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I Am Drowning 
Fiddlebottoms
I Hope We Come Out With a Failsafe Plot 
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You Are Coming Down with Me 
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What A Piece of Work Is Man · 8:20am
It must needs be divined for us, whether we are to say that the Procreative Instinct is descendant from the Survival Instinct, or if, instead, the Procreative Instinct is first and the Survival Instinct secondary. Whether it is in pursuit of tomorrow that we fuck like dogs, or in pursuit of the noblest organ that we retain for tomorrow.
And, in either case, what madness is it to continue in one without the other?
By Darwin's logic, it is the will of the species, the greater will than the individual, that demands the pursuit of propagation. But, then, why age? Why the dimming of the faculties and the slowing of movement? If the mass of the species is the point, then why the needle-tight torture of the individual? What then, the evolutionary purpose of all this boredom? The graceless slur that is life, what has this to do with my genetic virtue? It existed once, I can only believe, why does the meaning in my seed exist no longer? Have I, in my eagerness to consume these cancers, dimmed it? Would my children now be a race of beasts?
And would they, in being so ordained as animals and not men, do any different than I have been?
Then one finds, it is the driving lash of survival that demands we force our genetic markers into others. It is so that my face may be seen tomorrow that I seek its preservation beyond my physical and temporal limits. So I am driven till foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog in pursuit of flesh or, failing that, to maintain an eternity in some other way.
Some other way.
Art. Literature. Nations. Architecture.
What a hideous menagerie of words.
The once genius who received just 300 francs to put bread on the table, and now his useless parchments are exchanged by rich men, the same eternally rich men who have eternally allowed genius to starve.
Art is nothing more than the hypocritical obsession of names. There are none who glorify Kafka, only their own interpretation of "aboutness." Only their own politics. Only their reading and their references, as if trampling could be compared then with gardening. Van Gogh and his flowers, uncared for in an attic until they are officially rendered acceptable by critical opinion, and his name is uttered like the tolling of the bell, the bell of bourgeois worship.
And what is the tone of this bell? This bell, whom does it exalt?
Not my name. Not his name. Only the name of current ownership. The name of the adoptive father, that will continue after the planted seeds are lost. The name on the bill of sale, that will endure forever. The name of a bitch's lie. Had I sense of future, it would all have been burnt. It could all still be burnt, but then what of tomorrow? If there isn't tomorrow, then what else is there? If there is, then what profit when everything will be held in another's power and for his glory?
There are nothing but these meaningless names and appearances.
...
Then, these instincts are worth nothing.
Now, nothing but this bitter spilling of beer.
Until there is no dignity left in it.
"Man delights me not. No, nor Woman neither."
-Hamlet
"Nor women neither."
-Withnail
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>>492829
Well, what brought that up Fiddlebottoms?
Someone truly ridiculous
I can't decide what my favorite part is:
(1) Is it his attempt to pass reading typical High School nerd shit as some sort of pedigree? While, you read Wheel of Time? And Asimov? OMG, guess what? So has every other fucking High School aged nerd, so most of this site.
(2) Or is it that he defends SS&E.
Literally, that is the big point of his whole essay, that some people dislike the single most followed individual on this fucking site, and this bothers him.
This is just ...
I'm trying to ...
I can't ...
I must!
This is like reading someone announcing their superior musical taste because they like "Gangnam Style." And they actually feel the need to write a refutation against the 20 people on Earth who don't want to hear that song blasted through their ear drums at all times and forever.
And you can tell they have superior musical taste, because they like Lady Gaga and Rihanna.
I find the concept of "world building" revolting.
Look, I've got a world. It's right outside; it has people in it and things that I can interact with. It is real, and it is infinitely more interesting than some long-ass bullshit about orc history or griffin wars whatever the fuck ever.
A story is about characters, events, and ideas. If you are not telling me about how the protagonist is acting, then you are wasting my valuable time.
Fuck off Tolkien, Jordan and every other long-winded weirdo.
"somewhere out there, someone is feeling real proud of themselves, i'm sure"
Is pretty much the summary of my life.
It sort of came up, but it was beside the point so I didn't argue it.
Intuition is not an argument.
It is counter-intuitive that two objects of differint weight should fall at the same speed.
It is counter-intuitive that most of the area occupied by a solid object is empty space between subatomic particles.
It is counter-intuitive that time should be relative.
Intuition is wrong. It is a 50/50 mix of mistaken assumptions drawn from incomplete data and outright lies someone told you.
>>475978
That's about how I felt reading James A. Michener.
Michener is one of the few people who, when I heard about his death, I felt deep relief. "Finally," I said to myself. "Those pointless goddamned travelogue encyclopedias with attempted plot are going to stop."
I hate James A. Michener. I'm glad he's fucking dead.
For some reason the idea that someone might have destroyed their computer in rage over Equestria Girls amuses me.
When I was half asleep I thought of the perfect thing to say here, but then I did my laundry this morning and forgot.
I fear at this point that if someone were to find quality on Horse Words dot Com, it would only serve to confuse or enrage them,
And in case some one feels like pointing it out, yes. I do indeed know that this is not yet the full moon, nor is it yet summer.
I refer to my growing agitation, which began as this moon started waxing.
I have been trying to proofread Sunshine-Smiles' thing.
It is difficult, because for the past couple days I have been literally unable to sit still for more than a minute. I am continually driven, I must move. I must agitate. I have been doing push-ups while I write this.
I must have action and aggression. I must have forward movement and violence.
The full moons this summer will drive me mad.