The Barback and the Fishbait Mature content No. 25 Published March 8th, 2017 7:00pm pst read ( words) Past entries "Day after miserable fucking day we dream of the numbers and their function of defining the characteristics of the female form. Yesterday was one of those, and in spades. Every waking moment was spent considering such things, and then we went out to a gathering. Naturally, one of our first sights was a woman strolling about the venue -- midriff exposed, thin tank, yoga pants -- and that pushed us into an attempt to maintain composure around the others. We succeeded in placing a pleasant face on despite the difficulty in seeing yet another mathematical beauty. The people around us had no idea of what was taking place inside due to our well-rehearsed false front. Years of practice. Her fingers, arms, shoulders, and exposed neck were very well-proportioned to her small body, and we began to analyze everything along with a desire to walk straight into the fucking ocean. Again. There is no Goddamned outlet whatsoever. We are still, at this very moment, trying to calculate precisely why seeing her (just as others) caused such a breakdown. Tremendous effort was required to keep our distance but she was working, and that means she was all over the place. No sooner did we find a bit of distraction, and she walked by again... And again and again... Ponytail bouncing all the while. For Christ's sake, why? What goes on in the head to allow us such a fall? She was just a woman -- not perfect (there is no such thing, of course) -- yet very much aligned with our suffocating and endless need to know. And that situation leads to this. And upon every single occasion in which a woman arrives in our heads, we slide into the chair and proceed to throw the fucking information to the wind. And then we add images for referencing her appearance. And then we caption them appropriately. And then we archive, update, and publish. And then we rest from the issues within. And then we see another. And the cycle continues until we hit the fucking bottle. And then we drop severely. Ugh. This pattern, throughout the many years, is taking its toll on our mental capacity. In addition, the emotional issues are affecting our physical health, and the result of that bullshit is more alcohol and the beginning of us isolating within the office... very much alone. There is NO FUCKING Goddamned OUTLET. Just take a gander at the image below, and her incredible radii as they lead the eye all over the fucking place. Is it the sex? Fuck no. The whole thing is because of the numbers. There is nothing aside from the main point which may have started this shit... Yes, numbers. Just fucking math. Not sex -- mathematics, mechanics, limits That's right kids, this thing is now physically destroying us when in the past we only dealt with some emotional workings which could be alleviated from time to time. Now? Nope. We are slowly being ground into fishbait. And ----- is screaming into our ears but we haven't hit the bourbon yet. She had large, dark eyes (always something which galvanizes our vision) which proceeded to weld us in position several times. Thin arms, very sharp shoulders, and a neck tapering up to her gorgeous face -- all of it was there, and as such did not allow us to look away terribly often. We could not. We were stuck there for several hours and she was everywhere due to her job, and we ended up spinning, flying, falling into the familiar pit yet again. We know it well, and here we sit at the fucking editor trying to make sense of the whole shitaree. Goddamn it anyway. Perhaps we should just sell everything which is unrelated and not supporting this clouded endeavor and remain in the office forever. Maybe a little wet bar in the corner, too. And we can print all of these images and stare as we drown into oblivion. Eventually we will fall off the chair and be done with it. That sounds acceptable, right? Fuck it all anyway. We may be sans choice now. Oh fuck, I forgot we must keep a day job in order to continue financing this piece of shit space. If we cannot write and spread our disjointed thoughts and imagery across the Internet, we have nothing. Well, maybe we have nothing anyway. What is this? Are we in a place dictated by fate, or did we do this to ourselves? Answer the fucking questions. She was beautiful, shapely, upbeat, mobile, and young. So was her skin. It spoke to us and asked to be under the measuring tape. We answered by getting a refill. Heh. What else is there but the numbers? Well, nothing. Unfortunately, we do not know the numbers and so we shall just sit here and complain, wallow, whatever. The funny part of this site is the fact that we used to have a plan for the future -- some way to provide a tad bit of income so that the web space and domain registration could support themselves. We even went as far as attempting to build our own web servers to cut costs. Yep, that went out the window that fateful day years ago when we encountered the girl at the car wash. Is this her fault? Nope. Is the whole mental mess our fault? Probably. Can we deal with it and move along some sort of decent path? Apparently not. You are reading the evidence, and we have no reason to believe that things will change or improve in any way. This is a years-long slide down the fucking muddy slope and into a hole surrounded by the obsession and need. And we belong here due to our own lack of acceptance. Depression incoming. Alert the fucking media.The random image below likely originated from social media (read: scourge of society), however we could not ignore it. The woman is vastly out of proportion, however this is something which also originated at the car wash. That girl was similar -- thin with a large pair of breasts, and that pushed us to wonder about the measurements. Below, this woman is apparently quite proud of sculpting her body into the look she desired, shared the image, and the result is fascination on our end. There can be no denying it. The fact that her face is obscured adds a measure of anonymity for her, and creates mystery for viewers. The point of that image is the barback. Other than the disproportionate chest, the barback shared features with this woman. Yes, she looked similar. Oy. Numbers, tapers, radii (how many times have we typed that fucking word?), and a combination of curves which affect us badly. No shit. An unbelievable combination of shapes Over and over she trotted about the rooms taking care of patrons and maintaining cleanliness of the tables. Every time... we watched. No one knew because we are intelligent enough to do nearly anything without notice. That is dangerous yet necessary for our continued damage path. Or whatever it is. Or whatever we are (have become?). She looked every bit the part during each step. Her efficiency with regard to the work was exemplary. Our thoughts? Hmm... Reprehensible. The only positive would seem to be her not knowing of our dimensional deviations. She is innocent, and as stated in previous entries we are not the type to intrude. A compliment or two is fine, provided such things do not lead her to suspect any fucking thing aside from conversation. We cannot push at all. And this crap is all beginning to sound the same. Blah, blah, blah. Who cares? Fishbait. Fish emulsion? Something. This is an obsession which cannot be denied, no matter the effort. We are all in, and the fucking simple fact base remains: car wash, Julianne, Diana, Mercedes (part of the very beginning), or whoever-the-fuck, they all have been let into our consciousness by no one else. Just us. We did it, and we will not deny. The saving throws are few, leaving the resulting damage, difficulty, depression, and every single other negative facet we can describe. There it is. Well, we are not really trying anyway. There is no reason to change the path because despite all of this horseshit, we are still very conventional in other aspects of life, and the catharsis of this markup has value. Our misery can be quite creative -- and why not spread the anti-joy which is often capable of lifting others. Heh. Funny. So many issues have cropped up as a result of this obsession that we have trouble juggling the down and finding the up. Why the fuck do we need the numbers so badly? What IS that? Are we THAT fucked up inside? Send us an email with the answer. Now. Ha. Wrap her in the measuring tape and record our soul The barback continued to float around throughout the evening performing her duties. We moved around as well. As the fear of looking like a fool among others superseded our need to gaze, we were forced to both maintain our appearance and control our reaction to her. So, we kept our distance from her and others, and this allowed for some quiet consideration of all that we were seeing. The entire affair was arduous from the outset. A few hours can cruise by like seconds, but for us in such an atmosphere, the time dragged on like the worst insurance seminar. Good God was it tough to make small talk and act as if we were enjoying the evening. Her midriff was clearly representative of her age as it displayed no distortion throughout her otherwise voided waistline. That, combined with visible ilial crests and a well-defined upper thigh gap placed her weight as obviously low, however it did not matter because everything worked together beautifully and created the very picture of that which we seek. She was gorgeous to the toes, pleasant with which to speak, and carried herself with professionalism and impeccable posture. Quite the sight for a woman so young. And quite the sight to enter into our minds and twist the knife deeply, fucking sending us to the moon on a rocket fueled by despair and longing. Wonderful. Thanks, doll. She moved beautifully, causing us to eventually fly out the door and flee the location in order to gather our thoughts and begin to craft this latest of damage reports. Once alone, her image swirled within our psyche and words began to take form. And here are many of them. Despite our mentally curtailed condition, the fluidity of structure here has not suffered, even if we have. And her image stands tall to this very moment. We are straitjacketed for what seems the millionth fucking time. Nice. The lack of numerical input will be our necessary demise The short time which has elapsed since our evening of absorbing the loveliness of the barback has shown us that throughout these many years the rate at which a woman's form fades from memory is decreasing. And we know the reason. The sum of the brain functionality which we possess is diminishing. All of the data required to operate and perform tasks related to daily life is slowly being deleted in favor of mathematical beauty and dimensional passion. Funny? Well, it would be if there was no truth to the statement. Just as the staff noted above, the site is being reduced to our writing, and at the same time (and the same rate), our brainpower and mental capacity are reducing themselves accordingly. Soon we will sit, obsess, write, dream, fall, fail, drink, drink, and eventually just fall over. That will be the end of it (the end of all things? that was last week). Time will fucking tell. On a partially-related note, there exists a massive website housing millions of images from millions of users, and up to this point in time we could view them but not save. Well, desire overcame software and we proceeded to create a way inside the servers and grab all the images we wished at the highest resolution. Naturally, we are referring to images of none other than Julianne herself. This is good for future entries because we do need visuals to accompany the text, and her appearance is unreal from the get go. The last two writings focused upon her as a central subject and then a tertiary, but we have little doubt that her likeness will find its way onto this sordid space again and again. So, the backup gorgeousness that we ran across (read: appropriated) will grace this fucking index." Copyright ©2002-2024 comainterrupted.com All rights reserved All other trademarks, logos and graphics are the property of their respective owners Created by Brandywine Engineering using Microsoft Visual Studio 2022 and .NET Framework 4.8 Questions? Comments? Anything? Gather your thoughts and compose a message to the psychos in charge
The Barback and the Fishbait Mature content No. 25 Published March 8th, 2017 7:00pm pst read ( words) Past entries "Day after miserable fucking day we dream of the numbers and their function of defining the characteristics of the female form. Yesterday was one of those, and in spades. Every waking moment was spent considering such things, and then we went out to a gathering. Naturally, one of our first sights was a woman strolling about the venue -- midriff exposed, thin tank, yoga pants -- and that pushed us into an attempt to maintain composure around the others. We succeeded in placing a pleasant face on despite the difficulty in seeing yet another mathematical beauty. The people around us had no idea of what was taking place inside due to our well-rehearsed false front. Years of practice. Her fingers, arms, shoulders, and exposed neck were very well-proportioned to her small body, and we began to analyze everything along with a desire to walk straight into the fucking ocean. Again. There is no Goddamned outlet whatsoever. We are still, at this very moment, trying to calculate precisely why seeing her (just as others) caused such a breakdown. Tremendous effort was required to keep our distance but she was working, and that means she was all over the place. No sooner did we find a bit of distraction, and she walked by again... And again and again... Ponytail bouncing all the while. For Christ's sake, why? What goes on in the head to allow us such a fall? She was just a woman -- not perfect (there is no such thing, of course) -- yet very much aligned with our suffocating and endless need to know. And that situation leads to this. And upon every single occasion in which a woman arrives in our heads, we slide into the chair and proceed to throw the fucking information to the wind. And then we add images for referencing her appearance. And then we caption them appropriately. And then we archive, update, and publish. And then we rest from the issues within. And then we see another. And the cycle continues until we hit the fucking bottle. And then we drop severely. Ugh. This pattern, throughout the many years, is taking its toll on our mental capacity. In addition, the emotional issues are affecting our physical health, and the result of that bullshit is more alcohol and the beginning of us isolating within the office... very much alone. There is NO FUCKING Goddamned OUTLET. Just take a gander at the image below, and her incredible radii as they lead the eye all over the fucking place. Is it the sex? Fuck no. The whole thing is because of the numbers. There is nothing aside from the main point which may have started this shit... Yes, numbers. Just fucking math. Not sex -- mathematics, mechanics, limits That's right kids, this thing is now physically destroying us when in the past we only dealt with some emotional workings which could be alleviated from time to time. Now? Nope. We are slowly being ground into fishbait. And ----- is screaming into our ears but we haven't hit the bourbon yet. She had large, dark eyes (always something which galvanizes our vision) which proceeded to weld us in position several times. Thin arms, very sharp shoulders, and a neck tapering up to her gorgeous face -- all of it was there, and as such did not allow us to look away terribly often. We could not. We were stuck there for several hours and she was everywhere due to her job, and we ended up spinning, flying, falling into the familiar pit yet again. We know it well, and here we sit at the fucking editor trying to make sense of the whole shitaree. Goddamn it anyway. Perhaps we should just sell everything which is unrelated and not supporting this clouded endeavor and remain in the office forever. Maybe a little wet bar in the corner, too. And we can print all of these images and stare as we drown into oblivion. Eventually we will fall off the chair and be done with it. That sounds acceptable, right? Fuck it all anyway. We may be sans choice now. Oh fuck, I forgot we must keep a day job in order to continue financing this piece of shit space. If we cannot write and spread our disjointed thoughts and imagery across the Internet, we have nothing. Well, maybe we have nothing anyway. What is this? Are we in a place dictated by fate, or did we do this to ourselves? Answer the fucking questions. She was beautiful, shapely, upbeat, mobile, and young. So was her skin. It spoke to us and asked to be under the measuring tape. We answered by getting a refill. Heh. What else is there but the numbers? Well, nothing. Unfortunately, we do not know the numbers and so we shall just sit here and complain, wallow, whatever. The funny part of this site is the fact that we used to have a plan for the future -- some way to provide a tad bit of income so that the web space and domain registration could support themselves. We even went as far as attempting to build our own web servers to cut costs. Yep, that went out the window that fateful day years ago when we encountered the girl at the car wash. Is this her fault? Nope. Is the whole mental mess our fault? Probably. Can we deal with it and move along some sort of decent path? Apparently not. You are reading the evidence, and we have no reason to believe that things will change or improve in any way. This is a years-long slide down the fucking muddy slope and into a hole surrounded by the obsession and need. And we belong here due to our own lack of acceptance. Depression incoming. Alert the fucking media.The random image below likely originated from social media (read: scourge of society), however we could not ignore it. The woman is vastly out of proportion, however this is something which also originated at the car wash. That girl was similar -- thin with a large pair of breasts, and that pushed us to wonder about the measurements. Below, this woman is apparently quite proud of sculpting her body into the look she desired, shared the image, and the result is fascination on our end. There can be no denying it. The fact that her face is obscured adds a measure of anonymity for her, and creates mystery for viewers. The point of that image is the barback. Other than the disproportionate chest, the barback shared features with this woman. Yes, she looked similar. Oy. Numbers, tapers, radii (how many times have we typed that fucking word?), and a combination of curves which affect us badly. No shit. An unbelievable combination of shapes Over and over she trotted about the rooms taking care of patrons and maintaining cleanliness of the tables. Every time... we watched. No one knew because we are intelligent enough to do nearly anything without notice. That is dangerous yet necessary for our continued damage path. Or whatever it is. Or whatever we are (have become?). She looked every bit the part during each step. Her efficiency with regard to the work was exemplary. Our thoughts? Hmm... Reprehensible. The only positive would seem to be her not knowing of our dimensional deviations. She is innocent, and as stated in previous entries we are not the type to intrude. A compliment or two is fine, provided such things do not lead her to suspect any fucking thing aside from conversation. We cannot push at all. And this crap is all beginning to sound the same. Blah, blah, blah. Who cares? Fishbait. Fish emulsion? Something. This is an obsession which cannot be denied, no matter the effort. We are all in, and the fucking simple fact base remains: car wash, Julianne, Diana, Mercedes (part of the very beginning), or whoever-the-fuck, they all have been let into our consciousness by no one else. Just us. We did it, and we will not deny. The saving throws are few, leaving the resulting damage, difficulty, depression, and every single other negative facet we can describe. There it is. Well, we are not really trying anyway. There is no reason to change the path because despite all of this horseshit, we are still very conventional in other aspects of life, and the catharsis of this markup has value. Our misery can be quite creative -- and why not spread the anti-joy which is often capable of lifting others. Heh. Funny. So many issues have cropped up as a result of this obsession that we have trouble juggling the down and finding the up. Why the fuck do we need the numbers so badly? What IS that? Are we THAT fucked up inside? Send us an email with the answer. Now. Ha. Wrap her in the measuring tape and record our soul The barback continued to float around throughout the evening performing her duties. We moved around as well. As the fear of looking like a fool among others superseded our need to gaze, we were forced to both maintain our appearance and control our reaction to her. So, we kept our distance from her and others, and this allowed for some quiet consideration of all that we were seeing. The entire affair was arduous from the outset. A few hours can cruise by like seconds, but for us in such an atmosphere, the time dragged on like the worst insurance seminar. Good God was it tough to make small talk and act as if we were enjoying the evening. Her midriff was clearly representative of her age as it displayed no distortion throughout her otherwise voided waistline. That, combined with visible ilial crests and a well-defined upper thigh gap placed her weight as obviously low, however it did not matter because everything worked together beautifully and created the very picture of that which we seek. She was gorgeous to the toes, pleasant with which to speak, and carried herself with professionalism and impeccable posture. Quite the sight for a woman so young. And quite the sight to enter into our minds and twist the knife deeply, fucking sending us to the moon on a rocket fueled by despair and longing. Wonderful. Thanks, doll. She moved beautifully, causing us to eventually fly out the door and flee the location in order to gather our thoughts and begin to craft this latest of damage reports. Once alone, her image swirled within our psyche and words began to take form. And here are many of them. Despite our mentally curtailed condition, the fluidity of structure here has not suffered, even if we have. And her image stands tall to this very moment. We are straitjacketed for what seems the millionth fucking time. Nice. The lack of numerical input will be our necessary demise The short time which has elapsed since our evening of absorbing the loveliness of the barback has shown us that throughout these many years the rate at which a woman's form fades from memory is decreasing. And we know the reason. The sum of the brain functionality which we possess is diminishing. All of the data required to operate and perform tasks related to daily life is slowly being deleted in favor of mathematical beauty and dimensional passion. Funny? Well, it would be if there was no truth to the statement. Just as the staff noted above, the site is being reduced to our writing, and at the same time (and the same rate), our brainpower and mental capacity are reducing themselves accordingly. Soon we will sit, obsess, write, dream, fall, fail, drink, drink, and eventually just fall over. That will be the end of it (the end of all things? that was last week). Time will fucking tell. On a partially-related note, there exists a massive website housing millions of images from millions of users, and up to this point in time we could view them but not save. Well, desire overcame software and we proceeded to create a way inside the servers and grab all the images we wished at the highest resolution. Naturally, we are referring to images of none other than Julianne herself. This is good for future entries because we do need visuals to accompany the text, and her appearance is unreal from the get go. The last two writings focused upon her as a central subject and then a tertiary, but we have little doubt that her likeness will find its way onto this sordid space again and again. So, the backup gorgeousness that we ran across (read: appropriated) will grace this fucking index."
The Barback and the Fishbait
Mature content No. 25 Published March 8th, 2017 7:00pm pst read ( words) Past entries
"Day after miserable fucking day we dream of the numbers and their function of defining the characteristics of the female form. Yesterday was one of those, and in spades. Every waking moment was spent considering such things, and then we went out to a gathering. Naturally, one of our first sights was a woman strolling about the venue -- midriff exposed, thin tank, yoga pants -- and that pushed us into an attempt to maintain composure around the others. We succeeded in placing a pleasant face on despite the difficulty in seeing yet another mathematical beauty. The people around us had no idea of what was taking place inside due to our well-rehearsed false front. Years of practice. Her fingers, arms, shoulders, and exposed neck were very well-proportioned to her small body, and we began to analyze everything along with a desire to walk straight into the fucking ocean. Again. There is no Goddamned outlet whatsoever. We are still, at this very moment, trying to calculate precisely why seeing her (just as others) caused such a breakdown. Tremendous effort was required to keep our distance but she was working, and that means she was all over the place. No sooner did we find a bit of distraction, and she walked by again... And again and again... Ponytail bouncing all the while. For Christ's sake, why? What goes on in the head to allow us such a fall? She was just a woman -- not perfect (there is no such thing, of course) -- yet very much aligned with our suffocating and endless need to know. And that situation leads to this. And upon every single occasion in which a woman arrives in our heads, we slide into the chair and proceed to throw the fucking information to the wind. And then we add images for referencing her appearance. And then we caption them appropriately. And then we archive, update, and publish. And then we rest from the issues within. And then we see another. And the cycle continues until we hit the fucking bottle. And then we drop severely. Ugh. This pattern, throughout the many years, is taking its toll on our mental capacity. In addition, the emotional issues are affecting our physical health, and the result of that bullshit is more alcohol and the beginning of us isolating within the office... very much alone. There is NO FUCKING Goddamned OUTLET. Just take a gander at the image below, and her incredible radii as they lead the eye all over the fucking place. Is it the sex? Fuck no. The whole thing is because of the numbers. There is nothing aside from the main point which may have started this shit... Yes, numbers. Just fucking math.
Not sex -- mathematics, mechanics, limits
That's right kids, this thing is now physically destroying us when in the past we only dealt with some emotional workings which could be alleviated from time to time. Now? Nope. We are slowly being ground into fishbait. And ----- is screaming into our ears but we haven't hit the bourbon yet. She had large, dark eyes (always something which galvanizes our vision) which proceeded to weld us in position several times. Thin arms, very sharp shoulders, and a neck tapering up to her gorgeous face -- all of it was there, and as such did not allow us to look away terribly often. We could not. We were stuck there for several hours and she was everywhere due to her job, and we ended up spinning, flying, falling into the familiar pit yet again. We know it well, and here we sit at the fucking editor trying to make sense of the whole shitaree. Goddamn it anyway. Perhaps we should just sell everything which is unrelated and not supporting this clouded endeavor and remain in the office forever. Maybe a little wet bar in the corner, too. And we can print all of these images and stare as we drown into oblivion. Eventually we will fall off the chair and be done with it. That sounds acceptable, right? Fuck it all anyway. We may be sans choice now. Oh fuck, I forgot we must keep a day job in order to continue financing this piece of shit space. If we cannot write and spread our disjointed thoughts and imagery across the Internet, we have nothing. Well, maybe we have nothing anyway. What is this? Are we in a place dictated by fate, or did we do this to ourselves? Answer the fucking questions. She was beautiful, shapely, upbeat, mobile, and young. So was her skin. It spoke to us and asked to be under the measuring tape. We answered by getting a refill. Heh. What else is there but the numbers? Well, nothing. Unfortunately, we do not know the numbers and so we shall just sit here and complain, wallow, whatever. The funny part of this site is the fact that we used to have a plan for the future -- some way to provide a tad bit of income so that the web space and domain registration could support themselves. We even went as far as attempting to build our own web servers to cut costs. Yep, that went out the window that fateful day years ago when we encountered the girl at the car wash. Is this her fault? Nope. Is the whole mental mess our fault? Probably. Can we deal with it and move along some sort of decent path? Apparently not. You are reading the evidence, and we have no reason to believe that things will change or improve in any way. This is a years-long slide down the fucking muddy slope and into a hole surrounded by the obsession and need. And we belong here due to our own lack of acceptance. Depression incoming. Alert the fucking media.The random image below likely originated from social media (read: scourge of society), however we could not ignore it. The woman is vastly out of proportion, however this is something which also originated at the car wash. That girl was similar -- thin with a large pair of breasts, and that pushed us to wonder about the measurements. Below, this woman is apparently quite proud of sculpting her body into the look she desired, shared the image, and the result is fascination on our end. There can be no denying it. The fact that her face is obscured adds a measure of anonymity for her, and creates mystery for viewers. The point of that image is the barback. Other than the disproportionate chest, the barback shared features with this woman. Yes, she looked similar. Oy. Numbers, tapers, radii (how many times have we typed that fucking word?), and a combination of curves which affect us badly. No shit.
An unbelievable combination of shapes
Over and over she trotted about the rooms taking care of patrons and maintaining cleanliness of the tables. Every time... we watched. No one knew because we are intelligent enough to do nearly anything without notice. That is dangerous yet necessary for our continued damage path. Or whatever it is. Or whatever we are (have become?). She looked every bit the part during each step. Her efficiency with regard to the work was exemplary. Our thoughts? Hmm... Reprehensible. The only positive would seem to be her not knowing of our dimensional deviations. She is innocent, and as stated in previous entries we are not the type to intrude. A compliment or two is fine, provided such things do not lead her to suspect any fucking thing aside from conversation. We cannot push at all. And this crap is all beginning to sound the same. Blah, blah, blah. Who cares? Fishbait. Fish emulsion? Something. This is an obsession which cannot be denied, no matter the effort. We are all in, and the fucking simple fact base remains: car wash, Julianne, Diana, Mercedes (part of the very beginning), or whoever-the-fuck, they all have been let into our consciousness by no one else. Just us. We did it, and we will not deny. The saving throws are few, leaving the resulting damage, difficulty, depression, and every single other negative facet we can describe. There it is. Well, we are not really trying anyway. There is no reason to change the path because despite all of this horseshit, we are still very conventional in other aspects of life, and the catharsis of this markup has value. Our misery can be quite creative -- and why not spread the anti-joy which is often capable of lifting others. Heh. Funny. So many issues have cropped up as a result of this obsession that we have trouble juggling the down and finding the up. Why the fuck do we need the numbers so badly? What IS that? Are we THAT fucked up inside? Send us an email with the answer. Now. Ha.
Wrap her in the measuring tape and record our soul
The barback continued to float around throughout the evening performing her duties. We moved around as well. As the fear of looking like a fool among others superseded our need to gaze, we were forced to both maintain our appearance and control our reaction to her. So, we kept our distance from her and others, and this allowed for some quiet consideration of all that we were seeing. The entire affair was arduous from the outset. A few hours can cruise by like seconds, but for us in such an atmosphere, the time dragged on like the worst insurance seminar. Good God was it tough to make small talk and act as if we were enjoying the evening. Her midriff was clearly representative of her age as it displayed no distortion throughout her otherwise voided waistline. That, combined with visible ilial crests and a well-defined upper thigh gap placed her weight as obviously low, however it did not matter because everything worked together beautifully and created the very picture of that which we seek. She was gorgeous to the toes, pleasant with which to speak, and carried herself with professionalism and impeccable posture. Quite the sight for a woman so young. And quite the sight to enter into our minds and twist the knife deeply, fucking sending us to the moon on a rocket fueled by despair and longing. Wonderful. Thanks, doll. She moved beautifully, causing us to eventually fly out the door and flee the location in order to gather our thoughts and begin to craft this latest of damage reports. Once alone, her image swirled within our psyche and words began to take form. And here are many of them. Despite our mentally curtailed condition, the fluidity of structure here has not suffered, even if we have. And her image stands tall to this very moment. We are straitjacketed for what seems the millionth fucking time. Nice.
The lack of numerical input will be our necessary demise
The short time which has elapsed since our evening of absorbing the loveliness of the barback has shown us that throughout these many years the rate at which a woman's form fades from memory is decreasing. And we know the reason. The sum of the brain functionality which we possess is diminishing. All of the data required to operate and perform tasks related to daily life is slowly being deleted in favor of mathematical beauty and dimensional passion. Funny? Well, it would be if there was no truth to the statement. Just as the staff noted above, the site is being reduced to our writing, and at the same time (and the same rate), our brainpower and mental capacity are reducing themselves accordingly. Soon we will sit, obsess, write, dream, fall, fail, drink, drink, and eventually just fall over. That will be the end of it (the end of all things? that was last week). Time will fucking tell. On a partially-related note, there exists a massive website housing millions of images from millions of users, and up to this point in time we could view them but not save. Well, desire overcame software and we proceeded to create a way inside the servers and grab all the images we wished at the highest resolution. Naturally, we are referring to images of none other than Julianne herself. This is good for future entries because we do need visuals to accompany the text, and her appearance is unreal from the get go. The last two writings focused upon her as a central subject and then a tertiary, but we have little doubt that her likeness will find its way onto this sordid space again and again. So, the backup gorgeousness that we ran across (read: appropriated) will grace this fucking index."
Copyright ©2002-2024 comainterrupted.com All rights reserved All other trademarks, logos and graphics are the property of their respective owners Created by Brandywine Engineering using Microsoft Visual Studio 2022 and .NET Framework 4.8 Questions? Comments? Anything? Gather your thoughts and compose a message to the psychos in charge
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