my brain just threw up a little…

February 27, 2016

ah, imgur, you never disappoint

Filed under: Daily Crazies,dreams,lawls,screen-shots — Sol @ 3:43 pm

Me every morning when I get up…

February 26, 2016

I missed WoW… I should go back to playing again

Filed under: Daily Crazies,dreams,heinous geekery,screen-shots — Sol @ 2:11 pm


February 25, 2016


Dismaland. Basically it’s evil Disneyland.

February 24, 2016

so this happened

Filed under: Daily Crazies,dreams,random crazies — Sol @ 7:50 pm


February 22, 2016

the awesome

Filed under: dreams,gadgets,random crazies,screen-shots — Sol @ 2:44 pm


February 21, 2016

“I have no secrets from you…”

I have no secrets from you they say. Maybe it’s just my lousy experiences of the past, but this statement equates to “my pants are around my ankles.” And it always comes down to one of the three things:

1 – you and your confidant are looking at an enjoyable experience involving trust.

2 –  you are looking at a great deal of embarrassment.

3 – you’re getting fucked, and not in a nice way.

Ya’ll need to stop and listen.

… and because one good turn deserves another, and believe me this one deserves it’s turn oh so very very much:

Jason, this is for you.

gun control? anyone?

February 18, 2016


Filed under: Daily Crazies,dreams,random crazies — Sol @ 3:25 pm


New image.

Salt covered silver retard spills out on bouncing rotting rubber out of transmission place into my sixty five and rapidly slowing path. Dumb fucking kid. Three other people in that car will never know how close they came to ending. The one with the flat visor on his sports lid probably has her attention at the moment. Probably doesn’t get enough of it nightly. Her glasses are small, round and as thick as her fucking skull. Her cow-lick curls are from the 20s and her adhd glaze is from 2000s. I avoided that collision like a stunt-driver I am not. I hope she gets ass herpes from this phony wankster.

Fuck ’em. I am alive. Screeched by less than a foot away from his mom’s world being crushed between bulletproof corpse glass and a plastic bag showing a few links of fat, blood stained chain, worming into the rest of her life, like the smell of his. Vanishing.



Chat-girl, ex-gymnast or cheerleader or some other breed that’s usually cute and knows it. She plays disappointingly dumb because her alternative would be to admit that life is a scary bitch and that’s too honest. Her past man is a dead-eye and that’s not his choice. I am not fixing that. For them like for so many others it all stopped being about love when little girl inside her stomped her foot and castle was denied. She spent hours proving to me that dead fairy tale is really dead, and that this movie or that movie is not at all about love but about reckless attitude and her mother’s wrinkled kind hands cannot argue with that. Budding ex-athlete will win the fight with this romantic bullshit and her convictions will prove everyone wrong when she will white-knuckle her then-wrinkled hands. I do not want to wear deadeye mask and she can do a lot better. So we chat about cute. I am thinking about the smell of a gas-station attendant in the back of the walk-in. Thick vaggy wafting over spilled chocolate milk and stale tobacco. She farts. I quit pretending. She doesn’t. Cute ex-athlete is still reacting to my banter. She thinks I lied when I said that I am not going after her precious vagina. I am not that lonely. I’d rather go back twenty years and hero-bang that freezer fishfart with her extra pudge and guilt.


Sickly jizz colored lawyermobil with new swastika on the hood and a plastic eighteen year old cemented to the passenger seat with orange tan and elegant diamond handcuff is lining up bumpers with me at a traffic light on the street with beirut sized pot-holes. Grey hair slick back after retreating hairline, he grins at my tired economy method of transportation and says something to the child without turning. She pushes them up and touches his ear and neck with her fingers trying to get him to turn. How dare I, the fucking pleb, compete with her magic. She sees me sidelooking at her fingers. Splash of green from traffic light saves her from understanding that I was thinking that she uses same two fingers to massage his grey-haired prostate when she tries to work her way out of the fake orange skin and into his trophy-case.



Mouthbreather with her discordant throaty laughter and pudge stretching her polo in all the wrong places is trying to do something I am too tired to wrap my mind around. She does have a cheerful spike to her attitude, but I can’t help myself and I keep thinking that it is as appropriate as smiling back at facial contortion of rigor mortise. She likes dogs. She is half my age. babies… no baby daddy. four baby daddies. three babies. no, there isn’t one in the oven. Just confusion over the last kid. daddy three is not really daddy, but he could’ve been. possibility is being presented as if he tried to take her by force only never did but wanted to and now will pay oh god she is fucking insane please let me hide you are a revolting fucking creature i would hate you I just can’t let myself slip into hate.


home.dogs. food.bills. dry dogshit. email…


Why is SHE even talking to me. Is my attention really THAT good?
neah, there is always a ploy or plot or some other heinous fuckery that will result in …

dry dogshit… I have to clean.
end image.
more bills.


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