Julianne and the Bearing Surface Mature content No. 29 Published March 23rd, 2017 6:23pm pdt read ( words) Past entries "We have been pouring our very souls onto this index for more than two years since encountering Her, and as much as the space, keyboard, and office can be a release, it may not be enough. At times we sit, hammering away with music screaming, and at the end of a session in this place we are no better off. Still She comes across in every writing, Julianne stares back at us from wherever, the screens loom above, but quite often the feelings simply put us down like nothing else. There can be no denying the nature of this interest and the related processes at work. They are damaging beyond belief. And here we go into yet another fucking freefall toward the darkest of places. This is acceptable on at least one level -- we know it. This place is on the road to everywhere we wish to be. It is familiar, if dying. The black has already taken over our FB presence, so why not the rest? Instagram? Fuck, not yet. Other than those, however, we have detailed files and images to assist our fall (remember the fall? Hmm.) 0947 was the first pour, so by noon we should be in typical form. No comment? No shit. We will be here then, too. Still typing, wallowing, hurting, and wondering when the entire fucking mess will crack open. The bearing surface (an engineering term) is still holding up, yet with every edited image, every sordid word, and each session in the office, that plane is tilting to the negative. We cannot reach out and seek the need, so we end up here. We cannot expand into the unknown because it is too risky and frightening. We cannot go back to the beginning and make alterations which may help the path because time is anything but nonlinear. The options are narrowing just like our vision. Cracks. Voids. Paralyzed. Did anyone see this coming? Of course. Did we see this coming? Yep. Are we learning anything which may serve to lift us from this decaying position? Nope. Not by a damned sight. There is only down. Yes, this is unfortunate, however the facts are simple: we placed ourselves in this fiery hole, we did nothing to cause a rise (even all those years ago), and we consciously forced decisions and others' hopes by leveraging our position and responses so as to leave everyone speechless. There is only one avenue of hope available and it is solely our own. On the upside, that means we may still be open to a lift. On the downside, we may not be willing to follow any line which is defined by positive. We find little reason to allow ourselves the upward angle due to the remains and ashes of the past. Yes, the actions which affected the others. That fucking ship has sailed, and the shore has been destroyed. Julianne will be fine. Yay! The numbers are RIGHT FUCKING THERE We mentioned that the essays were all beginning to sound alike, and that is no fucking shit. They really are, and there is not a damned thing we can do about it. This is not over until the depression dictates a final sentence. In the meantime, we will drink away the past and wallow around the office with headphones and -----'s voice being absolutely rammed into our eardrums. Oh, and spread the fucking joy here. Yeah, that sounds about right. We literally have no other direction nor any different well from which to drink. This is it, kids. As much as we would enjoy some other place, another set of circumstances, or any type of upwardly mobile direction, the patterns of the last several years have shown us that we are just not capable, and any effort spent in an attempt to avoid both the memories of where we were versus where we now live is wasted and littered with pain. All of our favorite terms are here -- black; were; tried; left; failed; Julianne; Her. Ugh. Her. That's a red-letter word if ever there was such a thing. That fucking pronoun is an emotional black hole of a tattoo on our collective minds. What are we supposed to do? Avoid the editor? Avoid the memories? Avoid images of both Julianne and Her? That is just not going to fucking happen and any comments addressed in such a direction will meet with knives. Live with it. We are. We have no fucking choice anymore. Actually, the more likely scenario is that we do have a choice and are unwilling to exercise any options. That is difficult to argue due to the fact that one the most powerful aspects of being human is the nature of choice (second only to our incredible capability for language). Yes, unwilling to rise and unwilling to bend are two of the many brick walls which make up our psyche. The days are late, the choices are unacceptable, and the need is overpowering. The obsession is quickly becoming all that we are and any throw versus anything is fucking unlikely. The depression and diminishing nature of our ability to maintain daily life is just fucking taking over any ambition. All of the 'd' words we display here on a weekly basis are capitalizing themselves and pressing us into sand -- within the sand we will be cast for all time. And then the soil. And then the decay. Ok, enough of pressing the point of choice and the futility of anyone attempting to bend us. Her images grace the index yet again. Do you see? We do. Everything is there yet terribly undefined. Oh yes, she is an example unlike nearly all others, but the fact remains that we are unable to advance the focus of why she is of such importance and why we are falling. The words are in short supply now, and beginning to fall just shy of the ability to allow our feelings to be displayed properly and fluidly. That is a problem. Soon there will be no words at all. How about that? End the misery? End the descriptive terms? End the whole fucking sordid mess? Whatever the fuck can be done to ease this pain. Wow, this is becoming a repeating fucking mess. We made sense a few entries back, but now we are grasping for anything with meaning -- anything which can help. There is nothing. This index has fallen down a hill built from a lack of reasonable content. Where did the reason go? Did we push it away out of need? Desire? Something else? Or is this the road we manufactured to enable the requisite need to drive us insane? What? Inane? That is soon. Tune in. It's gonna be a hoot. Fuck... where were we? LOSING TRAIN OF THOUGHT. That's where. We know... Don't say it. Alright, the point of this entry is the difficulty inherent in dealing with a deviant and distorted desire for achieving something nearly impossible. Yes... nearly impossible. The slim chance cannot be denied, yet we are too frightened. One of those females is out there with an open mind and all of the other shit we need to know. She is, and she was. Oy, that is a part of the fucking problem here. The whole thing already happened but was cut short by the way of the world. The fucking steaming sewer of a world within which we all must deal with shit from one moment to the next. Jesus Harold Christ on a fucking rubber crutch, who knows anything now? The memories are there, inside, and burning like hydrogen mixed with oxygen. They are there and fucking fresh. That flame will never extinguish, but can still provide us with a bit of assistance and clarity of thought. Enough to splay everything here, anyway. Maybe that is enough to ask of such a period. We should not push. Why did she enlarge her breasts? Look at her sitting there. Just fucking gaze. We NEED to understand this -- the obsession of her numerical beauty. All of the dimensions are there and awaiting the definition of a Goddamned lifetime. A hundred numbers representing every single fucking reason -- every angle, radius, taper, separation, diameter and length -- all of it placed out there for the fucked up world to see. And without strict definition and attention to every conceivable detail, no one should be looking at her. No one at all. Not. Even. Us. Fuck it all anyway. We are just not going to get to the other side of this road without the train of life cutting us down like a fly on a windshield. We're done already, and we haven't even found the start. We are bound now -- bonded -- to these computers, to the headphones, and to the endlessly beautiful and deeply emotional compositions which ----- has provided the world. There is no stop and there is no forward gear with which to move in any direction. Reverse is the whole affair now. Backward through the hopeless feelings and damaging fallout from the multitude of wrong directions and never-ending reminders of thousands of missed opportunities and detailed descriptions we have thrown to the wind with nary a thought to the consequences. The staff still feels as if we are moving forward toward something. Perhaps some self-supporting endeavor just like the early ideas back when this thing was young. We cannot blame them, and conversely must commend everyone for sticking with us throughout the years. There were many plans for a good, solid web future. The staff stayed and worked their tails off hoping to see fruition. Well, guess what? They are still here despite our intimate bond with the fucking soil and all of the decay related to this content. They are awesome to no end. Does this sound like an epilogue? Or is it appearing closer to a resolution? Whatever the fuck, and we don't fucking know at all. The whole thing just sucks out loud and right down to the ground. We did not intend to go in such a morbid direction, nor did we wish the content to come across like an endless bitch session for all of our mistakes. This shit just came to be out of a need to understand ourselves and our nature. The needs just became too much and the bearing surface is suffering. It is weakening and warping. The surface will not likely handle smooth transitions any longer. We have ruined it just like very idea and each step derived from dreams. There is just no saving throw within view. Not that she doesn't still look gorgeous So... What? So what. That is a juvenile bastardization of an expression which has gone by the wayside in recent years. We employ it out of desperation. Yep. Another 'd' word. Fuck it. Honestly, there has to be something we can do -- a direction we can attempt without the fucking train rolling over us. SOMETHING besides that cold end we think about all too often. May we find it? Oy, what a question. The fact remains that we must be willing to engage the search in earnest. That is possible, but the motivation is still stifled by the need for all of this dimensional horseshit. Fucking stifled to no end, it seems. The numbers are absolutely and massively in control. Each and every day we sit and pour it out here, and the Goddamned result is nearly the same every time. She is in the images, the other one is in mind, and due to the combination of our nonexistent self-esteem and deep desire to forward this type of obsession we freeze in place before anything can be sought. These writings do not lie -- we are that fucking close to either giving the fuck up or pushing forth with reckless abandon. That means a real sexy chance of being destroyed by our desires. Real. Fucking. Sexy. Indeed. Is there a clear answer? There isn't even clear weather. The certainties are few: holes, alcohol, words, isolation, and female forms. The ambiguity is basically everything else in this life. We have managed to stumble along this far, but even we cannot deny the stark contrast in the nature of what we place here. Even within the last few weeks the words have become far more desperate than throughout the prior several months' worth of content. The simple conclusion is that we are tapering down to the original central point. Yes, that would be the fact that we tasted the dream and now it is gone -- seemingly forever. No two individuals are alike and such a thought feels like burning acid within us. Many questions, many misgivings, and still no answers. And we cannot avoid the fact that we are more open now -- here -- than ever. In spite of everything, that is not a surprise. Naturally we do not expect answers to come flying out of the clear blue sky. Of all the '-ists' which can be applied to us, the main gist is 'realist'. We just fucking know that these things are unnatural in the mainstream and that we are deviant to the point of being placed outside the world and into this tiny and fucked up space. We KNOW, for Christ's sake. Don't say it! Heh. We overanalyze ourselves enough for a cityfull. We are either going to fulfill this or sit here and become lumps of nothingness. Holes, void of any recognizable traits other than the ability to type. Ok, back to the title as a subject. The bearing surface is a term used to describe anything mechanical which needs to be machined to within extremely tight tolerances in order to mate with some manner of other components. The surface makes contact and 'bears' some measure of load and/or stress. This would be us. We are bearing this unending and eccentric need, and the surface is nearing failure. Simple. We are not having an easy time of this and there is nothing out in the world which can help in any way. We have the outlet, the editor, and the staff's support, but aside from those few components, we feel that the load-bearing threshold is near. There you go. Suck it. She has everything, all over her, and it can be too much to bear Forget the fucking rest... her facial structure is plenty 'The falcon cannot hear the falconer'. Hmm. Yes, there is too much here, too much in mind, and far too little time to work everything through. There is not nearly enough time until we go nova. And that is quite a sum of years, don't you think? Hmm again. Well then, perhaps we should just stare and drown. Julianne is fine, sitting there in her knee-high boots and looking every bit the part, and we are over here -- wherever this place is located -- and searching for every fucking answer. None is forthcoming, for fuck's sake. The tension now is far beyond any level we could have dreamed, or can dream. It is overbearing and the surface cannot hold much longer. We are just not strong enough to handle all that is going on inside. 'Drizzle, drazzle, drozzle, drome; time for this one to come home'. Into the void." 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
Julianne and the Bearing Surface Mature content No. 29 Published March 23rd, 2017 6:23pm pdt read ( words) Past entries "We have been pouring our very souls onto this index for more than two years since encountering Her, and as much as the space, keyboard, and office can be a release, it may not be enough. At times we sit, hammering away with music screaming, and at the end of a session in this place we are no better off. Still She comes across in every writing, Julianne stares back at us from wherever, the screens loom above, but quite often the feelings simply put us down like nothing else. There can be no denying the nature of this interest and the related processes at work. They are damaging beyond belief. And here we go into yet another fucking freefall toward the darkest of places. This is acceptable on at least one level -- we know it. This place is on the road to everywhere we wish to be. It is familiar, if dying. The black has already taken over our FB presence, so why not the rest? Instagram? Fuck, not yet. Other than those, however, we have detailed files and images to assist our fall (remember the fall? Hmm.) 0947 was the first pour, so by noon we should be in typical form. No comment? No shit. We will be here then, too. Still typing, wallowing, hurting, and wondering when the entire fucking mess will crack open. The bearing surface (an engineering term) is still holding up, yet with every edited image, every sordid word, and each session in the office, that plane is tilting to the negative. We cannot reach out and seek the need, so we end up here. We cannot expand into the unknown because it is too risky and frightening. We cannot go back to the beginning and make alterations which may help the path because time is anything but nonlinear. The options are narrowing just like our vision. Cracks. Voids. Paralyzed. Did anyone see this coming? Of course. Did we see this coming? Yep. Are we learning anything which may serve to lift us from this decaying position? Nope. Not by a damned sight. There is only down. Yes, this is unfortunate, however the facts are simple: we placed ourselves in this fiery hole, we did nothing to cause a rise (even all those years ago), and we consciously forced decisions and others' hopes by leveraging our position and responses so as to leave everyone speechless. There is only one avenue of hope available and it is solely our own. On the upside, that means we may still be open to a lift. On the downside, we may not be willing to follow any line which is defined by positive. We find little reason to allow ourselves the upward angle due to the remains and ashes of the past. Yes, the actions which affected the others. That fucking ship has sailed, and the shore has been destroyed. Julianne will be fine. Yay! The numbers are RIGHT FUCKING THERE We mentioned that the essays were all beginning to sound alike, and that is no fucking shit. They really are, and there is not a damned thing we can do about it. This is not over until the depression dictates a final sentence. In the meantime, we will drink away the past and wallow around the office with headphones and -----'s voice being absolutely rammed into our eardrums. Oh, and spread the fucking joy here. Yeah, that sounds about right. We literally have no other direction nor any different well from which to drink. This is it, kids. As much as we would enjoy some other place, another set of circumstances, or any type of upwardly mobile direction, the patterns of the last several years have shown us that we are just not capable, and any effort spent in an attempt to avoid both the memories of where we were versus where we now live is wasted and littered with pain. All of our favorite terms are here -- black; were; tried; left; failed; Julianne; Her. Ugh. Her. That's a red-letter word if ever there was such a thing. That fucking pronoun is an emotional black hole of a tattoo on our collective minds. What are we supposed to do? Avoid the editor? Avoid the memories? Avoid images of both Julianne and Her? That is just not going to fucking happen and any comments addressed in such a direction will meet with knives. Live with it. We are. We have no fucking choice anymore. Actually, the more likely scenario is that we do have a choice and are unwilling to exercise any options. That is difficult to argue due to the fact that one the most powerful aspects of being human is the nature of choice (second only to our incredible capability for language). Yes, unwilling to rise and unwilling to bend are two of the many brick walls which make up our psyche. The days are late, the choices are unacceptable, and the need is overpowering. The obsession is quickly becoming all that we are and any throw versus anything is fucking unlikely. The depression and diminishing nature of our ability to maintain daily life is just fucking taking over any ambition. All of the 'd' words we display here on a weekly basis are capitalizing themselves and pressing us into sand -- within the sand we will be cast for all time. And then the soil. And then the decay. Ok, enough of pressing the point of choice and the futility of anyone attempting to bend us. Her images grace the index yet again. Do you see? We do. Everything is there yet terribly undefined. Oh yes, she is an example unlike nearly all others, but the fact remains that we are unable to advance the focus of why she is of such importance and why we are falling. The words are in short supply now, and beginning to fall just shy of the ability to allow our feelings to be displayed properly and fluidly. That is a problem. Soon there will be no words at all. How about that? End the misery? End the descriptive terms? End the whole fucking sordid mess? Whatever the fuck can be done to ease this pain. Wow, this is becoming a repeating fucking mess. We made sense a few entries back, but now we are grasping for anything with meaning -- anything which can help. There is nothing. This index has fallen down a hill built from a lack of reasonable content. Where did the reason go? Did we push it away out of need? Desire? Something else? Or is this the road we manufactured to enable the requisite need to drive us insane? What? Inane? That is soon. Tune in. It's gonna be a hoot. Fuck... where were we? LOSING TRAIN OF THOUGHT. That's where. We know... Don't say it. Alright, the point of this entry is the difficulty inherent in dealing with a deviant and distorted desire for achieving something nearly impossible. Yes... nearly impossible. The slim chance cannot be denied, yet we are too frightened. One of those females is out there with an open mind and all of the other shit we need to know. She is, and she was. Oy, that is a part of the fucking problem here. The whole thing already happened but was cut short by the way of the world. The fucking steaming sewer of a world within which we all must deal with shit from one moment to the next. Jesus Harold Christ on a fucking rubber crutch, who knows anything now? The memories are there, inside, and burning like hydrogen mixed with oxygen. They are there and fucking fresh. That flame will never extinguish, but can still provide us with a bit of assistance and clarity of thought. Enough to splay everything here, anyway. Maybe that is enough to ask of such a period. We should not push. Why did she enlarge her breasts? Look at her sitting there. Just fucking gaze. We NEED to understand this -- the obsession of her numerical beauty. All of the dimensions are there and awaiting the definition of a Goddamned lifetime. A hundred numbers representing every single fucking reason -- every angle, radius, taper, separation, diameter and length -- all of it placed out there for the fucked up world to see. And without strict definition and attention to every conceivable detail, no one should be looking at her. No one at all. Not. Even. Us. Fuck it all anyway. We are just not going to get to the other side of this road without the train of life cutting us down like a fly on a windshield. We're done already, and we haven't even found the start. We are bound now -- bonded -- to these computers, to the headphones, and to the endlessly beautiful and deeply emotional compositions which ----- has provided the world. There is no stop and there is no forward gear with which to move in any direction. Reverse is the whole affair now. Backward through the hopeless feelings and damaging fallout from the multitude of wrong directions and never-ending reminders of thousands of missed opportunities and detailed descriptions we have thrown to the wind with nary a thought to the consequences. The staff still feels as if we are moving forward toward something. Perhaps some self-supporting endeavor just like the early ideas back when this thing was young. We cannot blame them, and conversely must commend everyone for sticking with us throughout the years. There were many plans for a good, solid web future. The staff stayed and worked their tails off hoping to see fruition. Well, guess what? They are still here despite our intimate bond with the fucking soil and all of the decay related to this content. They are awesome to no end. Does this sound like an epilogue? Or is it appearing closer to a resolution? Whatever the fuck, and we don't fucking know at all. The whole thing just sucks out loud and right down to the ground. We did not intend to go in such a morbid direction, nor did we wish the content to come across like an endless bitch session for all of our mistakes. This shit just came to be out of a need to understand ourselves and our nature. The needs just became too much and the bearing surface is suffering. It is weakening and warping. The surface will not likely handle smooth transitions any longer. We have ruined it just like very idea and each step derived from dreams. There is just no saving throw within view. Not that she doesn't still look gorgeous So... What? So what. That is a juvenile bastardization of an expression which has gone by the wayside in recent years. We employ it out of desperation. Yep. Another 'd' word. Fuck it. Honestly, there has to be something we can do -- a direction we can attempt without the fucking train rolling over us. SOMETHING besides that cold end we think about all too often. May we find it? Oy, what a question. The fact remains that we must be willing to engage the search in earnest. That is possible, but the motivation is still stifled by the need for all of this dimensional horseshit. Fucking stifled to no end, it seems. The numbers are absolutely and massively in control. Each and every day we sit and pour it out here, and the Goddamned result is nearly the same every time. She is in the images, the other one is in mind, and due to the combination of our nonexistent self-esteem and deep desire to forward this type of obsession we freeze in place before anything can be sought. These writings do not lie -- we are that fucking close to either giving the fuck up or pushing forth with reckless abandon. That means a real sexy chance of being destroyed by our desires. Real. Fucking. Sexy. Indeed. Is there a clear answer? There isn't even clear weather. The certainties are few: holes, alcohol, words, isolation, and female forms. The ambiguity is basically everything else in this life. We have managed to stumble along this far, but even we cannot deny the stark contrast in the nature of what we place here. Even within the last few weeks the words have become far more desperate than throughout the prior several months' worth of content. The simple conclusion is that we are tapering down to the original central point. Yes, that would be the fact that we tasted the dream and now it is gone -- seemingly forever. No two individuals are alike and such a thought feels like burning acid within us. Many questions, many misgivings, and still no answers. And we cannot avoid the fact that we are more open now -- here -- than ever. In spite of everything, that is not a surprise. Naturally we do not expect answers to come flying out of the clear blue sky. Of all the '-ists' which can be applied to us, the main gist is 'realist'. We just fucking know that these things are unnatural in the mainstream and that we are deviant to the point of being placed outside the world and into this tiny and fucked up space. We KNOW, for Christ's sake. Don't say it! Heh. We overanalyze ourselves enough for a cityfull. We are either going to fulfill this or sit here and become lumps of nothingness. Holes, void of any recognizable traits other than the ability to type. Ok, back to the title as a subject. The bearing surface is a term used to describe anything mechanical which needs to be machined to within extremely tight tolerances in order to mate with some manner of other components. The surface makes contact and 'bears' some measure of load and/or stress. This would be us. We are bearing this unending and eccentric need, and the surface is nearing failure. Simple. We are not having an easy time of this and there is nothing out in the world which can help in any way. We have the outlet, the editor, and the staff's support, but aside from those few components, we feel that the load-bearing threshold is near. There you go. Suck it. She has everything, all over her, and it can be too much to bear Forget the fucking rest... her facial structure is plenty 'The falcon cannot hear the falconer'. Hmm. Yes, there is too much here, too much in mind, and far too little time to work everything through. There is not nearly enough time until we go nova. And that is quite a sum of years, don't you think? Hmm again. Well then, perhaps we should just stare and drown. Julianne is fine, sitting there in her knee-high boots and looking every bit the part, and we are over here -- wherever this place is located -- and searching for every fucking answer. None is forthcoming, for fuck's sake. The tension now is far beyond any level we could have dreamed, or can dream. It is overbearing and the surface cannot hold much longer. We are just not strong enough to handle all that is going on inside. 'Drizzle, drazzle, drozzle, drome; time for this one to come home'. Into the void."
Julianne and the Bearing Surface
Mature content No. 29 Published March 23rd, 2017 6:23pm pdt read ( words) Past entries
"We have been pouring our very souls onto this index for more than two years since encountering Her, and as much as the space, keyboard, and office can be a release, it may not be enough. At times we sit, hammering away with music screaming, and at the end of a session in this place we are no better off. Still She comes across in every writing, Julianne stares back at us from wherever, the screens loom above, but quite often the feelings simply put us down like nothing else. There can be no denying the nature of this interest and the related processes at work. They are damaging beyond belief. And here we go into yet another fucking freefall toward the darkest of places. This is acceptable on at least one level -- we know it. This place is on the road to everywhere we wish to be. It is familiar, if dying. The black has already taken over our FB presence, so why not the rest? Instagram? Fuck, not yet. Other than those, however, we have detailed files and images to assist our fall (remember the fall? Hmm.) 0947 was the first pour, so by noon we should be in typical form. No comment? No shit. We will be here then, too. Still typing, wallowing, hurting, and wondering when the entire fucking mess will crack open. The bearing surface (an engineering term) is still holding up, yet with every edited image, every sordid word, and each session in the office, that plane is tilting to the negative. We cannot reach out and seek the need, so we end up here. We cannot expand into the unknown because it is too risky and frightening. We cannot go back to the beginning and make alterations which may help the path because time is anything but nonlinear. The options are narrowing just like our vision. Cracks. Voids. Paralyzed. Did anyone see this coming? Of course. Did we see this coming? Yep. Are we learning anything which may serve to lift us from this decaying position? Nope. Not by a damned sight. There is only down. Yes, this is unfortunate, however the facts are simple: we placed ourselves in this fiery hole, we did nothing to cause a rise (even all those years ago), and we consciously forced decisions and others' hopes by leveraging our position and responses so as to leave everyone speechless. There is only one avenue of hope available and it is solely our own. On the upside, that means we may still be open to a lift. On the downside, we may not be willing to follow any line which is defined by positive. We find little reason to allow ourselves the upward angle due to the remains and ashes of the past. Yes, the actions which affected the others. That fucking ship has sailed, and the shore has been destroyed. Julianne will be fine. Yay!
The numbers are RIGHT FUCKING THERE
We mentioned that the essays were all beginning to sound alike, and that is no fucking shit. They really are, and there is not a damned thing we can do about it. This is not over until the depression dictates a final sentence. In the meantime, we will drink away the past and wallow around the office with headphones and -----'s voice being absolutely rammed into our eardrums. Oh, and spread the fucking joy here. Yeah, that sounds about right. We literally have no other direction nor any different well from which to drink. This is it, kids. As much as we would enjoy some other place, another set of circumstances, or any type of upwardly mobile direction, the patterns of the last several years have shown us that we are just not capable, and any effort spent in an attempt to avoid both the memories of where we were versus where we now live is wasted and littered with pain. All of our favorite terms are here -- black; were; tried; left; failed; Julianne; Her. Ugh. Her. That's a red-letter word if ever there was such a thing. That fucking pronoun is an emotional black hole of a tattoo on our collective minds. What are we supposed to do? Avoid the editor? Avoid the memories? Avoid images of both Julianne and Her? That is just not going to fucking happen and any comments addressed in such a direction will meet with knives. Live with it. We are. We have no fucking choice anymore. Actually, the more likely scenario is that we do have a choice and are unwilling to exercise any options. That is difficult to argue due to the fact that one the most powerful aspects of being human is the nature of choice (second only to our incredible capability for language). Yes, unwilling to rise and unwilling to bend are two of the many brick walls which make up our psyche. The days are late, the choices are unacceptable, and the need is overpowering. The obsession is quickly becoming all that we are and any throw versus anything is fucking unlikely. The depression and diminishing nature of our ability to maintain daily life is just fucking taking over any ambition. All of the 'd' words we display here on a weekly basis are capitalizing themselves and pressing us into sand -- within the sand we will be cast for all time. And then the soil. And then the decay. Ok, enough of pressing the point of choice and the futility of anyone attempting to bend us. Her images grace the index yet again. Do you see? We do. Everything is there yet terribly undefined. Oh yes, she is an example unlike nearly all others, but the fact remains that we are unable to advance the focus of why she is of such importance and why we are falling. The words are in short supply now, and beginning to fall just shy of the ability to allow our feelings to be displayed properly and fluidly. That is a problem. Soon there will be no words at all. How about that? End the misery? End the descriptive terms? End the whole fucking sordid mess? Whatever the fuck can be done to ease this pain. Wow, this is becoming a repeating fucking mess. We made sense a few entries back, but now we are grasping for anything with meaning -- anything which can help. There is nothing. This index has fallen down a hill built from a lack of reasonable content. Where did the reason go? Did we push it away out of need? Desire? Something else? Or is this the road we manufactured to enable the requisite need to drive us insane? What? Inane? That is soon. Tune in. It's gonna be a hoot. Fuck... where were we? LOSING TRAIN OF THOUGHT. That's where. We know... Don't say it. Alright, the point of this entry is the difficulty inherent in dealing with a deviant and distorted desire for achieving something nearly impossible. Yes... nearly impossible. The slim chance cannot be denied, yet we are too frightened. One of those females is out there with an open mind and all of the other shit we need to know. She is, and she was. Oy, that is a part of the fucking problem here. The whole thing already happened but was cut short by the way of the world. The fucking steaming sewer of a world within which we all must deal with shit from one moment to the next. Jesus Harold Christ on a fucking rubber crutch, who knows anything now? The memories are there, inside, and burning like hydrogen mixed with oxygen. They are there and fucking fresh. That flame will never extinguish, but can still provide us with a bit of assistance and clarity of thought. Enough to splay everything here, anyway. Maybe that is enough to ask of such a period. We should not push.
Why did she enlarge her breasts?
Look at her sitting there. Just fucking gaze. We NEED to understand this -- the obsession of her numerical beauty. All of the dimensions are there and awaiting the definition of a Goddamned lifetime. A hundred numbers representing every single fucking reason -- every angle, radius, taper, separation, diameter and length -- all of it placed out there for the fucked up world to see. And without strict definition and attention to every conceivable detail, no one should be looking at her. No one at all. Not. Even. Us. Fuck it all anyway. We are just not going to get to the other side of this road without the train of life cutting us down like a fly on a windshield. We're done already, and we haven't even found the start. We are bound now -- bonded -- to these computers, to the headphones, and to the endlessly beautiful and deeply emotional compositions which ----- has provided the world. There is no stop and there is no forward gear with which to move in any direction. Reverse is the whole affair now. Backward through the hopeless feelings and damaging fallout from the multitude of wrong directions and never-ending reminders of thousands of missed opportunities and detailed descriptions we have thrown to the wind with nary a thought to the consequences. The staff still feels as if we are moving forward toward something. Perhaps some self-supporting endeavor just like the early ideas back when this thing was young. We cannot blame them, and conversely must commend everyone for sticking with us throughout the years. There were many plans for a good, solid web future. The staff stayed and worked their tails off hoping to see fruition. Well, guess what? They are still here despite our intimate bond with the fucking soil and all of the decay related to this content. They are awesome to no end. Does this sound like an epilogue? Or is it appearing closer to a resolution? Whatever the fuck, and we don't fucking know at all. The whole thing just sucks out loud and right down to the ground. We did not intend to go in such a morbid direction, nor did we wish the content to come across like an endless bitch session for all of our mistakes. This shit just came to be out of a need to understand ourselves and our nature. The needs just became too much and the bearing surface is suffering. It is weakening and warping. The surface will not likely handle smooth transitions any longer. We have ruined it just like very idea and each step derived from dreams. There is just no saving throw within view.
Not that she doesn't still look gorgeous
So... What? So what. That is a juvenile bastardization of an expression which has gone by the wayside in recent years. We employ it out of desperation. Yep. Another 'd' word. Fuck it. Honestly, there has to be something we can do -- a direction we can attempt without the fucking train rolling over us. SOMETHING besides that cold end we think about all too often. May we find it? Oy, what a question. The fact remains that we must be willing to engage the search in earnest. That is possible, but the motivation is still stifled by the need for all of this dimensional horseshit. Fucking stifled to no end, it seems. The numbers are absolutely and massively in control. Each and every day we sit and pour it out here, and the Goddamned result is nearly the same every time. She is in the images, the other one is in mind, and due to the combination of our nonexistent self-esteem and deep desire to forward this type of obsession we freeze in place before anything can be sought. These writings do not lie -- we are that fucking close to either giving the fuck up or pushing forth with reckless abandon. That means a real sexy chance of being destroyed by our desires. Real. Fucking. Sexy. Indeed. Is there a clear answer? There isn't even clear weather. The certainties are few: holes, alcohol, words, isolation, and female forms. The ambiguity is basically everything else in this life. We have managed to stumble along this far, but even we cannot deny the stark contrast in the nature of what we place here. Even within the last few weeks the words have become far more desperate than throughout the prior several months' worth of content. The simple conclusion is that we are tapering down to the original central point. Yes, that would be the fact that we tasted the dream and now it is gone -- seemingly forever. No two individuals are alike and such a thought feels like burning acid within us. Many questions, many misgivings, and still no answers. And we cannot avoid the fact that we are more open now -- here -- than ever. In spite of everything, that is not a surprise. Naturally we do not expect answers to come flying out of the clear blue sky. Of all the '-ists' which can be applied to us, the main gist is 'realist'. We just fucking know that these things are unnatural in the mainstream and that we are deviant to the point of being placed outside the world and into this tiny and fucked up space. We KNOW, for Christ's sake. Don't say it! Heh. We overanalyze ourselves enough for a cityfull. We are either going to fulfill this or sit here and become lumps of nothingness. Holes, void of any recognizable traits other than the ability to type. Ok, back to the title as a subject. The bearing surface is a term used to describe anything mechanical which needs to be machined to within extremely tight tolerances in order to mate with some manner of other components. The surface makes contact and 'bears' some measure of load and/or stress. This would be us. We are bearing this unending and eccentric need, and the surface is nearing failure. Simple. We are not having an easy time of this and there is nothing out in the world which can help in any way. We have the outlet, the editor, and the staff's support, but aside from those few components, we feel that the load-bearing threshold is near. There you go. Suck it.
She has everything, all over her, and it can be too much to bear
Forget the fucking rest... her facial structure is plenty
'The falcon cannot hear the falconer'. Hmm. Yes, there is too much here, too much in mind, and far too little time to work everything through. There is not nearly enough time until we go nova. And that is quite a sum of years, don't you think? Hmm again. Well then, perhaps we should just stare and drown. Julianne is fine, sitting there in her knee-high boots and looking every bit the part, and we are over here -- wherever this place is located -- and searching for every fucking answer. None is forthcoming, for fuck's sake. The tension now is far beyond any level we could have dreamed, or can dream. It is overbearing and the surface cannot hold much longer. We are just not strong enough to handle all that is going on inside. 'Drizzle, drazzle, drozzle, drome; time for this one to come home'. Into the void."
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
legal
about
archive
home
