It is fascinating to me the dichotomy in which Hawthorne choses to portray Arthur Dimmesdale. In the public sphere, he is a pastor so beloved by his congregation that literally every occasion in which it is even remotely suggested that his sheet-white conscience may actually be stained with the mark of passionate disobedience is met by immediate and optimistic justification by the public, even when the scope of such a suggestion permanently associates him as the adulterous partner of the town's known whore and absent father of her bastard daughter.

But instead of being relieved that his sin continues to go unnoticed, Dimmesdale is all the more angry and upset. Each time he attempts to dethrone himself as this spiritually endowed mentor/prophet, his self-deprecation preached from the pulpit only furthers his status as a uniquely humble individual in the eyes of the public.

Is this behavior not the ironic opposite of a human public so infamous for making accusations against innocent men? Most men that hold any form of public office take great pains to be seen as innocent, yet the public never fails to dig up some sort implicating evidence.

Dimmesdale wishes to be seen by the public in the same way that he mistakenly chooses to see himself- as the greatest of sinners and most hideous of men. He is Faust, and strives perpetually to bring about his own damnation. Ironically, however, the public refuses to damn him, even when the sun shines brightly on the scarlet letter in the middle of the public sphere.

"It is a curios subject of observation and inquiry, whether hatred and love be not the same thing at bottom. Each, in its utmost development, supposes a high degree of intimacy and heart-knowledge; each renders one individual dependent for the food of his affections and spiritual life upon another; each leaves the passionate lover, or the no less passionate hater, forlorn and desolate by the withdrawal of his object. Philosophically considered, therefore, the two passions seem essentially the same, except that one happens to be seen in a celestial radiance, and the other in a dusky and lurid glow."

i had a dream last night.

i was standing in line at a fast food restaurant when she walked in. i was wearing my glasses and my blue jacket, and when she saw me she cowered in that way that she does, and she muttered something like "O you look smart." No "hi." No "how are you." Her social nervousness caused her to forget the salutation, even when the person she was addressing hadnt seen or talked to her in over 6 months and lived in a different part of the country.

Unable to deal with the situation, she ran out of the restaurant. I meanwhile, found myself in a state of complete shock at all this, so much so that i suddenly discovered i was in the front of the line, and turned around to see the lady at the register yelling at me for holding up the line.

I, too, ran out of the restaurant, but discovered her nowhere to be found. I got in my car and called her, pleading with her to let me buy her a cup of coffee. She agreed, and we setup to meet at this coffee shop. So i drove to the coffee shop and waited. She doesn't show. I go home angry and depressed.

The next morning I wake up vaguely conscious (a dream within a dream) of some noise in the house last night. Taped to my dresser I find a note from her elaborating on her recent life. But the note is multiple pages long, and contains more than just words. She drew all these little pictures and shapes in the margin. And interjected between her ramblings about her goings ons are random little quotes that meant something to her.

I look around for her, but she is nowhere to be found.

my subconscious self wishes to construct some sort of fairy tale.

in the dead of night is when all the assholes come out, and they drive your buses, and they always make you late because their fatass thinks that a coconut tastykake at 3am is precisely the thing that is going to keep them going. so they stop at the gas station that is no more than 5 minutes from 30th Street (after already leaving New York 30 minutes late).

all this happened after he pulled over the bus a separate time and threatened to call the police on an asian student after he accidently (and harmlessly) decided to walk down the front steps of the multi level bus.

ive had a thing for normal people lately.

let me tell you some normal things about me:

i have lot of friends that i sincerely love and engage in mostly normal relationships with

i drive a normal car

i have a normal job

i am relatively normal for a 22 year old white post graduate

ok thats it

we're into the wandering realm of the season of death, and i shall say how death brings her beauty- in falling leaves. but even more, in welcome brisk nights where you underestimate your bicycle ride, and you are cold.

we fill our bellies with warm things. we reap the fruit of the land in the season of harvest, then we sit around the fire and reap the fruit of good friendship. we give thanks, and it is good. and yet we remember those who have not the means to engage in such heartwarming activities, and we pray for their peace and prosperity.

we wind away, ever casually, towards the dark black night of winter, asking God, who is ever present so deep inside our hearts, to grant us peace and mercy until the long shadows disappear, and we find ourselves once again inside the garden of Eden, as children, not lonely, no, but rejuvenated again by the light of the life-giving rays of spring and the purpose-giving work that is before our hands.

who is the man who makes the music?

we might never know

i realized tonight that i dont think its really possible for aaron to stop talking like aaron. and i know how i do it, its crazy, and i dont want to admit to it or draw attention to it, some things just need to be. but i thought for a minute what it would be like to sit down at a table across from myself and listen to myself rant about some utterly ridiculous thing and struggle to get out phrases that i only half understand myself in my attempt to materialize my very abstract thoughts.

the conclusion that i came to is that i am completely ridiculous. i dont talk in normal terms. i dont think in normal terms. or perhaps i think exactly in normal terms. it is quite possible that even the greatest extent to which we are convinced of our own anomolies is actually bullshit- im no different than anybody else.

sitting across the table, i would say "who is this guy?" in a specific tone of voice. i would also probably say something like "you're nuts" or some similar quip like that.

but im tired of talking about myself. what about you? you matter. what are things you believe to be unique about yourself? im sure you have some. they're not bad. do you struggle with perception too? are you too hard on yourself? self-deprecating?

alright

tonight there is only home, an open window above my bed, and the exceedingly calming and familiar spiced air of an October midnight silence in rural Chester County.

i am invited to rest.

theres a clock ticking down to the zero hour at which point i will become, whether self-prescribed or other, a full grown man. full grown men are by definition good, and full grown men act a certain way, mainly, full grown men do not damn themselves. they are capable of accepting salvation.

it is not necessary for you to be this way. we're growing up, and im tired of your cursing. im tired of your smoking and your drinking. and im tired of your depression and your sophisticated concrete slabs. im tired of this rambling academia and its nuclear-powered agenda of deconstruction. im tired of existing only in the world of ideas while simultaneously ignoring the world of action. im tired of doubting God when his entire creation is displayed before me each morning, whether in the trees of my neighborhood or in the people that constantly surround me. im tired of pushing people away. its time to be a father now. and i will let myself be fathered, and i will make peace with my tradition. its time to move to the country, get married, quit the band, committ to someone/something, be a father and a husband. its time to work on a farm. its time to love and make music which inspires peace and goodness and avoid music which draws attention to its own state of helpless apathy, brought about not as the product of some divine scourge but solely by the lies which we have believed about the extent of our helplessness in the world. its time to stop being so hard on myself. its time to be ok with never writing another song for the rest of my life. im tired of you loving the sound of your own voice.

ive played the role of the lonely intellectual wanderer for a while now, and im ready to engage in the kind of relationship that will quiet many of those fears forever. for now i will wait patiently.

today i was forced, through a set of external circumstances, to put to bed a particular part of my past that i was not necessarily prepared to let go of.

goodbye

so for those times when i dont feel like dabbling with an alter ego, i thought maybe id create a real blog, you know, a normal one, where i could talk about cool stuff in a normal way, and it would be me, and you wouldnt have to second guess yourself.

and these two parallel things would represent different things, because i would want them to, and set them up in such a way as to make the one more experimental/stream of consciousness (here you are), and the other more normal, more straightforward you know? i like normal people and sometimes i just wanna talk about what im listening to, but come on should that really be on the same page as my crazy rants? this is not business, people, ok? you probably just want to hear a normal voice by now, someone you can trust.

so its coming, as soon as i have the motivation to create it, a normal blog that is. and perhaps you can tell me which you like better- or, even better, you can choose which one you want to be the actual representation of me, and roll with it.

im far more normal in everyday life anyway. ive created these people, remember?

holy holy holy

Lord God Almighty,

all thy works shall praise thy name in earth and sky and sea.

only thou art holy, there is none beside thee

perfect in power, in love and purity.

geez, just look at the evolution of a man's consciousness.

and i love the feeling, i love the feeling.

and allow me not to make any specific references. names- my name? aaron daniel mcgarvey. do not allow any part of myself to influence myself please. do not allow, say, the fact that i have been in love to influence my campaign office please.

im running for office, didnt you know? but im not going to let my private self influence my public self.

*the wanderings have ceased for know, and i have put my schizophrenic friend to bed. tomorrow we will wake up together, and we will get something to eat.

perhaps after that we shall conquer the sea.

thank you. thank you.......

there is hope for the lonely in the fields of chester county.

ill tell you where it is- its on a covered bridge that floats over the water. and if you go, please tell me first, so i can share it with you, because i would want to preface it by saying that you will feel love- particularly if you are already in love, and strong will it be for you to feel.

you can wash your dirty hands clean in the river in which there is the only sound. by you and me. but im still imagining the you with the me, because it is to you that i have bequeathed the keys to the kingdom of my heart, and this is what i spend my time imagining.

you want to know, do you? well ok. im making that up. im going to tell you even if you didnt. but then i would just be telling myself. but selfishness is the new selflessness so it ok. ok. ok.

i imagine a companion in my deepest imagination, and i say "hello lover" while she sits in the passenger seat as we drive through that peace that i was just talking about. and the incompleteness is there, but why does it come is stages? for i can be content with a blade of grass. but i will cry cry cry for the love that i never had.

but i imagine a companion. if you want to know about me, imagine that i imagine a companion for all that i do, all the time. but do not come knocking on my door asking, that is, unless of course you are the one, and im sorry dear only i can make that decision. but this is what she said.

so no judging me tonight ok? this is for me, ok. just promise me you wont judge me, and open your arms to receive me.

and may it happen in a field.

and where else was there for him to go? and how do we judge a missed connection, how do we deem it?

for my thoughts are your thoughts, says the i, but the i writes for himself.

i mean here we go round and round right? and where are we going? but this question is so modern, the old ones were better. come on, stop being such a nihilist. everything is true, and we can PROVE it. prove it prove it prove it to me. i neeed to know man.

so youve developed this fascinating appeal ever since youve left my world, and i wonder if the theory here translates into practice, if you are as mysterious as the virtual media here on the screen tells me that you are. its telling me that you are smart, and that you write, and well see that appeals to my senses, you know, because youre not dumb. god see ive been hopelessly alone for ages now and maybe you could be the one that could understand me, because my needs are just that primal. i am not super, or, as Dostoyevsky puts it, "extraordinary." I had better not deceive myself into thinking that i am one of those intellectually superior individuals who thus has a right to transgress the laws of man for the sake of accomplishing my superior agenda. for, you will say (as you should), how do we know that you are from God? where is your authority? i mean, its such a valid question.

but please, just be with me. let me hear your voice. im very alone.

i am the commander of the world inside my head, and nobody knows it but me. it is where i have gone to escape that miserable swell of loneliness that has made this summer one of the most depressing on record. for i like to think that its not my fault. i tried not to be lonely, i tried to like myself, etc. but it all bottomed out, and i think, i think i venture to say that perhaps the circumstances that led to its bottoming out were outside of my control, but what the hell does that mean? should i take any comfort in that, that the reason i am alone now is outside of my control? if i were a judge i would condemn myself. id give myself the maximum sentence (eternity in hell of course) for not getting it right.

"you didnt get it right" i would say, "you screwed up, you failed to realize such and such. you did not have this particular epiphany at this particular time, so you fail. and o yea, the reason youre alone is your own damn fault. you could've reached out to those people, but you turned them away instead. you retreated into your own little world, and the ones you did pursue were the ones you knew would not or could not love you, and you pursued them because you have this sick fascination for things you cannot have, and when they all denied you you just retreated further and further inward, until ambition was your only friend. you read books, you learned languages, you played instruments, you created art, all in an attempt to fill the vacant space of your own boredom movement that only further perpetuates your depression. you are responsible for all of the worlds evils, and you are responsible for not solving them, and you are responsible for all of the worlds questions, and you are responsible for not answering them. yet you are far too cowardly to die on a cross. in the absence of your God, you derived your self worth from your degree of self-perceived intelligence. and then, to top it off, you run through these hypothetical situations in your head where you are your own judge on Judgement Day, and, like Faust, you thrive on the enjoyment of your own viciously public self-deprecation. you hate yourself, so you play neurotic in an attempt to muddle your own identity. then you talk back to yourself so that you do not know who to trust. then you talk back to the talk backer. you say you want to travel, you need to be on the road, but why cant you realize that when you are on the road you are always alone, and all you are trying to do is run from your own loneliness. but you cannot run from it, because at any moment you may become suddenly aware that there is no one in the passenger seat.

and so, for all this, you are condemned. but do you want to know the reason, aaron, why you are condemned most of all? you are condemned most of all because in all of your loneliness, you regretted to notice the poor widow at your doorstep. you could not see the forest for the trees.

but i need, i say, i need. i am convinced that i simply cannot see the forest in isolation. it takes another.

my problem is that i sleep too well. And the reason why i think the metaphor of sleep serves us well in this instance is because sleep denotes something natural, external of the individual volition. Can (will) we be held accountable for the degree to which we are capable of sleeping well? i hear you say, "i cannot control how many chromosomes i was born with," yes but the beatings will continue until somebody listens. you will suffer because you cannot sleep well, and you will suffer because you sleep too well.

there hasnt been any deaths in the family, and im not crying. but what i am crying for is greener grass. Only then can i cry for some nice brown grass- dirty, parched grass full of the kind of dirt you can really sink your teeth into.

she left me, but i still slept ok at night. sometimes i get a lyric, but i just cant get out of bed. there's entropy for you.

*less and less sure that my previous desires for neuroticism arent coming true, because what i find is that im good (perhaps too good) at acting like a normal person. but do i want to be a normal person, or do i want to be dangerous? dangerous is overrated. normalcy is rated about right. im positively 100 percent sure its rated about right. its universal- it transcends the age. everyone everywhere knows it, dont ask me how, they just do. they can sense it from the stars. its amazing. they all come to the same conclusion, so that if i meet someone living on an untouched island in the south pacific, they would know, i mean they would just know. and they could be living 500 years ago too, and they would know, for sure, with absolute certainty, they could count on it.

am i crying yet? no. check. no. Is our journey through the unknown complete yet? no. can i trace the roots of this back to an incident, one strange occurrence of being denied this year? yes. i mean, i guess im hurting in all those kind of ways, hurting in the ways im not hurting. but you did hurt me, so i guess im doing alright.

im gonna ask you, im gonna ask you about justice. im gonna say, "what do you think about justice?" and perhaps you will cower in fear in that way that is so familiar to all of us, that way which has now crossed the line of that which is excusable. and we're gonna gang up on you, and im gonna smear it in your face a little, especially when we'll all be dressed up so nice. and you will sweat in that heat because something, something is on the line.

here, you may be confused as to whether i am talking about God, or some girl, but let me tell you, they are really the same. let me tell you about how i decided a few weeks ago that God is the husband, and i am the bitching wife who spends all his money, and freaks out and yea plays that part. but i always come back to him, theres an understanding there, and even in our hate there is love. so the absent girl is just like the absent god, so its somewhat of a long distance relationship, and there is a lot of silence. but i scream a lot, and slam doors, and run out of the house, and get really jealous, but he gets jealous too. and lonely, o, let me tell you how lonely i get.

let me tell you how lonely she left me. for i gave and gave and gave for her, but it was not her fancy. and then, and then, God defriended me on facebook. o my god, what am i going to do? he doesnt even want to be acquaintances anymore! and yet, you say, we return again to the issue of justice - there were times when some lover fell for you and she was not your fancy. yes, yes, i will be punished, but dont steal the justification for my anger, or, to put it another way, dont steal the justification of my irrationality. i can only manage to be irrational so often, so dont screw it up.

but lets get back to it- how lonely she left me. she moved away, and i dont know what shes doing. but ive been thinking lately, that we probably werent a good fit. i realized it when i realized that i had to fake it to her to make it. then i found out that, to varying degrees, she was conning me the whole time. what do you do with that? ill tell you what you do with it, you stay up till three in the morning writing stories about it, thats what you do with it.

you always said you wanted me to write you a story. but forgive me, this one's probably more for myself.

but who can really distinguish anyway?

ok so, i mean, we can't end it on that note. there is redemption, after all, but our underground man hasn't been delivered yet.

so he wakes up in a field, and he says "i have faith, the faith that conquers all understanding." he's reached the end of his string, and his tumultuous affair with discord comes to an end. Or rather, the cancer recedes, allowing him to exist, to live his life, though, ironically, both it and him live to fight another day, each demanding their respective partials from the whole of his existence.

i am smart, but you cannot trust me, my words, i am too self-conscious. but im not that aware of how intelligent i am, i promise. its all a farce, i insist- the neurotic thing, i put it on, just a sham, nothing more than an average intelligence exists behind these eyes. there's nothing here for you, really, im not that smart. the only reason i can write this way is because i drank 2 cups of coffee at 9 oclock this morning. no, really, im not that smart. please dont tell me that, i dont need to know that. but i do believe it about myself, but i did not need you to tell me. ive always known. i know im attractive too, but im a little overweight, but please dont tell me that, its all a sham, and i really dont know, im hideously ugly and i play neurotic just to get a reaction because i want to be perceived as a good writer because i dont want to be alone. i know that i wont be alone, though, because i am a attractive person and you will grant me social graces that you will not grant my unattractive counterpart. i will not be lonely because i do not play neurotic around you. i act normal on purpose. i know how to be social. but you would like me anyway, or atleast have a natural predisposition towards liking me, because i am a nice boy who you feel safe around. i pretend we are best friends, and there is nothing you do not know about me. I know that you're a tight-ass so i play the fool around you so that i can laugh to myself and make myself feel that i possess a certain type of unmatched wit so that you will like me, or perhaps so that i will like myself, because, after all, i need to laugh too. i pretend to agree with your horrendously shallow observations about the world in order to fake a level of continuity that was never there. i was searching for someone who understood so i said yes youre right, but deep down i still thought that i was smarter than you. i thought that i was right. but i played the stupid around you so we could be stupid together, and i wanted you to think i was smart so that you would like me so that i could demonstrate my intellectual superiority over you through my amazing rhetoric. and i would write too- these brilliant essays on my opinions of the world- how they were unique and differentiated from my peers, and then i would win awards for these essays, and then i would write essays about how accomplished my essays were, but i would try to downplay it, but i wouldnt downplay it that much, because to really fake humility you have to own it just a little. and then i would write an essay about faking my own humility, and throw everything into question by making you think that i had deceived you into thinking that i was not only a moderately humble human being, but that i actually believed in virtue of humility itself, and thought it somehow attainable. but then you may think me a total nihilist and deconstructionist- that is a part i can play, yes, i can do it, and i will convince you, but you will be shocked when you find out just how wide, just how deep does human deception exist in the level of potential, and it exists in every human being. but see i am getting too smart again, i am expositing, which is what smart people too (and really smart people say that smart people exposit things) and i cannot get too smart or exposit too much, for all my friends would leave me because they cannot understand me, or perhaps they think my ego is overinflated, and i am trying to prove to them that i am smart by writing these silly little essays about god knows what and publishing them in these ridiculously terrible college newspapers. ive run out of things to say about myself, but you must forgive me, there is no one else that i know so well. i tried one time to get to know someone, but she wouldnt let me in. i was smart for a while, but i then i tried dumb, i tried emotional, i think i was, but i wanted her to think me smart so that she would let me get to know her so that she would be with me so that i did not have to be lonely, but it did not work, so i had to come up with some new roles. do you like them?

To drown you must become an addict.

Perhaps God says, "surround yourself in vice for shit's sake. it's for the sake of hearing." I mean, contrariness perhaps, contrariness aside for its vain rebelliousness, it is the present dispensation, is it not? Drown in sound. Become a bug, as Kafka says, because looming deep inside your soul is the mind of the same 15-year old attention-whoring slut who you used to look at with such vexed disdain because you could not understand how she got into such a fucked up position. She is a public beast, we are private. "I've got out at last," she says as she tramples over you to get to the door.

But when you take a knife to your own arm, you might feel it. I mean, you would have to "feel" it one way of the other- it's a multi-sensory experience. At least if you can't feel it, you can see it. Perhaps you can even smell it. But that's not really what she's interested in, is it? "For socialism is not merely the labour question," Dostoyevsky writes, "it is before all things the atheistic question."

We've got to get him to respond- come down out of the clouds, illicit a response, as it were. It's already too loud, but we must make it louder- unavoidable. The whole creation groans, you see, she's screaming "fuck," how could you not know that this is what she is saying? Yet her skin only gets thicker, but to thin it out it must get thicker.

So the white noise of man's disobedience and the fruit of that forbidden tree, our own creation, swells perpetually, and indeed it must, and indeed it should, as we will continue to cut ourselves deeper and deeper until we hear a voice from the heavens.

"Godot will not come today, will he?"

"No sir, not today, but perhaps tomorrow."

"Nothing to be done, then, nothing to be done."

a story

It all took place in an unsteady time- a time in which perceptions and loyalties and identities avoid constancy, and the threat of leaving a place in which you once felt as though you could potentially have everything but to which time was allowed the opportunity to take hold of, forcing you to accept the possibility that you may leave with nothing, or no one.

The first time, she said, "I am not able to be strong on my own." So he initiated the arduous process of forcing death upon a thing not yet born, and he wounded it into submission and infancy within the confines of his subconscious, and kept it deep in his basement underneath dozens of unpacked boxes. And there it remained throughout the winter.

But when spring came, the rays of the sun penetrated deep into the caverns of his basement, and, one day, to his amazement, he discovered a green stem buried between several stacks of old books. It was the stem of that same seed, and it had started to grow. Believe me, it caught him quite off guard when he saw it. In fact, it startled him so much that he took a step back, and he questioned to himself whether what he was seeing was actually real.

Because, you see, he still didn't know much about her, but when you see that a girl's been crying all alone in the library, you ask if she's ok.

And so, for the moment, the weather was getting warmer, and the plant continued to grow as its sprouting leaves reached desperately towards the source of its life. It was then that the boy began to remember and realize that he had not completely destroyed the plant back in the fall, and suddenly began to realize that he couldn't really destroy the plant at all, even if he wanted to. The plant, in all its tenderness, made him feel terribly human, and he became suddenly aware of how it connected him to emotions he had forced under the surface for a long time.

Immediately he got a lamp and started unpacking all the closed boxes and rustling through the stacks of old books, all the while watching the plant, uncertain whether or not it would continue to grow.

And then, almost as suddenly as it had sprung up, in the middle of May, the plant died. The boy didn't know what to do, and he talked and cried, and was unsure of how he wanted his pain to be perceived by those around him. For, in some sense, he knew that he would be fine; he had lived years and years without this flower, or any plant, come to think of it, and he had not died. But the boy did not particularly want to go back to his life before the plant, a life in which he had suppressed his loneliness and need for other people, and retreated deeply into the shelter of his own bedroom. The fact was the plant had made him suddenly aware of both his emotions and his pride- he could actually feel now, and, even if all he felt was pain at the loss of his dearly loved plant, it was certainly better than feeling nothing at all. He struggled to understand what he should do, and he even worried when he started to feel ok, because this, for him, felt as though to some degree he was losing his humanity again, and would be forced to accept the numbness necessary to exist completely alone in this world. He wondered whether he would have to painfully repack all those old boxes, and restack all those old books, and he wondered whether he would have the patience to wait for things that were never promised, and whether or not he would, ultimately, die alone in this world, without any plant there to give him life.

writing

i know that they know they think they know how i am going to sound, but i know that they cant know. how can i lower their expectations?

does honesty equal beauty?

there's a lot of people in the room tonight, and theyre people i know, and im going to share a very private thing with them, and im scared its not going to be beautiful.

right now i need this. i need to have nothing, so that i cannot lose, but even more so that i can feel.

i need to feel. if i can feel i can feel into that note that i wrote.

the words on the page.

am i any good? or, in the words of conor oberst, is everything ive written cheap...and trite....and false?

am i ok with these words? uncertainty. bleed in me humility.

where did i go?

self-conscious speculation

in the crowds,

and you dont know

the level in which i scare myself.

But, Jesus, please calm me down. peace, right now, is my friend. peace is not the enemy. is peace ever the enemy? is melancholy the enemy? Jesus please calm me down. I have need of you.

im tired of knowing that when i wake up tomorrow, i will be just fine.

im trying to cry, but i cant force tears.

cultural nostalgia in a place ive never been- its not just the language, there's an intangible here- a house that is a coffeehouse on a Christian school campus. Im experiencing nostalgia in a place ive never been because i recognize the potential that my life could have happened here, and i see the effects of looking through the lens of the life of a friend whose life did happen here. So he experiences spatial nostalgia, and i experience cultural nostalgia on his behaf.

what makes two people compatible and what makes two people able to stay together for the rest of their lives?

can we speak the same language? am i going to be forced to be an asshole? will we progress, or merely wallow in polite conversation?

fuck politeness. we need to drop the gloves and settle this like a man.

get mad at me- really, really, angry..........please?

the pretentiousness keeps rising. the rate at which he self-consumes continues to increase at an alarming rate. he spends thousands on upgrading fantastically minute variables of his trade.

where does it end?

in all likelihood, she was fucked from the start.

(i always wonder whether we should avoid such strong allusions to discord in the name of the preservation of shalom. my friend would tell me do not hesitate. my professor would tell me such usage is indicative of a wayward heart. another friend would tell me to just write what i think. right now that's all i'm capable of. i think that's all im ever capable of.)

so, in conclusion, like i said, she was fucked from the start. that's what we were gonna go with, right? is that what we're gonna go with? Yes; she was fucked from the start. i'll risk rebuking myself later.

so, she was fucked from the start. quite the phrase, if you ask me. relatively presumptuous. assumes a sort of social marxism, which i think i happen to believe in; the oppressed or the oppressor; you're one or the other. all social relationships boil down to this.

so now i can start my story, i think. in all likelihood, she was fucked from the start. im not even gonna try to explain the source of her particular social disposition, i just dont think i can right now. what matters is that you know that in all likelihood, she was fucked from the start.

it was her emotions that fucked her. well actually it was him that fucked her, but she was initially fucked by her emotions, which only led to more fucking, which really fucked her up. then because she was in a fucked up place she let him fuck her some more.

you've probably had enough, so you'll be thankful to know that it is at this point in the story that the fucking ceases, and it was at this point in the story that the fucking ceased. she had other emotional issues besides being fucked.

she was the recessant gene, and as such subject to the male dominant, and as such completely vulnerable to male exploitation under this social marxism framework. she was a terrible communicator too, which only made it worse, because he was the only one that could really understand her feelings, despite her awkward attempts to grasp onto the correct syntax in attempting to transliterate her intangible emotions into discernible social cues, both verbal and nonverbal.

she didnt have the right words to cast off the oppressor, as such a task initially required identifying of him as such, and the attempts at such an enterprise were immediately shut down under the premise of his superior intelligence and social understanding.

i can hear the echo of the words, "you're sick" he says. that puts her in a tight spot.