#oasi hippie

[oldschoolhip-hop]

Maxxed Out: Atlanta's Joshykun Breaks Down his Story (Interview)

I recently conducted an interview with rising Atlanta artist Joshykun after covering his single, “Luxury,” to find out more about the sensational artist. In my conversation, I found a very passionate, fun spirited individual who looks to become the next it factor in rap! Enjoy this passage of his career, and hopefully, you will discover new knowledge on Joshykun. Anthony – Alright, brother, tell…

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#Beneath the Streets #Interviews #Joshykun #Luxury #NDK Dre #The Musical Hippie #Vision Oasis Entertainment

[k-hippie]

K-202 GROUNDY MOD MAJOR UPDATE 2023

Hello everyone :)

As the last expansion is out for around a week now, we have updated from the ground the k-202 Groundy Mod ...

Maxis made some real changes inside its painting terrains since 2022 and an update was a long time due ! That's why we called it a Major Update :)

missing base ones have been added AND updated

the Get Famous terrains have been removed by Maxis so we did

the Cottage Living ones are completed

the only one terrain paint from Wedding World has been added

the Chestnut Ridge ones have been added

Most of them are Maxis match but a few are really different :) Everything has been updated until for Rent Expansion but Tomarang has no terrain paint ...

The ones which have terrain paints are : Willow Creek and Oasis Spring ( base game ) - Granite Falls - Windenburg - Evergreen Harbour - Sulani - Chestnut Ridge - Tartosa - Henford-on-Bagley

For those who do not know what is the k-202 Groundy Mod, they are terrain paints, the ones used by Maxis for the terrains you may modify AND all your inside lot terrains :) They are different from the k-505 terrains ( which cover the worlds ) ... And speaking about the k-505 : WE MADE A SILENT UPDATE OF THE K-505 BASEGAME ONLY IN ORDER TO REMOVE THE DUPLICATES AND TO BE FULL OK WITH THIS K-202 UPDATE !

ALL THE K-202 FILES OVERRIDE THE GAME FILES AND WORK VERY FINE IN-GAME …

These updates are our last updates before the new year. But rendez-vous before Xmas for a k-hippie talk & news related to the Sims 4 :)

For everything related to our Sims 3 Worlds, we know we are a bit late but do not worry : THERE WILL BE UPDATES for Lost Cove, Oaksoak Hollow and Eureka Valley :) and a new World incoming : Shetland Harbour !

See you soon ... xoxo

Download k-202 ( updated ---> for Rent )

Download k-505 ( base game silent update )

if you think it good enough: ko-fi // paypal

\o/

#sims 4 #sims 4 custom content #sims 4 download #sims 4 wysiwyg #sims 4 build #sims 4 cc #ts4 #the sims 4 #k mods #k hippie #k-202 #k-505 #sims 4 world #sims 4 terrain

[aaknopf]

Martyr!, the poet Kaveh Akbar’s propulsive debut novel, tells the tale of Cyrus Shams, the son of a lost mother (victim of a 1988 U. S. Naval snafu in the Persian Gulf that killed 290 people on a commercial airliner) and the long-suffering father who emigrated to Fort Wayne, IN with his baby boy. We meet Cyrus as a student of poetry at Keady University and a reformed addict. In this excerpt, he’s at the local open mic with his friends; we also share one of the poems from Cyrus’s bookofmartyrs.docx, helpfully supplied by Akbar, the poet behind the fictional poet.

. .

The Naples Tuesday night open mic had become a mainstay of Cyrus and Zee’s friendship. It was a small affair, not much to distinguish it from the myriad other open mics happening elsewhere in the country—except this was their open mic, their organic community of beautiful weirdos—old hippies singing Pete Seeger, trans kids rapping about liberation, passionate spoken-word performances by nurses and teenagers and teachers and cooks. As with any campus open mic, there was the occasional frat dude coming to play sets of smirky acoustic rap covers and overearnest breakup narratives. But even they were welcome, and mostly it felt like a safe little oasis of amongness in the relative desert of their Indiana college town, a healthy way to spend the time they were no longer using to get drunk or high.   Naturally, Naples didn’t have its own sound equipment, so Zee would usually show up fifteen minutes early with his beat-up Yamaha PA to set up for Sad James, who hosted every week. Sad James was called this to distinguish him from DJ James, a guy who cycled nightly through the campus bars. DJ James was not a particularly interesting artist, but he was well-known enough in the campus community to warrant Sad James’s nominative prefix, which began as a joke but somehow stuck, and to which Sad James had grown accustomed with good humor, even occasionally doing small shows under the name. Sad James was a quiet white guy, long blond hair framing his lightly stubbled face, who played intensely solemn electronic songs, punctuated by sparse circuit-bent blips and bloops, and over time at Keady, he had become one of Zee and Cyrus’s most resilient and trusted friends.   On this night, Cyrus had read a poem early, an older experimental piece from a series where he’d been assigning words to each digit 0–9, then using an Excel document to generate a lyric out of those words as the digits appeared in the Fibonacci sequence: “lips sweat teeth lips spread teeth lips drip deep deep sweat skin,” etc. It was bad, but he loved reading them out loud, the rhythms and repeti­tions and weird little riffs that emerged. Sad James did an older piece where the lyrics “burning with the human stain / she dries up, dust in the rain” were repeated and modulated over molten beeps from an old circuit-bent Game Boy. Zee—a drummer in his free time who idolized J Dilla and John Bonham and Max Roach and Zach Hill in equal measure—hadn’t brought anything of his own to perform that evening, but did have a little bongo to help accompany any acoustic acts who wanted it.   On the patio listening to Cyrus talk about his new project, Zee said, “I could see it being a bunch of different poems in the voices of all your different historical martyr obsessions?” Then to Sad James, Zee added, “Cyrus has been plastering our apartment with these big black-and-white printouts of all their terrifying faces. Bobby Sands in our kitchen, Joan of Arc in our hallway.”   Sad James made his eyes get big.   “I just like having them present,” Cyrus said, slumping into his chair. He didn’t add that he’d been reading about them in the library, his mystic martyrs, that he’d taped a great grid of their grayscale printed faces above his bed, half believing it would work like those tapes that promised to teach you Spanish while you slept, that some­how their lived wisdoms would pass into him as he dreamt. Among the Tank Man, Bobby Sands, Falconetti as Joan of Arc, Cyrus had a picture of his parents’ wedding day. His mother, seated in a sleeved white dress, smiling tightly at the camera while his father, in a tacky gray tux, sat grinning next to her holding her hand. Above their heads, a group of attendees held an ornate white sheet. It was the only picture of his mother he had. Next to his mother, his father beamed, bright in a way that made it seem he was radiating the light himself.   Zee went on: “So you could write a poem where Joan of Arc is like, ‘Wow, this fire is so hot’ or whatever. And then a poem where Hussain is like, ‘Wow, sucks that I wouldn’t kneel.’ You know what I mean?”   Cyrus laughed.   “I tried some of that! But see, that’s where it gets corny. What could I possibly say about the martyrdom of Hussain or Joan of Arc or whoever that hasn’t already been said? Or that’s worth saying?”   Sad James asked who Hussain was and Zee quickly explained the trial in the desert, Hussain’s refusing to kneel and being killed for it.   “You know, Hussain’s head is supposedly still buried in Cairo?” Zee said, smiling. “Cairo, which is in which country again?”   Cyrus rolled his eyes at his friend, who was, as Cyrus liked to remind him when he got too greatest-ancient-civilization-on-earth about things, only half Egyptian.   “Damn,” Sad James said. “I would’ve just kneeled and crossed my fingers behind my back. Who am I trying to impress? Later I could call take-backsies. I’d just say I tripped and landed on my knees or something.”   The three friends laughed. Justine, an open mic regular whose Blonde on Blonde–era pea-coat-and-harmonica-rack Bob Dylan act was a mainstay of the open mic, came outside to ask Zee for a cigarette. He obliged her with an American Spirit Yellow, which she lit around the corner as she began speaking into her cell phone.   In moments like these Cyrus still sometimes felt like asking to bum one too—he’d been a pack-and-a-half-a-day smoker before he got sober, and continued his habit even after he’d kicked everything else. “Quit things in the order they’re killing you,” his sponsor, Gabe, told him once. After a year clean he turned his attention to cigarettes, which he finally managed to kick completely by tapering: from one and a half packs a day to a pack to half a pack to five cigarettes and so on until he was just smoking a single cigarette every few days and then, none at all. He could probably get away with bumming the occasional cigarette now and again, but in his mind he was saving that for something momentous: his final moments lying in the grass dying from a gunshot wound, or walking in slow motion away from a burning building.   “So what are you thinking then? A novel? Or like . . . a poetic mar­tyr field guide?” asked Zee.   “I’m really not sure yet. But my whole life I’ve thought about my mom on that flight, how meaningless her death was. Truly literally like, meaningless. Without meaning. The difference between 290 dead and 289. It’s actuarial. Not even tragic, you know? So was she a martyr? There has to be a definition of the word that can accom­modate her. That’s what I’m after.”

More on this book and author:

Learn more about Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar.

Browse Kaveh Akbar's poetry collections and follow Kaveh on Instagram @kavehakbar.kavehakbar.

Visit our Tumblr to peruse poems, audio recordings, and broadsides in the Knopf poem-a-day series.

To share the poem-a-day experience with friends, pass along this link.

#poetry #poetry month #national poetry month #Knopfpoetry #Knopf Poetry #Kaveh Akbar #AkbarAudio #Arian Moayed #MoayedAudio #MartyrANovel #Martyr! #Martyr! A Novel #Excerpt

[thebramblewood]

Oasis Springs Side Quest: Part IV

Previous / Next

Transcript under the cut.

Helena: "Am I just so incredibly drunk that I’m hallucinating right now, or do you see that tree too?"

Ulrike: "No, I see it."

Helena: "A tree like that definitely shouldn’t be able to grow way the hell out here, right?"

Ulrike: "Oh, it’s a fortune teller’s shop. That explains it all."

Helena: "Does it?"

Ulrike: "Of course! There’s clearly magic afoot. This could be one of those weird liminal spaces where anything’s possible."

Helena: "Come on. You don’t really believe in that, do you?"

Ulrike: "Not really… But it could still be fun to check out."

Helena: "Are you kidding? I get the creeps just looking at it!"

Ulrike: "Why does it creep you out so much if you don’t believe in magic?"

Helena: "Because it’s weird!"

Ulrike: "Follow me, Zhao. We need to open that rational mind of yours to the wacky and wonderful."

Helena: "'Harness the energy of divine healing crystals.'" [snorts derisively]

Ulrike: "Hey, don’t mock something just because you don’t understand it!"

Helena: "Seriously, Faust. Your obsession with astrology is one thing, but the second you go all woo-woo new-age hippie on me, I’ll have no choice but to call it off."

...

Helena: "Babe, there’s a real live gigantic spider in that web over there."

Ulrike: "And you come running to me? When not ten minutes ago you were insulting my beliefs?"

Helena: "I’m sorry I questioned the sanctity of the astrology gods. Can we go before it decides it’s hungry?"

Ulrike: "Well, we have to buy something."

Celeste: "Are you sure this’ll be it for you, ladies? You know, I’m running a sale on raw crys-"

Helena: "No, thank you, ma'am."

Ulrike: "Uh, I think we're good. Cool place you've got here, though."

Celeste: "Ah! You’ve spotted the fortune-telling room. Would you care for a reading? I’ll take 25% off a 15-minute session with any purchase, no matter how small."

Helena: "We appreciate the offer, but-"

Ulrike: "Oh, why the hell not?"

Helena: "Really, Ulrike?"

Ulrike: "When are we going to get a chance like this again?"

Celeste: "I’m Celeste, by the way. Celeste de Lune."

Helena: [whispers] "Do you even think that's her real last name?"

Ulrike: [laughing] "Shh!"

Celeste: "Now, which one of you girls am I going to be reading?"

Ulrike: "My skeptical girlfriend volunteers! So are you going to join us or what?"

Helena: "I hate you."

Ulrike: "No, you don't. Anyway, what are you so afraid of? None of it's real. Right, Helena?"

#ts4 #sims 4 #sims 4 story #ts4 story #sims 4 edit #simblr #story: hzid #posting this today for my new followers & because i just love it too much #that fourth shot is my favorite because i just kind of chanced upon that angle! #helena zhao #ulrike faust #celeste de lune

[sojutrait]

I haven't seen no asks but, how is Dante doing? He still living and thriving? :0

this made me realize i never said on here how he spends his golden years KFGKFG he moved to oasis springs and built a hippie commune where they do ayahuasca all day and vibe. basically like a cult but theyre fr just chilling

#nadine visits every now and then but shes content with staying in her penthouse and not in the desert with a bunch of hippies #asks #missjinglecoco #halabi asks

[clarkes-and-god]

"Mom, Dad, this is Mira. She's really important to me, and I'm glad you're meeting her. Mira, this is my mom and dad."

"It's a delight to finally meet this girl, Farris! He's been telling us all about you, Mira, and we have just been desperate to meet you."

"Thank you so much for inviting me over, ma'am. Farris has told me all about you and your family and I'm so excited to spend the 4th of July with you."

"Well, I hope we don't disappoint. Anyways, let's get out of the rain, I'd hate for that pretty dress of yours to get wet. Vivienne and Warner are watching a movie in the living room, so let's go have a seat in the dining room. Farris, you go put Mira's bags in the guest room, and then come join us."

"So, I've heard you and Farris met at the Bible study group he organises, which is awfully nice. Have you always been religious, or is this a new thing from the university? I do know they let in secular students now, it's all very modern."

"Oh, I've always been religious, it's how I was raised, ma'am. My dad met my mom evangelising, and he really led her back into her faith, and then they fell in love and got married. My mom and dad have always been my biggest inspirations, they're wonderful people and I really admire their faith and relationship with one another."

"That's wonderful to hear, Mira. You know, I was thinking Farris might bring back one of those really fun-loving girls, especially with them letting secular folk in now, so it's good to see that you seem to have the proper values. Do you want to tell us more about your family? They seem so sweet."

"Thank you ma'am! I really do try to come across properly, my mom is originally from here and she really taught us kids all about manners and respect. But about my family, we lived up in Brindleton Bay until I was 8, because my parents got married pretty young, and we lived with my grandma. You see, my mom was in foster care for a while, and my grandpa unfortunately died young, so my dad was raised as one of six kids to a widow, so they didn't really have much money. But my dad got a job in the military, serving our country, and he's done really well in that with all his hard work. We never had to go on welfare because of him. My mom was able to stay home with me and my little sister, and we were homeschooled. And then when I was 8, we moved into our own lovely house out in Oasis Springs, since my dad was stationed there. And then they had two more kids, my little brother and my littlest sister. We all went to Skyward Palms, well, Carter still goes and Charlotte is joining next year, and that's a fee-paying Christian school, and I was lucky enough to be able to go to Britchester, so we've really done quite well, considering where we started."

"You see, all you need is hard work and traditional values, then you can make it, not government handouts! Mira, I'm going to tell that story to all the young hippy folk I meet at work, who want us to pay for everyone else's children and housing. If everyone was like your parents, there would be no need for these ridiculous taxes, and good, honest, folk would still be able to do well for themselves!"

"I absolutely agree, sir!"

#fundie sims #quiverfull sims #fundie snark #fundie simblr #modest sims #satire #homeschool sims #dolly+farris

[beardedmrbean]

COPENHAGEN, Denmark (AP) — The inhabitants of Copenhagen's freewheeling Christiania neighborhood plan to dig up the aptly named Pusher Street, in their latest attempt to stop illegal hashish sales which have led to deadly gang turf wars and sometimes violent confrontations with the police.

Residents of the hippie enclave are calling for volunteers to help dig up the street on April 6, the Berlingske newspaper wrote Thursday. All are welcome, and participants can take home one of its cobblestones as a souvenir.

It is yet unclear what will replace the street.

The residents are fighting to preserve Christiania’s reputation as a “free-wheeling society” made up of political idealists and aging hippies. For years, hash has been sold openly in Christiania from roadside stalls, among buildings painted in psychedelic colors. But inhabitants say that feuding gangs, not them, control the trade and the survival of their community hinges on ending it.

The neighborhood has been a world apart from the rest of Copenhagen since 1973, when hippies squatted at a derelict naval base and set up a community dedicated to the flower-power ideals popular at the time: free cannabis, limited government influence, no cars and no police.

After more than four decades of locking horns with authorities, they were given control over their homes when the state sold the 84-acre (24-hectare) enclave for 85.4 million kroner ($12.5 million) to a foundation owned by its inhabitants. There are nearly 700 adults and about 150 children living in the community today, and it's one of the Danish capital's biggest tourist attractions.

The “Christianites” have made several attempts to close the hashish market in the roughly 100 meter (328 foot)-long street. Police say the trade, worth millions, is controlled by the Hells Angels and the outlawed Loyal to Family.

Authorities tolerated hashish sales in Christiania until 2004, when police started to crack down. To preempt police raids, residents took down hash booths, but trading soon came back. Last year, they brought heavy machinery to tear down the market but masked men stopped them.

In the past month, Christiania has worked with local authorities to make plan that includes ending the drug trade and replacing it with other activities.

The social and housing ministry said that it was “an important prerequisite to get rid of the organized hashish trade" before Christiania can get 14.3 million kroner ($2.1 million) earmarked for the work.

A 30-year-old man who was selling drugs was shot and killed, and four others injured, in August; in 2022, a man selling hashish from one of the street’s booths was shot dead. The previous year, a man was shot and killed at the entrance to the same street.

Last year, the mayor of Copenhagen urged foreigners not to buy hashish there because of the deadly shootings.

#nunyas news

[unstablegrass]

guys u should go listen to my scott pilgrim x wallace wells playlist called in lesbians with you (wink)

the code thingy bc i cant link audio on this thing

Song list under cut hehe

Scott pilgrim - Plumtree

Age of consent - New Order

You - Radiohead

Cut your hair -Pavement

Gigantic - Pixies

Date with Ikea - Pavement

Falling for you - Weezer

Shady Lane - Pavement

I Wanna Be Adored - The Stone Roses

The Boy - The Smashing Pumpkins

Here Comes Your Man - Pixies

My Iron Lung - Radiohead

Love Buzz - Nirvana

Touch Me I’m Sick - Mudhoney

1979 - The Smashing Pumpkins

Only In Dreams - Weezer

Say It Ain’t So - Weezer

Wonderwall - Oasis

Stereo - Pavement

Harness Your Hopes - Pavement

No Surprises - Radiohead

Island In The Sun - Weezer

Zero - The Smashing Pumpkins

Just Like Heaven - The Cure

Everlong - Foo Fighters

By Your Side - Beachwood Sparks

Garbage Truck - Sex Bob - Omb

Sleazy Bed Track - The Bluetones

El Scorcho - Weezer

Fin - Pavement

Love Comes In Spurts - Richard Hell

When You Sleep - My Bloody Valentine

Boys Don’t Cry - The Cure

Where Is My Mind? - Pixies

I Just Threw Out The Love Of My Dreams - Weezer

Paranoid Android - Radiohead

Exit Music (For A Film) - Radiohead

Eau D’Bedroom Dancing- Le Tigre

Silence Kid - Pavement

Bizarre Love Triangle - New Order

The Pretender - Foo Fighters

Disorder - Joy Division

Is This It - The Strokes

Hard To Explain - The Strokes

You’re So Great - Blur

Jigsaw Falling Into Place - Radiohead

This Charming Man - The Smiths

Good Good Things - Decendents

Underwear - Pulp

This Night Has Opened My Eyes - The Smiths

Love Will Tear Us Apart - Joy Division

Sober To death - Car Seat Headrest

Destroyed By Hippie Powers - Car Seat Headrest

Sometimes - My Bloody Valentine

Weird Fishes/Arpeggi - Radiohead

Cute Thing - Car Seat Headrest

Perfect - The Smashing Pumpkins

Unloveable - The Smiths

Shadowplay - Joy Division

Only In The Movies - Plumtree

You Just Don’t Exist - Plumtree

Pink Triangle - Weezer

The Killing Moon - Pavement

#scott pilgrim #wallace wells #scott pilgrim x wallace wells #wallace wells x scott pilgrim #scollace #I THINK ITS GOOD #i just need an excuse to talk abt music more😣 #psst #if u want #ask me anythink abt my music taste😋

[bohemiandeer]

ALRIGHT BITCHES, NEED HELP DECIDING

#lifeweaver #niran pruksamanee #overwatch #overwatch 2 #overwatch lifeweaver #ow2 #ow #overwatch niran #ow2 lifeweaver #ow lifeweaver #fan skins #fan skin poll

[simptasia]

Still thinking of that anon that said Charlie would have been part of the DHARMA group ... he would have interacted with little Ben, him jin and miles would have to share a bed Daniel too before he ran away sleeping ass to ass all three of them, but your the lost expect so tell us if Charlie did join the Dharma group what would it be like? (that sounds sarcastic its not supposed to be i love your meta)

from what i can tell, dharma puts two people to a house (which doesnt make sense with how little housing there is but Okay)

ya know what hasn't been brought up in all this talk of charlie in dharma? what job would they assign him

Charlie Has No Life Skills. all boys born in 1976 know how to do is play guitar, hoard virgin marys, eat hot chip and lie

so fucker gotta be assigned as a workman. i can see him mopping floors all like >:(

aah the dharma hippies would love charlie playing some tunes. picture a bunch of 'em during off hours sitting around him in a circle as charlie pretends he wrote the songs he's playing

charlie: i call that "wonderwall"

dharma hippie: whoa, you wrote that?

charlie: yeh :)

dharma hippie: it really sucked, man

charlie: :0

later

miles: you gotta stop this, its getting embarrassing

juliet: or at least take credit for good music

charlie: art is subjective

miles: oh, cool, i'll put that on your gravestone if you play anything by oasis again

[rotworld]

Jackal Crossing

things are quiet at the last motel before the end of civilization. keep your head down, don’t bother anybody, don’t ask any questions, and you’ll only have to fear for your life once a year.

->jack/reader. explicit; contains non-con, gore, rough sex, semi-public sex, graphic description of corpses.

.

.

.

The last guy who worked this shift turned up dead in one of the rooms.

That was a year ago. Gruesome shit. You still remember the stench, sick, rancid and stale. Like mildew on rotten food. The kind of thing that gets stuck in your nose, that doesn’t wash off your hands, that makes you want to chug bleach and burn your clothes. And it was bad, of course. Bodies crammed in shower stalls are seldom anything else. But you saw someone get shot in the parking lot once, and management started offering outrageous bonuses if you were willing to stay. So here you are at the edge of nowhere, in the middle of the night. You put in earbuds to drown out the crackling hum of dying fluorescent bulbs.

The door opens. Two men, two women. Bleached and braided hair. City kids, dressed for a music festival and not for the frigid desert night. One of them starts talking but you can’t hear anything over the music, mouths flapping to deafening guitar riffs. They give you a sleek, fancy credit card and you run it, give them a room, give them keys, wave them off and go back to slouching in your seat. You tap your fingers on the counter to the rhythm and watch them stumble through the parking lot back to their hatchback with hippie decals on the bumper. They leave the stench of cheap weed behind in the lobby. Could be worse.

Your first guess back then was that the plumbing was fucked again. Really says something about the place that nobody complained. There was a couple across the hall and they didn’t say anything about a smell the whole four days they stayed. Probably assumed it was normal, came with the motel. Sitting behind the check-in counter for hours at a time, you went nose-blind fast, but the stench still hit you every time you walked back in from the fresh air. 

A week. That’s how long he was missing. You started covering his shift, settled into a new routine. It was a game for a while, a way to pass the time. Where’s the night shift guy? You’d make up wild stories. Assumed the best sometimes—he got his shit together and skipped town, like anyone with a brain ought to. Then you assumed the worst, the probable—he saw something he shouldn’t have. Crossed the wrong people. That happens a lot out here. It’s why you keep your earbuds in, hardly look, don’t listen. This is the last motel in town before you hit the desert. Not touristy oasis towns with gift shops, but the fucking desert. People come here out of desperation or with something to hide. 

The door opens. Two men, no hair. Sleeveless jackets with gang patches and heavy ink. They smell like sweat, desert air and machine oil. A wad of cash slides across the counter. They don’t talk. You take the cash and give them keycards. The door closes. It was probably somebody like that, you think. They come through here all the time, make a racket, start fights, leave a little blood on the bedsheets. You leave them alone and they leave you alone. You clean up the mess in the morning.

You noticed the smell on the second night you took the graveyard shift. You went looking when guests checked out, but it was just the usual detritus left; cigarette butts. Condom wrappers. Forgotten phone chargers. Sheer coincidence that room 109 didn’t get rented out that whole week, or somebody else would’ve found him. Would’ve been nice. But no, it was you. Of course it was you. That was the one time you stuck your nose where it didn’t belong, and where’d it get you? Your cultivated immunity to strangeness and bullshit failed you after a solid week of that putrid smell. Management did fuck all about the plumbing, said nothing was wrong, so you’d figure it out yourself, you thought. Stupid fucking idea. 

The door opens. Three men, one woman, bags of lighting and camera equipment. One of the men tries to talk to you and you stare blankly, watching his lips flap like a beached fish. They’re going to shoot a porn, probably. You hate that; the noise, the smell. What a weird thing to hate after what you’ve seen, but every human smell reminds you of the body in the shower stall. Bodies are always just a step from rotting. Just a single knife twist. Just a well-placed bullet. Sex and musk and flesh and blood, it all makes you think of inevitability, the long forever after the gasp of life.

There’s some movement in the parking lot. Some noise. You turn your music up and stare at the ceiling. Maybe you’re not as unaffected as you want to be. A corpse is a corpse, but the guy who bled out in the parking lot wasn’t like what you found in room 109. Being tied up and tortured, being gutted, being chunks of bloody meat in a motel shower—that’s a wretched way to die. What’s worse is staying there for a week, bloating and festering in the oven-like heat of a shithole nowhere motel room, not quite desiccating, not quite melting away. All that blood crusted to the edge of the shower and stained the space between the tiles. A puddle of organs stank on his chest, crawling with pale, rice-sized maggots. You didn’t go looking for stories in the paper but news spreads fast in the middle of nowhere. Had his fucking tongue cut out. Had it shoved down his throat.

The door opens. One man. Hands in his pockets, he meanders up to the desk and just stands there, staring. You wait for him to offer up some payment. To say something. He never does. You sit up straight and pay attention because all of the sudden, you get this awful feeling. This prickling on your skin. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end and your stomach drops and your heart thuds in your chest. This guy studies you. Watches you way too closely. You smell cigarettes, leather polish.

Short hair, graying at the temples. Some stubble. Chameleon eyes, hazel at some angles, wine-colored at others. Sharp, cold and laser-focused. 

You tug out one of your earbuds reluctantly. You don’t want to do this. You never do this. But he’s just standing there and he’s not going away. “Sixty-five a night,” you tell him.

He doesn’t budge. He cocks his head to the side and the movement strikes you as animalistic. A snake readying to strike. A wolf looking for just the right spot to sink in his teeth. “You work the night shift?” he asks. “Just you?”

You lean back in your seat, trying to look casual. You keep a pocket knife under the counter, tucked into the same alcove where the ancient motel computer sits, right next to the mouse. He glances down and back up, like he knows. Like he’s waiting for you to do something stupid. “You wanna talk to a manager?” you say. Your voice doesn’t quiver. That’d just be embarrassing, and you’ve been here too long for every psycho who saunters in to scare you. 

The words make him smile. He’s calling your bluff. “Nah,” he says. He steps closer. His footfalls are loud and heavy. He’s wearing something heavy. Steel toed boots? The night shift guy had his ribs broken in by some kind of hard, bludgeoning force. Could’ve been anything, you tell yourself, but it’s too late now. You start getting nervous. “I need a favor,” the guy says. 

“Sixty-five a night,” you repeat stiffly. The next thing you know, this motherfucker climbs over the check-in counter. He hauls himself up and vaults right over it like an athlete, too quick for you to do anything about it. “What the fuck are you doing?” you say, a little late. It happens fast. One, two steps and he’s right up against you, your hair tugged around his fist, and he slams your face into the counter. Your nose cracks, bends in bad ways. He does it again and the shock explodes into pain, your vision swimming. “Take whatever you want,” you tell him, a slurred mumble between sore teeth and a split lip. “Register’s unlocked.” 

He doesn’t go for the money and that scares you more. You hear shuffling, the fabric of his jacket draped around your sides as he slides into place against your back. Your scalp is burning when he drags you upright, hair coming out between his fingers. Someone come in, you beg the universe. Someone come in right now and see this. Someone help. 

Stubble scrapes the shell of your ear. “You hardly looked at me when I walked in,” he says in a gravelly murmur. His breath is hot, excited. “You that rude to everybody?” He pushes against you, lets you feel the shape of him through his clothes. More muscle than you expected.

“No,” you wheeze. “I’m sorry. Just tired. Long shift. Don’t like eye contact.” He lets go of your hair but you’re not free to go. He reaches out, lays his palms flat on the counter on either side of you, caging you in. 

“Turn on the computer,” he says. You don’t ask. You shake the mouse and the screen flicks on. He leans in, his face right next to yours, and studies the payment page. You barely breathe as he takes the mouse and navigates the system through the check-ins list and the booked rooms. No hesitation. He knows exactly where to look. “Who’s in 103?” he asks. 

“Wh…why—?”

He stabs you in the fucking thigh. There’s a solid thunk as the blades slides home through cloth and flesh and an awful, piercing pain. You don’t even have room to double over in agony. One of his rough, calloused hands muffles your scream while the other twists the knife. Your stomach churns. It hurts so fucking much. Tears spill down your cheeks and you squirm, helpless, underneath him. He drapes himself heavily against your back and you stay locked together, close like lovers, while he clicks through menus. You want to collapse but he won’t let you. You feel yourself oozing around the knife.

“You don’t remember? Or you don’t want to tell me?” he asks. He waits a breath. Gives you a second to think it over. What can you say that won’t piss him off? Then he covers your mouth again and you fight, you scream behind his fingers, you beg him not to, but he rips the knife out. Blood spatters across the grimey floor tiles and a slowly growing stain spreads along the side of your pants. “Gonna ask you again,” he says, tapping the body of the blade against your ribs. “Think hard. Who’s in 103?”

“Some—some guys,” you stammer, your tongue tripping over the words. “From a fucking, I don’t know, biker gang or something, some shit like that.” He says nothing. The knife point drags up your side and starts to dig in harder. “Older guys,” you say desperately. “Forties, m-maybe fifties. Skinheads. Lots of leather and, and tattoos.” 

The pressure of the knife disappears and you almost sob in relief. He goes back to the computer, checks something. “105,” he says. 

“College kids,” you say automatically. “Co-eds. Four of them. Look like they’re going to a festival or something.” 

“Hm,” he says. And that’s good, probably. You hope that’s good. You hope he leaves. “Give me a key.” 

Your conscience catches up. You hesitate. Think about 109 and the night shift guy being forced to eat his own tongue. They don’t deserve that. Then you feel the caress of metal. Not a knife, but steel curves. Brass knuckles sliding along your cheek, tracing the shape of your jaw. The knife is there, though, glinting next to your chin. Brass knuckles attached to a blade. He must be able to hear your heartbeat, to feel it racing. 

“I come here once a year,” he tells you. “Sometimes with somebody. Sometimes alone. If I show up with anyone else, I don’t want to be bothered. If I show up alone, you show me the computer, you tell me who’s in each room, and you give me a key when I ask for it.” His other hand slides along your side in something teasing at intimacy, lingering in places that you make you squirm and gasp, feeling you up through your clothes. “I had a deal with the guy who worked this shift before you. He knew what I liked. He’d have something lined up by the time I got here.”

“He’s dead,” you say. 

“Why do you think that is?” 

You knew. You knew as soon as he walked in. Knew when you heard the other guy had his fucking tongue cut out. You squeeze your eyes shut. His breath fans across your cheek. He pinches your nipple through your shirt, hard enough to really hurt. “Not gonna ask again,” he says. 

So you do it, with shaking fingers. You put the keycard on the counter. You stare down at your hands as he pockets it. He still doesn’t leave. 

“Wasn’t so hard, was it?” he asks. So he wants to gloat? You let him. You nod silently, don’t look up. Then his hands are on your waist and he’s tugging at your pants. 

“Wait—don’t—” 

“Said I could take whatever I want,” he says. You try to get away, you really do. You go for the knife on the desk. So confident he didn’t even take it, didn’t shove it out of reach, and that should’ve told you something. He stabs you right through the hand. He doesn’t cover your mouth this time, doesn’t disguise the noise. He lets you scream. You hear him chuckle. He shakes his fingers out of the brass knuckles and leaves your hand pinned to the desk. It hurts every time you move, every time you breathe. Your other hand scrambles for the handle but everything is raw and tender and you can’t do it, can’t rip yourself free. Your thigh is still throbbing. You both know you couldn’t run.

“This doesn’t have to be hard,” he says in a smooth, amused tone that sounds like mocking. “Could make this fun if you wanted. Get to know me, get to know what I like. Tell me who I should take with me.” You grit your teeth. You wish he’d stop talking. Get it over with. Fuck you or kill you or both or whatever, just do it and be done with it. Maybe he takes your silence as submission. He laughs. “Have it your way,” he says. You can hear the grin in his voice.

He doesn’t undress you all the way. Just enough. Pants and underwear around your thighs. You hear the clink of his belt, a zipper, and then you feel him. Heat. Flesh. His cock, already half-hard and twitching as he rubs it against your ass. You’ve never felt so hateful and helpless. He presses in dry and that can’t feel good, can’t possibly be good even for him, but he doesn’t stop. No prep. No waiting. He grabs your hips and his thrusts are fast, nudging a little deeper, pushing a little harder each time. His hips slap against yours and you’re banged into the counter at an uneven rhythm that pulls at the knife through your hand. You try not to move but he moves you, digs his blunt nails into your hips and forces you onto every hard thrust. 

You get what you wanted; he stops talking. But this is worse. All you hear is his breathing, his ragged, excited panting, the punishing slap of your bodies meeting. He sounds like an animal. Like he’ll start growling at any minute. Sink his teeth into your throat and tear it open. You can’t hold yourself up. You sag against the counter and he folds over you, groaning and gasping right next to your ear. You feel disgusting. Used. Like you’re going to break.

“If you tell anyone,” he murmurs, “you’ll die. I’ll make it hurt. I’ll leave your body here for someone else to find. Break in your replacement, just like this.” He’s breathless describing it, like he’s picturing it, imagining just how he’ll brutalize you. 

You think about the night shift guy. 109. The shower with the blood that looked like it’d never come out. Human intestines, veiny and limp. The stench. The tongue. You can taste your own tears as they stream down your face. 

“Hm? You don’t want that? Don’t want me to slit your throat and fuck you till you bleed out or drown in your own blood?” You shake your head frantically. He inhales sharply with effort, amusement. He slams into you, fully sheathed for the first time, and the new agony knocks the breath out of your lungs. He’s tearing you. You feel blood trickling down your inner thighs.

You can’t think anymore. You can barely breathe. Everything is too hot, too tight. He keeps a tight hold on your hip with one hand and the other, you realize with creeping horror, goes for the knife. You try to beg but the words come out incoherent, warbling, a jumble of scared noises. “Good,” he says, groaning, slowing his pace to fuck you deep and feel you quiver and clench around him. “I don’t wanna do that, either. But you gotta do what I say, yeah?”

You whimper miserably. You’ll agree to anything. Anything to make it stop. The pain makes you dizzy. The world is spinning. Your insides are churning, smashing together. You’re going to be sick. He loops his fingers through the brass knuckle handle of the knife and you start to whimper again but he doesn’t yank it out. He just holds it. Uses it as leverage while he starts to fuck you harder. The cheap, faux wood counter rattles and shakes while he slams into you. You wonder if the whole motel can hear you. If the bikers are joking obscenely about it. If those people shooting a porn have stopped, have started listening. Should’ve asked if you wanted in, they’re saying. Anyone could walk in right now and all they’d see would be him bent over you, pounding your ass while you sob and mewl into the counter. 

And he’s talking to you again, you think, but you aren’t listening. Can’t. Can’t focus. It all blurs together. Noise. Pain and heat. You smell it; organic. Human. Bodies interacting. Sex and musk, flesh and blood. You think about the body—the stench—a week—

(“Remember this,” he growls, his hips bucking, his teeth sinking into the soft, bloodied flesh of your earlobe. “Remember how easy it was for me. Nothing you could do about it.”)

It slows, little by little. So gradual you don’t even notice until he’s done. His unsteady rhythm wavers and he shoves you down, suffocates you between his weight and the counter as he chases his peak. He’s quiet, cums with a grunt and a shaky sigh. You shiver as he fills you, and then rips himself out of your body so pinkish, bloody cum splatters and drips between your legs. In the same movement, he tears the knife out of your hand. You’d scream if you weren’t on the verge of passing out. His weight vanishes from your back and his hands leave you, and the floor rushes up to meet you. You lie in a cooling puddle of fluids. You don’t try to move. 

Like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he tucks himself away, redresses, and tells you, “Hope you got a first aid kit around here somewhere.” 

“Get the fuck out,” you mutter. 

He chuckles. Sick fuck ruffles your hair before he climbs back over the counter. You hope he gets in a fucking wreck. You hope the kids in 105 fight back. You curl up in misery. You hear him say, “See you next year,” and his footsteps retreat. The door opens. The door closes. You don’t want to cry, not out loud. You bite your tongue so hard it starts to bleed.

#rotpeach writes #tpof #tpof jack #life gets crazy and sometimes you dont have time to properly hunt your victims

[oldschoolhip-hop]

Luxury - Joshykun (Music Video)

Rising Atlanta rapper Joshykun has been putting up numbers like Kobe with his latest single, “Luxury” which I found to be a hidden gem towards the end of 2023. Joshykun takes a deep dive into the riches that come with fame with his verse speaking on some of the downsides of newfound fame leading to some burning out without a real plan on how to keep their currency built. In the second verse he…

View On WordPress

#Beneath the Streets #David Tamas #Joshykun #Luxury #The Musical Hippie #Vision Oasis Entertainment #Youtube

[starrierknight]

̥۪͙۪˚┊𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴: ❛ 𝐌𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐌𝐈 ❜ ┊˚

♡ ↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ 𝟑:𝟏𝟔 ─★─────── 𝟏:𝟒𝟎:𝟎𝟎 ♡

ılılıll The Boy with the Thorn in His Side The Smiths

ılılıll Creep Radiohead

ılılıll Destroyed By Hippie Powers Car Seat Headrest

ılılıll Disorder - 2007 Remaster Joy Division

ılılıll Hand in Glove - 2011 Remaster The Smiths

ılılıll Harness Your Hopes - B-side Pavement

ılılıll Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now The Smiths

ılılıll Holland, 1945 Neutral Milk Hotel

ılılıll Island In The Sun Weezer

ılılıll It's Only Sex Car Seat Headrest

ılılıll Loser Beck

ılılıll Machine Gun Slowdive

ılılıll My name Is Jonas Weezer

ılılıll only shallow my bloody valentine

ılılıll This Charming Man - 2011 Remaster The Smiths

ılılıll This Night Has Opened My Eyes - 2011 Remaster The Smiths

ılılıll Two-Headed Boy Neutral Milk Hotel

ılılıll Undone - The Sweater Song Weezer

ılılıll When the Sun Hits Slowdive

ılılıll Wonderwall - Remastered Oasis

ılılıll You're so great - 2012 Remaster Blur

#꒰ ♬ ꒱ — unreleased

[rosewatergrapefruit]

I need to say something. Jack Johnson / an entire generation of hippy crunchy white dudes with guitars could never. Spiritually, this song is rocking a puka shell necklace and it is pulling it off

#Spotify

[crustswamp]

Italian Cinema- Giallo Edition

Libido (1965 film)

(In a cliffside mansion, a young boy named Christian witnesses his sex maniac father murder his mistress in a room lined with mirrors. The father then kills himself by jumping off the cliff. Years later, the now adult Christian returns to inherit the family home and fears he may inherit his father's insanity)

Death Laid an Egg 1968

(Married couple Anna and Marco run a hi-tech automated poultry farm, breeding boneless chickens. Unbeknownst to Anna, Marco is a serial killer, who lures prostitutes to motel rooms before stabbing them)

A Black Veil for Lisa 1968

A Complicated Girl 1968

(A man plugs into a phone call between two lesbian lovers. Intrigued by the very special situation he decides to know one of the two girls and to become his lover. Problems arise when the other woman seeks to end their relationship.) (As She SHOULD)

So Sweet... So Perverse 1969

(Set in Paris, it tells the story of a wife who plots to get rid of a rich and errant husband but is herself the victim of her accomplices)

La bambola di Satana (Doll of Satan) 1969

(Gothic Horror relative dies, she inherits a haunted castle, torture ensues)

One on Top of the Other 1969

(doctor who is suspected of orchestrating the death of his asthmatic wife as part of an insurance scam, despite her seeming reemergence as Monica Weston, a high-class stripper)

The House That Screamed 1969

(Señora Fourneau, the strict headmistress of a nineteenth-century French boarding school for girls where the students begin to disappear under unusual circumstances)

Orgasmo 1969

(a wealthy American socialite who finds herself preyed upon by two nefarious young siblings who indulge her in sex, drugs, and alcohol while she vacations at an Italian villa)

The Bird with the Crystal Plumage 1970

(Dario Argento's directorial debut)

Five Dolls for an August Moon 1970

(Remote island murder mystery)

Forbidden Photos of a Lady Above Suspicion 1970

(Blackmail sadistic relationship)

A Lizard in a Woman's Skin 1971

(the daughter of a respected politician, who experiences a series of vivid, psychedelic nightmares consisting of debauched sex orgies and LSD use. In the dream, she commits a graphic murder of a neighbor whose life she is envious of and awakes to a real-life criminal investigation into the murder of her neighbour)

Oasis of Fear 1971

(Two pornography-peddling hippies from Italy run out of material to sell, so they start taking "dirty pictures" of each other to add to their stock of smut. While on the run from the authorities in Sweden, the pair get invited to the home of a middle-aged woman named Barbara, the wife of a NATO colonel. She involves them first in sexual games, then later in a convoluted murder plot)

The Devil Has Seven Faces 1971

(Carroll Baker plays a dual role in this film, two identical twins named Julie and Mary. While in Holland, Julie begins receiving threats from some mysterious men who attempt to kidnap her, and one of them menaces her while wearing a gorilla mask. They are confusing her with her twin sister Mary in London, who stole a massive diamond from a Maharaja and even betrayed her husband Craig, who was in on the heist)

[waitinginthecorner]

Literally tonight has been so solidifying in terms of what I want and need out of my life its kinda unreal but I'm soooooo thankful like....I literally don't consider myself that spiritual hippie stereotype but at my core I totally am...its just so endearing and powerful to view the coincidences and good times in your life as little miracles and idk if there's anything out there, from ghosts to aliens to god, but I couldn't care less because it's fun to consider and it's fun to discuss and it makes me feel like maybe even for a fraction of a moment I have something that understands me like no other and is with me at all times and maybe that's a little selfish but im okay with that. It's my belief that everyone's perception of god, whatever it may be, is unique to them the same way they are unique to him. The same way anyones relationship with another is unique. He's like viewing your reflection in the water instead of a mirror, its an approximation of oneself without being quite the same thing... in my eyes at least. For me i see god in the wind and the rain and the grass and the worms and all the little bits and pieces. Its numbers and math and and and and and and and, like pi into infinity. Past the point of comprehension. Hes you and me and everything in between but I'm well aware that some people view him much differently and that in itself should serve as a facet through which to dissect him. I've always been afraid of talking about my feelings about theology for the same reasons im afraid to talk about myself in depth. I'm not sure anyone will understand or even want to, but I have a firm foundation of beliefs in my life and I want to stand by myself and stand up for myself more and more everyday and to me this is part of the process. I think I got a tad off topic but also stuck to my point better than I thought lol. Anyway. Here's wonderwall

#rambling #dj ron #sorry i have literally been crying for so many hours i have typed so many posts and this. this is the one that really started soothing me #like. it feels good to be reflecting constantly on the good things and this has been something ive been wanting to talk abt for so long #theres only like one friend in my life who i rly trust to talk abt my feelings toward god w #so i just had to let that all out gor my own well-being ty and ily #Spotify