19 November 2008

pablo vision

fuck-drops make entity

Fuck-drops make pink, bulbous, screaming entity fall from the cunt; a screaming bundle of liq-uid-shit and vomit. What a tedious and common miracle; delude yourself not: this is at least eighteen years of your life pissed down the toilet, in one careless moment of inadequate pre-caution. What cowardly squeamishness prevented you from reclaiming your own life back? Was it so dull that adding such frustrating and demanding and thankless torment and restriction into the mix seemed somehow appealing? Were you such a slave to tradition or, worse still, insane instinct? And will you lie to yourself and others, how worthwhile it all is; so special, and so fulfilling? Will you imbue its pig-like features with spurious resemblances, like the face of Christ in the anus of a dog? And will you mistake familiarity, duty, self-delusion, and hormonal chemistry, for some kind of deep love? How often do you allow yourself the time to regret? How often do you think what your life was, and could have been, without this life-sucking leech? And what of the slackening of cunt and drooping of tits; sleepless nights; gibberish and drool?

Such lack of perspective, you cry, such bleak one-dimensional viewpoint - what of the joys? What joys, I say (rhetorically, for I have no wish to tolerate your stupid assertions)?!!!? Would you willingly choose the educationally subnormal for social company? Are playing brum-brums and choo-choo trains really that rewarding? Is that paternal smile on congratulating some fin-ger-painted splodge a smile of genuine happiness? Have you willingly swapped all of this, for fucking in every room in the house, wild debauched parties, and freedom to move from place to place at will? Were your lives that dull that this boring bondage actually seemed appealing? Were conversations with your lover so excruciating, that you really wanted to punctuate them with spoon-feeding and irritating interruptions? Is relaxing on the beach with your brat screaming and throwing sand that much better? And the exciting nightlife…how wonderful to bypass any chance of life, and move straight to middle age; how simply excellent to drag push-chairs around the pyramids; and how much the little fucker appreciates all of this.

And they grow older. Instead of smiling dutifully at misshapen plasticine snails you applaud your offspring’s woeful acting and singing, listen grimly to their painful stories, and try and as-cribe cuteness to that which is not. What the fuck is wrong with you people????? Why the look of horror when I tell you how I detest the little bastards, and become nauseous at your photo albums and homemade movies? Can you only convince yourself by this incessant enthusiasm for this sort of hell? How my toes tighten and cringe in the presence of your wonderful prog-eny! How many times when you are asked about yourself do you drone on about your fucking children instead?

And they grow older still. Embarrassing children with hormones and tantrums convinced that they are adults and individuals, pathetically allowing other fucking teenage-child-brats to influ-ence their every thought, taste, and action. Just see how they will thank and reward you then! How supremely and sublimely superb to think of your precious baby out getting wasted and getting fucked - and which fuck-drops will make more bastard entities then?

How old will you be when, and if, the bastards finally leave home? What will you have left of your own life then? Do you honestly believe that these little shits, who never asked to be born, will owe you something when you need looking after?

Are you so bereft of the social skills needed to find real friends that you create these entrapped hostages for company? Have you failed so miserably with your own lives that you wish to start again from scratch, vicariously?

But without children, what of the future, you say? Fuck the future, and this dismal species, if it so disdains living life, and is so scornful of freedom, that it jumps at the chance to commit this sick suicide.

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