The Hand of Satan Mature content No. 92 Published June 29th, 2019 6:28am pdt read ( words) Past entries "Send me a fucking email if you do not enjoy this shit. Go for it. I was hoping this would not happen. Up, down, up, and way the fuck down. There may be no more up at all. The future is black and there is a hand on my back pushing at my path and sending it aslant. I know to whom that hand belongs. A presence, a frame of reference, and the subject of more analysis and conjecture than any other figure in history. His hand. Pushing. Helping me along to a place I know awaiting me. I know. I have always known. Sometimes further back, other times right before my eyes, but there. Constantly. There is no longer any chance of avoiding that place. Yes, hope. I had it. No more. A situation arose which placed me outside the realm of the norm. I was not expecting to be in such a way. Not at all. One day bled into the next with my daily routines and those little things which brought some joy, and then a jolt began to show me things which I had not known for quite some time. They may be gone now. Trouble, depression, alcohol, visions, bad. All bad. Yesterday was an example of just how dramatically fucking weakened I have become due to this ongoing analysis and publishing of my thoughts. The job is in the big city and when the sun shines there are forms here and there which send me into a tailspin. Two yesterday, one this morning. The second vision yesterday was mid-morning on the street. She walked right by my location and moments later disappeared around the corner. I watched, as always, and was paralyzed for a time until the need arose to go back to work. Her image burned into my brain caused me to lose track of everything save for these words forming. One of the most picturesque women I have seen since either the Raven or the server mentioned here months ago. Black stretch pants, very tall, and with each curve on display from the side and back. She had the gait of Andrea and the long, blonde hair of Ashley. Long arms swinging patterns of beauty. A rarity, to be certain. I stared and fell, went back to work with every single fucking issue I have ever had spinning me into hellish form. Hours later at home I attempted to organize words for a separate entry (two at the same time, really) but continued to fall. And then the alcohol, and then the fucking hand over which I have zero control. The woman feels as a tipping point for this latest drop and her image may have been the one step down I needed to speed my fall through to hell. I may be finished for all time. There seems no way out. Clawing? Fuck no. I do not care anymore. Not one bit. And here I am. My situation was only a matter of time. Things were gleaned in 'Alexis...' as well as 'Eden...' and that was only the beginning of a much faster slide. Now things are worse. I am worse. And I don't fucking care. The thoughts now are just as they were before my dash to the goblet in two-thousand-three. Look how that turned out. Wrecked. The intention was to drown into an altered reality and never return. I feel that way now so it may happen soon if I can get my shit together. I see no other options. No repair, no lift, no happiness. In short, I am finished trying. Suck it. And there goes another woman right now. The hand has been on my back since yesterday afternoon. It feels soft and welcoming. Friendly. Helpful. Comfortable. I like it. Of course, behind that loving touch is a direction I have considered on and off for more than two decades. At times illuminated, other times dark. Now it is glowing and calling to me. The exit. The black. The freedom from pain and difficulty. That idea is more enticing now due to years of misery and this latest fall from on high which I cannot handle. Hours later, two more go by and I drop further. In the black. The first was displaying Andrea's form and gait. That woman carried every single feature, curve, and ratio over which I agonize and atop all of it was one of the most beautiful faces I could imagine. Gazing at a stark fucking reminder of that angel is not easy. Her beauty basically stunned me at first glance and for weeks had me at sixes and sevens knowing our connection was temporary. Thinking of her is difficult. And I absolutely cannot WAIT to go home and drown. Getting Andrea out of my head is as futile an operation as removing the Raven from my thoughts. Impossible. That woman still defines parts of me and Her loss burns like acid in my heart. None of that will ever go away. She was unreal. Words relating to Her and our time together are going to continue here as long as I draw breath. That may not be long. I am giving up a little at a time. Each day further down into that black hole along with the loving hand helping me along the path to hell. The little ups are shrinking, just as my patience with others. I am around them at this very moment and very uncomfortable. I can no longer easily deal with the many social occasions which come and go from week to week. I stand there and act personable while on the inside I am dying to get away. Such things are expected of me after all this time of being just one of the many patrons and seemingly fitting in with everyone. I can do it no longer. Alone is the only time I am fairly comfortable. Right across the room is a woman keeping to herself and having a drink. A few moments ago she visited the cash machine next to me and upon seeing her walk back toward one end of the bar I fell further. Yep... more of a vision than I was expecting. If she only knew of the thrall and appreciation I felt for the way she looked, perhaps conversation would ensue. Nope. I say nothing, avoid looking toward her picturesque and shapely legs as I drop further into a hole. Time to leave. I am not going to come out the other side of this shit. No way. Too difficult and I am too weakened. Just like years ago... Down, down, down we go into that black chasm of swirling shit which comprises the storm in my head and the reaction to knowing full well where I am. I did it and continue to do it. And there is that loving hand again. He never disappoints, and such a fact despite my treading over compositions using that figure as a center point at times. And here we go again. The routine. All comfort pushed aside to make room for business and another day mired until I can break free. Later will be bliss, but this early that feeling is absent. Nothing changes. The same impatience, disorganization, discomfort, difficulty. Every day. I calculate the best path for me to remain up and roll through the day with the comfort in my sights. Filthy. Yearning. Falling. Every now and then are moments of quiet when I can toss words into the editor and that is something. I do not like hurrying. Ever. No fucking choice. Good thing I am an alcoholic or I would not get out of bed the following morning. The booze and words are all I have left. At this moment I am sitting outside a rude customer's home awaiting the time to enter. It is a simple thing and will be finished quickly. That is one positive in a sea of crap. I need to get out of this shit situation but the avenues are so elusive that I can rarely see even one. Bad. The exit remains illuminated when out like this and that gentle hand presses me to do something. I know not what. Perhaps the hand will eventually point me in some direction. Fuck. Yesterday was my sacred day at home. The only day when I have the time to organize thought processes and wrap myself around tasks. I did well for the most part, although the next morning always hangs there like an obstacle to be avoided. My comfort disappears and the fall begins as hours pile up behind me. The entire affair is quite depressing. On top of that, a few weeks pass and then we are in the high country absolutely drowned within the sexual gaming culture again. I am certain the hand will be guiding me toward whatever will harm me... visions, legs, bars, you know. Damage of the highest order. The last trip was laid out here in spades. That was tough. Every fucking night something was there for me to see and subsequently drop, and the situation continued the next morning as I tried to word it all. Just ugh. I am anticipating the same and hopefully nothing worse. Growing up in an atmosphere dripping with sex has left me destroyed due to the obsession and my experience. And it keeps going and increasing. Every fucking day. The hand may be welcomed, and soon. As I move throughout any given day, I know it is there. Sometimes pushing, other times gently caressing, but always there. This afternoon when I find the comfort of home and my beloved alcohol, it will press gently for me to explore those things which advance the damage. Music, too. Once the booze flows and the music hits a critical vein, downward becomes the only visible direction. Stop drinking? What? Nope. What about knowing that the music is causing anger, dissatisfaction and depression? Also nope. That is my world. I have too much in my head to simply live without trying to dilute the thoughts or drown them out with my two vices. Besides, that loving hand always brings me a refill with a smile. This last of sections will make no one happy, and that fact only if anyone is reading and/or gives half a shit about my head anymore. You can all go away. I do not care. Now where? Just like every other week's entry, the question is here. Well, perhaps I will cease talking to others. No one listens anyway, but the hand is back there bringing me the same type of comfort and support as the gunman in that fateful streamliner. He helped me more than I can say. Maybe I should have killed everyone. Each caused me difficulty in one way or another, so why the fuck not? Myself too? That would only be fair considering the amount of damage I caused throughout all those years. Maybe. Hmm. I have been left by the wayside by others for a long while, and such a turn after people refer to me as being so fucking intelligent. Why? Have I done something to cause them harm? I will show them harm. My personality, experience, and past disallow my harming anyone or anything. Not even a worm who washes up on the back porch due to rain. I help the worm onto a blade of grass and let it go into the lawn so it stops writhing and can hopefully find its way back into comfort. Yes, I do realize that the fucking worm does not have a nervous system complex enough to enjoy the lawn, but I do not know everything. I simply feel pain when a creature is out of sorts, so I try to help. People? Well, they do have the ability to think and process their words and actions, so the consideration stops with the little worm. It knows nothing other than function and survival whereas the others should be able to listen to me. I have been pushed enough and made to feel unimportant. Perhaps my words are no longer enough. The hand has forced me to realize that the knife is right there. Shining... Waiting. He gives it to me with love. The next time I have to spell it out will be the last time I type. Hear me. No more of this. Do I seem upset?" 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 Hand of Satan Mature content No. 92 Published June 29th, 2019 6:28am pdt read ( words) Past entries "Send me a fucking email if you do not enjoy this shit. Go for it. I was hoping this would not happen. Up, down, up, and way the fuck down. There may be no more up at all. The future is black and there is a hand on my back pushing at my path and sending it aslant. I know to whom that hand belongs. A presence, a frame of reference, and the subject of more analysis and conjecture than any other figure in history. His hand. Pushing. Helping me along to a place I know awaiting me. I know. I have always known. Sometimes further back, other times right before my eyes, but there. Constantly. There is no longer any chance of avoiding that place. Yes, hope. I had it. No more. A situation arose which placed me outside the realm of the norm. I was not expecting to be in such a way. Not at all. One day bled into the next with my daily routines and those little things which brought some joy, and then a jolt began to show me things which I had not known for quite some time. They may be gone now. Trouble, depression, alcohol, visions, bad. All bad. Yesterday was an example of just how dramatically fucking weakened I have become due to this ongoing analysis and publishing of my thoughts. The job is in the big city and when the sun shines there are forms here and there which send me into a tailspin. Two yesterday, one this morning. The second vision yesterday was mid-morning on the street. She walked right by my location and moments later disappeared around the corner. I watched, as always, and was paralyzed for a time until the need arose to go back to work. Her image burned into my brain caused me to lose track of everything save for these words forming. One of the most picturesque women I have seen since either the Raven or the server mentioned here months ago. Black stretch pants, very tall, and with each curve on display from the side and back. She had the gait of Andrea and the long, blonde hair of Ashley. Long arms swinging patterns of beauty. A rarity, to be certain. I stared and fell, went back to work with every single fucking issue I have ever had spinning me into hellish form. Hours later at home I attempted to organize words for a separate entry (two at the same time, really) but continued to fall. And then the alcohol, and then the fucking hand over which I have zero control. The woman feels as a tipping point for this latest drop and her image may have been the one step down I needed to speed my fall through to hell. I may be finished for all time. There seems no way out. Clawing? Fuck no. I do not care anymore. Not one bit. And here I am. My situation was only a matter of time. Things were gleaned in 'Alexis...' as well as 'Eden...' and that was only the beginning of a much faster slide. Now things are worse. I am worse. And I don't fucking care. The thoughts now are just as they were before my dash to the goblet in two-thousand-three. Look how that turned out. Wrecked. The intention was to drown into an altered reality and never return. I feel that way now so it may happen soon if I can get my shit together. I see no other options. No repair, no lift, no happiness. In short, I am finished trying. Suck it. And there goes another woman right now. The hand has been on my back since yesterday afternoon. It feels soft and welcoming. Friendly. Helpful. Comfortable. I like it. Of course, behind that loving touch is a direction I have considered on and off for more than two decades. At times illuminated, other times dark. Now it is glowing and calling to me. The exit. The black. The freedom from pain and difficulty. That idea is more enticing now due to years of misery and this latest fall from on high which I cannot handle. Hours later, two more go by and I drop further. In the black. The first was displaying Andrea's form and gait. That woman carried every single feature, curve, and ratio over which I agonize and atop all of it was one of the most beautiful faces I could imagine. Gazing at a stark fucking reminder of that angel is not easy. Her beauty basically stunned me at first glance and for weeks had me at sixes and sevens knowing our connection was temporary. Thinking of her is difficult. And I absolutely cannot WAIT to go home and drown. Getting Andrea out of my head is as futile an operation as removing the Raven from my thoughts. Impossible. That woman still defines parts of me and Her loss burns like acid in my heart. None of that will ever go away. She was unreal. Words relating to Her and our time together are going to continue here as long as I draw breath. That may not be long. I am giving up a little at a time. Each day further down into that black hole along with the loving hand helping me along the path to hell. The little ups are shrinking, just as my patience with others. I am around them at this very moment and very uncomfortable. I can no longer easily deal with the many social occasions which come and go from week to week. I stand there and act personable while on the inside I am dying to get away. Such things are expected of me after all this time of being just one of the many patrons and seemingly fitting in with everyone. I can do it no longer. Alone is the only time I am fairly comfortable. Right across the room is a woman keeping to herself and having a drink. A few moments ago she visited the cash machine next to me and upon seeing her walk back toward one end of the bar I fell further. Yep... more of a vision than I was expecting. If she only knew of the thrall and appreciation I felt for the way she looked, perhaps conversation would ensue. Nope. I say nothing, avoid looking toward her picturesque and shapely legs as I drop further into a hole. Time to leave. I am not going to come out the other side of this shit. No way. Too difficult and I am too weakened. Just like years ago... Down, down, down we go into that black chasm of swirling shit which comprises the storm in my head and the reaction to knowing full well where I am. I did it and continue to do it. And there is that loving hand again. He never disappoints, and such a fact despite my treading over compositions using that figure as a center point at times. And here we go again. The routine. All comfort pushed aside to make room for business and another day mired until I can break free. Later will be bliss, but this early that feeling is absent. Nothing changes. The same impatience, disorganization, discomfort, difficulty. Every day. I calculate the best path for me to remain up and roll through the day with the comfort in my sights. Filthy. Yearning. Falling. Every now and then are moments of quiet when I can toss words into the editor and that is something. I do not like hurrying. Ever. No fucking choice. Good thing I am an alcoholic or I would not get out of bed the following morning. The booze and words are all I have left. At this moment I am sitting outside a rude customer's home awaiting the time to enter. It is a simple thing and will be finished quickly. That is one positive in a sea of crap. I need to get out of this shit situation but the avenues are so elusive that I can rarely see even one. Bad. The exit remains illuminated when out like this and that gentle hand presses me to do something. I know not what. Perhaps the hand will eventually point me in some direction. Fuck. Yesterday was my sacred day at home. The only day when I have the time to organize thought processes and wrap myself around tasks. I did well for the most part, although the next morning always hangs there like an obstacle to be avoided. My comfort disappears and the fall begins as hours pile up behind me. The entire affair is quite depressing. On top of that, a few weeks pass and then we are in the high country absolutely drowned within the sexual gaming culture again. I am certain the hand will be guiding me toward whatever will harm me... visions, legs, bars, you know. Damage of the highest order. The last trip was laid out here in spades. That was tough. Every fucking night something was there for me to see and subsequently drop, and the situation continued the next morning as I tried to word it all. Just ugh. I am anticipating the same and hopefully nothing worse. Growing up in an atmosphere dripping with sex has left me destroyed due to the obsession and my experience. And it keeps going and increasing. Every fucking day. The hand may be welcomed, and soon. As I move throughout any given day, I know it is there. Sometimes pushing, other times gently caressing, but always there. This afternoon when I find the comfort of home and my beloved alcohol, it will press gently for me to explore those things which advance the damage. Music, too. Once the booze flows and the music hits a critical vein, downward becomes the only visible direction. Stop drinking? What? Nope. What about knowing that the music is causing anger, dissatisfaction and depression? Also nope. That is my world. I have too much in my head to simply live without trying to dilute the thoughts or drown them out with my two vices. Besides, that loving hand always brings me a refill with a smile. This last of sections will make no one happy, and that fact only if anyone is reading and/or gives half a shit about my head anymore. You can all go away. I do not care. Now where? Just like every other week's entry, the question is here. Well, perhaps I will cease talking to others. No one listens anyway, but the hand is back there bringing me the same type of comfort and support as the gunman in that fateful streamliner. He helped me more than I can say. Maybe I should have killed everyone. Each caused me difficulty in one way or another, so why the fuck not? Myself too? That would only be fair considering the amount of damage I caused throughout all those years. Maybe. Hmm. I have been left by the wayside by others for a long while, and such a turn after people refer to me as being so fucking intelligent. Why? Have I done something to cause them harm? I will show them harm. My personality, experience, and past disallow my harming anyone or anything. Not even a worm who washes up on the back porch due to rain. I help the worm onto a blade of grass and let it go into the lawn so it stops writhing and can hopefully find its way back into comfort. Yes, I do realize that the fucking worm does not have a nervous system complex enough to enjoy the lawn, but I do not know everything. I simply feel pain when a creature is out of sorts, so I try to help. People? Well, they do have the ability to think and process their words and actions, so the consideration stops with the little worm. It knows nothing other than function and survival whereas the others should be able to listen to me. I have been pushed enough and made to feel unimportant. Perhaps my words are no longer enough. The hand has forced me to realize that the knife is right there. Shining... Waiting. He gives it to me with love. The next time I have to spell it out will be the last time I type. Hear me. No more of this. Do I seem upset?"
The Hand of Satan
Mature content No. 92 Published June 29th, 2019 6:28am pdt read ( words) Past entries
"Send me a fucking email if you do not enjoy this shit. Go for it. I was hoping this would not happen. Up, down, up, and way the fuck down. There may be no more up at all. The future is black and there is a hand on my back pushing at my path and sending it aslant. I know to whom that hand belongs. A presence, a frame of reference, and the subject of more analysis and conjecture than any other figure in history. His hand. Pushing. Helping me along to a place I know awaiting me. I know. I have always known. Sometimes further back, other times right before my eyes, but there. Constantly. There is no longer any chance of avoiding that place. Yes, hope. I had it. No more. A situation arose which placed me outside the realm of the norm. I was not expecting to be in such a way. Not at all. One day bled into the next with my daily routines and those little things which brought some joy, and then a jolt began to show me things which I had not known for quite some time. They may be gone now. Trouble, depression, alcohol, visions, bad. All bad. Yesterday was an example of just how dramatically fucking weakened I have become due to this ongoing analysis and publishing of my thoughts. The job is in the big city and when the sun shines there are forms here and there which send me into a tailspin. Two yesterday, one this morning. The second vision yesterday was mid-morning on the street. She walked right by my location and moments later disappeared around the corner. I watched, as always, and was paralyzed for a time until the need arose to go back to work. Her image burned into my brain caused me to lose track of everything save for these words forming. One of the most picturesque women I have seen since either the Raven or the server mentioned here months ago. Black stretch pants, very tall, and with each curve on display from the side and back. She had the gait of Andrea and the long, blonde hair of Ashley. Long arms swinging patterns of beauty. A rarity, to be certain. I stared and fell, went back to work with every single fucking issue I have ever had spinning me into hellish form. Hours later at home I attempted to organize words for a separate entry (two at the same time, really) but continued to fall. And then the alcohol, and then the fucking hand over which I have zero control. The woman feels as a tipping point for this latest drop and her image may have been the one step down I needed to speed my fall through to hell. I may be finished for all time. There seems no way out. Clawing? Fuck no. I do not care anymore. Not one bit. And here I am. My situation was only a matter of time. Things were gleaned in 'Alexis...' as well as 'Eden...' and that was only the beginning of a much faster slide. Now things are worse. I am worse. And I don't fucking care. The thoughts now are just as they were before my dash to the goblet in two-thousand-three. Look how that turned out. Wrecked. The intention was to drown into an altered reality and never return. I feel that way now so it may happen soon if I can get my shit together. I see no other options. No repair, no lift, no happiness. In short, I am finished trying. Suck it. And there goes another woman right now.
The hand has been on my back since yesterday afternoon. It feels soft and welcoming. Friendly. Helpful. Comfortable. I like it. Of course, behind that loving touch is a direction I have considered on and off for more than two decades. At times illuminated, other times dark. Now it is glowing and calling to me. The exit. The black. The freedom from pain and difficulty. That idea is more enticing now due to years of misery and this latest fall from on high which I cannot handle. Hours later, two more go by and I drop further. In the black. The first was displaying Andrea's form and gait. That woman carried every single feature, curve, and ratio over which I agonize and atop all of it was one of the most beautiful faces I could imagine. Gazing at a stark fucking reminder of that angel is not easy. Her beauty basically stunned me at first glance and for weeks had me at sixes and sevens knowing our connection was temporary. Thinking of her is difficult. And I absolutely cannot WAIT to go home and drown. Getting Andrea out of my head is as futile an operation as removing the Raven from my thoughts. Impossible. That woman still defines parts of me and Her loss burns like acid in my heart. None of that will ever go away. She was unreal. Words relating to Her and our time together are going to continue here as long as I draw breath. That may not be long. I am giving up a little at a time. Each day further down into that black hole along with the loving hand helping me along the path to hell. The little ups are shrinking, just as my patience with others. I am around them at this very moment and very uncomfortable. I can no longer easily deal with the many social occasions which come and go from week to week. I stand there and act personable while on the inside I am dying to get away. Such things are expected of me after all this time of being just one of the many patrons and seemingly fitting in with everyone. I can do it no longer. Alone is the only time I am fairly comfortable. Right across the room is a woman keeping to herself and having a drink. A few moments ago she visited the cash machine next to me and upon seeing her walk back toward one end of the bar I fell further. Yep... more of a vision than I was expecting. If she only knew of the thrall and appreciation I felt for the way she looked, perhaps conversation would ensue. Nope. I say nothing, avoid looking toward her picturesque and shapely legs as I drop further into a hole. Time to leave. I am not going to come out the other side of this shit. No way. Too difficult and I am too weakened.
Just like years ago... Down, down, down we go into that black chasm of swirling shit which comprises the storm in my head and the reaction to knowing full well where I am. I did it and continue to do it. And there is that loving hand again. He never disappoints, and such a fact despite my treading over compositions using that figure as a center point at times. And here we go again. The routine. All comfort pushed aside to make room for business and another day mired until I can break free. Later will be bliss, but this early that feeling is absent. Nothing changes. The same impatience, disorganization, discomfort, difficulty. Every day. I calculate the best path for me to remain up and roll through the day with the comfort in my sights. Filthy. Yearning. Falling. Every now and then are moments of quiet when I can toss words into the editor and that is something. I do not like hurrying. Ever. No fucking choice. Good thing I am an alcoholic or I would not get out of bed the following morning. The booze and words are all I have left. At this moment I am sitting outside a rude customer's home awaiting the time to enter. It is a simple thing and will be finished quickly. That is one positive in a sea of crap. I need to get out of this shit situation but the avenues are so elusive that I can rarely see even one. Bad. The exit remains illuminated when out like this and that gentle hand presses me to do something. I know not what. Perhaps the hand will eventually point me in some direction. Fuck. Yesterday was my sacred day at home. The only day when I have the time to organize thought processes and wrap myself around tasks. I did well for the most part, although the next morning always hangs there like an obstacle to be avoided. My comfort disappears and the fall begins as hours pile up behind me. The entire affair is quite depressing. On top of that, a few weeks pass and then we are in the high country absolutely drowned within the sexual gaming culture again. I am certain the hand will be guiding me toward whatever will harm me... visions, legs, bars, you know. Damage of the highest order. The last trip was laid out here in spades. That was tough. Every fucking night something was there for me to see and subsequently drop, and the situation continued the next morning as I tried to word it all. Just ugh. I am anticipating the same and hopefully nothing worse. Growing up in an atmosphere dripping with sex has left me destroyed due to the obsession and my experience. And it keeps going and increasing. Every fucking day. The hand may be welcomed, and soon. As I move throughout any given day, I know it is there. Sometimes pushing, other times gently caressing, but always there. This afternoon when I find the comfort of home and my beloved alcohol, it will press gently for me to explore those things which advance the damage. Music, too. Once the booze flows and the music hits a critical vein, downward becomes the only visible direction. Stop drinking? What? Nope. What about knowing that the music is causing anger, dissatisfaction and depression? Also nope. That is my world. I have too much in my head to simply live without trying to dilute the thoughts or drown them out with my two vices. Besides, that loving hand always brings me a refill with a smile.
This last of sections will make no one happy, and that fact only if anyone is reading and/or gives half a shit about my head anymore. You can all go away. I do not care. Now where? Just like every other week's entry, the question is here. Well, perhaps I will cease talking to others. No one listens anyway, but the hand is back there bringing me the same type of comfort and support as the gunman in that fateful streamliner. He helped me more than I can say. Maybe I should have killed everyone. Each caused me difficulty in one way or another, so why the fuck not? Myself too? That would only be fair considering the amount of damage I caused throughout all those years. Maybe. Hmm. I have been left by the wayside by others for a long while, and such a turn after people refer to me as being so fucking intelligent. Why? Have I done something to cause them harm? I will show them harm. My personality, experience, and past disallow my harming anyone or anything. Not even a worm who washes up on the back porch due to rain. I help the worm onto a blade of grass and let it go into the lawn so it stops writhing and can hopefully find its way back into comfort. Yes, I do realize that the fucking worm does not have a nervous system complex enough to enjoy the lawn, but I do not know everything. I simply feel pain when a creature is out of sorts, so I try to help. People? Well, they do have the ability to think and process their words and actions, so the consideration stops with the little worm. It knows nothing other than function and survival whereas the others should be able to listen to me. I have been pushed enough and made to feel unimportant. Perhaps my words are no longer enough. The hand has forced me to realize that the knife is right there. Shining... Waiting. He gives it to me with love. The next time I have to spell it out will be the last time I type. Hear me. No more of this. Do I seem upset?"
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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