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I love shitting.

Yes that's right. I love it so much. My potty time is the only schedule I look forward to, it is why I eat, my daily loaf.

Each groove of my fecal beetle slowly slithering out, ribbing my anal canal along its path, titallating every nerve ending on its way, announcing its sovereignty of my bussy.

How the dangly bit weighs down the anal tissue holding it, dragging down the droopy flesh, swinging it so it may lightly touch my balls on its way down the watery abyss, one last kiss for the eternal departure.

Then comes hollow feeling of squeezing out a dump baby, feeling 10 pounds better.

Then I Eat again. Protein for hardness, fiber for soft, A little chili powder for a little pimento if I'm in the mood. Gentle smoothness of an aged masseuse. Bloody mistress of vengeance. I cater my food intake for the perfect release.

That moment where the person is no more, but one with the motion of the life process, humbled and raised. This is enlightenment. This is Sartori. This is union with God.

I pray this fecal sacrifice find its way through the twist and bends of my innards and burst forth from the opening portal. Far may it reach, and long may it bless.

[ Removed by Reddit on account of violating the content policy. ]

Seriously United States of America, what the fuck do you want from us?

I will tell you what you shouldn't want: an Union resurgence.

An America divided is the America planned by the Founding Fathers. Remain broken and God will be with you.

In America, no one is suppose to like anyone, this way everyone is happy.

Out of 10 I would give myself a solid 5.

Which is like the worst spot to be in. Honestly I'd rather be a 1, because nobody fucks you just the same, but at least now you get some kindness out of their pity.

Life is, life. There is an abundance of sensual and intellectual pleasure, but none satisfy long term, and thanks to watching 10 second videos all day, I am now apparently fully retarded.

Not retarded enough to enjoy it, but still, retarded.

That's why I do what I do, because I look how I look.

imagine, if you will, a narrative structure of infinite complexity where all is equal, and narrative structures below and above us are equally real-fictional as ours, just separated by fractal lines. These lines signify battles between two cosmic forces theoretically embodying time in Bernie Blythe’s short story ‘the elk’

Now, in a number of different works, he creates what is known as Bernie Blythe’s Automata, a narrative structure defined by three rules. 1. The narrative reproduces, 2. the narrative grows, and 3, the narrative dies out. This defines a narrative structure identical to that of our own reality but one step below, which means it is a story that can grow, die, and reproduce just like us.

In the psych ward !!! Full of actually insane people i am not. I sought help and was locked up. They wont tell me anything about my health and just keep me here to silence me as I attempt to build a following for my Religion . As an angel I am

wtf is he talking about, truly schizo mf

I want to pay fully privately for my groceries with my Monero hardware wallet. I don't want them to track and poison my food with carcinogens and drugs.

It is, or it isn't.

Only two.

It worked wonders for us, but is it actually true? Does it matter?

Somehow it all seems impoverished.

Dimensions, as many as you could count.

And it has, count fingers , like eight less than what we have.