FishDojo God;1956214; said:
Do you mean the guy that wrote Factotum?
I never read his stuff, but saw the movie.
The movie about the worst writer in the world who daily wrote boring updates from his boring life.
Jeez, I hope that was a good book.
Spankbelly:A day in my life.
- Thread starter Spankbelly
- Start date
Do you mean the guy that wrote Factotum?
I never read his stuff, but saw the movie.
The movie about the worst writer in the world who daily wrote boring updates from his boring life.
Jeez, I hope that was a good book.
please keep writing, I for one would like to read some of the complete stories or chapters or pieces,
it's late and it's not english class so never mind the reasons, I've read excerpts from published authers that were not as interesting
it's late and it's not english class so never mind the reasons, I've read excerpts from published authers that were not as interesting
Thank'ya, thank'ya very much.
I'm getting tiered of working in warehouses.
If I could find away to get paid to sit around and daydream, that would be sweet.
I'm getting tiered of working in warehouses.
If I could find away to get paid to sit around and daydream, that would be sweet.
[Doctors, Captain]
Drink one of these, recommended Doctors and call me in the morning.
Sentry dropped the passenger on Captains dinning table.
Limp as a fish. Captain poked the body with her tarnished fork Must you sedate them so?
Must you toy with them so? Doctors took his seat at the table You know the motto, First do no harm. Ha ha Do what you must, my Captain. But you can do it while he sleeps away this terrible dream.
Terror adds spice to the meal. You bring me these packaged snacks and expect me to be satisfied? she pulled the body closer, a mouse to the snake. And stop with the hypocritical melodrama, that has been getting out of hand lately.
She tilted the head to expose the neck, bruised. Sentry, much of you is metal, she dressed him down with eyes of fire but some of you may still be added to the menu.
Sentry corrected his posture.
You do this again, Ill squeeze your little life into my wine glass. a wink Think eggshells Sentry, eggshells. she bent and began to feed.
Engineer is dead.
Captain gagged and released the flesh.
The physician nodded sternly, with three eyebrows raised Its best to hear bad news from a professional.
Surgeon tossed the report on the fares chest.
Captain glanced at it. With her hands on the wound, waste not want not.
Work related industrial suicide?
The body stirred. Wha? where am I?
Chemist stroked the patients ribs with hypodermic fingers. Not to worry, Mr. Sendrick. This is a classy operation. Venom filled his index, from glands in those hands of healing. All the passengers take their invite to the Captains table.
Mr. Sendrick appeared to focus dazedly.
Double vision? asked Surgeon Triple vision? laughed Psycho.
Chemist ended it This should help A little poke now. a toxic finger to the heart.
Work related industrial suicide?
Says so right there, Doctors pointed to the line that read Work Related Industrial Suicide and nodded looks official to me.
Captain sat back in her once stately chair.
These things happen. Doctors shrugged From time to time. And it has been a very long time.
Work related industrial suicide?
Indeed. agreed Doctors and quite beyond repair.
Beyond repair?
Beyond repair.
Captain summarized Engineer is dead, from work related industrial suicide, beyond repair.
Its a significant event. sympathized Doctors Take a moment. Let it sink in.
She had forgotten the meal. Beyond repair? Beyond, your repair?
Oh, my! six cheeks blushing Captain, you flatter us! many hands covered its embarrassment But seriously, many palms to the heavens we cant patch up every little booboo.
You cant Captain reflected on her ship of mechanized corpses You cant
Im afraid the warranty expired on this one. a pursed shrug Industrial Suicide, Captain.
Doctors leaned and gave Captains hand a consolatory pat I'm afraid well have to let her go. and a comforting squeeze. There, there. There, there.
Dont fret! Doctors stood with flourish Joe will do the checks.
Joe! The freak show? her eyes wide, fire departed That schizo talks to the furniture!
Hell do fine, just fine. Doctors gathered the report. Have a little faith in the boy.
Doctors shook Captains hand vigorously, meeting adjourned. Doctors made for the door.
Might have to take some systems offline.
What systems?
Nothing important. He cant do it all. Doctors entered the hall Hes not a machine, you know.
Doctors turned and whistled at Sentry Come boy!
Sentry lifted Mr. Sendrick, and heeled.
Drink one of these, recommended Doctors and call me in the morning.
Sentry dropped the passenger on Captains dinning table.
Limp as a fish. Captain poked the body with her tarnished fork Must you sedate them so?
Must you toy with them so? Doctors took his seat at the table You know the motto, First do no harm. Ha ha Do what you must, my Captain. But you can do it while he sleeps away this terrible dream.
Terror adds spice to the meal. You bring me these packaged snacks and expect me to be satisfied? she pulled the body closer, a mouse to the snake. And stop with the hypocritical melodrama, that has been getting out of hand lately.
She tilted the head to expose the neck, bruised. Sentry, much of you is metal, she dressed him down with eyes of fire but some of you may still be added to the menu.
Sentry corrected his posture.
You do this again, Ill squeeze your little life into my wine glass. a wink Think eggshells Sentry, eggshells. she bent and began to feed.
Engineer is dead.
Captain gagged and released the flesh.
The physician nodded sternly, with three eyebrows raised Its best to hear bad news from a professional.
Surgeon tossed the report on the fares chest.
Captain glanced at it. With her hands on the wound, waste not want not.
Work related industrial suicide?
The body stirred. Wha? where am I?
Chemist stroked the patients ribs with hypodermic fingers. Not to worry, Mr. Sendrick. This is a classy operation. Venom filled his index, from glands in those hands of healing. All the passengers take their invite to the Captains table.
Mr. Sendrick appeared to focus dazedly.
Double vision? asked Surgeon Triple vision? laughed Psycho.
Chemist ended it This should help A little poke now. a toxic finger to the heart.
Work related industrial suicide?
Says so right there, Doctors pointed to the line that read Work Related Industrial Suicide and nodded looks official to me.
Captain sat back in her once stately chair.
These things happen. Doctors shrugged From time to time. And it has been a very long time.
Work related industrial suicide?
Indeed. agreed Doctors and quite beyond repair.
Beyond repair?
Beyond repair.
Captain summarized Engineer is dead, from work related industrial suicide, beyond repair.
Its a significant event. sympathized Doctors Take a moment. Let it sink in.
She had forgotten the meal. Beyond repair? Beyond, your repair?
Oh, my! six cheeks blushing Captain, you flatter us! many hands covered its embarrassment But seriously, many palms to the heavens we cant patch up every little booboo.
You cant Captain reflected on her ship of mechanized corpses You cant
Im afraid the warranty expired on this one. a pursed shrug Industrial Suicide, Captain.
Doctors leaned and gave Captains hand a consolatory pat I'm afraid well have to let her go. and a comforting squeeze. There, there. There, there.
Dont fret! Doctors stood with flourish Joe will do the checks.
Joe! The freak show? her eyes wide, fire departed That schizo talks to the furniture!
Hell do fine, just fine. Doctors gathered the report. Have a little faith in the boy.
Doctors shook Captains hand vigorously, meeting adjourned. Doctors made for the door.
Might have to take some systems offline.
What systems?
Nothing important. He cant do it all. Doctors entered the hall Hes not a machine, you know.
Doctors turned and whistled at Sentry Come boy!
Sentry lifted Mr. Sendrick, and heeled.
Forgotten Moon
Moon Runner 7 tumbled in the black.
She was an elderly lady. A relic of empires past. Outdated even before her long lodge in purgatory.
She had her glory, her newsreels, her wild frontiers.
She was born centuries ago, galaxies away. In a shipyard since destroyed, by ancient feuds of blood and dusty yore.
She and her seven sisters were born of synthetic alloy and conjured reality.
The septuplets were among the first of the Jumpliners. Not the first to Jump. No, not by far.
The first were experimentals. The first to enter the abyss, and return. The first to enter the abyss and exit, anywhere.
Then the explorers, the mappers of space. The explorers who found riches waiting in unclaimed territories.
Then the hunters. Who took and retook what others claimed.
Then the troopships and colonizers. Often one and the same. Delivering those who staked claim, and those that held it.
The Moon Runners were these, troopships and colonizers. The seven sisters, and others of their kind, scattered and sowed the seeds of man and war across the stars.
Moon Runner 7 had seen the Universe. She had carried army tanks and farming tractors. Soldiers and saints. Bombs and botanists. Children and corpses. Goats and nukes. Hopes and sorrow. Slavers and slaved. Poisons and antidotes. Medicines and madness.
She had seen civilizations birthed and ruined. She had seen first contacts and last breaths.
She once was shinny new. A glittering ball of revolutionary technology. Among the fastest and most effective.
She could Jump herself and her cargo of thousands, deep into the black. She could Jump and Jump and leapfrog beyond her competition.
Her founded lands, her discovered treasures, her propagating populace fed and fueled the growing infant Empire.
Back in days of alliance and allies. Before alliances were broken and allies bent to yoke. Under the relentless whip of the God King, Emperor.
Emperor, the one and only. Self-proclaimed, challenged but undefeated, ruler of all lands known and unknown. The distillation of engineered and enhanced royal bloodlines, merged and married and refined into Him.
The Moon Runners were constructed around their Jump drives. The engine of the abyss central to their purpose. Their skeletons layered as far as the Jump field could extend. They were spheres of holds and hollows.
Along the central axis lay the reaction engines, opposed by the pilot station. The globe rotated around the axis, generating a centrifuge of simulated gravity.
Not the best design for comfortable voyages. As the centrifugal effect varied greatly from inner deck to outer. But they were not meant for comfort. They were meant to deliver cargo, human and machine, across the void of abyss. Most of their travel was by the Jump. They moved by matter only to place themselves in orbit.
Along and near the axis were the largest cargo holds. Where large equipment could be moved and stowed while nearly weightless. And could enter the ship between the reaction engines, while the sphere rotated around its axis.
The outer layers held the pods. Hypersleep had been perfected during mans first floundering strokes into the empty ocean.
The Moon Runners were optimized for freight. They had limited facilities for active passengers. They were comprised of row upon row, deck upon deck, of immobilized bodies. Carried into the depths of night. Ready to be woken fresh and ready, to toil in fields of fertility. Or to wage war in fields of fire.
Some of her missions had taken her to uncharted territory. She sometimes spent years exploring for unclaimed worlds of lush fruit and exploitation.
She brought with her all she needed. Ready to be the first to drop a civilization from orbit, and stab the Emperor's flag into the mud.
Moon Runner 7 had been a lady of elegance. The pride of the fleet. She had been a savior and destroyer. Her holds had carried the loot and taxes of Kings.
But as she leapfrogged from star to star, technology leapfrogged beyond her. New generations turned her many Jumps to one. Once she was lightning quick, now too slow to react in the game of finders keepers.
She was demoted to roles and fright of less import. Her wondrous Jumpdrive redundant in the age of permanent Gates.
Until her final insult as a discount starliner. She had no entertainments. No luxuries. But she did have stasis berths for thousands. She was a low fare, no frills ferry to the frugal masses.
And now she sits here. Looking much like the moons she was named for. In high orbit around the giant Dyson Sphere. Between Dyson and the Gate. Too starved and decrepit to Jump herself. She waits for the Emperors guards and the Emperors gate to speed her to the hub of civilization.
She waits for the blockade to clear. But it never will.
Dyson is diseased. And Moon Runner 7, the last of the grey ladies, is host to the contagion.
Moon Runner 7 tumbled in the black.
She was an elderly lady. A relic of empires past. Outdated even before her long lodge in purgatory.
She had her glory, her newsreels, her wild frontiers.
She was born centuries ago, galaxies away. In a shipyard since destroyed, by ancient feuds of blood and dusty yore.
She and her seven sisters were born of synthetic alloy and conjured reality.
The septuplets were among the first of the Jumpliners. Not the first to Jump. No, not by far.
The first were experimentals. The first to enter the abyss, and return. The first to enter the abyss and exit, anywhere.
Then the explorers, the mappers of space. The explorers who found riches waiting in unclaimed territories.
Then the hunters. Who took and retook what others claimed.
Then the troopships and colonizers. Often one and the same. Delivering those who staked claim, and those that held it.
The Moon Runners were these, troopships and colonizers. The seven sisters, and others of their kind, scattered and sowed the seeds of man and war across the stars.
Moon Runner 7 had seen the Universe. She had carried army tanks and farming tractors. Soldiers and saints. Bombs and botanists. Children and corpses. Goats and nukes. Hopes and sorrow. Slavers and slaved. Poisons and antidotes. Medicines and madness.
She had seen civilizations birthed and ruined. She had seen first contacts and last breaths.
She once was shinny new. A glittering ball of revolutionary technology. Among the fastest and most effective.
She could Jump herself and her cargo of thousands, deep into the black. She could Jump and Jump and leapfrog beyond her competition.
Her founded lands, her discovered treasures, her propagating populace fed and fueled the growing infant Empire.
Back in days of alliance and allies. Before alliances were broken and allies bent to yoke. Under the relentless whip of the God King, Emperor.
Emperor, the one and only. Self-proclaimed, challenged but undefeated, ruler of all lands known and unknown. The distillation of engineered and enhanced royal bloodlines, merged and married and refined into Him.
The Moon Runners were constructed around their Jump drives. The engine of the abyss central to their purpose. Their skeletons layered as far as the Jump field could extend. They were spheres of holds and hollows.
Along the central axis lay the reaction engines, opposed by the pilot station. The globe rotated around the axis, generating a centrifuge of simulated gravity.
Not the best design for comfortable voyages. As the centrifugal effect varied greatly from inner deck to outer. But they were not meant for comfort. They were meant to deliver cargo, human and machine, across the void of abyss. Most of their travel was by the Jump. They moved by matter only to place themselves in orbit.
Along and near the axis were the largest cargo holds. Where large equipment could be moved and stowed while nearly weightless. And could enter the ship between the reaction engines, while the sphere rotated around its axis.
The outer layers held the pods. Hypersleep had been perfected during mans first floundering strokes into the empty ocean.
The Moon Runners were optimized for freight. They had limited facilities for active passengers. They were comprised of row upon row, deck upon deck, of immobilized bodies. Carried into the depths of night. Ready to be woken fresh and ready, to toil in fields of fertility. Or to wage war in fields of fire.
Some of her missions had taken her to uncharted territory. She sometimes spent years exploring for unclaimed worlds of lush fruit and exploitation.
She brought with her all she needed. Ready to be the first to drop a civilization from orbit, and stab the Emperor's flag into the mud.
Moon Runner 7 had been a lady of elegance. The pride of the fleet. She had been a savior and destroyer. Her holds had carried the loot and taxes of Kings.
But as she leapfrogged from star to star, technology leapfrogged beyond her. New generations turned her many Jumps to one. Once she was lightning quick, now too slow to react in the game of finders keepers.
She was demoted to roles and fright of less import. Her wondrous Jumpdrive redundant in the age of permanent Gates.
Until her final insult as a discount starliner. She had no entertainments. No luxuries. But she did have stasis berths for thousands. She was a low fare, no frills ferry to the frugal masses.
And now she sits here. Looking much like the moons she was named for. In high orbit around the giant Dyson Sphere. Between Dyson and the Gate. Too starved and decrepit to Jump herself. She waits for the Emperors guards and the Emperors gate to speed her to the hub of civilization.
She waits for the blockade to clear. But it never will.
Dyson is diseased. And Moon Runner 7, the last of the grey ladies, is host to the contagion.
I found a site where authors from around the world critique each others material.
Some of them are hack wanna'bes, obviously painting by numbers.
Some of them are shockingly talented professionals and make me look the obvious hack.
I'll post Eternal Prisoners there if I get it together. I might have enough of a plot to fill it out into a full length novel. But I guess the industry standard is 80,000 words. That sounds like allot of typing.
I'm going to have to pick up my game, big time. Before I step into the ring with those boys.
But I'm learning lot's about how to play in the major leagues, by watching the pros.
Some of them are hack wanna'bes, obviously painting by numbers.
Some of them are shockingly talented professionals and make me look the obvious hack.
I'll post Eternal Prisoners there if I get it together. I might have enough of a plot to fill it out into a full length novel. But I guess the industry standard is 80,000 words. That sounds like allot of typing.
I'm going to have to pick up my game, big time. Before I step into the ring with those boys.
But I'm learning lot's about how to play in the major leagues, by watching the pros.
From an online date site. This is how Spankbelly tells it like it is. It's all about the honesty.
[About Me]
This is all true.
Deal with it.
I like not reading poetry on a long rainy beach.
I would like to meet a nice, normal, sane person.
No more than 50 pairs of shoes.
No hard drug addiction.
No wannabe supermodel/porn stars.
No anorexic/bulimic can't put dressing on a salad Popsicle Sticks.
Not too twisted up by Vogue to be happy with what she is.
[Hey, I didn't make you look fat in that dress. And you know damned well what the answer is. So stop asking.]
Should be able to carry a conversation that does not involve fashion/sports/current top 10 songs/reality T.V.
Should clip on her wig in less than 24hrs and get in the car already.
Should not need more face paint than my truck needs rust paint.
Should not require statistical probability to calculate # of lovers.
Should tell me what the hell I did to piss her off, and not wait for me to figure it out. Because I won't, EVER.
Should not completely freak out over life's minor catastrophes. Because when life hands out a major catastrophe, I might need backup.
Kids are o.k.
But please tell me you and your "baby daddy" are on a first name basis.
Some vague recollection of first AND last would be preferable.
He should not be listed in your day planner as "John #38" or "Bad Trick".
And no, it does not count as a legitimate long term relationship just because he is a regular who "dates" you only every second Thursday when Money Mart cashes his unemployment check.
An official certificate of death or parole rejection would be good.
So I don't have to worry about some moon-shined-up hillbilly burning my truck, while I'm romancing the 'ol lady he didn't want then but does now.
Love triangles, and pyrotechnic displays of broken ego fuelled territorial heartache, have never once gone in my favour. Never.
Should know something interesting I don't yet.
Should know what she knows and why she knows it.
Sometimes it is the right thing to do, to jump off the cliff with all the other lemmings.
Should know why it is right to jump.
Should know when to turn left.
Should not fake it. I am not stupid. I know when a fish smells like a rat.
Should not laugh at my jokes if they are not funny.
Should not pretend to agree when she doesn't.
Should be able to tell me the same embarrassing/worrying crap she tells her bestfriendforever on the phone at 2AM, when she thinks I am not listening.
Should not dress entirely in black all the time, to accent the ten open wound facial piercings proclaiming to the world (to which she falsely claims indifference) her nu voe libertine manic depressive rebel facade.
Because a real rebel wouldn't give a **** what they look like. Poser.
Should not mind an occasional runonsentence.
Should not dress entirely in pink all the time, because that's just weird.
One cat is cuddly, twenty-nine are a health hazard...and pathetically insane, if not pathologically.
Tattoos can be cool.
But there is a difference between art and graffiti.
"Oh look, more random Chinese characters that may or may not be advertising the daily special for the 'Double Lucky Lucky Happy Happy Time' restaurant down the street."
Original.
Tip for 'ya - If some unshowered Jim-Bob in a van parked behind your local strip mall bar charged you less than $20, you probably don't want it on your skin forever.
At least get your Gothic ass some sun. Pasty Hospital White and Runny Jailhouse Blue, do not compliment each other.
You know, the regular girl next door type gal.
Oh, and she should be able to do something I can't. Because that is sexy.
Even better if she can do something "only men can do". Because that is sexy sexy.
If she can do it better than men, that is sexy sexy sexy.
She should be someone for whom I occasionally ditch work early. Not someone I work overtime to avoid.
She should be a buddy. A sexy buddy.
Not a pet for me or Barbie Doll to impress my stupid friends.
[Yes, I know they are stupid. And they know they are stupid. So shut it, and go hang out with your stupid friends.]
We should have fun even if we're doing something boring.
And there will be boring.
I am not a jet pilot/rock star/underwear model.
I do not own a surf board, scuba gear, parachute, red convertible or white stallion.
Nor do I care to sing love sonnets while playing acoustic guitar with my toes, whistling along with my ass gas powered harmonica, while writing your name in the snow and carving our hearts into an old English Oak tree down by the River of Love.
Sure, sure...I CAN do all of that. But I don't care to.
And I really really can't dance, so fogedabodit.
I do have a climbing harness.
But that is for work. Not sexy cool X-Games. And not for sexy cool sex.
[I do write the most amazing love letters.
Seriously...If I ever give you one, read it sitting down. Or you might slip.]
I'm just a regular, normal, average, no **** guy.
If you can deal with that, I don't much care how short/fat/ugly/stupid you think you are.
Unless you need a garden hose on a stick to wash your ass.
That's just too much loving honey.
And if you are a big fatty, you'd better be able to cook.
Beautiful/rich/genius will also be acceptable.
But an unlikely combination.
Honestly, I am a bit partial to short brunettes.
So if you're willing to hunch under a wig, that would be cool. Freak.
And I prefer geek to heroin sheik.
Maybe a couple of nights a month...you could knock the lenses out of your Oakleys and talk dirty fusion.
My pictures were taken 5 min after work, ignore the helmet hair.
I am a trailer trash hillbilly, and I don't care.
As you can see from the two months of growth, I am unable to sprout a beard.
If you are more capable of whisker lips, accept reality and do some weeding.
I have experimented with the fuzzy side of life. I'm not that into it.
Baby faced or not, I will be 36 soon.
Yes I do have I.D.
I like women, not girls.
Ladies are even better. But you might have to dress me up a little before we go out in public.
You know which one you are.
Well, not the girls. They don't know who they are yet.
If you want to be Paris when you grow up, grow up.
But the rest of you can strap on a push up, squeeze a girdle over your granny panties, hang your driving glasses around your neck and come on over.
Can't remember where to find your best teeth?
You won't need them, honey-babydoll-girlygirl.
You won't need them.
Wink.
[Edit-Don't take all of that quite so literally. Exaggeration can be fun. But it sometimes leads to unintended consequences.
Apparently.
Specifically...I want a woman with a mature attitude. I am not literally into geriatric fornication.
Yet.
I never thought I'd have to say this but...Seniors, if you send pics please do not "put'em on da'glass".
I do apologize for any misunderstanding. But lets not travel that varicose veined road again.
Not for a long, long time.]
[First Date]
I think most bars/clubs are places you go to **** someone you don't yet know you hate because you couldn't talk about anything real over the loud music, booze and pretty lights.
I don't like kicking zombies out of my bed while praying they are too hung-over to remember my address and phone number.
How about coffee and a conversation for starters?
I don't actually drink coffee. But if you are the kind of person that thinks conversing is boring...you probably are.
Is it really fair to blame a coffee cup for your lack of personality?
I'll save the romantic hot air balloon ride until I see evidence you are not psycho enough to push me out.
[About Me]
This is all true.
Deal with it.
I like not reading poetry on a long rainy beach.
I would like to meet a nice, normal, sane person.
No more than 50 pairs of shoes.
No hard drug addiction.
No wannabe supermodel/porn stars.
No anorexic/bulimic can't put dressing on a salad Popsicle Sticks.
Not too twisted up by Vogue to be happy with what she is.
[Hey, I didn't make you look fat in that dress. And you know damned well what the answer is. So stop asking.]
Should be able to carry a conversation that does not involve fashion/sports/current top 10 songs/reality T.V.
Should clip on her wig in less than 24hrs and get in the car already.
Should not need more face paint than my truck needs rust paint.
Should not require statistical probability to calculate # of lovers.
Should tell me what the hell I did to piss her off, and not wait for me to figure it out. Because I won't, EVER.
Should not completely freak out over life's minor catastrophes. Because when life hands out a major catastrophe, I might need backup.
Kids are o.k.
But please tell me you and your "baby daddy" are on a first name basis.
Some vague recollection of first AND last would be preferable.
He should not be listed in your day planner as "John #38" or "Bad Trick".
And no, it does not count as a legitimate long term relationship just because he is a regular who "dates" you only every second Thursday when Money Mart cashes his unemployment check.
An official certificate of death or parole rejection would be good.
So I don't have to worry about some moon-shined-up hillbilly burning my truck, while I'm romancing the 'ol lady he didn't want then but does now.
Love triangles, and pyrotechnic displays of broken ego fuelled territorial heartache, have never once gone in my favour. Never.
Should know something interesting I don't yet.
Should know what she knows and why she knows it.
Sometimes it is the right thing to do, to jump off the cliff with all the other lemmings.
Should know why it is right to jump.
Should know when to turn left.
Should not fake it. I am not stupid. I know when a fish smells like a rat.
Should not laugh at my jokes if they are not funny.
Should not pretend to agree when she doesn't.
Should be able to tell me the same embarrassing/worrying crap she tells her bestfriendforever on the phone at 2AM, when she thinks I am not listening.
Should not dress entirely in black all the time, to accent the ten open wound facial piercings proclaiming to the world (to which she falsely claims indifference) her nu voe libertine manic depressive rebel facade.
Because a real rebel wouldn't give a **** what they look like. Poser.
Should not mind an occasional runonsentence.
Should not dress entirely in pink all the time, because that's just weird.
One cat is cuddly, twenty-nine are a health hazard...and pathetically insane, if not pathologically.
Tattoos can be cool.
But there is a difference between art and graffiti.
"Oh look, more random Chinese characters that may or may not be advertising the daily special for the 'Double Lucky Lucky Happy Happy Time' restaurant down the street."
Original.
Tip for 'ya - If some unshowered Jim-Bob in a van parked behind your local strip mall bar charged you less than $20, you probably don't want it on your skin forever.
At least get your Gothic ass some sun. Pasty Hospital White and Runny Jailhouse Blue, do not compliment each other.
You know, the regular girl next door type gal.
Oh, and she should be able to do something I can't. Because that is sexy.
Even better if she can do something "only men can do". Because that is sexy sexy.
If she can do it better than men, that is sexy sexy sexy.
She should be someone for whom I occasionally ditch work early. Not someone I work overtime to avoid.
She should be a buddy. A sexy buddy.
Not a pet for me or Barbie Doll to impress my stupid friends.
[Yes, I know they are stupid. And they know they are stupid. So shut it, and go hang out with your stupid friends.]
We should have fun even if we're doing something boring.
And there will be boring.
I am not a jet pilot/rock star/underwear model.
I do not own a surf board, scuba gear, parachute, red convertible or white stallion.
Nor do I care to sing love sonnets while playing acoustic guitar with my toes, whistling along with my ass gas powered harmonica, while writing your name in the snow and carving our hearts into an old English Oak tree down by the River of Love.
Sure, sure...I CAN do all of that. But I don't care to.
And I really really can't dance, so fogedabodit.
I do have a climbing harness.
But that is for work. Not sexy cool X-Games. And not for sexy cool sex.
[I do write the most amazing love letters.
Seriously...If I ever give you one, read it sitting down. Or you might slip.]
I'm just a regular, normal, average, no **** guy.
If you can deal with that, I don't much care how short/fat/ugly/stupid you think you are.
Unless you need a garden hose on a stick to wash your ass.
That's just too much loving honey.
And if you are a big fatty, you'd better be able to cook.
Beautiful/rich/genius will also be acceptable.
But an unlikely combination.
Honestly, I am a bit partial to short brunettes.
So if you're willing to hunch under a wig, that would be cool. Freak.
And I prefer geek to heroin sheik.
Maybe a couple of nights a month...you could knock the lenses out of your Oakleys and talk dirty fusion.
My pictures were taken 5 min after work, ignore the helmet hair.
I am a trailer trash hillbilly, and I don't care.
As you can see from the two months of growth, I am unable to sprout a beard.
If you are more capable of whisker lips, accept reality and do some weeding.
I have experimented with the fuzzy side of life. I'm not that into it.
Baby faced or not, I will be 36 soon.
Yes I do have I.D.
I like women, not girls.
Ladies are even better. But you might have to dress me up a little before we go out in public.
You know which one you are.
Well, not the girls. They don't know who they are yet.
If you want to be Paris when you grow up, grow up.
But the rest of you can strap on a push up, squeeze a girdle over your granny panties, hang your driving glasses around your neck and come on over.
Can't remember where to find your best teeth?
You won't need them, honey-babydoll-girlygirl.
You won't need them.
Wink.
[Edit-Don't take all of that quite so literally. Exaggeration can be fun. But it sometimes leads to unintended consequences.
Apparently.
Specifically...I want a woman with a mature attitude. I am not literally into geriatric fornication.
Yet.
I never thought I'd have to say this but...Seniors, if you send pics please do not "put'em on da'glass".
I do apologize for any misunderstanding. But lets not travel that varicose veined road again.
Not for a long, long time.]
[First Date]
I think most bars/clubs are places you go to **** someone you don't yet know you hate because you couldn't talk about anything real over the loud music, booze and pretty lights.
I don't like kicking zombies out of my bed while praying they are too hung-over to remember my address and phone number.
How about coffee and a conversation for starters?
I don't actually drink coffee. But if you are the kind of person that thinks conversing is boring...you probably are.
Is it really fair to blame a coffee cup for your lack of personality?
I'll save the romantic hot air balloon ride until I see evidence you are not psycho enough to push me out.
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View attachment 322535welcome again... nice to see you...
no one can write like you do....
View attachment 322535welcome again... nice to see you...
no one can write like you do....Red Devil;2786478; said:View attachment 322534
View attachment 322535welcome again... nice to see you...
Sadly, I had nothing better to do with my hands on Valentine's Day.
you should be a writer. i NEVER read long post because i get annoyed but this was good really good, id read your books
