hope a cute girl squats down and pisses on my grave 🥹 i’ll be so happy

I like watching Caseoh when I'm majorly depressed - caseoh is medicine for the wounded soul

Hate when a girl is walking on the sidewalk with a shirt tied around her waist like not every man is a creep trying to stare at your ass. What are you hiding anyways? Let me take a look. Let me see that rump. What? Can’t handle a MAGACock? You’re probably a skank anyways. Please

A Japanese person just followed me-- my ki has been restored, my heart is soaring once again, the world doesn't feel so small anymore

When you're watching anime and need to pee but the episode is so good you kinda just piss yourself on the spot. Anyone else experience this?

冷笑、差別の時代は終わり。 これからは熱笑、情熱、近親相姦。

デカイ肉 デカイ車に デカイ銃 メイクアメリカグレートアゲイン

男のパンツ脱がせた時にビンビンになってなかったら「私を目の前にしてなんだそのだらしないち〇こは」と女はキレた方がいい

At 40, Franz Kafka (1883-1924), who never married and had no children, walked through the park in Berlin when he met a girl who was crying because she had lost her favourite doll. She and Kafka searched for the doll unsuccessfully. Kafka told her to meet him there the next day and they would come back to look for her. The next day, when they had not yet found the doll, Kafka gave the girl a letter “written” by the doll saying “please don’t cry. I took a trip to see the world. I will write to you about my adventures.” Thus began a story which continued until the end of Kafka’s life. During their meetings, Kafka read the letters of the doll carefully written with adventures and conversations that the girl found adorable. Finally, Kafka brought back the doll (he bought one) that had returned. “It doesn’t look like my doll at all,“ said the girl. Kafka handed her another letter in which the doll wrote: "my travels have changed me.” the little girl hugged the new doll and brought her happy home. A year later Kafka died. Many years later, the now-adult girl found a letter inside the doll. In the tiny letter signed by Kafka it was written: “Everything you love will probably be lost, but in the end, love will return in another way.”

@Scearpo 💎

Imagine getting nuzzled by that gargantuan schnozz in the middle of the night, a limp manicured hand reaching out through under your arm and rubbing your bare chest with the trained motions of a courteous prostitute. A simulation of intimate desire from an unfeeling scab. Morning light through a kitchen window. Sallow dumpy ass squeezed into discount leggings, bare feet with wrinkled long toes, tilting up to reach for a tub of peanut butter. Two different flavors of Oreos in the pantry. A metal minimalist cross on the wall is paired with an "All things through Christ" quote in TJMaxx cursive. She squints at you through the dead eyes of a Saharan rug salesman while her toothy gummy smile stretches wide in a rehearsed fashion. Pictures on the walls with open mouth smiles. Haggard bare shinned kayak vacations and trips to Disney. A television in the living room cuts to commercial break, uttering "the past" in some product quote, only to trigger a vivid flashback in both of you. In your memories, youth pastor guitar sing-a-long. Donuts at the Wednesday night church meetup. Veggie Tales and Iron Giant on VHS. $15 sheet cake from the grocery store. Baseball practice. Hot dog barbecue. Getting yelled at for reading Eragon and feeling guilty about it. Mentally retarded golden retriever. Football tossed in the back yard. Spaghetti night. Only Wii Sports resort and music rhythm games allowed. Your first beer at 24. In her memories, blackout drunk rape bait. Getting fingered by her cousin at a Bat Mitzvah and liking it. Jello shots, mischling anal. Jean skirts and rattan wedges. Parents divorcing. Xanax. Coke. Alcohol. Cigarettes. The taste of spit in her mouth. Sucking dick for benzos. Psychiatric ward. Getting molested. Aesthetic "suicide attempt". Black boyfriend. Hanging out with black people. Keeping Up With The Kardashians playing on the TV while she passes out on Xanax. Scrolling through nose surgery before/after shorts on cocaine. Waitress - stripper - RN pathway. Every moment between the two of you is a pregnant pause and an awkward silence that gets filtered in your mind as the natural idiosyncrasies of any relationship. To you, anything is everything and is forever always. All is normal and all is good because there has never been anything else. You are a suppliant little slaughterhouse cattle being eaten alive while simultaneously rejuvenating your own flesh through sheer ignorant pleasance. Even when attacked by the overwhelming scorn of reality, you concoct fantastical martyrdoms to uphold your ego. It's not only not a problem your wife is ran through, it's your DUTY to be married to her. The instinctual discomfort you smother to death before it can even boil into jealous rage is simply your cross to bear. The more she has defiled herself, the more God rewards your forgiveness. All of it is upheld by the barest promise of guilt and shame on her behalf, a golem's inscription keeping you in a state of righteous indignation. Even as you subconsciously acknowledge the stark embarrassment of your circumstances through a Twitter confessional, you close your eyes and open your arms waiting to receive the onslaught. You know your love can weather anything and your Titanic heads directly for the iceberg as proof of resilience All the while she reads the gospel and writes in her shame journal. She has absolutely no fear of where her relationship is headed, not even in the depths of her husband's hubris. Every ounce of exposure to her shameful past only nestles further in the direction of the barbs her conscious defense mechanism has developed. There are no thoughts in her mind, no feelings in her heart. Unlike the cuckhold's rage fantasy, she actually doesn't think about other men or wish to be filled any deeper than what you can muster. She's not satisfied or unsatisfied, she's not anything. She has evaporated her conscious thought and is in a state of cosmic slumber. You tell her the name Jesus Christ and her material carcass repeats back "Praise Be" in Pavlovian reflex but there is no image in her mind, no stirring in her heart. She just latches onto you at night, pressing her palms on your chest and her chest against your back. A little fleshy backpack parasite, siphoning the childlike energy from you as you become an emaciated husk propelled by the performative signalling of your own relationship. You are essentially a married eunuch, a posterboy for being God's little garbage man. An ancient Roman slurry sluice to collect society's rejects, unwanteds, and scumbags. You are the grease that gets crushed and squeezed between the gears of civilization to keep society running in relative peace.

Some people base their worldview on reality and truth and thus can tolerate other opinions because they do not need their lies and self-deceit constantly reaffirmed and never questioned to avoid spiralling into cognitive dissonance.

Barista this morning (she couldn’t have been older than 19) had her breasts on display for me at the local gay coffee shop. A momentary reprieve from my disfigured existence. She smiles. I shudder and turn away. That will be $9.55 she says. I feel like a rapist. I try to leave without paying. Your beauty only exposes me. I’m on the verge of tears. She grabs my hand softly. “It’s okay. I see you.” I still can’t look at her. She rubs my triceps and starts undressing. “Not here” I say to her. “The Jews want us distracted.” I put a $10 bill on the counter and grab my decaf americano. She’s practically begging for me at this point. All women are manipulative whores. I give her a sly smile. “Follicular?” She jumps over the counter into my arms. I squat her 8 times, one for each ounce of coffee, and place her gently on the ground. One of the worst days of my life and I have nobody to talk to