Not coffee is worse than yes coffee
Feb. 24th, 2011 08:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vicarzThe truth is I do believe in god, that sonuvabitch. I believe in that sick vindictive asshole. I also believe sex is a sin, like poo (not to confuse the two). God gave us shit, 1 to 3 a day, so that no matter how clean we try to be, no matter how much intellect we exhibit, no matter how kind we are to other creatures - that something horrid and disgusting brings us down lower than the lowest levels of dirt. You can wear a priests robe or be a hairy orangutan, you can have sweet clean kinky sex or eat doritos and fart all day, but some time you will have vile mud shoot out of youu ass and it will be disgusting. Every day.
Sex is for procreation. He made it for that, and made it fun to fuck with us. He made us want it all the time. He made us want it in ways which are not conducive to baby making. He gave us self control and science ability to separate the murderous sex urge from the zygote creation. Our fun technology now takes the god-said-no parents and gives them litters of puppies. One thing most don't know is that when you have a litter of kids, you develop up to 8 breast nipples to feed them. True, look it up!
Only the mormons hate god more than I do. They decided to make up a space religion that could be disproven just to spit in his face. They made his boy silly, and their book author fruity as a bat in a hat. The degree of their wry sarcasm, right down to their zealous defense of the rail bridge announcing oz, is a testament to their intent to mock god throughout newfoundbywhiteycontinent.
I found god. I drank too much, and got sick in a public toilet - a rank one at that. We, humankind, took the most foul curse heaved through and upon us, and surrounded it with ritual, euphemisms, and chemical processes to quickly ferry away the problem. Unsuccessfully poisoning myself by imbibing clear yeast shit, my stomach wrenched itself into a lovely spasm which triggered my esophagus to inchworm that sweet burning poison. Luckily it is a relatively long journey and I had time to go into the tile room. The tile room is disgusting, but it is a wall of shiney stone meant to preserve the world around it from the foul inside. As semi-liquids drenched the waters below, limbs failing and flailing more cold stone is found. Porcelain is a lovely feeling when you're ill, holding firm under your hand, your elbow, your forehead, and then my face. Once you've encountered the remnants of other's biology left upon its surface so there is no reason to fear more, I can switch from cheek to cheek. Each time the cold stone touches my skin I can feel something besides the sick, my body. The cold, the rock, it's real. It grounds me, feeling something that can be measured. Something that can be cleaned.
A sink spray later I wandered back into the club and nobody was the wiser. I suppose disgusting is relatively difficult to distinguish in degree.
Sex is for procreation. He made it for that, and made it fun to fuck with us. He made us want it all the time. He made us want it in ways which are not conducive to baby making. He gave us self control and science ability to separate the murderous sex urge from the zygote creation. Our fun technology now takes the god-said-no parents and gives them litters of puppies. One thing most don't know is that when you have a litter of kids, you develop up to 8 breast nipples to feed them. True, look it up!
Only the mormons hate god more than I do. They decided to make up a space religion that could be disproven just to spit in his face. They made his boy silly, and their book author fruity as a bat in a hat. The degree of their wry sarcasm, right down to their zealous defense of the rail bridge announcing oz, is a testament to their intent to mock god throughout newfoundbywhiteycontinent.
I found god. I drank too much, and got sick in a public toilet - a rank one at that. We, humankind, took the most foul curse heaved through and upon us, and surrounded it with ritual, euphemisms, and chemical processes to quickly ferry away the problem. Unsuccessfully poisoning myself by imbibing clear yeast shit, my stomach wrenched itself into a lovely spasm which triggered my esophagus to inchworm that sweet burning poison. Luckily it is a relatively long journey and I had time to go into the tile room. The tile room is disgusting, but it is a wall of shiney stone meant to preserve the world around it from the foul inside. As semi-liquids drenched the waters below, limbs failing and flailing more cold stone is found. Porcelain is a lovely feeling when you're ill, holding firm under your hand, your elbow, your forehead, and then my face. Once you've encountered the remnants of other's biology left upon its surface so there is no reason to fear more, I can switch from cheek to cheek. Each time the cold stone touches my skin I can feel something besides the sick, my body. The cold, the rock, it's real. It grounds me, feeling something that can be measured. Something that can be cleaned.
A sink spray later I wandered back into the club and nobody was the wiser. I suppose disgusting is relatively difficult to distinguish in degree.
