I might be the first guy in the sprawling history of this world to keep nude young women captive, locked in, away from the worldi to the exacting standards that they have to go out, and they have to talk to people, whether they want to or not, like they have to cook, or clean, or readii, or suck my cock, or everything else womanly slavery's croche'd out of ; and then they come home after a coupla hours spent over coffee with rando civillian "bisexual" spooked and crying, in existential crisis, questioning everything to the very fabric of meaning and existence, in the (I suppose for you unexpected ?) terms of "will I ever manage to scare up enough interest in the idiotistan outside to ever step out again". I'm aware this isn't how it (allegedly) went for the demon guy on that island (you recall, the one lifted off Shehrezade for yet another of Felini's bad movies) ; but perhaps you're aware movies are just... well... you know. Voi va dati seama, bai, degeneratie, c-o fost cica unu' agent efbiai de-ala s-o "salveze" pe una, de-o ris aia de el si cu curu' ? Si inca mai ride ?
As perhaps might be intuited I'm penning this over breakfast ; it's perhaps becoming a sort of tradition. My breakfast's a complicated affair, every morning I have to open up theiii fridge and pick something. There's soup and lasagna ; but it seems exaggerate for this breakfast, though perhaps some other time I'd have loved it. For which case it's even there, who's to know and how would they whether I will have loved some lasagna for breakfast tomorrow morning, today ? Maybe I would, so... There's Romanian-style meatballs (they're flat and spiced), leftover smoked ribcage boiled in beans, there's... fresh baked bread, of course, I could make a sandwich maybe. Smoked trout and avocado with thinly chopped onions. Or leberwurst and thin slices of roast beef with fasskraut and pepper hmmm... or I could go full out traditional and make an omelet, atop smoldering bacon originally from Spain I could throw eggs beat with Greek kefir and... what do you put in omelets ? Maybe some shrimp, some crab... Make a beet salad with romaigne and... meh. I could of course just have freshly made plum pie with very milky coffee... or go all out, put a little of every kind and manner of chocolate in the house on a tray, it'd only come to three or four pounds I guess. Together with the local notion of Danish cookiesiv and let's see if I die today. But in the end... the bitch that's somehow found marjoram here, a strangely unknown herb, made mango-banana-trims batido yesterday, I got a cup, she finished the pot, I asked for another cup, she admitted sheepishly to having sucked it all. So I bid another made and, after serving everyone a mug she informed me there's another mug waiting in the fridge. That was last night -- but the cup's still there, so here we go, my breakfast today is a mug of mango-banana &c batido. I think she might've put a prune in here, minca-i-as pruna ei de fata.v
Yesterday we tried to watch Tinto Brass, first the one with... what the fuck was it with. Oh right, the young Venetian, that lanky, decent tits, short hair... Venetian. I'm helping memory a lot, aren't I! Anyways, the one with the broad with the mechanical giggle that inherits an apartment from her aunt who was a whore and keeps teasing a tedious cuck about all the sex she's having out of the house. Towards the end of the day we watched another one, this time with the lanky Venetian with decent tits and short hair, the one that rides a bike forever and there's some kind of obssession about her butt seen from behind, in ridiculous underwear which holy god, you'd think he could've at least put a string on them instead of those parachute things. You remember, it's the one with the little hussy that wants to be fucked but her baker boyfriend doesn't wanna disrespect her, retarded simp that he is. So she ends up "raped" and "it's all his fault" etcetera.
In between these we went to town, my escort wore a body stockingvi, red pasties to go with her red ruffle miniskirt and an overcoat. We went about exploring the post-revolutionary capital, but honestly there's no signs of disaster whatsoever, everything's calm, from Amon to La California and otherwise throughout the downtown. The single solitary streetwalker we ran into (a coupla streets off Morazan), a tall, carefully curated woman (which here is universally a sign of transvestitism, the actual, genetic females are utter pigs, short, fat and generally unkempt) bashfully avoided my gaze, like stupid cunts do, so I said on that basis I expect she's no tranny (they're very studiously correct in their womanhood, "she" would absolutely have smiled &c) but Hannah said she ain't buying it. I've not enough interest in little penises to have pursued the matter, so it is left then as a mystery for the reader, bring your own answers ; but she proposed that it's too stupid, and the street'd have washed it out of her -- to which I pointed out all the muzzled idiots, and asked her if she can even summon an inkling of an idea of the sort of bullying losers'd have gotten from "the street" back in the day before "bullying" was a word and therefore back in the day The Street was still a thing. For b-b-b-being quite so lame as to wear a muzzle in public. Remember ?
The street, like everything elsevii, ain't quite what it used to be. Even intertextuality's bent, out of shape, shoddy, constructed out of the flat text of a nine year old's narrative structures, Sven Husserl and that dumb cunt with the over-areola "racy" decolletages, what's her name. Even that much is too much, really ; and speaking of which, do you know what's a דיבוק ? When you see the word written, do you immediately go to that old story, of the rabbi invited for a bowl of warm soup, shaved on the left side only ? The Cohens put an excellent cinematic re-enaction in front of one of their films, which is otherwise fucking terrible ; and now you know which one, right ? You don't read Yiddish, you didn't read the stories back in 1600, nor in 1800, nor ever, really. But you've seen the films, which you deem as some kind of an achievement -- after all reading Sven Husserl's better than not reading any Husserl at all, it's gotta be, it'd better be, and besides many people only ever saw films with Kevin Costner in them, which necessarily means "nobody and nothing else", because that's pretty much what Kevin Costner is : the canned actor for people who have room for only one such article, like the canned food at the supermarket -- why bother with lasagna and pork&beans AND etcetera, when you could simply have the same can ? It'd save space in the fridge, too ; and out of this nine year old's flatness you expect to understand something. What ? How ?
Voi sunteti degeneratia... urmatoare...———
- Некоторые парни берут красивую девушку и прячут ее от остального мира, rite ? Or what would Cindy say ? [↩]
- I mean, outloud. Reading is a term of art in the harem like it's a term of art at Oxford, except, of course, so very much better & moreso. [↩]
- A manner of speaking, there's a bunch of various doors opening into refrigerated compartments scattered about, but you know them collectively as the fridge and why should I impugn. [↩]
- They're quite excellent, coffee-peanut based, I used to import the round tins of originally Danish cookies but I gave up because the bulk stuff my appointed coffee merchants provide are significantly better -- for the smallest thing, they don't have crystallized sugar atop that I had to brush off all the damn time before. [↩]
- Cunoaste foarte multa lume si e ocupata... [↩]
- The sort with nothing between the legs, of course, what the fuck's even the point of cunt-covering body stockings ?! [↩]
- Uomini, bestie, citta e cose... [↩]