#the ghetto nun

[mypimpademia]

bro when i tell you an aquarius man traumatized me so bad…. DOWN WITH AQUARIUS MEN (and any water sign man while we’re at it)

Aquarius men make my balls itch fr there’s one in particular that is easily one of the most awful and insufferable ppl I’ve ever met

#juicytalks #he tried to get w me too like I’d genuinely rather kms!!! #I messed w a Pisces man once and I’m not traumatized or nun but I will NOT be doing that shit again😭💯💯 #0/10 would not recommend EXTREMELY ghetto #idk about Scorpio men tho the only ones ik off the top of my head are from years ago #and they weren’t that bad from my memory #Scorpio women are on thin ice for me tho💀

[fleshbride]

PRESENTING . . . AIN’T NUN BUT A HOOCHIE MAMA!

⭒ ݁ . ໒꒱ TOJI FUSHIGURO X F!BLK!HOOCHIE READER

⭒ ݁ . ໒꒱ CW: black fem reader; reader is 26, toji is 34; reader is on the thicker side; usage of the word nigga a few times; smut; breeding kink, hair pulling, dumbification, overstimulation, pussy slapping, impact play, messy pussy eatin’, size kink, hints of sado-masochism, a bit of brat taming, manhandling, praise & degradation, multiple orgasms, cervix fucking, choking, squirting; fwb-ish to lovers (?); pet names are used, such as mama, baby, pretty girl, dollface, princess & sweetheart; reader has a kid of her own; reader is a hoochie, meaning she’s seen as ‘ghetto’ but in a very pro-black & attractive way; reader has a mature body, pudge, cellulite, stretch marks; reader accidentally flashes toji; reader & toji share a blunt; toji is actually a good dad in this!

⭒ ݁ . ໒꒱ wc: 7.5k

⭒ ݁ . ໒꒱ this is actually pure filth. this was my first time writing for toji EVER and actually my longest work. guys when i tell you i put some shit into this thing, idk what i did but i SNAPPED. HARD. i hope you guys enjoy this nasty thing that came from my imagination. not proof read or anything so pls excuse my typos!

sometimes, your job could be a godsend. who knew that a simple job at the local hair store would catapult you into meeting one of the sexiest men you’d ever seen?

to be completely honest, it wasn’t solely your job that sparked such an interaction. it was moreso you; you possessed an irresistible, unmistakable charm that was impossible to ignore. your voice, soft as a lullaby, held a dulcet quality that drew people in like a magnet. anytime you opened your mouth to speak, you commanded attention effortlessly, as if your words held some mystical power that captivated any listener.

everyone was always drawn to you, and it wasn't hard to see why. who in their right mind wouldn’t be smitten? you were a vision of beauty, with your radiant brown skin that seemed to glow as if illuminated from within. your smile, perfect and white, could light up even the darkest room, making hearts skip a beat. your eyes were another story altogether. they seemed to sparkle, glimmering with an intensity that was all yours.

your hair was always done, you always made sure that you had a fresh set of lashes. to add, you never forgot to apply your clear lip gloss. now, this wasn't just any gloss, it was your signature, lip gloss added a radiant shine and highlighted the natural beauty of your plump and full lips. your lips, always so perfectly glossed, assumed an irresistible charm that made them look especially appetizing.

to add onto it, your personality was in tip top shape, matching your looks. while sometimes your mouth could get a little reckless, you had an air of kindness, professionalism and just genuine good vibes. it was hard to dislike you, no matter the case. you were a woman of wonders.

you loved your job at the hair store too; maybe that was why your attitude was always good while you were there. it paid well, the hours were flexible and it was something you enjoyed. you loved how your manager let you pick out the wigs and the outfits that would be displayed, and sometimes she let you take home left over makeup and jewelry — which was how you got your favorite set of hoop earrings.

working at the hair store also granted you all types of experiences. sometimes you met upcoming make-up artists and beauticians, hair dressers, nail techs, lash techs — you always made sure to be extra helpful and friendly to everyone you met, just in case they could ever help you.

or… on the rare occasion, you met men. often, they were coming in for their wives, daughters, sisters, nieces, friends — and each time, they were clueless. of course, you helped, breezing past them with the smell of bubblegum and perfume, preferably daisy by marc jacobs.

today was no different.

you were the only one working in the store this saturday, and it was roughly around 12 in the afternoon. the sound of needed me by rihanna echoed through the store, giving it a nice ambiance. you clocked in at 9, and were scheduled to get off at 4 — you had a bit of a long day ahead. however, the store had been a bit slow today. not many customers entered; maybe three every hour, compared to a usual 7-15 people per hour. you were both grateful and a bit sad for the lack of people, as it left you with extra time on your hands.

instead, you found yourself thinking of your six year old daughter at home. alaina, your sweet girl, who was at her grandmother’s for the day. you fondly rubbed the bead bracelet she made for you, that spelled out mommy. your daughter was the most loving child you knew, and you adored her with every part of you.

as you gazed at your bracelet, you let out a soft hum. you’d have to get her another one from here, even though she already had a plethora. whatever you got from the hair store, you usually shared with alaina.

the entrance bell dinging had you snapping out of your thoughts of your daughter, turning your head to greet whoever entered. your boxbraids slid down your back as you looked. it was a little girl who entered, no more than nine. she was in a cute blue dress, with dark brown hair pulled into a ponytail. her cheeks were rosy, which had you cooing at her mentally.

“hi baby,” you called out to her, looking behind her for a parent, “where’s ya mama, hm? a lil’ one like you shouldn’t be walking around all alone.” the girl hadn’t noticed you, and jumped when you called to her. she put her hands up, waving them enthusiastically. “o-oh no, miss, i’m with my dad! he’s just getting his wallet. do you know where the nails are? and the makeup?”

you smiled at the little girl, stepping from behind the counter. you were in a beige sun dress, with some matching wedged sandals. the sundress was long, coming down to your ankles, but there was a slit on the side. it hugged your curves nicely, even though your little bit of pudge was much noticeable; you didn’t care. to be honest, the dress covered way more than your usual outfits, especially in the summer like this. you had never been scared to show your body, even after you had alaina and people insisted on you covering up; because you were a mother now. however, you didn’t give a fuck. if you wanted to wear your shortest shorts, you would.

“c’mere baby girl, it’s this way.” you offered the young girl your hand, which she took happily as you led her. “i’m assuming you’re looking for the press ons, right? not the ones you glue?”

the girl gave you an enthusiastic nod. “yes, ma’am!” she was polite, you noted, with a curl of your lips. her father must be raising her right. “my dad says i’m not big enough to ruin my nails with glue..”

you let out a laugh as you squeezed the girl’s hand. “your daddy’s right,” you mused, “stick to the ones you can press til you become a teenager.” you brought her to the kiddie nails, and stood with her while she made her pick.

the young girl seemed stuck between a pair of pink ones leopard print ones, and blue zebra print ones. “what do you think, miss? i can’t choose.”

you only gave the girl a shrug. “i say get both. let ya daddy worry, not you.” however, because you liked this little girl, you’d only charge her for one anyways. the girl nodded in agreement, giving you a giggle, which you quickly reciprocated.

all of a sudden, you heard the gruff call of, “tsumiki! where have you ran off to?” the girl perked up immediately, and ran to the end of the aisle. “dad! i’m over here!” she called, waiting patiently for him to come over.

you raised your eyebrow as you made your way over. you were a bit curious to see the man who had raised such a sweet and polite girl. as you reached the end, your eyes widened as they set on the man.

he was tall, unbelievably so. his towering stature, reaching at least 6’2, must’ve made him stand out in any crowd. his body was muscular, brawny and well-built, and t he black compression shirt he wore clung to his chiseled frame, accentuating the broadness of his shoulders. his hair, a deep black, was just a bit shaggy — the perfect length to frame his strikingly sharp face.

his eyes were a vivid green, so piercing that they could make anyone feel as if they were the only person in the world. they locked onto you and tsumiki. his attractiveness was lethal, and it was impossible not to notice the way he looked over you. his gaze was slow, lingering, and purposeful, almost as if he wanted to make sure you noticed his attention.

you would’ve been phased if you were a different woman; but you weren’t. instead, you gave him your trademark smile, looking up at him with a warm aura.

a scar sat on the corner of his lip. it twitched slightly as his lips curled into a smirk, making him look even more attractive to you then he already did.

“you work here?” came his deep, rough voice. it provoked goosebumps down your skin, but you didn’t allow yourself to show it.

“yup,” you answered, “sorry i wasn’t at the counter, i was helpin’ miss thing here pick out some new nails.” you watched toji’s mouth open, and held up a finger, “and yea, before you ask — it’s the press ons. no glue needed.” the man let out a hum and gave a nod of approval.

“good. tsumiki, go put those on the counter and if you want anything else, ya better pick before i get back up there.” he told her; his voice was rough, yet still somehow sounded caring. when tsumiki scampered away with an, “okayyy!”, he turned his vision back to you.

the once over he gave you earlier didn’t seem to be enough. he gave you another; from your champagne blond knotless boxbraids which were long and down your back, curving over the swell of your ass, down to your painted white toes in your sandals. shit. you were fucking hot.

“how old are you?” he asked boldly, not wasting a second.

you raised an eyebrow, “you ain’t ever heard it ain’t good to ask a lady her age?”

“so old enough,” he countered back with a smug smirk. “have you been able to drink legally for at least two years?” still asking your age without pointedly asking like before.

“i’ve been old enough to drink legally for five years,” you relented, “so like i said, old enough. why you askin’?”

“i like to know the ages of my women before i hit on ‘em.”

you grinned. you already knew you were going to like this man, and his attitude towards you solidified that. “and i like to know the age of my men before i let them,” you combatted.

“thirty-four,” he answered immediately, and the corner of your lips pulled up in satisfaction. twenty-six and thirty-four. not a bad age gap, only eight years. you could manage.

“you allowed to hit on me now,” you said playfully as you slid past him, “don’t make the shit corny, ‘cause i’ll laugh at yo ass.” maybe that’s his plan, you thought, him tryna laugh me out my panties.

the man let out a bark of a laugh, following after you. you could almost feel his eyes locked on you as your hips swayed while you walked. he only chuckled out, “oh, don’t worry about that.”

you went back behind the counter, ready to pay for their things. tsumiki had thrown a stack of bracelets on the counter, and a new tube of sparkly pink lip gloss to which you scanned and then only scanned a pack of the nails. her father raised an eyebrow at you, but you pretended not to notice. “that’ll be 18.75,” you informed. her father pulled out thirty dollars and slid it to you. as you prepared to give him the change, he shook his head.

“don’t need the change. consider it a tip or somethin’.” you furrowed your brows at him, but didn’t question the customer. instead, you handed them their things with a sweet smile. “bye, lil’ missy,” you told tsumiki, before looking up at the man, “come back soon.” your voice was low, and quite flirtatious. he gave you a smirk.

“oh, i will.”

and he did.

it was three days later when he finally came back. you were leaned over the counter, examining your new nails. it was hot, too hot to even be working. the doors were open, and the AC’s were blasting, trying to cool off the store. you wore a jean miniskirt, with a fat gucci belt on your hips. you paired it with a cropped pink tank top that had a deep v-neck, showing off a bit of your cleavage. your golden nameplate sat perfectly on the apex of your breasts. today on your feet instead of sandals were your pair of pink and white dunks. you had taken out your box braids, and gotten your hair done the same day you got your nails done.

now, you had gotten a lace front installed — and you looked good as fuck. it was a deep shade of vibrant purple, down your back. you had added your own spin, doing one of those heart shaped parts and gelling it down the side of your forehead, and doing edges on the side.

as someone entered, you turned your head to the side to greet them. “good afternoon,” you said cheerfully, looking at the woman who entered. she was dark skinned, with a bumped bob. her makeup was done sharply. you watched as she side eyed you, and muttered out a terse, “hello.”

immediately your eyebrows furrowed. “bitches got an attitude, okay,” you grumbled under your breath as she disappeared into the aisles. it was a few minutes later when she came to the register with a flat iron. off the rip, you told her, “oh mama, you don’t want this one. a few people who purchased this one have said that it heat up too quick and smoke a lot, then breaks. so go ‘head and get another one.”

the woman glared at you, looking you up and down. “excuse me, i didn’t ask for your opinion on what i’m buying. and if it’s so faulty, why haven’t you taken it off the shelves?”

her attitude immediately had you tilting your head, trying your best to bite your tongue. “ma’am, that ain’t my job, i don’t do merchandise, i work at the register.”

she rolled her eyes at you, before snapping out, “then don’t say anything about said merchandise.”

your next words came out before you could even think about it, “ho, i’m tryna help you not burn this crispy fuck ass bob off but okay.” upon realizing what you said, you didn’t apologize nor change. instead you cocked your head, tilting it, while staring at her blankly.

“excuse me?” the woman asked, “honestly, i don’t think i’m taking hair advice from a woman who don’t wear hers natural, and has her skirt digging up her ass. how old are you? you have to have a child at home, dress with more fucking class before you talk about me,” the woman’s face was twisted as she snapped at you.

“i know damn fuckin’ well,” you said slowly — and just like that, you knew you were about to cuss her ass out. “i know DAMN fucking well that you’re not talking to me like that. bitch, are you mad that your ass built like a fuckin’ square? bitch be mad then cause that’s why yo ass slope like y=mx+b. bitch, don’t you EVER question my fashion choices when you’re wearing leather in 87 degree weather. you fuckin’ cereal box built ass bitch, you know what, i got a trick for you—“ you quickly took the flat iron from her and pointed a nail at the door. “now get the fuck out, bitch you’re banned.” the woman opened her mouth to retort, but you were faster, talking over her, “bitch, i don’t give a FUCK. get the fuck out.”

the woman mumbled a, “ghetto bitch.” before storming out the store while you massaged your temples. it was nothing you hadn’t heard though. “fuck be wrong with bitches. man, i need a fucking BLUNT.”

“personally, i would’ve hopped over the counter.”

you looked up at the familiar voice, seeing the man you met the other day. immediately, a grin spread across your face. “look who came back.”

“told ‘ya that i would.” he mused, walking up to the counter, “you should’ve thrown the flat iron at her face. i would’ve paid money to see that.” he wore a white wifebeater and black basketball shorts. did he just come from the gym or something? the lack of clothing allowed you to see just about all of his muscles, and god, were you pleased.

you snorted, giving him a playful eyeroll. “shit, i was fuckin’ thinking about it. you saw the whole thing?” the mystery man, who you decided to dub mr. man, gave you a nod. “positively. you cleaned her so beautifully, and i have to add, you look so, so appealing when you’re angry.”

“shut up, nigga,” you laughed as you put your elbows on the counter, cupping your face with both hands. “what’re you here for?” you looked up at him, and he mimicked your action, fitting his fat ass arms on the counter.

“i need some hair gel for my son. he’s in this spiky phase, shit, i don’t know,” mr. man rolled his eyes a little bit, before adding, “and i don’t know which to pick. as you can clearly see, i don’t use gel.”

you let out another laugh, coming from behind the counter. “yeah, c’mon mr. man, i’ll show you which to use.” off the rip, you noticed how his eyes locked on your body.

yeah, i got it like that, nigga, your inner thoughts said as you internally hyped yourself up.

“mr.man?” he questioned from behind you, his eyes focused on the way your hips swayed, and the way a little bit of your ass was uncovered by the skirt.

“well, you never told me your name, so i gave you a nickname.”

he snorted a little before saying, “well, my name’s toji, for one.” you thought about it for a second for a second. was that a moanable name? you went through it in your head. yeah. definitely moanable.

“my name y/n,” you finally disclosed, “but everybody just call me n/n.” toji nodded a little. “n/n… that’s cute.” you noticed one of the items had fallen off the shelf, and without hesitation, you bent over to pick it up, completely forgetting about the fact that you were wearing a skirt, and the man behind you.

toji almost had a fucking heart attack. his eyes zoomed in onto your now slightly revealed ass, your sheer red panties that showed the plush outline of your pussy. shit. shit. it was over in a second, much to his mixed chagrin and gratefulness. however, he wasn’t some boy — he maintained a straight face and control. you placed the item back on the shelf and resumed walking.

“alright,” you said, as you reached the gels, “see, here’s what i use for my daughter,” you held up a jar of eco. “eco holds good for her, and it lasts long, to be honest. her hair is a bit thicker. and it doesn’t have like color residue like prostyle gel.” you grabbed the black container of prostyle gel. “but if your son has like brown-black hair, it’ll be good.” toji shook his head, saying, “nah, he has that weird bluish-black.” you tutted and put the prostyle down.

“there’s also gorilla snot gel, which i recommend if his hair is straighter, you feel me?” you held up the yellow bottle of gorilla snot.

toji looked at both and let out a short groan. “i can’t decide. i’ll take ‘em both and see which works better.” you shrugged and passed them to him. you took note of how positively huge his hands were. they could probably cover your whole face. or… your entire ass.

“i didn’t know you had a little runt too,” he made conversation with you as you walked back to the counter, “i forgot you’re almost 30.”

“yeah i forget too, trust,” you laughed a little, “my little girl’s my pride and joy, her name’s alaina. she’ll be starting first grade this year, i’m so proud of her. i actually got pictures.” you pulled out your phone and showed him your lockscreen which was the two of you. toji chuckled.

“y’all look alike, cute,” he commented, “my son’s seven, and tsumiki’s eight. you met her last time.” you fondly recalled your encounter with the polite young girl. “you a single parent, too?”

you gave him a nod, and a shrug. “alaina’s daddy claimed he wanted nothing to do with her, so i kept it like that. then his stupid ass got locked up, thank riddance.” toji let out a short laugh. “tsumiki’s mom was my first wife, and we divorced. megumi, my son, his mom was my second. unfortunately, she passed.”

“aw,” you said, pouting sadly and placing a hand on his large arm. “i’m so sorry for your loss, sweetheart. i hope you’re doing alright.”

toji laughed a little. “i’m fine, pretty mama, don’t worry about me.”

you bristled at the new nickname, giving toji a wicked grin. “that’s how you referring to me now?” you asked, as you slid behind the counter to the register.

“you’re pretty, and you’re a mama,” toji said with a shrug. “it honestly only fits.” you very pointedly made sure to check him out and said, “mmhmm..”

as you rung him up, toji said, “does alaina need any new friends? my son’s a bit shy and doesn’t talk to nobody but his sister… maybe they could have a few play dates?”

“yeah, i’d love that!” you answered, a genuine smile coming onto your face. anything referring to your daughter made you happiest. “your total is 14.95. here i’ll give you my number...” as toji paid, you rang it up. on his receipt, you wrote your number and passed it to him.

toji grinned and gave you a nod. “see you around.” you wiggled your fingers in return.

see him around, you did. you and toji were quick to hook up play dates whenever your schedules aligned. you became familiar with the routine of getting off work in the afternoons and scooping alaina’s to head to toji’s to play with her two new best friends.

you and toji often stayed downstairs, while they played in tsumiki’s room. you and toji would watch movies, roll blunts and eat food — or sometimes even play texas hold ‘em, in which you won every single time.

toji would grumble, and accuse you of cheating, when in truth, he was really just a bad gambler, but all was well. you considered toji a good friend… of sorts.

because that’s what you two were; friends. friends who sometimes flirted a little; you considered toji a friend when you’d bend over to pick things up in those skimpy jean shorts you wore; toji considered you a friend when he’d slide past you, pressing his crotch against the curve of your ass and muttering a, “excuse me, n/n,”; you considered toji a friend when you’d play sexyyred and say the lyrics a little too… forceful; and he considered you a friend when he’d make slick little sexy comments about your body before adding, “that’s just what other guys think.”

safe to say… there was a bit of tension between you two. and finally, it came to a crescendo.

it was normal, at first. like usual, you and alaina were at toji's house. it was around 9:30pm, and the kids had collapsed after playing all damn day and finally having a meal of chicken nuggets. you remembered the look on your face discovered them. they were heaped in the large bed; tsumiki had more than enough room for all three of them, yet they were together. alaina was draped over megumi and tsumiki, her face in megumi’s chest but her body pressed to tsumiki’s. they were all tangled up, limbs skewed and whatnot.

and now, you and toji were together downstairs, toji watching as your nimble fingers crafted the blunt — his were too fat. your feet were in his lap, and he was watching you with those bright green eyes. as you rolled, you were mumbling one of sexyy’s songs. “fuck me like you mad at me, baby.. i need that dick to drive me crazyyyyy…” you sang under your breath.

toji raised an eyebrow at you, “the music you listen to has some really… meaningful words.” as you licked at the blunt, you let out a laugh. “i agree with everything she say. when suki said that if you ain’t eating coochie, you ain’t fucking, i felt that one.”

finally, you perfected it and grabbed toji’s lighter. “you only fuck eaters?” he said, amusement trickling through his voice. you lit the blunt and took a deep inhale, masterfully blowing it up into your nose and then out again before passing it to him. “yup. only fuck eaters ‘cause they do it the best. you an eater, toji?” you asked pointedly, watching as one of his rough hands drew circles on your leg, then up to your knee, while the other lifted the blunt to his lips. he took an inhale, then another. god, you hated double hitters, but it was okay — it was only you two.

“wouldn’t you like to know?” toji shot back, his trademark smirk sliding across his face. his lip twitched, scar jumping.

“that’s why the fuck i asked you, toji,” you clapped back immediately, making the older man squeeze your leg while passing the blunt back. “watch your mouth, n/n. don’t get fucked up.”

“or what?” you immediately retort, holding the blunt up to your lips as you took another puff. “you not gon’ do shit to me, toji, like i honestly wish you w—“ your words were halted by the man throwing your legs off his lap, one hand going to spread them roughly as he pressed his fingers against your clothed cunt.

“i’m not gonna do shit?” he repeated, as your eyes went wide; he had obviously startled you, but you weren’t opposed to this one bit. as his fingers rubbed at your pussy through your shorts, you shook your head feverently again, looking at him as you held the blunt to your glossed lips. “not a damn thing.”

when all toji did was nod, you were sure you were in for it. and you were. he was quicker than you, grabbing your hand that held the blunt and quickly forcing you to put the blunt in the ashtray. the smoke you were holding in your mouth was forcefully removed as toji roughly pressed his lips to yours, the smoke being shared between you two as he pried your lips apart.

the next few minutes were coated in a needy haze. his big hands were everywhere, all over your body. moving to squeeze at your tits, your ass, your thighs. eventually the settled on the waistband of your shorts and began to unbutton them. before pulling them off completely, leaving you in your lacy dark blue thong.

he pinched the plush of your pussy, barely hidden by the panties — more like decorated by it. immediately, the scent of your slick, which was already dripping, filled toji’s nostrils, making him let out a wanton moan.

“fuck, mama,” he hissed as he trailed his finger down your slit, “you always this wet? this is how you’ve been the entire time?” he looked up at you, eyes darkened with lust.

“no,” you lied immediately, giving him a reckless smirk. “she just like that off the rip. i determine whether it’s for you or not.” toji only let out a little laugh. “word?” he asked. you opened your mouth to repeat the word back to him, but you were rudely interrupted by him slapping your pussy.

it wasn’t hard, but it wasn’t exactly soft, the pain sending sparks of pleasure through you. you hissed out a, “shit..” toji smirked at your reaction as he pushed your panties to the side, before delivering another smack, this time a litle harder. you let out a mewl, squirming in his hold.

“crazy,” toji said to you, “two lil’ slaps just made you leagues wetter. you sure you’re not wet for me?”

you refused to answer, only giving him a shrug. “so you wanna be a brat now, huh?” he asked you with an eyebrow raise as he began to pull the panties down your thighs. “like you weren’t jus’ all over me. ‘toji, you a eater?’” he mocked you in a high pitched voice as he pulled you forward, legs sliding over his broad shoulders. you remained silent, biting your tongue. maybe you were a brat; you knew that with toji’s strength and stamina, you would get much more if you drew it out. plus, you wanted to make him work for every moan, every word.

“you gon eat my pussy or not?” you asked boldly, your hand going to lace through his hair, nails pressing against his scalp. “like literally, shut the f—!” you were interrupted by toji latching his mouth onto you, completely ripping the words from your mouth.

his tongue, long and flat, slid between your plush folds, calloused hands digging into your thighs as he shoved his face between your legs. off the rip, his motions were rough and quick, tongue swirling against your clit before going down to your hole, curling against it to lap at your essence. you gripped the couch as you let out soft moans, trying not to be too loud — you didn’t wanna fuel toji’s already large ego.

“fuck,” he mumbled as he pulled away, “pussy’s so sweet, baby. i should’ve bent you over in that fucking store the day you wore that skirt.” you were unable to respond before he was diving back in, tongue messily trailing througu your pussy. he was there between your thighs, feasting on what you offered, lapping up all the sweet nectar you had to spare. his lips latched onto the delicate bud of your clit, sucking with a fervor that left you gasping, while he looked up at you with a gaze that was as heated as it was prideful.

one of your hands found its way into his hair, tangling in the soft locks as you gripped it tightly, the other clutching onto the plush fabric of the couch as though it was your only lifeline. your breaths were coming out in ragged gasps, each one harder to catch than the last, your mouth falling open in that perfect 'o' shape as you let out sounds so sweet and melodious, singing a song of pure pleasure just for him.

and you couldn’t help it; euphoria was pulsing through your body, coating your thoughts in nothing but toji. your toes curled, as toji slid his tongue inside of you. god, he was so messy, your slick already all over his face, his spit mixing with your slick as it trailed down your ass.

you were incessantly moaning, unable to even downplay or disguise it anymore. “s-shit, toji, fuck, that feels so good—!” he looked up at you with satisfaction as he slid his tongue into your entrance, curling it upwards against your walls.

you squealed, trying to scoot backwards away from the pleasure, but he was quick to yank you back, trapping you against his mouth, his hands coming to wrap around your thighs. one of his fingers traced the stretch marks on your thighs. he worked his fat tongue inside of you, curling and sliding as his pointer finger swirled your clit at such a fast pace, you was sure he was gonna give you something close to a rug burn.

his paired actions had you spiraling over the edge, the coil in your stomach stretching and stretching until it was ready to snap. “toji, ‘m close—! fuck, fuck— gonna cum!” toji’s movements became much more insistent, gaining in speed as he basically shoved you over the edge.

your orgasm hit you like a brick, your back arching off the couch as you gripped toji’s hair tightly, whined babbles of repeated words leaving your lips. if it weren’t for toji holding you down and anchoring you, you were sure that you would’ve grown fucking wings and soared away.

you creamed all over his tongue, and he made sure to pull away, before messily spreading it throughout your pussy, just to lap it all up over again, letting you settle, working you through the after effects of your climax.

you sucked in ragged gasps as toji pulled away, licking his lips and wiping his face. he stared at you with such intensity, shivers went down your skin. your eyes immediately focused on his hard dick through his sweats, the outline prominent. you tapped your foot on his thigh. “gimme that,” you breathed.

“do you deserve it?” toji said back, his voice a bit raspy. “been a bratty slut this whole time. you were so cocky, remember? i don’t get you wet, right?”

you wanted to maintain your pride, you really, really did. but desperate times called for desperate measures. “c’mon, toji,” you sighed sultrily, “i was just playin’.. just wanted to make it a little fun for you, you know that..” you spread your legs a little more, teasing him as you continued, “it’s all yours, i swear — been waiting for this for such a long time.”

toji only gave you a soft chuckle and the only words gave you were, “that right, baby?” immediately, he scooped you up with a single arm, flipping you over onto your hands and knees. you let out a noise of surprise, but immediately arched your back, looking back at him as he pushed his sweats down his thighs. his dick sprung up, and you couldn’t say you were shocked by it.

his dick was both fat and long, and it almost made your eyes pop out of your head. he had to be at least eight inches, veins running up the side of his heavy dick. his tip was a dark apricot shade, and it was leaking bad, opaque beads of precum sliding out of his slit. he was well trimmed, with heavy breeder balls. you almost salivated. but at the same time, you questioned how all that was even supposed to fit in you.

he seemed to know exactly what you were thinking. “don’t you worry, princess. you’ll take every inch of me.” one of his hands gripped your ass, spreading your cheeks apart as he directed his tip against your entrance, slapping it there a few times, making you groan in need. “t-toji, stop fuckin’ playin—!”

once again, you were rudely interrupted by him pushing the tip inside of you. he let out a hiss, your walls sucking him in. however, with just how wet you were, he slid right back out. he let out a snicker as he leaned his hand down to slap your pussy again. “but you not wet for me, alright..” he lined himself up again, and this time — he didn’t push into you slowly.

with one rough thrust, he filled you to the brim, forcing you forward as you let out a strangled noise, clawing at the couch. “toji! oh fuck..!” you pulled your hips forward, trying to get him to pull out a little, but he wasn’t having it. “s-shit, i’m not even all the way in yet,” he huffed, hair hanging in his eyes. toji was letting out pants, it felt as if your pussy was fucking suffocating his dick, strangling it.

inch by inch, he pushed the rest of his dick in, until the plush of your ass was nestled against his pelvis and stomach. he yanked at his shirt, pulling it off of his body. your slick was already coating him, dripping down to his balls. you were a mess, mewling just from him entering. you felt so full — his dick stuffing you better than you ever had been before. and it was driving you out your mind.

toji didn’t wait for you to adjust. with one hand on your ass, thumb rubbing against the ridges and dimples, and the other lacing through purple hair, toji pulled all the way out, and then slammed all the way back in. the force of his motions shoved you down into the couch, and immediately you let out a cry of, “t-toji! slow down!”

but slowing down wasn’t apart of his agenda. he rasped out, “nah, this is what you wanted, baby. so take it. take my dick like a good fuckin’ girl.” he began snapping his hips into you, the veins on his dick dragging against your walls just right. your cunt clamped down on him every time he tried to pull out, as if it was forcing him to make your cunt his new home.

toji was mesmerized by the way your ass jiggled and clapped with every movement he made, the sound of your skin slapping filling the air. he slapped your ass hard and then squeezed, making you squeal once more. “fuck, look at you. bouncing this ass back on my dick so good..”

at his praise, you looked back at him before proudly twerking back on his dick, putting on a little show. he laughed, his hand trailing from your hair to snake around your throat. “such a fuckin’ slut,” he said gruffly, before pulling his hips back so that only the tip was inside before ramming his dick back inside of you.

you felt him nudge against your cervix, and you let out a noise close to a scream, while his hand tightened around your throat. tears filled your eyes at the pain, your lashes beginning to slide. “you’re gonna wake up the kids, princess. wouldn’t want them to come down to seeing you getting fucked like some whore, right? keep that pretty mouth quiet.” he leaned down, chest pressing against your back as he curled his much larger body against yours. “but not too quiet. wanna hear you lose your fucking brain over this dick.”

his other hand came to wrap around your throat, and he began to jack hammer into you, slamming you on his dick over and over. your eyes rolled back, a mix of pain and pleasure twisting through you, that coil getting ready to snap again. “t-toji…” you slurred out, “g-gonna fuckin’ cum again…!”

“so fucking do it,” toji hissed as your clenching began to get more intense. “paint my shit, baby.” his voice was sending shivers down your spine, aiding your increasing pleasure. you let out ragged moans into the couch as your body trembled, pussy spasming wildly around his dick as you came a second time.

he didn’t slow down through your orgasm, instead, he went faster, if that was even humanly possible. he pressed down on your head, forcing your face into the couch, and pressing on your belly simultaneously. it forced you to have a deeper arch, but it also made you feel just how deep he was inside of you. pressing his big hand against your stomach to feel his bulge had toji grinning.

you were a wreck, tears sliding down your face, your lashes long fallen of. you were pretty sure your lace had peeled, but you didn’t care. you could barely think, barely form coherent sentences with how toji was fucking you. and he knew it. he knew he reduced you to a mess, and he wasn’t even halfway finished with you.

soon, he felt his orgasm coming, and he let out a deep groan. “shit.. where do you want my cum, doll? ‘m getting close..” you were quick to whine out, “i-inside, toji.. want you to cum inside…!”

“haah!” he grunted out with a smirk, “want me to fill you up, huh? want me to stuff you full with my cum? yeah, i bet you fucking do, look at you.”

“toji, toji, toji, fuckkk.. want your babies, c’mon, make me a mama again—!” toji laughed shakily at your dumb response, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “fuck yeah, dollface. you better not spill not one drop, alright?” he let out a strangled moan as he released, his thick cum filling her to the walls.

you sucked in harsh breaths, finally feeling relieved after toji’s constant fucking stopped. he seemed to slow down, gently fucking his load into you. you began to relax… however you were sorely mistaken.

“you thought i was done with you?” toji asked as he gripped you, flipping you over so that he could see your face. you looked a mess, but you were so, so pretty. your eyes were watery, face with tear trails all over. your lips were bruised from how much you’d been biting them. at least your hair was still intact… for now. toji leaned down and pressed a kiss to your jawline, down to your throat. he yanked at the top you wore, and when it didn’t want to cooperate, he ripped it and peeled it off of you himself. “toji, my shirt….” you whimpered but he dismissively waved a hand. “you’ll get one of mine.” he reached behind you, unclipping your bra and letting your tits spring free.

his big hands almost swallowed them as he began to leave bites and kisses all over your throat, collarbone and chest. “can’t possibly be done with you,” he said against your skin, “been waiting to fuck you like this since i laid eyes on you, doll.”

he left a plethora of hickies on your skin, very obviously marking you as his. you were still speared on his dick, and he began to roll his hips languidly inside of you, curving into your g-spot repeatedly. the feeling had you seeing stars as he gripped your legs and pulled them around his waist. with each thrust, he began to get more forceful and speed up, until once more, he was pounding your insides.

your nails went to his back, scratching, making toji wince in pain as his hips collided with yours. three of your nails had broken off. a third time, you felt yourself reach your climax once more, but it felt different. painful almost, with the last your clit throbbed. you managed to push away the toji-shaped clouds in your brain and realized.

“t-toji—! toji, ‘m gonna squirt!” you cried out as you twisted in his hold, the pleasure becoming overwhelming for you. “t-toji—!” he only smirked at you, yanking you closer. “make a mess f’me, mama. wanna see you get all messy… c’mon, c’mon, make that pretty pussy squirt on my dick.” he pressed another messy kiss to your lips as his hand snuck down to rub your clit, forcing more pleasure into your system. you let out a ruined, gasped noise — like you wanted to scream but couldn’t get it out. clear liquid gushed from you, coating toji’s lower half, some of his abdomen and the couch.

you were in too much of a haze to notice that soon after, toji came inside of you a second time. he didn’t pull out at first, instead opting to lay his head against your sweaty skin, pressing kisses. he realized that you would be completely gone for a bit, after that, so he was gentler with you. he pulled out, watching his cum slowly dribble from your hole after the two creampies he gave you. not wanting you to sit in your own fluids, picked you up and brought you to his room, putting you one of his shirts and a pair of his boxers before tucking you in.

he went back downstairs, eyes locked on the mess you made on the couch. a soft whistle escaped as he plucked your lashes off the sofa and put them on the table.

you probably wouldn’t become his girlfriend yet; but you damn for sure weren’t going anywhere now.

#jjk #jjk x reader #⭒ ݁ . ໒꒱​ jazi writes #jujutsu kaisen #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #jjk toji #toji smut #toji x you #jjk x black fem reader #jujutsu kaisen x black reader #jjk x black reader #black fem reader #black reader #⭒ ݁ . ໒꒱​ jazi writes #toji x y/n #toji x black reader #toji x black y/n #toji x female reader #🎧

[hooked-on-elvis]

ELVIS interviewed during filming of 'Change of Habit'

— AMONG OTHER THINGS, YOU'LL LEARN ABOUT HOW ELVIS DID SOME IMPROVISATION IN HIS LINES FOR THE MOVIES AND HOW SELF CONSCIOUS HE WAS ABOUT HIS OWN FILMS

Filmed on location in the Los Angeles area and at Universal Studios during March and April 1969, Change of Habit was released in the United States on November 10, 1969.

Elvis Presley On Set: You Won’t ask Elvis Anything Too Deep?

Elvis talks, but he doesn't say much

BY WILLIAM OTTERBURN-HALL HOLLYWOOD – The notice outside the big grey double-doors was simple and to the point. SET CLOSED, ABSOLUTELY NO ADMITTANCE. You find notices like this outside a lot of film studios, and they tend to have a certain elasticity. This one, outside what looked like an aircraft hangar but was actually Stage D at Universal Studios, meant it. Inside, Elvis Presley was filming. And where Elvis goes, the barriers go up as if some sinister germ warfare experiment were being carried on within. Like a suckling infant, he is swathed and coddled against the realities of the world outside, as if he were made of rare porcelain rather than hewn from good old-fashioned Tennessee stock. But this day he was on show. I had been given the magic formula. The secret open-sesame known only by its brand name of “Colonel Parker’s Okay” had been handed me. The doors swung wide, and I was in. They say Colonel Parker is the man who built Elvis from the erotic gyrating days of the swiveling Pelvis through 14 long and fruitful summers to his present status, by pushing and pulling his protege through the tricky cross-currents of pop music taste. I wouldn’t know. I had asked to see him, this onetime Texas fairground barker, to thank him for the green light. But he was always somewhere else. In his office at Universal, over at Metro, down in Palm Springs, in Las Vegas to lay the trail for the next live show... always somewhere else. No matter. Who needed Colonel Parker when Elvis himself was alive and well and filming? The Publicity Man who escorted me as close as if he were handcuffed said proudly: “I’d like to work with him again, he’s so sweet and uncomplicated. I was surprised you got through – no one’s talked to him yet, you know. There must have been a good breeze blowing.” The good breeze continued to blow as far as the set. A mauve-walled pad with kitchen adjacent and a king-size bed visible through half-drawn yellow curtains. Elvis sat at a table, staring at his hands, while three mini-skirted girls, Mary Tyler Moore, Barbara McNair and Jane Elliott, scurried around with trays of food.

L-R: Mary Tyler Moore, Jane Elliott and Barbara McNair.

The film is about three nuns who pose as nurses to “identify with the people” in a Negro ghetto in New York. The title is Change of Habit (yes, it is) and stars Elvis as a medic who falls for one of the nuns. Elvis is wearing a paint-stained blue denim shirt and tight blue jeans. He looks relaxed and affable and rather meatier around the jaw-line than one remembers from previous films. Marriage (back in May 1967 to Priscilla Beaulieu) is obviously agreeing with him. His eyes have that smoky slow-burn of the old-time movie vamp. He seizes a guitar and strums a few chords. It’s the last week of shooting, and like the good days between exams and the end of term.

The atmosphere on the set is hip and loose, full of leather-clad youth and clever in-talk. The director is thin and intense, wears a check shirt and gym shoes, and is called Billy Graham, which is going to look interesting on the posters of a swinging nun. Elvis produces some dialogue. He is never likely to win an award as an actor, but he knows what the kids want and he gives it to them. The girls are talking about a party. The cameras turn. Elvis says: “You get a lot of people down here on a Saturday night, and all the old hates come out. Before you know it they’re bombed out of their skulls and you’ve got World War III on your hands.”

The scene is this one below. NO, it was not cut out during the editing of this movie.

Earth-quaking stuff. But this simple homespun philosophy is off-key. “Bombed out of their skulls” wasn’t in the script. And the director isn’t too happy about it. “It’s a good line,” says Elvis. “Okay, okay,” says Billy Graham. The line stays. Maybe it will come out in the cutting room, but it’s there for now. “The whole thing is downhill,” says a technician. “He don’t talk to anyone, except his own friends.” There is no sign of tension, but then Elvis has nothing to be tense about. He can go on churning out the same thing for another decade, and they’ll still queue to see it. If he’s over the top, as some unkindly souls occasionally try to make out, he doesn’t seem bothered. He is 34 . . . Raised in Memphis . . . Once a truck-driver, stumbled into records, took the world by storm as the original snake-hips . . . Now lives in cloistered seclusion in a colonial mansion near Nashville, with a Rolls, a solid gold Cadillac, a wife, a daughter (Lisa Marie, aged one) and several bodyguards for company . . . Has made 29 films, grossing 220 million dollars at the box office, and sold more than 200 million records.

Elvis Presley and director William A. Graham on the set of Change Of Habit (Universal 1969) between takes.

Elvis heads for his trailer in the far corner. A group of friends (known in some quarters as the Memphis Mafia) close around him like a football scrum after a loose ball. The code-word is given. I am beckoned over. The good breeze was still blowing. “You won’t probe too deep, will you?” The Publicity Man asks anxiously. “This is just an informal chat, that’s the deal. So keep it light and airy, okay?” Well . . . okay. I checked my notes. Does Elvis fly high on acid trips? Does he see himself as a prophet for the new generation? Does he think his style is too square? Does he have any sexual hang-ups? His marriage altered his attitude to life in any way? Does he kick his cat? Does he have a cat to kick? What are his views on pop, religion, hippies, demonstrators, Vietnam? Stuff like that. No, I wasn’t going to probe too deep. In the dressing room Elvis shakes hands in a firm grip. “This is Charlie, this is Doc.” Two small, burly men light leather jackets and open-neck shirts rise and shine briefly and subside again. The trailer feels a bit crowded.

Elvis Presley on the set of Change Of Habit (Universal 1969). Mary Tyler Moore, Elvis and director William A. Graham share a joke between takes.

Elvis talks. He speaks slowly and carefully, and puts a lot of space between his words. “The film? Uh, well . . . it’s a change of pace for me, yeah. It’s more serious than my usual movies, but it don’t mean I’m aiming for a big dramatic acting scene, no sir. The way I’m headed, I want to try something different now, but not too different. I did this film because the script was good, and I guess I know by now what the public goes for." “Most of the scripts that come my way are all the same. They’ve all got a load of songs in them, but I just did a Western called 'Charro', which hasn’t any songs ‘cepting the title tune. It did have a couple of nude scenes, but they’ve been cut. Anyhow, can you imagine a dramatic Western where the hero breaks out into song all the time?” He has said plenty, and now he leaps to his feet, hands flashing to imaginary holsters, and sings in a deep drawl: “Go for your guns . . . you’ve got ’til sundown to get outa town . . . ” It could be the start of a promising sketch. The others follow suit, singing, clowning, all on their feet. If this is the Memphis Mafia, they’re a friendly bunch.

Elvis on set of 'Change of Habit' (Universal 1969) talking to fans.

Elvis sits down, and everyone stops singing. He eyes himself in the dressing room mirror. “I don’t plan too far ahead, but I’m real busy for a while now. I’ve got a date in Vegas, and maybe another film after that. Then I’m going to try to get to Europe, because I’ve always promised I would and I’ve got some good, faithful fans over there.” Slow-talking Elvis may be. But he certainly isn’t the slow-witted hick from the backwoods his detractors make out. If he is, then he’s a better actor than they give him credit for. Get through to him, and you find a pleasant, honest, not-too-articulate hometown boy who has been protected for his own good from the hysterical periphery of his present world. The party was warming up. Elvis cracked a gag. Charlie cracked a gag. There was a call from the door. Elvis was wanted, and the good breeze was still blowing as he made for the set, one hand on my shoulder. Charlie and Doc were all smiles.

Elvis and his manager, Colonel Parker, on set of 'Change of Habit' (Universal 1969).

“Okay?” said the P.M. “You did real fine.” "Well . . . not quite." I said. "This Colonel Parker, would he be around for a word later?" Elvis stopped in his tracks. The P.M. went a whiter shade of pale, and whispered something to a friend. The friend nodded in sympathy. “I must tell you about an experience I had like that once,” he said, eyeing me as if I’d just crawled out of the woodwork. Elvis said: “I think he’s in Palm Springs. I’m not sure...” He hurried off. The P.M. said: “Don’t let’s push our luck any more. We never trouble him for too long a time. You should be very happy. You had more than anyone’s had in years.” Somewhere along the line, unaccountably, the good breeze had dropped. This story is from the July 12th, 1969 issue of Rolling Stone.

Source: www.rollingstone.com

#elvis presley #elvis movies #change of habit #mary tyler moore #barbara mcnair #jane elliott #1969 #60s movies #1969 movies #elvis articles #elvis interview #rolling stone magazine #vintage articles #vintage magazine

[joonberriess]

not tryna be messy or nun but this writer who used to be chimsbunny but deactivate and remade a whole new blog called ohwon6er is a neutral person who supports Israel and Palestine way before they deactivated an anon asked if they supported Palestine not only had they mentioned Palestine but also brought Israel too like they’re going through a genocide a few anons called them out for being neutral on both sides and they got mad for people calling them and for also saying “that’s not gonna stop me from having burgers and coffee” but not only that but they also called this person a ”ghetto ass hoe” mind you the person they called ghetto was black 💀

man idc fuck that bitch for being weird as hell, politics ≠ genocide like does she even have half a fucking brain? like there’s people dying, YOU (WE) have the luxury of being able to sleep comfortably at night not worry if another bomb or if food will reach you. well u can go enjoy ur burger n coffee in hell then bitch STUPID ASS HO

[girlactionfigure]

Heroic Polish Poet

Won the Nobel Prize

Polish writer Czeslaw Milosz protected Jews during the Holocaust, wrote poems that inspired millions, and advocated passionately for freedom of thought and human rights.

Czeslaw was born in 1911 to an illustrious family descended from Polish nobility. At the time of his birth, Poland was not an independent country and the Milosz clan lived in an area that was Russian Empire. He spent his early childhood on his grandfather’s estate, but when World War I broke out in 1914, the family was thrown into turmoil. Czeslaw’s father was drafted into the Russian army, and Czeslaw and his mother spent the next four years fleeing the Germans in (modern-day) Lithuania, Estonia and Latvia. When the war ended, the family settled in Vilna, a city with a significant Jewish population, known as a hub of exceptional Jewish scholars and yeshivas.

Exceptionally intelligent and curious, Czeslaw learned six languages (Polish, Lithuanian, Russian, English, French, and Hebrew.) He entered law school at the prestigious Stefan Batory University when he was only 18 years old, but found his true calling and talent in poetry. He published his first poems in the university magazine in 1930, and formed a student poetry group and an “Intellectuals Club.”

Czeslaw had many Jewish friends at the university, and was shocked when an antisemitic mob attacked Jew on campus. Czeslaw bravely stood up to the mob and protected the Jewish students. Sadly one student was killed when a large rock was thrown at his head.

The incident influenced Czeslaw’s writing, and he described his work as “Poetry of Protest.” While still a student, Czeslaw published his first volume of poetry After graduating from university, Czeslaw worked at a radio station in Vilna. He produced a wide range of programming for the station, including performances by Jewish musicians and writers. As Hitler rose to power, his hateful ideology took hold among many Lithuanian nationalists. Czeslaw’s showcasing Jewish voices on the radio led to an anonymous complaint falsely accusing him of fomenting communism, and he was fired.

Czeslaw moved back to Poland, now an independent republic, and worked at Polish Radio in Warsaw. He published another volume of poetry, which quickly gained acclaim among poetry-lovers and critics. He was compared to legendary 19th century Polish poet Adam Mickiewicz.

After Germany invaded Poland in 1939, Czeslaw became an active member of the Polish underground resistance. The Nazis persecuted Polish intellectuals and artists, and Czeslaw published his next book of poetry under a pseudonym, which he also used for his translations of Shakespeare and T.S. Eliot.

Horrified at the violent and vicious persecution of Jews in Warsaw, Czeslaw, along with his brother Andrzej, began helping Jews hide or escape from the Nazis. He defied the Nazis to help at least five Polish Jews and maybe more, providing them a place to hide as well as financial support. Czeslaw knew that the penalty for this transgression was death, but his moral compass did not allow him to stand idly by. In late 1944 Czeslaw was captured by the Germans and held in a prisoner transit camp. Miraculously, he was helped by a Catholic nun (and total stranger) who somehow convinced the Germans to let him go.

After the war, Czeslaw published his powerful fourth collection of poetry, focusing on the loss of three million Polish Jews, and the willful blindness of much of the Polish population. Came po dei Fiori, written in 1943, became one of his best-known works. It described the suffering and carnage inside the Warsaw ghetto, and the cluelessness of those outside its gates. The poem includes searing imagery: “The salvoes behind the ghetto walls/were drowned in lively tunes/and vapors freely rose/into the tranquil sky./Sometimes the wind from burning houses would bring the kites along/and people on the merry-go-round/caught the flying charred bits./This wind from burning houses/blew open the girls’s skirts/and the happy throngs laughed/on a beautiful Warsaw Sunday.”

Czeslaw received increasing recognition for his work, which ultimately inspired long-overdue public reckoning and introspection on Poles’ failure to protect the three million Jews in their midst. In 1949 he was appointed a cultural attache for the communist People’s Republic of Poland, although he opposed Soviet ideology. During this time he moved from New York to Washington DC and then Paris, creating event highlighting Polish culture, publishing articles, and translating important literary works into Polish, his mother tongue. He returned to Poland for a visit in 1949, and was shocked at what had happened to the country. Stalinist oppression had created a culture of fear and lies, and Czeslaw spoke out against it, leading to his firing and escape from Poland to Paris in 1951. During the tumult he was separated from his wife Janina and their children. They were in the United States, but because of the old smear against Czeslaw of being a communist, McCarthyism led to Czeslaw being refused entry. He received political asylum in France, and spoke out against Stalinism, which led to all of works being banned in his native land. He published two poetry collections, two novels, and a memoir, written in Polish and published by fellow Polish ex-pats. He finally reunited with his family in 1953.

In 1960, Czeslaw became a visiting lecturer at Berkeley, and American audiences discovered his work for the first time. He published scholarly works on Dostoevsky, among other important writers. Czeslaw retired from teaching in 1978 to focus on writing full-time. During the Stalinist years, Czeslaw’s work was a source of inspiration to the the Polish anti-communist Solidarity movement.

Czeslaw won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1980, leading to global recognition and the publication of his work in Poland. After 30 years in exile, Czeslaw returned to Poland for a visit and was greeted by adoring crowds proud of the attention and respect he brought to Polish literature. He met with Lech Walesa and Pope John Paul II and used his newfound fame to advocate for writers who were persecuted for their beliefs.

Czeslaw became a poetry professor at Harvard in 1981, and continued to publish poetry in Polish. His wife Janina died in 1986, and after the fall of communism in 1989 he began to spend more time in Poland, finally moving back in 2000. Czeslaw Milosz died in Krakow in 2004, at age 93. He received a state funeral and thousands of people lined the streets to watch his coffin travel by a military escort to the cemetery. At the funeral, noted poets Seamus Heaney, Adam Zagajewski, and Robert Hass read Czeslaw’s poetry in all the languages he knew: Polish, French, English, Russian, Lithuanian, and Hebrew.

During his lifetime and posthumously, Czeslaw received many honors and awards, including Righteous Among the Nations at Israel’s Holocaust Memorial Yad Vashem. His work was enormously influential among the greatest poets of the age, including Robert Pinsky, Ted Hughes, Robert Strand and Derek Walcott. Raised Catholic, Czeslaw became an atheist as a young man, but later returned to the faith of his youth and was buried at Skalka Roman Catholic Church.

For saving lives and writing poetry for the ages, we honor Czeslaw Milosz as this week’s Thursday Hero.

#Thursday Hero

[suiciderape]

totaltrash

we must discuss this gay ass shit bitch! the leader of the neptune planet she rejects? ew! still been the ghetto i see ew! shes upset obviously its the same person too so go home! potter! rejected nuns and fight for party infringement rights ok so? where are we? ur new house ew! hahaha i love my new house my phone sucks! no :( ok its good... even being here... wiggly what! i get it now i have a wiggly dick? no babe my phone lol im sorry who is this? kim deal ew! ur ghetto i love kim deal me too ok so who is this? desarae hollins ew ur baddie smells good! ew! ew! ew! rejected princess pretty pussy 6 is back do it again rejected princess prett6 pussy is back again no! ew! omg stop!! omg shes gonna see what tumblr did to us! omg no she doesnt care lol mhm :) scary gangsta? are u chris angel insider? no im not! oh lol well who is us? im us! omg! what does that mean? no more couple shopping trips to the local ghetto mall!! yay! what else? get a macbook pro today? or tomorrow? today! lol ur a baddie with a dick launcher! huh! oh uh huh! *gs* uh oh uh huh huh! *gs* 808s heartbreak *gs* lady macbeth lady macbeth lady macbeth oh! huh! *gun shot* gun shot! ah! ah! asian! oh asain! asian! ah!! asian oh!! asian lol its 808s heartbreak oh bob hehe mhm :) macdonalds angel? insider *gs* oh!! asian oh my god its asia oh!! *gs* mhm :) lol ur not even asian anyway daamn baby they died of lung disease cancers get bent! ew! yay! omg shes an angel! lol mhm :) macdonalds oh bob hehe waait!

yoon keeho

daddy that was mad awkward for the non asians! i know bitch daamn ok so where did we leave off? private school suicide pss ok so it didnt work? no it didnt why is that? u grounded me from making things look cute ok! so its not uppercapping? hell nah bitch u always right lmao ok so its ok to look bad? whaat the fuck bitch we were at get bent ok so go back to school ok no i didnt see it get away 5 dead dead! dead dead dead! dead! dead dead dead! dont boy 1234 donut boy dead! dead! dead dead! dead dead dead dead! see thats ok we like ur games did the bubble pop lava & knives no it didnt daddy ok! so go homee ok mhm :)

scary gangsta

omg bitch! shes in my house! omg noo where at? someone just said desarae! ew! omg ok so thats not u? hell nah bitch i got into the secret side of pintrest finally im ecstatic i really was ok! so go home! potter! weasely nah nigga but thats disgusting how did she know that this was ur house? im assuming u sold it? no i didnt! ita scary gangsta! ew ok! mt st helens bitch that was the wrong scary gangsta! omg who was it? the bad one that tried to fuck ur life up we got into his mental ward and locked him up for life! how did he see my account? he didnt! we let him see our phone not yours! right? yes! no hes been following u around all day as ur daddy yoon keeho hell nah bitch she is right! it waa our phone not hers! ok does she get it? hes never even met her! wait i didnt say we could move on! who is this? desarae hollins! u mean choi paranoid? yes! ok so go home! potter! ew! hey wait! omg her account is badaaa lets see some japanase architecture! ok! lol ur stupid it was the real scary gangsta the whole time! lol whaat? omg get bent

mt st helens

is this how u feel rn? well it wasnt until i saw the photograph stupid! does that mean u were there? no it doesnt daddy ew! lol ur stupid hahaha i know dudee ok so why is it all watery looking? the photograph? yes ok well did it go back into ur skin? ew! fuck u bitch no it did not ok hold on 808 heartbreak <3

suicide boys

sorry mt st helens brb? no!! lol tell her to stop texting my brother lol she is not texting him and he keeps blocking her twitter what year is it? 1921 what year is she in? 2023 omg what the fuck bitch! who is that? me apparently lol what the fuck bitch! ok

1989s suicide boys mission health goth

ew! lol suck a fuck bitch go home no homo training! did he call u back bitch? yes he did bitch! and he speaks chinese now! what the fuck bitch suck a fuck bitch nah she sent me more 808s heartbreak ew! fuck u bitch! lol ok sorry i love u ily 2! hey! whats ur bfs name? chris angel insider i thought it was electrumsol me tew bith! daamn ew! hahaha ew! hahaha ew! hahaha god daamn it thats what u meant? yes omg can lesarafim be the group at school with me? in south korea? where else? japan where else? thats it for now! ok australia! ew fine l8r byee go home and take this shit to sleep he loves u so fucking much! omg were in! can we stay the night now? whaat? of course bitch i love u always have always will! lol omg ur so much fun! lol u weirdo send tweet send tweet send tweet hollow tip - hoo ride attack

#surfing #delusionals #princeton #bye bye club #bite hurts

[septembriseur]

On the one hand, I have taken many good virtuous and beautiful photos of Venice. On the other hand, I have also taken a lot of photos that look like this.

I have also encountered a hip Franciscan monk, a nun, and three Spanish priests. On Sunday I’m doing a tour of the Ghetto, which will presumably be less intensely Catholic.

#my pics

[crystalbrain7]

crystalbrain-crack cocaine for the soul 1/1 NFT ethereum

ok, so crystalbrain got introduced 2 crack cocaine by this dude in the motherfuckin' CIA in a VR simululation to train nicaraguan rebels. he had a glass pipe which he put a flame 2 and he took a hit and all of a sudden it was liek a hailstorm of nun-killings just jumped into his brain liek a complete disasterpiece of youphoric wonderfulness. this was after having a gay orgy with manuel noriega and some colombian dudes and it was a perfect moment of spectackular crack rock hitting wonder. this was not the first time crystalbrain had done drugs, no, he had smoked marijuana, tripped on psilocybin mushrooms, dosed on LSD, gotten fucking jacked on speed, taken benzos, rolled on ecstacy, inhaled huge balloons full of nitrous oxide, gone to other dimensions on salvia divinorum, snorted heroin, chugged cough syrup, gotten blown out of his mind on DMT, and this among probably hundrededs of other reasons is why crystalbrain did not live up to his full potential as a contributing member of the matrix.

but being with CIA agents smoking huge rocks of crack cocaine as a test 2 see if crack was a good idea 2 fill the ghettos of america with in order to be a proper instrurument of the government to keep poor people jonesin 4 a hit, he decidided that what his soul really, really deep down craved was an extatic union with the god…of crack. yes, crystalbrain had met his new god, and being 10 years old and fondled by ronald reagan he decided he would go on a mission 2 get every threat 2 the status kwo hooked on this incredibly racist form of cocaine. he snuck around on an alternate form of existence putting telepathic thoughts to buy roses in glass toobs in the inner cities of amerikkka and it was his complete desire that not only should everyone who was poor smoke crack, that eventually aliens would put the entire planet earth into one big crack pipe and take a gigantic hit off of the pipe and get high for liek…15 minutes. and thus crystalbrain went back 2 school and started selling crack cocaine 2 his classmates in the school bathroom.

it was not known at the tiem but crack cocaine made its way through multiple layers of existence, and so there were demons smoking crack, angels smoking crack, and there was god himself sittin' on his throne smoking a big fat dime rock of crack with his donations from churches. satan got in on the game and started smoking crack, but this was just in the judeo-christian realm of existence. there were buddhas smoking crack, lao tzu's force ghost was smoking crack, in the star wars universe obi wan kenobi was smoking crack with anakin, and everyone in the entire multiverse was having a great time getting high on crack. but then they all got addicted and started selling their assholes to buy crack, and then the DEA became an interdimensional entity and forced its way through the multiverse, and everyone got busted because they were selling and smoking so much crack.

#nft #nftcommunity #nft artist #nftartist #nftartists #cryptoart #fractal art #digital art #digital artist #stupidity #cocaine #crack cocaine #crack #soul #mandala

[many-bees]

I’m glad that one of the nuns who helped shelter and smuggle weapons to the Vilna Ghetto resistance lived to the age of 110. I think if you smuggle grenades under your habit to Jewish resistance fighters during the holocaust living to 110 is a pretty good reward.

[aioleis]

Between Possession & Depression: The Dark Continuum of Roman Techno

by Gruppo Di Nun on Urban Comic | Read>

A revolution was taking place, and it was as alien to its surrounds as a glassy hundred-storey skyscraper would be in the centre of the Colosseum—as if the cyberpunk prophecy of the early eighties ultravi- olent comic Ranxerox was finally coming true.

A mixtape compiled by ‘VM’, member of the Gruppo di Nun and chronicler of Rome’s dark twin city of Remoria, takes us back to the years 1990–1994, when a new brand of home-grown techno pumped a chronic strain of no-future energy into the peripheral zones of burned-out Empire.

In 1990, unbeknownst to the rest of the world, tech- no invaded Rome, the sunny, dirty, chaotic capital of Italy. At first, it was a story like many others. In the late 1980s, a bunch of young kids who were already fans of hip hop and electronic music dis- covered the new sound of Detroit, went to London, immersed themselves in the E-fuelled vibes of the Second Summer of Love, learned the basics of rave, came back to their own city and put what they had learned from these physical and mental journeys into practice. They opened record shops, reinvent- ed themselves as DJs and producers, founded la- bels, launched radio shows, and most importantly, started organising techno parties on the outskirts of the city. But by 1990, what had begun as a small, devoted scene for electronic music freaks and connoisseurs of synthetic drugs was starting to get out of con- trol. ‘Rave’ became a code word for a new gener- ation of local misfits, and techno was elected the official soundtrack in every neighbourhood from the city centre to the ghettos on the edge of the metropolis. Parties became bigger and bigger, at- tended by 5000, then 10,000, then 20,000 ecstatic ravers dancing until dawn—and beyond. It was a movement such as Rome had never seen before.

A revolution was taking place, and it was as alien to its surrounds as a glassy hundred-storey skyscraper would be in the centre of the Colosseum—as if the cyberpunk prophecy of the early eighties ultravi- olent comic Ranxerox was finally coming true.

Keep Reading: urbanomic.com/document/dark-continuum/

SICK MUSIC !! :

#SoundCloud #historyofcoolkids #wildchildren

[wachendlichauf]

"Wie im Ghetto"! Wiener Wohnanlage braucht nun Security – Leser | Heute.at

[moritmblrdlastudiow]

In 1939, the Bund was the most popular Jewish party in Poland. Four years later, its members had mostly been murdered in the Holocaust. Irena’s father, Michael, became a bomb maker for the Jewish Fighters Organization, and died charging a German machine gun in the Warsaw ghetto revolt. Her mother, who she called Mama Lo, almost did not survive Irena’s birth. She was so ill that, for the next six months, she entrusted Irena to the care of Michael’s sister Gina. A fellow Bundist who worked for the resistance, rescuing Jews as they waited to be loaded onto boxcars, Gina died during the war from a stomach operation, which she received while passing as Aryan. When the priest read her the last rites, she told him “I am a Jew,” as a final act of self-assertion. “Such a will to be known can alter history,” Irena wrote in her poem “Solitary Acts.” In photos, Gina resembles a tomboy Greta Garbo, dressed in a suit, her hair slicked back: a gorgeous, ideal butch. Gina “was probably a lesbian,” Irena told me. When the fate of the ghetto became undeniable, Mama Lo smuggled Irena to the Aryan side of Warsaw to place her at a Catholic orphanage, then kidnapped her back from the nuns and kept the two of them alive in the countryside until the war’s end.

After the war, Mama Lo made the same choice as the vast majority of Polish Jews, leaving the country first for Sweden and then for the Amalgamated Housing Projects in the Bronx, which were filled with fellow Bundists. The Bronx kids, themselves Jewish, bullied Irena for her European dress and accent. She grew up between three languages. At home, her mother spoke Polish, a language many survivors rejected as that of their betrayers. Five days a week, she studied Yiddish at a school run by the Workman’s Circle, a secular Jewish mutual aid society entwined with the Bund. In school, she struggled with English. Secretly, she began to write poetry.

Irena attended CUNY, when it was still called The Harvard of the Proletariat, and when it lifted countless working-class smart alecks (my Puerto Rican father included) into the middle class. She got her master’s and Ph.D. at the University of Chicago. It was the first time she ever had friends who were not Jews. She wrote about walking through nighttime Chicago in the aftermath of urban renewal, when vibrant Black and mixed-race neighborhoods were turned to rubble, their inhabitants forced elsewhere. She called it “the American hollowness… the incessant grinding down of lines for stamps, for jobs, for a bed to sleep in, of a death stretched imperceptibly over a lifetime…. The Holocaust without smoke.”

Irena’s lesbian world had much in common with the vibrant Bundist subculture in which her parents came of age. Like the Bund, queer women shut out of the mainstream built their own universe out of love and grit. “No institutions wanted us [the gays and the feminists] in any kind of way,” Irena told me, so she and her friends built their own platforms. By the 1980s, lesbians had created a national network of bookstores, newspapers, coffeehouses, bars, archives, and literary presses, to which Irena contributed with enthusiasm, particularly striving to make spaces for lesbian Jews. She started Out and Out Books with three friends, contributed to the first Jewish lesbian anthology, and co-founded the literary leftist magazine Conditions, which published some of the most exciting feminist intellectuals of the era — Barbara Smith, of the Combahee River collective, and Borderlands author Gloria Anzaldúa.

A conversation with Anzaldúa triggered a new direction in Irena’s work. Anzaldúa often used untranslated Spanish in her writing, refusing to cut off her Chicana heritage to conform to white American sensibilities. Anzaldúa asked Irena why, since she grew up with Yiddish, she did not do the same. Irena began to use the language within her English poetry, as a chorus, a dagger, or refrain. Perhaps her best-known poem of this sort is “Etlekhe verter oyf mame-loshn / A few words in the mother tongue,” where she delineates the roles — Jewess, lesbian, whore, gossip, and little wife — that traditional society forced women to wear like straightjackets.

Growing up in the anti-Zionist, Bundist milieu, “Israel was not on my map,” Irena said. But after the Israeli invasion of Lebanon in 1982, and massacres supervised by the Israeli Defense Forces in Sabra and Shatila, she felt that the subject of Palestine could not be avoided. She met with Israeli and Palestinian feminists, and, with a few friends, started the Jewish Women’s Committee to End the Occupation, or JWCEO. It was a strictly DIY affair — often they stood on a street corner near the famous bagel joint Zabar’s and passed out fliers denouncing the occupation. “People would say the worst things to us, like ‘I wish you had died at Auschwitz,’” Irena told me. “I’d never heard Jews talk to each other that way. It was sobering. And, sometimes it was really good, because we really engaged people.” The JWCEO went on to inspire groups around the country. Irena is now a supporter of the one-state solution, of a single state in Israel-Palestine which would give equal rights to all, regardless of religion or ethnicity. Her Birth and Later Years includes a poem in memory of Razan al-Najjar, the Palestinian nurse murdered by an Israeli sniper during 2018’s Great March of Return in Gaza. However, her most astute piece on Palestine was written about a much earlier event — the 1967 war, where the quick Israeli victory inspired a poisonous joy in even the Bundist survivors: Didn’t we all glow from it our sense of power finally achieved? The quickness of the action the Biblical routes and how we laughed over Egyptian shoes in the sand how we laughed at another people’s fear as if fear was alien as if we had known safety all of our lives.

#website #literature #queer #judaism

[cruselite]

Es gibt keine Unschuld mehr

"Die jungen unschuldigen Israelis lebten das richtige Leben im Falschen und nun sind sie tot"

Das zu sagen ist grausam, wer hat zu sowas das Recht

Wen betrifft das, die unschuldigen jungen Israelis?, die Verdammten aus Gaza, uns ?

Die "Verdammten dieser Erde", wann erschien das Vor wievielen Jahren, Jahrzehnten, Jahrhunderten ? Und was hat sich seitdem geändert Nichts hat sich geändert, alles ist schlimmer geworden Wer lebt das falsche Leben im Falschen, wenn nicht wir

Palästina, Israel, Warschauer Ghetto, Gaza Es gibt keine Unschuld mehr, schon gar nicht bei uns

https://cruselite.tumblr.com/post/732872688164651008/totenklage

#undsonst

[my-life-fm]

Lernen Sie, miteinander zu leben, nicht gegeneinander.

» [...] Der 8. Mai ist für uns vor allem ein Tag der Erinnerung an das, was Menschen erleiden mußten. Er ist zugleich ein Tag des Nachdenkens über den Gang unserer Geschichte. Je ehrlicher wir ihn begehen, desto freier sind wir, uns seinen Folgen verantwortlich zu stellen. [...]

Die meisten Deutschen hatten geglaubt, für die gute Sache des eigenen Landes zu kämpfen und zu leiden. Und nun sollte sich herausstellen: Das alles war nicht nur vergeblich und sinnlos, sondern es hatte den unmenschlichen Zielen einer verbrecherischen Führung gedient. [...]

Wir gedenken heute in Trauer aller Toten des Krieges und der Gewaltherrschaft.

Wir gedenken insbesondere der sechs Millionen Juden, die in deutschen Konzentrationslagern ermordet wurden.

Wir gedenken aller Völker, die im Krieg gelitten haben, vor allem der unsäglich vielen Bürger der Sowjetunion und der Polen, die ihr Leben verloren haben. [...]

Wir können des 8. Mai nicht gedenken, ohne uns bewußtzumachen, welche Überwindung die Bereitschaft zur Aussöhnung den ehemaligen Feinden abverlangte. Können wir uns wirklich in die Lage von Angehörigen der Opfer des Warschauer Ghettos oder des Massakers von Lidice versetzen? [...]

Es hilft unendlich viel zum Frieden, nicht auf den anderen zu warten, bis er kommt, sondern auf ihn zuzugehen [...]

Artikel 1 unserer Verfassung:

"Das Deutsche Volk bekennt sich darum zu unverletzlichen und unveräußerlichen Menschenrechten als Grundlage jeder menschlichen Gemeinschaft, des Friedens und der Gerechtigkeit in der Welt." [...]

Wir haben wahrlich keinen Grund zu Überheblichkeit und Selbstgerechtigkeit. [...]

Wenn wir daran denken, was unsere östlichen Nachbarn im Kriege erleiden mußten, werden wir besser verstehen, daß der Ausgleich, die Entspannung und die friedliche Nachbarschaft mit diesen Ländern zentrale Aufgaben der deutschen Außenpolitik bleiben. Es gilt, daß beide Seiten sich erinnern und beide Seiten einander achten. Sie haben menschlich, sie haben kulturell, sie haben letzten Endes auch geschichtlich allen Grund dazu. [...]

Von deutschem Boden in beiden Staaten sollen Frieden und gute Nachbarschaft mit allen Ländern ausgehen. Auch andere sollen ihn nicht zur Gefahr für den Frieden werden lassen. [...]

Nicht ein Europa der Mauern kann sich über Grenzen hinweg versöhnen, sondern ein Kontinent, der seinen Grenzen das Trennende nimmt. Gerade daran mahnt uns das Ende des Zweiten Weltkrieges. [...]

An anderer Stelle aber (Buch der Richter) wird aufgezeichnet, wie oft die Erinnerung an erfahrene Hilfe und Rettung nur vierzig Jahre dauerte. Wenn die Erinnerung abriß, war die Ruhe zu Ende. [...]

Die Jungen sind nicht verantwortlich für das, was damals geschah. Aber sie sind verantwortlich für das, was in der Geschichte daraus wird. [...]

Wir lernen aus unserer eigenen Geschichte, wozu der Mensch fähig ist [...]

Hitler hat stets damit gearbeitet, Vorurteile, Feindschaften und Haß zu schüren. [...]

Lassen Sie sich nicht hineintreiben in Feindschaft und Haß gegen andere Menschen, gegen Russen oder Amerikaner, gegen Juden oder Türken, gegen Alternative oder Konservative, gegen Schwarz oder Weiß.

Lernen Sie, miteinander zu leben, nicht gegeneinander. [...]

Ehren wir die Freiheit. Arbeiten wir für den Frieden. Halten wir uns an das Recht. Dienen wir unseren inneren Maßstäben der Gerechtigkeit. [...] «

- Bundespräsident Richard von Weizsäcker am 08.05.1985, https://www.bundespraesident.de/SharedDocs/Reden/DE/Richard-von-Weizsaecker/Reden/1985/05/19850508_Rede.html

[astra-and-lilith]

So, die luntegelegte Frontgruppe,

... Sie haben bereits mehrfach auf der Domplatte am Weg nach einem kurzen Besuch in der Verwaltung dort, wo ich einmal freiberuflich als Politische Referentin mit dem Fachgebiet Extremismus erfolgreich diverse Male Seminare gehalten hatte, und auch auch auf dem Weg in der Weidengasse beim Einkauf provoziert. Mit Hobbytechnik in den Magen halten zum Kauf des Baklava "zum Kaffee" für mich, wie ich sagte, dem Intrigantenstadl geht der Arsch auf Grundeis aus Angst vor der Internationalen Werte-Gemeinschaft, gelle, und bitte ohne nähere Angaben, dann weitere aversive Reaktionen, und eben begleitend zum Video am großen Screen die aversiven Reaktionen auf das spiegelnde Auge? Wir empfehlen weiteres Grinsen. Braunbär und Bronzebär? Rot-Orange? Und diese Sache mit der angeblichen Befreiungstheologie? Auch wieder reformbewegt? Und luntegelegt? Wieder diese Koalition? Cyberfeld KI. Bitte noch mal technische Angaben zu dieser Szene am Screen!

Update 00 : 52 Uhr. Am großen Screen "TVP World - Break The Fake". Eine weitere Folge. Das dümmliche Geschnattere versucht zum geknickten gelben Stern mit Schwert symbolisch für die Erinnerung an den Aufstand im Warschauer Ghetto allen Ernstes den Stich Darm wiederholt? Haustechnikprotokoll. Satellitentechnik, Clouding. Stellvertreter-Szenario. In der Tat: Kriegsführung mit allen Mitteln im Jahr 2023. Und Antworten! Weiter im alten Text: Krampfartige kleine Foltereinlagen Magen-Darm-Bereich, begleitet vom sublimen Geschnattere, hoffentlich daher nicht schon wieder ein Termin, der verschoben werden muss.

Dass ich sei Jahren hier regelmässig beim Einschlafen beglückt werde nicht nur, aber insbesondere freitags, ist fast nicht mehr erwähnenswert. Nicht wahr? Unsere Unschuldslämmer? Volle Protokolle. Und Verwechseln von Kausalitäten. Fall für Fall. Lagerhaft für wen? Und das? Der Herr, den die Trampeltiere aus Theresienstadt störten, auch eine historische Anmerkung, ist nicht mehr! Sie dürfen aber gerne weiter den Tages-Rhythmus einer Ermittlerin begleiten. Die Daten-Weitergabe allerdings unter Aufsicht. Dürfen wir die Bild-Dateien von Einheiten auch auf dem Cyberfeld zur Verfügung stellen? Doch, das macht wütend. Und? Noch mal so eine Szene, der wütende Herr Nachbar? Die Elite? Und wirr ist? Krank ist? Der "Ja-Ja" Fernsseher? Ja bitte? Mein Aufgabenfeld hat sich gewandelt. Schlafzimmer-Nummern für Unschuldslämmer  machen jetzt die Kollegen ...  Und Ihr Pfingströschen wandelt gerade wo ...? Auch wieder auf den Knöchel von welchen Einheiten halten? Sie Unschuldslamm? Wiederverwertungen. Und Landnahme mit wem? Die Auto-Technik ist übrigens auch mehrfach codiert. Aus Sicherheitsgründen! Sie verstehen ... ? Lungelegte Landnahme und solche Sachen!

Update 01 : 25 Uhr. Gerda Weiler, eine der gelehrtesten Frauen, die ich je gelesen habe, beschreibt in einem Dialog mit ihrer "Nachfolgerin" übrigens, dass ihre Lesungen nur noch sporadisch stattfinden, weil sie unter welchen zahlreichen Symptomen leidet und sie daher auch bitte unbedingt eine Toilette in der Nähe benötigt? Bei dem ebenfalls beschriebenen spontanen Herzrasen hilft da allerdings auch die Toilette nichts. Jedenfalls nicht so ... ! Nein, ich sage da jetzt rein gar nichts dazu. Aber versuchen Sie es doch weiter mit Berichte Bingo! Die Schilddrüse beispielsweise? Aha ... ?! Doch, rein therapeutisch gessehen helfen da auch Einheiten. Spezialisiert auf solche Fälle. Für viele leider zu spät. Manche auch aus dem Feld gezogen. Und weiter im alten Text: Gerda Weiler. Ein weiteres Beispiel. Und der Buchtitel von "Bleibe unerschrocken" ist zynisch. Noch eine Kopfstreichel-Nummer? Update 00 : 13 Uhr. Ich würde es beim Formulieren dieser Sätze nun genau an dieser Stelle mit sublimem Geschnattere und Druck Bauch Darm versuchen ... ! Es war ca. eine Stunde lang Ruhe!

Nun denn. Ein terroristisches Szenario einer internationalen luntegelegten Frontgruppe zur Landnahme. Weitere Fälle! Einheiten vor Ort! Wir empfehlen weitere aversive Reaktionen insbesondere auf "dreckelige" jüdische Soldaten und Polizisten. Weitere Ermittlungen. Und nun "genieße" ich mehr hobbytechnischen Beschuss Magen-Darm-Bereich? Welche Anwendung soll es denn sein? Update: Was soll ich sagen ... Krämpfe, Durchfall ... Das militärmedizinische Protokoll versagt bestimmt, Sie dürfen also Ihr Innerstes nach außen kehren! Schließlich ist morgen wieder ein Termin, den wir eigentlich wahrnehmen wollten... Überraschen Sie uns mal ... ! Kontext mit Datenbank 3. Satellitentechnik, mehrfach codiert.