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worldsprettiestpenis2020 · 4 years

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My SECOND blog is named deadlineheavyvinylfire. You can find it on deadlineheavyvinylfire.tumblr.com. The first one I lost, and was named something like ‘the last book legit’. If you find it, and I’m going on about butchering an old paramour, mailing them to Illinois in seventeen different boxes, next day air: then you’ve found the right one! I won’t go to trouble to expose it, you can dig it up yourself, but those verses are from a different time, and although I wrote them, they tell the gospel of a different man. This is something new entirely.

It’s funny, when they say that you have to write down the lies you tell or else you’ll forget them, they AREN’T joking. Most people know this. And I think the common wisdom is that you’ll forget completely, and be caught lying, but I’m realizing there’s more. You can also start to believe the lies you tell, especially the ones that everyone else believes, and that’s dangerous. If you aren’t careful, that causes you to fail. It’s easy to do. For example: you accomplish a feat, and pretend like it was easy, why not?—it gives people an excuse for their own failure. People love to be told (although they pretend they don’t) that you were born better, that it’s impossible for them to do a thing. Cook up some crackpot science about how everyone is traumatized before birth by unsuccessful abortions (dianetics) and there will be a new sucker born every minute willing to believe it.

Moving on, regardless of why, you tell a lie, and it’s effortless, and sometimes you forget it WAS a lie. Sometimes you have to prove your claim publicly (that it was the truth) and forget to make up for it later, when no one is watching. Then you start to fall behind. You stop practicing. You stop doing the things that only you did, that made you better. You stop being good. And you don’t even realize what’s happening.

I just caught myself doing it. I used to people that I didn’t even edit. Holy shit that was a lie. I edited every single line at least once and probably four times. I’ll do it again. I’ll confess right here that I do and then I’ll convince you later I don’t. Game on!

I was poor when I wrote my first blog and I am poor now. I made three million dollars on paper in between, but with nothing to show for it, no one even believes me. ‘S ok...it’s good for the system that they don’t. The system depends on people slaving away their entire lives to try and make a fortune. It doesn’t want those people realizing that you can make a fortune and lose it and be happy without it. That could get messy.

So I don’t tell people often. You cannot comprehend how infuriating it is to make three million dollars, and lose it, and then watch someone accuse you of making it all up with their eyes. I can tell someone, see the disbelief in their eyes, and want to strangle them, without them saying a word. But it’s ok. I learned a lesson, an expensive one, and I’m happy I did. I don’t need people to believe me to move on.

Fact is, I was extremely happy when I made the three million, but it was because of the success of my endeavor, it was because of the thrill of the accomplishment. It wasn’t because of the money. I’ve felt just as great with other accomplishments. I consider that a priceless lesson. Never again will I chase money just for the sake of having money. No. Now I’m concentrated on finding happiness.

And that’s why I’m writing. A little fame never hurt.

Yesterday I quietly promised myself to write at least one thousand words a day. Let's crunch those numbers really quick. Three hundred and sixty five days in the year would make the hundred and sixty five thousand words a year. In ten years that would be three million six hundred thousand words. In thirty years it would be over ten million words. Prolific, but is it enough? Some have definitely wrote more. And some have written less. What if it was two thousand a day? Seven hundred thousand a year, seven million in ten years, twenty one million words in thirty years. That sounds much more impressive, perhaps we will upgrade to that once we have the hang of one thousand per day.

They have a saying that ten thousand hours, at any exercise, will create an expert, and I'm inclined to agree. When it comes to editing, I already feel like an expert, but it's only wishful thinking. I'm not. Let's calculate the hours using those models we used for words. One to three hours for each one thousand words will be three hundred to nine hundred hours per year, which would make me an expert within ten to thirty years. But I believe it will be sooner than that. If I spend one hour per day writing then there will absolutely be some days that I spend ten hours writing. I believe I can stack up ten thousand hours in five years, but that's just a gut instinct, I could be very wrong.

I miss the spirit. While writing my first blog I have a spiritual friend who possessed me when I wrote. I could feel his presence as he guided my hand. He made it easy. Of course, I was in a very magical state during that time, and it may be easy to get him back. Perhaps I just have to try.

I'm reading literature about the order of the nine angles. I don't buy into the nazi crap so it's obvious that I don't do the nazi mass, but when it comes to traditional Satanism: no one has created as much literature as ONA. I'm not a fan of throwing the baby out with the bath water. So if you think I shouldn't read anything by Anton Long because he once wrote something in praise of Adolf Hitler then I'm going to reply, hurry up and get writing then. I will not give up the ONA literature without a replacement. They have published more about traditional Satanism, completely unrelated to Hitler, than any other group.

TADA, I've reached a thousand words. It happened without me noticing. That's good. I must encourage the spirit more. Enter my body. Move my fingers. Let your wisdom flow through me. Even though I've hit one thousand, that's just the one thousand that I had promised myself yesterday. I still have another thousand to finish today. That's OK. I have time and I will seek out my energetic friend. My literary familiar.

I've always mastrubated a lot. I blame my father for not telling me that it isn't good. Some people might blame pornographers, but the thing is that I started compulsively mastrubating before I was exposed to pornography. You could make an argument that massaging shower head producers are partially to blame, because it was the massaging shower head that first introduced me. On the shower at my parents, you could twist the top, and instead of the regular rain shower, it became a pressurized stream. I was probably twelve years old when I became curious how it would feel to have that stream directed to my penis. It felt good. I wanted to do it more. This was fun.

I "massaged" my twelve year old penis with water in the shower for weeks just for the tickle it gave me. At that point my penis had never gotten hard and I definitely never ejaculated. So when I orgasmed the first time after weeks of "massage", it was a shock. I didn't understand what happened, but the dopamine rush let me know I liked it and I've been chasing orgasms ever since. That sounds pathetic to read, but I think it's a common experience of my contemporaries. We are mostly just confused orgasm chasers, to an extent, aren't we?

8068 whitecastle downtown

I make plans to go with am old flame to the barcade downtown. I hate it. This was the cool thing to do a half a decade ago and I guess it still is. I love her. I could just do the dumbest shit with her and it would be so bad, or at least I think. So I'm excited. But I can't get into it. Going to the bar downtown is a celebration of us, America, Columbus, myself...and I just don't have anything to celebrate. I hate columbus, America, myself and us. That's probably why it feels alien to me. I hate everything about this culture and without something personal to celebrate it feels fake to enjoy myself within it.

Or maybe it's something else, I don't know. But I do know that I wish I wouldn't have texted her so much about rape because that's evidence if I did rape her, which I won't, but should I? It's the biggest compliment I can give her right? I'm willing to risk a decade locked in a cage just to reach a physical union.

I'm fucking up. I fucked up. I will be fucked. My plan to write 1000 words a day is falling apart. It's day four and I'm only

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worldsprettiestpenis2020 · 4 years

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I’m sitting across from the blood plasma collection company on church street, contemplating going into the gay bar to look for pussy. I’ve only been inside once, a long time ago when I was dating Kristin, and in the short time I was there, I noticed that the woman seemed more interested than usual. Maybe it’s a secret. Maybe pussy is easy to get in a gay bar. It won’t hurt to find out. It makes sense, girls are turned on by what they can't have and want what's rare. Who doesn't?

But then on the other hand, maybe I'm just being a faggot. The idea of sex (or touching) a guy grosses me the fuck out, but I hate women so much, that I wonder if that's what causes men to become gay. Do the gays hate women as much as I me, is this how it happens? I notice a fat girl added me again on snapchat. Earlier she sent videos of her shaking her ass. I told her I didn't care at all unless she was going to let me stick my dick inside her. I guess she got mad because she deleted me from her friends list. But here's a notification saying she added me back.

I try to talk her into meeting up with me. I lie. I be as sweet as possible. I flatter her. Of course, none of it works. it's two am and she's a stranger. She’s on her period. It’s DOA.

I usually wouldn't try so hard, but like I said, I'm parked across from the blood plasma collection center on church street, and the reason why I'm parked there is because the gay bar is right down the street, and I'm about to go there. She was my last chance at staying away.

I was going to come a lot earlier, but a girl who I care about entirely too much, randomly texted me right before I left. I believe in coincidence and spirits and spells and heaven and hell so I took it as a sign and went to the gym instead. A few days ago she asked me to talk dirty to her so she could go to sleep, and I did the best that I knew how. And gratefully she was kind and said it was perfect, even though I got to the end too fast, and had to go on about parts throbbing with heartbeats just to stop from getting to the climax. It absolutely wasn't perfect.

I'm an old man. Im 28, and anyone can say that's young, and anyone would be full of shit. 14 is young. 28 is a sort of climax, Saturn has selected you at that age to apotheosize into whatever you've been working on during your youth. In the speakers I hear "what's love got to do with it" and I hear the gays scream from the floor. But back to what I was saying. I'm old. I regret a lot of things I did during my youth, and excessive mastrubation is one of those things, so I never mastrubate now.

Usually that's not a problem, usually. But when I talked this girl into coming she told me to dream about her, so I reached out for her in the astral plane as I drifted off to sleep, and there she was, without difficulty. So I grabbed ahold of her and held her to my chest. I don't really remember what happened next, it's rare for me to remember stuff like that, but when I woke up she was glued to my chest. I felt so heavy.

Every inch of me needed a release. I believe it would have taken the weight off if I did, but I fought it. My head was spinning with the heat of the thought of her and my chest was heavy with the weight of our desire and I could have killed something and skinned it and turned it into jerky and I could have killed someone who disrespected her and fled and gotten away with it and I could have smiled and lied and gotten us backstage somewhere exclusive.

I was heavy. I was serious. She had filled me full of consequence. I wanted to hold her down and empty myself into her belly. I want to break open the skill of someone who looked at her wrong. I wanted to squeeze her throat and show her how easy it would be to end her life.

Ouch, I'm sitting near the front door of the gay club and they've turned the lights on. It's a shock. I awkwardly leave and say goodbye to the girl at the door. It wasn't as successful as I wanted it to be but it wasn't a total loss. I think that lots of 18 year old girls go there to dance and my suspicions are somewhat confirmed. Most people don't know that young girls go there, but they do.

So much has happened since I wrote last. I moved in with a woman on bowling ave between Belle Meade and Green Hills. I didn't like her, so I shouldn't have moved in, but in my defense, she did a lot to seduce me. At the time that we first considered it, I had just made a lot of money, and then lost it all. I won't go into the details because people think I'm lying and then they stop talking to me, and I want the girl that I care about to read this and have some insight into why I'm such a fucking mess for her. But the main point here is that I was suicidal. I went from being the king of the world to being a nobody, but what hurt the most is that I always thought that no matter how many mistakes I made, money would always fix it.

I always had this idea in the back of my head that when I got rich then all the pain would be legitimized and everything would be good. That's not how it worked at all. I thought at the VERY LEAST I would be able to rest on my laurels somewhat and people would respect me for the success I had, just because most people never get that far. But God, was I wrong. They don't believe me and they treat me worse than if I never said it.

Success is not what you think it is. I'm constantly reminded of the guy who created Victoria's Secret...he sold it for a few million, in a few years it was worth a billion dollars and the original creator couldn't take it. He killed himself. Most folks think that if they had a few million dollars that their lives would be immeasurably better. But that's just because most folks only understand anything at a surface level. If one were to dissect the idea of having a lot of money even the stupid people could realize that it would create so many more problems. You'd have problems with trust, problems with people changing, problems with scammers, robbery, taxes, etc. But no one sees that. They only see the surface. And on the surface is a shiny stack of 100 dollar bills and they think that's what they want.

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