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Post by ColleenCaffeine on Nov 22, 2007 21:55:21 GMT -5
hi! I made this thread to see if anyone actually reads this board anymore... if not than I'll use it as my personal note pad love you!
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Post by gladASS on Nov 23, 2007 8:27:35 GMT -5
I read it!!!!! But only the threads about the secrets..... Where's Freddy?
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Post by MIC WAS HERE on Nov 27, 2007 3:41:31 GMT -5
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Post by Guest on Nov 27, 2007 9:32:36 GMT -5
Still look in from time to time.
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Post by mikeyspit on Dec 21, 2007 19:21:07 GMT -5
Hello
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Post by Fred G Sanford on Dec 25, 2007 19:14:09 GMT -5
I'm here. Merry Christmas guys/gals!!!
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Post by bdog on Jan 9, 2008 13:10:58 GMT -5
I read it! Well, once in a great great while...
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Post by ColleenCaffeine on Jan 18, 2008 21:23:23 GMT -5
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Haru
Commited
i Lick you...i LICK you all!!!!!
Posts: 700
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Post by Haru on Nov 18, 2008 2:25:05 GMT -5
dirty little secret: I'm afraid of the dark
bump
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Haru
Commited
i Lick you...i LICK you all!!!!!
Posts: 700
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Post by Haru on Nov 18, 2008 3:23:52 GMT -5
oh wait...thats not dirty enough....ummm I once "checked out" that pic of coll wearing glasses. it was just too hot.
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mywitty
Groupie
I wanna be your fake...nothing :)
Posts: 27
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Post by mywitty on Jul 6, 2010 16:03:19 GMT -5
I am insecure :/
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Post by bdog on Oct 8, 2012 19:45:33 GMT -5
Come back, everyone! Come back!
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dick monster of the toxins
Guest
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Post by dick monster of the toxins on Feb 3, 2013 1:36:51 GMT -5
greetings from the post-apocalyptic anti-climactic forgotten war zone. the opalescent greylight in this mile-high forgotten outpost of incoming mortars and long-outdated Russian rockets reminds me fondly of the haze over Hamtramck in January after a nine day cocaine and jack bender. like detroit, everything is grey here. the white people are grey, the black people are grey, the indians from kerala province are grey - the only exception seems to be the tin can dumpsters with doors and cheap motel heaters that we live in, which are somewhere between plateau-middleeastern babyshit-brown and rive-gauche-soot meets grey-flannel dockers off-black.
Parwan province and Afghanistan in general claim the world's only supply of lapiz, a blue rock that can be polished into jewelry or hockey pucks. even afghanistan has the blues in its soul - and its soil. the natives like to show their affection by rocketing us - mortars and rockets. they have shown me their affection over 100 times in the six months i have been here. many have died on post from the shrapnel. many more still live, and the macabre allure of instant death at any time by mortars or rockets and the sensual lust that can only be felt by working for blood money keeps us all coming back for more.
we are at 5,000 feet here, yet not the highest point within sight. we are actually in a valley. the Hindu Kush mountains rise 19,000 feet above us obliterating the sky. snow falls clumsily like asymmetrical chevy corvairs - their rear-mid-engines weighting them down. they land awkwardly on my face i gaze upward - the snowflakes seem confused by their existence and even more confused when their existence ends on my etched, worn, ragged face. my only intent was to see the mountain and now i have destroyed the frozen chevy...butterfly effect...the snowflake hitting the ground would have stayed for the winter, now dead. how provincially appropriate. everything dies here.
a long gaze - the stare of ennui over decades of searching - the gaze still searching into the future for that final valhalla where peace reigns, cocaine is legal and abundant, and no one ever wears a top - not cars, not women, not men - and the Patron pours from a fountain in the middle of the city of Hamtramck, the corner of jos campau and caniff transformed into a disney-like utopia of legal drugs, punk rock, free love, poetry, thought and thoughfulness, love for oneself, one's neighbor and a really good f**k with a completely hot stranger wearing nothing but handcuffs and a smile can be had in a well-lit alley with passers-by wishing you well - that long gaze into the doomed and unrelenting future lost - is both enjoyed and reviled by dick monster gone to war - enslaved in the financial penitentiary of the american dream as he does what he does best, killing for money to pay of a quarter million dollars of student loans.
the walkin talkin toxins beckon - hundreds of riffs and jangled phrases of urgently irrelevant, yet immediate and important full contact poetry rage through his incessant mind. doom baby is coming. more songs. more ungained utopia lost, more killing. ah - at work at last. the three minute walk now done, weapon loaded, the matter well in hand...
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