Girlniture is when instead of using fur (such as made out of wood) for decorating the inside of your humble abode (such as mode of abode or not mode of above) you use flesh, which is fur from which the fur's been shaved off (hence wood shavings, the primary outputs of carpentry since Jesus innovated the field).
The same can also be obtained out of alabaster, which is a sort of blue like smoke black is a kind of black (really, char coal, which is made out of wood), but it is less fun to fuck that way, even with lube, because it doesn't stretch. It cracks.
I hope you get it.
As nicole aptly once pointed out (on the meat market that shuns its proper name),
You can't copyright an ass. You can't copyright a tree, either, it's not distinctive enough. Everyone's got one1
I get yours is yours, but really, unless it's a collection of them or something, there's nothing in there for copyright to attach to!
Needless to say everyone promptly begged to differ ; but then again you know what they say about assholes.
One of the greatest things about having an ocean nearby is that it's a great place for butterflies to go off to die! Imagine that, foam up to your ears, the howl of crushing, crashing waves, pelicans flying in a broken line a hair further out and... a pretty, delightfully colorful butterfly, barely hanging over the thin mists and sprays of water hollows underneath, flying decidedly to the blue. He'll drown, of course, but hasn't drowned yet ; there's nothing left on land for it, and so here it is, enjoying its retirement. Didn't you not also "always wanted to travel" once you retire ?
It sure beats the haggard fate of the moth above, waiting patiently for the indignities of continued existence to render it off itself, bit by bit. The butterfly's marine choice has a lot in common with the most civilised solutions to fundamental problems, he's like the middle class Chinese pater familias dreaming a little pipe dream day after flattened day, his sons in charge of his erstwhile Earthly interests, his preoccupations purely misty and spiritual anymore.
Of course, last time we wenti there was a... pair of them! A pair of old, retired butterflies, still doing their mating dance, over the trackless liquid boughs of no return. Prettier still to die in love, your tomb girlnitured in glistening dedication. Uncommon, I grant, but when was absolute beauty ever common, or how could it ever be ?
The authoritable authorities above described inform you since you ask that the pictures further down can not in fact take place, according to whatever [mis]embodiement of Holy Reason they're also therein referencing according to the ways such things are reasonably done, according to themselves.
A man once asked if literature should influence the course of human affairs retorted that in his view such is a way to underestimate literature ; nobody asked anyone if Reason should influence the course of human affairs, but the exact retort stands : you have no grounds to complain that once you tried hitching ole Reason to your State cart it died under you. Indeed, such gross misuse was little more than a way to underestimate Reason. It's not here to fix your State and your broken sons and daughters for you ; it's here to playfully connive with me, and nothing else.
A delightful old car ; but really, inconvenient as all fuck for any actual usage. If we actually tried to go around in it we'd be so dead...
Instead, I much prefer a different steed ; also black, but... well, more refined, better finished, let's say.
You do not know this, for you're too young and therefore do not remember, but the principal value, quality and importance of female flesh is being cheap. Everything else's a mistake.
I confesss to being rather out of the loop. What all's going on in there, if you please ?!———
- Which happens to have been Wednesday, today (and only today) the day of Yesterday. [↩]