Buttcorn had taken the LGBTQP+ community by storm, appearing almost overnight, and catching on like wildfire.

It had begun purely by accident when a 96 year old Korean War vet from Iowa named Jimmy had accidentally ended up in Manhattan, NY, instead of Manhattan, IL after trying to make his way to the annual "Popping Corn" convention. This isn't anything abnormal, as most people from Iowa don't know what technology is, and as a general principle, never leave Iowa, so they don't even know how to use maps, let alone GPS.

When Jimmy arrived, he was Perplexed at all the butts he saw. So many butts of all sizes, shapes, and colors. Confused, he asked to himself what was happening, and a man with nothing but ass-less chaps, sucking on a popsicle approached him.

Flailing like a saucy little man with spindly little soy-latte arms, the popsicle-daddy asked through an obnoxious lisp after loudly sucking the tip of the popsicle with a ¡POP!, "Whats this?"

Jimmy, like any ancient husk from Iowa, spoke back in a whistle, but if whistle was spelled "huh-wissle!" Each of his s's sounded like a z, long, drawn out, and stupid.

"It's poppin' corn." He wanted to get excited about it, but he still couldn't understand why a crowd of people were prancing around with their butts hanging out.

"My pappy, an his pappy, an his puppy's pappy used ta make it gon' all the way back ta Anabaptist times. It's our secret recipe." Normally he'd wink, but he was flabbergasted.

"They look like lil butts, is it buttcorn?" The popsicle-daddy asked obnoxiously.

There was a long, disquieting pause, as Jimmy stared at him with his mouth agape, unaware of the dangers this might pose to him.

"Is it what?"

"Hey, Cramdis! Come over here!" The popsicle-daddy shouted to one of the most vile cretins you've ever seen, of whom began tossing ¿her? legs everywhere as it ran.

¿She? was fat and lumpy, with a five o clock shadow and giant, floral dress resembling the type of couch that only someone in Iowa would sit on.

"Oh wow, are these little butts?" ¿Her? voice resembled sand rartling around a soda can.

"Tee hee, they're little butts." ¿She? began hopping around excitedly!

"It's poppin corn." Jimmy corrected the two freaks.

"No, it's little butts. I like little butts!" The ¿woman? informed him.

"We can make these better." The popsicle sucking freak informed him.

After only a few minutes, satan's army had swarmed the poor man's booth, and were using food dye to color Jimmy's popcorn, now called buttcorn by the freakish looking mob, the colors of the rainbow flag. They dumped it on each other and devoured it off of every part of their bodies, one of them repeating over and over, "I'M EATING LITTLE BUTTS!"

Though horrified and confused, the ravenous crowd began throwing money at him, thousands of dollars, more money than he'd ever seen from his corn subsidies.

"MORE, WE WANT MORE!" A cretin dressed as a demon shouted. "ME-ME WANT MORE NOW! ME HUNGY FOR BUTTS!" The things vocabulary was breaking down as it turned animalistic.

"MORE!" An eleven year old ¿boy? ordered violently. "MORE, MORE, MORE, MORE, MORE, MORE, MORE!" It continued over and over.

He began to feverishly pump out the buttcorn as money was literally dumped onto him, the machine now being overworked, but he realized that this was dire and his life was at stake, so he did what he could to calm old Betsy-Sue, his great gran-pappy's poppin corn maker.

It was after only twenty minutes that the machine began smoking, and by now, the cretins had jumped into the back of Jimmy's truck and like cockroaches, swarmed bag upon bag of what they were now deeming "butt kernels", of which they'd ripped open like starving children with rifles ambushing a UN aid convoy. They began shoving handfuls into their mouths, as they clawed savagely at one another.

Soon Jimmy realized that his machine was broken, and all of his butt-stuff had been consumed, kernels and all. A bead of sweat betrayed his state of fear, and within moments, he was shoved to the ground as the kind, caring, loving crowd of people who just want to stop hate, ripped him from limb to limb, the last words he ever heard being, "I'M GONNA EAT HIS BUTT!"

Soon the police had to break up the riot... erm... peaceful protest, and Jimmy's mangled remains were promptly arrested before the white supremacist had his face plastered on every TV screen across the nation with the title, "racist white man offers up butt to be eaten by loving BIPOC's and LGBTQP+ people."

From that LGBTQP+ month onward, all LGBTQP+, minor attracted persons, intersex individuals, BIPOCs, and whoever the hell else I missed, ran a buttcorn stand, all sponsored by Microsoft, Coca Cola, Apple, and the NFL. Jimmy had done it, he'd saved the pride parade. GO JIMMY!

There's nothing quite like a beach chair with an attached umbrella, a cooler full of beer, your flip-flops, and a warm summer breeze blowing through the WalMart parking lot of some obscure, midsized town. For the sake of brevity, this beautiful WalMart parking lot is in shit-hole Warner Robins,Georgia, the most obscure of midsized towns.

Here and there are patches of green medians, illuminated by buzzing fluorescent lights, where thousands of moths slowly go extinct as they burn their little bodies out with a perpetual "tink-tink-tink", as they slam into the glass case surrounding the ugly ass bulb.

On some of the patches of grass grow delicate little soda cans, empty bottles, and McDickhole's wrappers that you threw there last week when you were drunk. Trees loom weakly, their roots unable to spread into the asphalt, over several trash filled hatchbacks, one of which was home to the rotting corpse of a 23 year old heroin-girl named Jenna.

Jenna was a real cutie after your aging heart, but the grip of the dragon had been too much, and no matter how many times you invited her into your RV to pray, or to beg her to quit, she always just went back to that yummy goodness, that big H, that delicious heroin! Oh, you remember it, don't you? Like warm and loving ants marching through your veins, like a rocket ship taking off, oh that first memory of pure bliss! WEEEEEEEEE! Those days are behind you, however.

Jenna's gone though. You were the one who found her liquified remains eating at her leather seats as she fell apart in your arms, and now there's some ragged out looking boomer who, from the collapsible stairs of his 1972 truckbed camper, drunkenly tells you that he was in the world's longest wrestling match. It's a weird flex, and you looked into it to see if it was true. Surprise! It wasn't. He says that he changed his name, though and it was actually him.

Nearby is a field full of tents. Most of them have been cleared by the Mongol hordes known as police, but a few bums have straggled back into the pile of trash to get their schizo belongings and mementos such as piss-jugs, from lives ruined by a broken society.

Sometimes you put your back to the traffic on Russell Parkway, close your eyes, and just listen to the chaos. Sometimes you look at it and wonder where everyone is going at 2 am. You drink your last 211 Tall Boy and fart, accidentally shitting your pants, but you don't care anymore. All your friends have moved on, your woman left you, your family sees you as a pariah.

Wasted, you meander into the muggy confines of your RV, leaving your new boomer neighbor to ramble drunkenly about how wrestling has changed, and you play Fortnite on WalMart wifi because you don't care what people think of you anymore.

This is the good ending. To die with your VA benefits in a WalMart parking lot, playing online video games, in a moldy RV.

I am a black fucking line. That is it. Some woman named Ruth Goldstein drew me on a large canvas and then said, "I don't wanna meet the shmuck that buys this." Afterwards, she handed me over to her uncle Ruben, who brought me to his "art gallery" and hung me on the wall with a price tag of $100,000.

Now here's the thing, we all know that art galleries are just money laundering schemes. Some criminal, high profile or low profile, comes in and pretends to be wooed by the subjective nature of something like a banana tied to a piece of white paper, and then says, "I will buy that abomination for $100,000."

As you can probably already tell, $100,000 is the going price for most of these stupid fucking pieces of crap, because if you need to launder more, you can either just say you'll pay more because you think that the vomit spewed onto the canvas is far more beautiful than the price you're looking at, or you can just buy multiple pieces of crap. Ruben Goldstein gets the money, he takes 10% of it, and then you get your cut back when they deliver your subjective art, and now you have a bunch of dumb looking crap that's stupid plastered to your apartment walls.

This is all good and well, save for one little problem; the dum-dums who don't realize it's a money laundering scheme. Actually, it's not really a problem for anyone except the dum-dum, because we get our money either way, but from the perspective of a canvas that hangs on the wall and looks stupid, it's super cringe-inducing.

"My goodness!" A light looking, thin man in loafers that looked like they could float on the sky, stepped in front of me, put his limp wrist on his chin, and let out the most gaspy of gasps.

"It's magnificent." His voice was the antithesis of testosterone and things like bears.

Ruben sighed from where he sat on a tiny stool reading the Daily Bagel newspaper. He sat the newspaper down, approached the small man and said, "Good day, how may I help you." He sounded like a miserable robot who'd had enough of listening to his wife nag him about how much he spent on the [any item ever] he'd bought, and how it was simply too much.

"This is just... wow!" The miniature man said. "I am at a lack of words. I can hardly breathe."

"Yes, it's great. How do you want it packaged?"

"I mean, I can feel the passion and raw emotion." He looked as if he was about to cry. "I mean, I am LITERALLY, LITERALLY about to cry."

"That's great. Just bring the cash around back and throw it in the dumpster, and we'll..."

"I want to buy it right now."

"Okay, well we need to know where to drop the cash off at."

"What cash?" The little baby-man asked Ruben.

"You mean you just want to buy this because you actually like it?"

"Yes, of course, don't you?" Ruben realized that this man who looked lighter than a cloud, actually wanted to buy a black line drawn onto a large canvas.

"Yes, it's magnificent." Ruben put no emotion into his voice. He knew he'd have to close up shop in half an hour and go home to his horrendous hag of a wife.

The man paid for me and left. He'd have his black line delivered to him in a few days. Shortly thereafter, Ruben closed up shop and called Ruth.

"This stupid shmuck just bought one of your black lines." I couldn't hear what Ruth said, but Ruben began chuckling. I chuckled too, "Hahahaha!" I said, but alas, my voice was not heard. But the last laugh would be on me. Oh yes, yes it would.

Being urinated upon by the light looking man with the loafers, was not the worst thing of which I experienced, saw, or felt, for immediately after wasting $100,000 on me, he invited dozens of his friends over to his eight bedroom condo in the Lower East Side, and they did abominations upon one another, and more who came to their party, of which were unspeakable.

My canvas-y brow began to perspire profusely, as the sound of a great wail entered my ?ears?, and I feared for both God and man. I feared for all things sacred and innocent. I feared for children and purity.

Here I understood what so many people had wanted to see only a glimpse of, an esoteric society that hid deep within the bowels of our society, and with their endless pockets, destroyed our world. Oh how many had begged to just be a fly on the wall, but I was a canvas upon the wall, yes! I saw them harming themselves, and making great sacrifices to the altars of Ba'al and Ishtar, to Tammuz and Mot, and I remembered my learned past as a canvas, and felt as Ezekiel did:

"And he brought me to the door of the court; and when I looked, behold a hole in the wall. Then said he unto me, Son of man, dig now in the wall: and when I had digged in the wall, behold a door. And he said unto me, Go in, and behold the wicked abominations that they do here. So I went in and saw; and behold every form of creeping things, and abominable beasts, and all the idols of the house of Israel, portrayed upon the wall round about. And there stood before them seventy men of the ancients of the house of Israel, and in the midst of them stood Jaazaniah the son of Shaphan, with every man his censer in his hand; and a thick cloud of incense went up. Then said he unto me, Son of man, hast thou seen what the ancients of the house of Israel do in the dark, every man in the chambers of his imagery? for they say, the Lord seeth us not; the Lord hath forsaken the earth. He said also unto me, Turn thee yet again, and thou shalt see greater abominations that they do."

The great, smiling death masks of the Phoenician, the emerald laden ephod of the Chaldean priest, the bronze bull superheated. I heard the screams as the innocent thing was burnt to a crisp and their priest of an ancient death cult, bathed in rejuvenating blood, caught fire, and everyone cheered, for this was good luck. Not one man there should have been spared the millstone around his neck.

When the party ended, they tossed me out, because they had to clean the place up and someone had pooped on me. Naturally, I wound up where most trash in New York does; literally anywhere except a trash can. Some homeless guy used me to make a wall in one of those doorways of an empty building.

A city of green is a beautiful thing, when viewed from a towering spire

Climb to its heights, peer out at the sight, a metropolis of emerald fire

Every detail, in this beryl green veil, hide houses like castles of yore

Built in the days after Sherman’s rage, when he burned us in ’64!

It’s a secret place within a cityscape, that’s far off the beaten trail

It’s the tale of a house, empty throughout, accessed by a secret rail

This mysterious house in Atlanta, lies somewhere between the trees

It lies on the outskirts, where you can feel the highway breeze

Late at night, if you listen just right, the sirens will drive you insane

If you close your eyes, and look to the sky, you can hear the MARTA train

Hemmed in by office parks, that lack a heart, where no one walked at all

And the noise from afar, of passing cars, are just distant waterfalls

These acres fair, roughly ten and square, the house stood in-between

Someone’d lined the wide perimeter, with storybook shades of green

Cloaks of white, over frames so slight, were greenhouses sturdily built

And everywhere, both here and there, sprouted things from healthy silt

Towering bamboo, that pierced the sky through, formed hoop-house and shed

On the other side, both tall and wide, were the pines that carved old beds

Approach an iron fence, through ivy dense, and you will find a lighted path

And in the rear, past a stream not so clear, is a rusty old train-track

Kudzu creeps throughout a façade, over two crumbling walls of stone

And fireflies alight, drown out the night, at the entrance to the home

She was crooked and mangled, with wood in a tangle, an old colonial wraith

She looked doomed, with her unending rooms, how had she remained unscathed?

She was a warm yellow, like a faded pomelo, full of wonder and delight

With old pine walls and endless halls, and corridors full of fright!

On long sunny days, golden rays blazed, through windows from ceiling to floor

Each speck of dust, and granule of rust, illuminated Victorian décor

Papers centuries old, weighed down with Spanish gold, left by con-quis-ta-dors

War memorabilia, embalmed things that kill ya, sitting in old oak drawers

There were globes of times with maps yet defined, oceans with question marks

When sea serpents roamed, some countries unknown, that globe opened with a start!

Up went the top, before the globe stopped, to reveal old whiskey brands

From a learned fellow, with a Stradivarius cello, who’d seen Old Sam-ar-kand!

There were pictures of djinn, who through keffiyeh grinned, Bedouin from head to toe

These sturdy men, with guns and burned skin, drew the lines for the Sykes-Picot

Arab fellas like lions, with old English rifles, ’pon a beast weighed down by sacks

“We’ll beat the Turks, those insufferable jerks, and we’ll do it from a camel’s back!”

Desks full of old parts, walls with robbed art, sit in an old smoking room

Next to canopic jars, with maps of the stars, that were stolen from Ramses tomb

There was an old tome, from an Egyptian nome, an original Book of the Dead

Signed by King Tut himself, but of course who else? As well as a bust of his head

There are papyri parts, that form mummy art, and most of the copies are digitals

But hidden ’neath socks, in an unassuming box, are most of the originals

Blades from the civil war, ’bove the mantles of doors, seemed rusted into the pine

Some ancient oak barrels, now empty and sterile, that had probably held good wine

A secret room, of esoteric gloom, where men with lots of wealth did meet

By the light of a lamp, with the flick of a hand, the way a Freemason greets!

Old oak chairs, carved ivory wares, an altar with candles and blood

Figurines of old gods, a locked dybbuk box, a dark place barren of love

This bizarre thing was a grave robbers dream, were they to know its value and worth

If he could find a good fence, and had common sense, he could promptly buy the earth

When a record is made, from vinyl or clay, it simply goes round and round

Like modern cuneiform, an album is born, and somehow catches the sound

In all these years, could this house hear, and this same rule did apply

These silent walls, if they could talk at all, would keep you up all night!

If you are reading this, if you are going to read this, don't be offended by what I am about to say. I want you to take a step back and realize that you're fucking stupid, and there's nothing wrong with that.

For years, I was led to believe that my stupidity was just a form of "misguided talent" and I "just asn't able to apply myself" or any other number of terms and phrases that my boomer parents and teachers created to kindly refrain from labeling my talent devoid ass a "retard." I was a retard, but even worse was that it kept anyone from investing in me, as daytime shit-advice givers like Oprah, duped dumb ass boomers into believing that we're all special.

At age twenty-nine, after taking eight grams of magic mushrooms, I saw myself for who I really was, a talent devoid idiot, and I tried to commit suicide before the literal, actual God intervened. Since that time, over the last five years, I've learned that not only was I a talentless hack who'd been lied to, but so is/was everyone else, and so are so many that we'd consider "smart." I used the opportunity as a lesson, and taught myself organic farming, began getting reacquainted with my dwindling German speaking skills, and started reading everything I could and I still feel inadequate and dumb, as I should!

For whatever reason, beginning with the Boomers, people were led to believe they were special, but there is yet to be a generation after my grandparents generation, that has acheived something great on a mass scale, or that has bent the knee and said, "we can come together as a society and make things better." So it should be considered ironic that the boomers love to accuse everyone else of being "snowflakes" when they created literal middleman jobs, and button-mashing gigs, so that they could import illegals and pay them depressed wages to undercut their kids, while they themselves got paid unsustainable sumbs of money to sit on their worthless asses, and tell each other they were special snowflakes.

You would have thought the idea of being special and believing oneself to be smart because you were told so, would've peaked with my generation, but sadly it's even worse with the Zoomers, of whom I love and hope to encourage and help, something we should be doing to break a cycle of perpetual, intergenerational warfare that started with those filthy, lazy, entitled, drug addled "children of the sixties, man!" I love the little Zoomers because they will endure the same struggles me and my generation endured, except worse. I also want to shove my cock in a Zoomer girls ass and go to town.

That being said, I recently read a Reddit rant written by a thirty eight year old trannny (I'm not using your fantasty LARP terms, so get fucked) which sparked this post. It was actually a hard read because of how long, entitled, and self-unaware it was, and made me realize just how badly so many stupid people have been led to believe they're important despite having no talents. Even worse was that Redditors gave serious responses instead of just saying to this person, "Don't you think that maybe no one cares and you shouldn't be worried about it and you're a talentless hack that the world forgot?"

Every single thing this user claimed they were was about their political beliefs, and each one was so utterly counter-culture, that they ultimately fell into no actual political spectrum at all. It was akin to an article I read where a girl became a "trans-man" and was so convincing, that no one could tell. She eventually realized that no one cared, or paid attention to her, so she told everyone at work, then wrote an article about it, and still, no one cared. This person was screaming to the Reddit void, but for what? They wanted an answer. But to what? Nothing! But this is everyone!

Who are you to have an opinion that anyone should care about? What happened to modesty? Why does anyone need to know about your pronouns? Seriously. Do you think someone is going to say, "Whoa, that's crazy, your pronouns are pee/poop?" Why do I care that you're conservative and don't support abortion? Why should I give the slightest fuck about an irrelevant wedge issue like that? Feminism is one of those poisons where thirty five year old Millennial women who missed the boat, tell everyone about themselves, despite no one asking. Conservatism is some morbidly obese redneck at a local diner whining about illegal immigrants he/she him/herself imported so he/she could get a new glorified hotdog peddler built in a once nice part of town in order to get more fucking money.

Roman stability and the emperorship began deteriorating when everyone began to believe themselves a leader, and each person thought their opinion relevant, leading to the citizens perpetually killing each emperor in quick succession akin to how our constitutional republic is being chipped away by retards voting and the scourge of capitalist-democracy with a side of weird, hybrid gay-fascism-commie-corporatism as seen with BLM and Antifa. To exacerbate the issue, we have retard globalists who believe that having an IQ above 150 is good. That's horrible! What could be worse than socially retarded dipshits trying to get rid of all cultures and borders because they dropped too much acid in some secret back room?

Take my friend Rudy. Rudy is easily one of the dumbest idiots I know, but he can repair any car on earth because his 86 IQ having ass sits around and reads auto manuals all day, and you know what? I like listening to his stupid, low IQ ass talk, because he is too dumb to be caught up in politics that are too advanced for his simple brain. He has interesting shit to say. If the world ended, would I want some idiot globalist with an IQ of 150, who only knows theoretical physics, to be by my side? Absolutely not. You know why? Because these idiots run the world, and the world is crumbling. Great job Mister and Misses high IQ, you're so dumb that you don't know what social nuance is, so you're bashing your head against a wall, trying to figure out why nothing works. It's because you're so smart, you though automobiles were powered by thoughts, and not internal combustion engines. There is literally no room for a person with a 150+ IQ in the apocalypse, because they will serve no purpose.

We live in a culture of people who want to answer every question, and we feel stupid if we don't, but sometimes you just don't know the answer. This was a habit I had to break. If someone asked me how the thorascinating mihr on a ganglian reticulum was formed, I'd search for an answer and inevitably give one despite not even knowing what those words meant.

Sometimes I feel like I'm the only stupid person on earth, or the only one who realized it. I pass by mega retards every day who converse with other mega retards about advanced issues that are way above both their mental pay grade, and my mental pay grade, and I am astounded. We're stupid, you're stupid, stop pretending you're going to make a difference with your unoriginal and stupid opinion.

If you've read this far, take a step back, and realize that you're fucking stupid, and there's nothing wrong with that. Man... you fucking embarrass me. Yeah, YOU!

What a scourge. Please move west of the San Andreas fault and wait for the big one so we don't have to deal with you anymore when you sink into the ocean forever.

I've also been buying up hundreds of copies of Dahl's original works, along with guns I think the ATF will ban in the future, so I'm capitalizing on this leftist stupidity. Anybody [who's legally allowed to own a gun and a book] need an uncensored book or gun, hmu, I'm ya boi!

Kevin Spacey was trying to wipe the entrails of AT LEAST seven of what he liked to refer to as "little bottoms" off of his torture room wall after watching Silence of the Lambs for the millionth time, with his wiener tucked securely between his legs.

"Pawwwwwwwwwwwpers!" He purred to himself, as he repeated lines from the movie.

"F-F-F-F-F-F-F-F-F-F-F!" He was very upset that Jeffrey Epstein and Ghislaine Maxwell had been caught so many years ago because they peddled premium "little bottoms."

"FUCK!" He shouted angrily, tossing a brain soaked rag onto the cold, drippy concrete.

"POLICE! FREEZE KANYE WEST!" Kevin Spacey screamed like that one tuba guy meme on YouTube that's titled something like "tuba guy screams."

It was okay though, because it was only the LAPD, basically a police force that only arrests you if "the tribe" decides you're no longer lucrative to their greedy ways of their beloved lord Mammon.

"YOU SCARED ME!" Kevin Spacey yanked his bathrobe shut I'm embarrassment.

"Oh shit... Kevin... we're so sorry. We were here to ruin Kanye West's life because the ***'* told us we had to since he called out Harley Pasternak for murdering a bunch of celebrities and proved it." It was too late, though. There was an entire camera crew standing behind the LAPD officers, and they were live.

*

Kevin Spacey was in deep shit for the second time for killing underaged boys. The whole nation had seen it, and there really was nothing that could be done to save him.

"I..." he was standing behind a podium, ready to give a statement.

"I'm." He was through.

"I'M GAY!" The whole world gasped, but it wasn't enough to save him this time around.

"LOVE IS LOVE!" He quickly and intelligently corrected course.

The global collective of trans-toddlers jumped onto their gender-sexually ambiguous Big Wheels made for non-conforming kids of all of the queerest age groups, now called "amBiguous Wheels" and rode around in the streets with the latest ridiculous pariah-freak flag in three new colors rolled out on February 15, 2023 by the ***'*, the flags of which their single mom's had obviously paid for because toddlers have no idea what's going on.

Trustworthy men dressed as female demons began vigorously bouncing wee tot-tots on their knees at libraries and absconded with several when no one was looking.

Grown men paid an 11 year old boy to do a normal twerk style ass shaking butt dance in the middle of a public street in Manhattan, while he was adorned in the tightest little Daisy Dukes, and several newly aborted babies were resuscitated before being subsequently dumped into the asshole of a red hot, bronze, brazen bull with "Egel Hazahav" written in Hebrew letters on the side.

Back in the White House, Joe Biden was being aggressively "fecally dredged" by his Secret Service "DD" AKA Diaper Detail (they were commonly teased and called Doo-doo Daddies), while Kevin Spacey occupied the desk at the Oval Office as Biden's entire ****** cabinet wringed their ****** hands just out of sight of the cameras, a cabinet loyal only to one nation, the same nation, and it sure as hell wasn't the US, yaknowhumsayin ;).

"Love... is... love..." everyone was happy. :)

I need volunteers to help set up my organic farm in the Florida panhandle. Don't be shy.

Went to the loony bin for the 6th or 7th time for about 8 to 12 days after mixing alcohol and blow with my antipsychotics and waking up out of a three day fog, starving, and with foreign objects inserted in "no-no places." Only got out two days ago. I can't really be sure how long I was there because time wasn't real.

While I was there, I got clean for the five millionth time since I started drinking at age 12, which was 21 years ago. This time is the last time.

I haven't JO'd since then and because of it, my testosterone is dripping with its own testosterone and people are afraid to even approach me because I've been back on my farm swinging an axe and my muscles are getting rock hard again and I'm too much fucking man to handle right now. I'm also covered in blood and smell like urine.

Today I set up a tarp between two trees to put a hammock underneath and cut some logs to build a ladder up an oak tree so I can spy on my neighbors to see if there's any smoking hot barely legal sl*ts over there (probably aren't because I'm in kinda the middle of nowhere but I've been hearing some ho's nearby, just gotta triangulate their location).

I'm gonna get a drone so I can spy on the local loser ass small town police because they gave me a ticket, and I'm going to report their speed traps to Google maps so they can't catch anyone accidentally going up a hill with their foot on the accelerator and then going down the other side of the hill and inadvertently going over the speed limit because that's how physics works, just like they did to me (yeah, you bitches ain't gettin' away with that shit!).

I cut down more trees to start my organic farm, and I'm going to order bamboo and English ivy to build sound barriers because I-10 is so close, but it's okay because I found out that this part of Florida, exactly where I'm at, is going to have a Walmart soon and they're already buying nearby land quietly and paying rednecks up to $4 million dollars. They haven't come knocking on my tent door yet, so I'm still holding out for hope. Imagine how much coke I can buy. Coke literally bought me this land because it taught me that the only way to make money is to dangerously gamble everything you have, because it will pay off, and it did.

I saw a cute little tuxedo cat, and really wanted it, she looked like she might have kittens nearby so I might go snag one. There's a John boat behind a gas station near a putrid retention pond where I saw the cat and no one seems to have claimed it, and I'm hypothetically planning on hypothetically acquisitioning it by hypothetically using a drone with thermal imaging, a hypothetical handheld, homemade EMP for hypothetical trail cams, and your mom's grotesque fatbody to distract the local police while I hypothetically drag a fucking 12 foot John boat through the woods. The plans were laid long ago and the die is cast... but only hypothetically.

I got some cinder blocks from a neighbor so I can build a stove, threw out 3 month old trash, and borrowed a ladder.

Pretty progressive day tbh.

AND COME ON DOWN (Or up, if you're in South Florida!) AND HELP STOP EVIL MONOCROPPING AND MASS COMMERCIAL AGRICULTURE BY VOLUNTEERING!

These two poems always reminded me of my roughest times and what it truly felt like to be out in the cold, harsh world during tough moments in my life. The first one evokes a feeling of what it means to feel disconnected from the ones you love the most because of the sicknesses of the modern world and how it turned me into a jaded individual that simply gave up over and over, and the second reminds me of the extremes I went to just to get out of my own personal hell in order to get back home, even if it only meant getting back home in my mind.

Snippet from Imru al-Qais:

Oh long night, dawn will come, but will be no brighter without my love.

You are a wonder, with stars held up as by ropes of hemp to a solid rock."

At other times, I have filled a leather water-bag of my people and entered the desert, and trod its empty wastes while the wolf howled like a gambler whose family starves.

I said to the wolf, "You gather as little wealth, as little prosperity as I. What either of us gains he gives away. So do we remain thin."

Cremation of Sam McGee:

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.

Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.

He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;

Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.

Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.

If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;

It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,

And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,

He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;

And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:

"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.

Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;

So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;

And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.

He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;

And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,

With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;

It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,

But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.

In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.

In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,

Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;

And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;

The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;

And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;

It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."

And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;

Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;

Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;

The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;

And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;

And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.

It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;

And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;

But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;

I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.

I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;

And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.

It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—

Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

I cremated Sam McGee.

Five years ago you called off our engagement and left me alone with a barely furnished apartment, a dog and massive debt, and told me that God had sent you a vision and said we couldn't date anymore. I told you that in five years time, you'd be fat, single, and childless. You told me otherwise.

Yesterday I finally got to rub it in your wrinkly, fat fucking face, with your stretch fit jeans that hold your sagging belly flab in, you aged out, femcel wall hitter!

Yeah, I'm bitter... but guess what... I'm right, and that feels good.

OH! This is pertinent because I'm "reminding" her, which "remind" was the challenge, so it's not ALL bitterness.