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Brinesanity – an abide jar, filled with all the fuqs given.

By

Mai Tie

Here is something to ponder.

What the fuck are you doing here? I mean, I am pretty sure of what I am doing. I can only say pretty sure, because nothing is absolute. It is constantly in a state of flex and change, and fucking hell – do you really think I am not aware of the stupidity? Including my own.

Shit in my life is real, and somehow, other’s seem to be at a point in their lives that theirs is required to be avoided, because it stinks so bad the only way to deal with it is to ignore it, like some kind of misery that is to be forgotten as a cause from their own actions and consequences.

Take a moment and sit back, reflect on the reality of it all.

Let it sink in, if it needs to.

Go on, you deserve it.

*smirk*

In deserving, there is more – there is an earned and blessed feeling.

Comfort is neither hot or cold, a smile or a laugh.

It is being in the moment and living it to understand the beauty, even in the tragedy of the falling of life by the wayside of Time. Accompanied by his alter-ego, Age, Time ensures you are aware that closer to it shall you go, but never to you will it come.

It does not need to, it is right there beside you as the most precious thing you hold in your life.

It is only a matter if you make it so.

Else, it will follow you on the miles you choose to own.

Looking around me today, the  sun is shining.
I am alive, and no longer hovering in a state of fear from a cancer.
My wealth is not defined by the numbers in any regard, but by a cerebral sutra that allows me to abide by anything that comes forth.

It sounds like a bunch of bullshit, and some kind of mysterious lame Duck Daced font mantra…
sure fucking thing sunshine, sure fucking thing.

Sure you got it all figured out, and are walking those miles.

I am going outside to do some lawn bowling today, and if anyone has got a problem with it they can fill in an official form, the FU-101 – it’s the blue one, right over there on the box, beside the unicorn having a coffee with Doug Henning and Moses.

“It’s spring time motherfucker, do you have it?” said Samuel.

I imagine he is smiling though, about to roll his bocci ball. It will be easy to spot, because the grass is only now starting to show the signs of the orange that most don’t know.

They see it as green.

green buckets, blue dog, Ellas car horns, Kola, decades pass, abide, fetaman.com, fetaman, iFeta, fetaChops, brinesanity

“There is no salvation in becoming adapted to a world which is crazy.” – Henry Miller

*abide*

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It is bred into them.

No one is really going to appreciate the connections. They are very funny though.

Kojak. Stavros. Greek. Laughs. Old ways, that corrupted a nation, that hopes to be laughed at in the private settings, but stares down bulls and drinks real whiskey, like Crown Royal. Not that horse urine, fuqtarded excuse for one CC – urine.

Real men, drink tsiporo.

Stadium construction? Yes, stadium construction.

Wake me when the vote is done, I will be sleeping under the desk. In the studio, it could be referred to as the C section I guess, just no ladies.

@JournalismJunk lays down a great one liner, and of course, Fetaman has to turn it into a 10 minute acid trip, without the acid, just some brinesanity.

Check out a Theo of mine, Uncle Costas. He love’s the cool, slender menthol smokes.

Financed by the Fed and the EU, surety they care.

*abide*

By

El Insecto

fetaman, fetaChops, fetaChop, brinesanity, iFeta, fetacabulary, raw, fuck liars

All pictures are a project, and hanging them, has very little to do with shame, and everything to do with how you choose to tie your own room together.

A door sliding open with the tender interest in allowing her to pass the cold steel with the blink of an eye, leaving it in her cloud of confidence, as she framed the single click of her heel seconds before the carpet captured her imprint as a cushion.

It was not possible to forget the red on the balance sheet did not seem so pleased to see, but she was able to begin to feel the sepia yellow that had been created by the silicon and the new lights the corporation had put up. It was almost unbearable on those other days, when she came here to stay, before.

The walk was a tempo, a calm union of a pearled brass circle that hummed with the touch of the brush. Long legs, and beautiful straps that were the call of many to their death at the boardroom table, or at the annual holiday events, assured themselves of the reasons they had been told to carry on.

The environment was clean, always is. That is why she racked up so many points, being away from the family. Her husband.

What a fucking asshole.

This was just one of the things she had to do, to keep the family together. It was all just part of the game.

There was never a chance of her being seen here. This was her special place, and she was able to freely touch any string she wanted to. Like the days she used to sing her own song, not having to wait for another to catch the same note. The tones were always right, and she was to tune the way she wanted to.

This was her symphony, and she was paid to take charge of mitigating the discomfort, and bringing in its stead, a calming glory that is understood only when the lines are drawn by hand.

She had time, and undressed. She would take a bath, and take advantage of the perks. Olive oil fusion, bringing the branch that would be held, and imagined as such, closer to his truncated fantasies. Scratching the window to an inner soul, hoping the mark is aural.

The rustling of the bushes of the bushes would never be heard over the trees. The forest was a place that was filled with all things natural, and it was natural to feel loved again. To feel wanted. To turn to the words of a stranger, and feel a love, and a closeness, different than any other kind you could even imagine, would mean having to perform, and she ached to perform.

It was her calling, and the audience that she had admitted to her seen, was no longer one that could satisfy her as a woman. A muse, that was capable of enchanting and thrilling.

Duration was always her focal point. Longevity, in life, in love, in lust, holding it to some kind of imaginary light, hoping to understand how long it would last, as she liked it, knowing that it was just like her own bit alias. It was her, who felt somewhat timid in trying to reach out to literal strangers, for direction and advice, but never having been a timid woman, she approached it with some discretion and a scalpel forged of caution.

Any limb catching anything that could cause harm to the body, was a severance gladly paid for a compensated reality, more blessed without it.

Mens. Fucking. Rea.

She sat and looked at the delicate rubber ducky, and thought of her child. This precious being that she had created, her forced smile came naturally. Intelligent conversation, and humor, is never a bother. Again, it is, just what was.

The door had been left open, and he knew it would be. It was nunca saldre de ella, he was in it. That was what made the experience such a dance.

He wanted the full GFE. There was little else there was time for, and somehow, it created the stir. A magic longing, for this creature, so small, so dirty, so indestructible, that you had to both despise and lust for it.

It was just natural.

Keeping it out in that kind of open, them, and watching people just pass by it all – kind of like a Coelhoen way, of being the way, that some write.

Maktub.

It is over, and somehow, never ends.

*abide*

By

Shadows of a cell

She has become more aware of her own mortality I believe, and like myself, we have walked a line that comes with a reflection on our lives lived to date, and how moving forward, we will not only do the lip service we preach, but in fact, we must do so with an honesty, and a vigor, that is dare I say it, vicious. Hurtful, demanding, selfish…but true…

Truth can hurt, it can be a killer – if you are not ready for it, not strong enough, not respecting it enough, yourself enough, the bringer of it. The bringing of truth that may be counter to your own opinion will indeed be cast with a shadow of reservation, and the blade that casts that shadow can run, and cut deep. If it is used, as a surgeon yields the passive steel to mark it, wield a will and a cold purpose. That purpose may not be so cold, or so unwilling to accept stain, if it stains for the feeding of the soul, or to gut the beast that lays before it, in order to provide for the family.

The old adage of knowing that only a true friend will tell you if there is dirt on your face, is a testament to the power of truth. The magnetic pull of it, creating a state of being. Other’s may laugh, or scoff and not even say anything, perhaps even just try to use the subtle gesture of the eyes, or look away, hoping somehow, you will be able to see that dirt yourself.

Sometimes you can, sometimes you can’t – right?

No, you are wrong my friend.

You can never see the dirt on your face. You will only see the reflection of it in the mirror, and that is not the “actual” dirt, it is just a reflection of it, perceived by your senses, to you ensure you accept the dirt for whatever relevant observation you need it for.

If I love and cherish my truest living best friend, and I see that dirt for what it is, I will tell her what I see, and then respect what she wants to do with it.

It’s hers, so she chooses, and as a loving friend, that wants the best for her, I will respect that. It may not be easy, and it has been a wild life to get me, but hell – if I can’t or won’t do this for her, who will I do it for?

Life as you get older tends to really bring out the reality of what it means, and you get to really start to see what you want to do, you just have less time to accomplish it, so you better get busy living, cause being busy dying – that is a fools game.

I hit my own notes, I will determine when my trip ends.

Like Hunter, I will raise my fist, flip the bird and choose the end.

But not before finding the joy in my life, and knowing everyone that I want to.

I think one need not be overwhelmed with a way, or even knowing what exactly that way may be, until you know what you want your life content to be, and how it will look, read, and what the call to action/inter-action will be for the audience you seek, to admire that. Some of us, have an audience of one, and this self imposed narcissism is evident in all tabs of the reference manual sought.

You need to be “active” as a living person, and there is a hell of a lot of work to do it wonderfully, and it is multiplied by each “administrative” task that you have to do, that will never be seen or praised by anyone, to ensure you have selflessly served up something worth being part of, for the people out there that are literally nuclear missile attacked by media, content, writing, music, art, life, wives, doobs, Crown Royal, look a dog, hmmmm, I want a look at some of the pretty pictures.

Life has got us all running around so hectic, and frazzled, but numb by pharma-metrics, so we do not see the forest for the trees.

*abide*

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Bear abide

Feta:
You know what you are? You’re like a big bear with claws and with fangs…

Chongmaster:
…big fucking teeth, man.

Feta:
Yeah… big fuckin’ teeth on ya’. And she’s just like this little bunny, who’s just kinda cowering in the corner.

Chongmaster:
Shivering.

Feta:
Yeah, man just kinda… you know, you got these claws and you’re staring at these claws and your thinking to yourself, and with these claws you’re thinking, “How am I supposed to kill this bunny, how am I supposed to kill this bunny?”

Chongmaster:
And you’re poking at it, you’re poking at it…

Feta:
Yeah, you’re not hurting it. You’re just kinda gently batting the bunny around, you know what I mean? And the bunny’s scared Mike, the bunny’s scared of you, shivering.

Chongmaster:
And you got these fucking claws and these fangs…

Feta:
And you got these fucking claws and these fangs, man! And you’re looking at your claws and you’re looking at your fangs. And you’re thinking to yourself, you don’t know what to do, man. “I don’t know how to kill the bunny.” With *this* you don’t know how to kill the bunny, do you know what I mean?

Chongmaster:
You’re like a big bear, man.

J. Larry Carrot:
So you’re not just like fucking with me?

Feta:
No. I’m not fucking with you.

Chongmaster:
Honestly, man.

 

*abide*

By

Trixa apo…

…do you think she had anything to do with shaping a nation?

It is spelt differentlly, but it smells the same. You know, that smell, that gasoline smell, smells like – victory.

The concept is a simple one, not involving some kind of hidden mystery, if you know the meaning behind the concept of the word moonie (moyni).

Allow me to illustrate, that is the alliteration of the Greek word for pussy. A Greek word for it in fact, as there are many. One could only imagine, the list is large. Horny, obsessed Greek’s can imagine a lot of words, including the slang. Almost a word for every Euro Dollar owed to Germany.

As such, the phrase then means “hair from a pussy”. The completed wisdom jewel is literally “a hair from a pussy can pull a ferry/cruise ship/freight liner”.

Yes, another gem from the Greeks who figured this one out. Amazing the power of that hair, the strength of it, that could not only pull, but also “manipulate fate” of significant vessels, things of purpose, By using the special powers that are manifested there, cultivated over the course of a lifetime to be wire like fibres that men have lashed against rocks to acquire the blessing of. The love of. To taste the sweet elixir from the field that lays beneath this great harvested, miracle hair.

A collection of them? A bush of these are akin to the burning bush of lore. The fire will not consume the bush, it will merely use it to attract the relevant mothus moses species, and anoint them with the message that was inspired by the God that brought them to this alter of worship.

All of this time, you have been thinking about the physical side of that bush, the fact that it somehow is merely a bush, and has no other qualities of admiration. Like staring at he branches and the roots, the flowers, the leaves – the whole bush – and thinking, that is all that it is.  A beautiful bush, a beautiful hair, that came to please the eyes, and provide the carnal pleasure that is the innate human nature we all stroke in an evolution of the 10 second clips, on every subject, fetish, desire, wanton soul soups.

Have you considered the fascination from the mental side? From the cognitive, cerebral mind. The lobes that slice the fragments of time into files in a meat locker formed of bone and flesh, firing some kind of logic around, somehow? What about the fascination of considering how men are swayed to change the course of history, using “intelligent thought” that is so influenced, not by the physical presence of the hair, or the raw ability of it to form a collective chain stronger than any braided steel, but more as a result of the intellectual prowess of the beautiful women that have enhanced life, and made it the great thing that it is today.

Or is it? How confident are you, truly you, the male reader, the other version of me, like the billions that are out there. We are all part of that penis category, so we are all “alike” there. If we initiate our classification from this starting point, then we are all asked one simple defining question;

How truly happy are you that women have been part of life and the creation of modern society?

Sounds pretty simple, and most men would clearly look around, roll the eye’s and ensure their reaction is directly proportionate to the number of women in the immediate circumference.  Easy enough, yes, very confident. On that scale, I would say a 8.5/10. Well Larry, that may be actually 9.5 for me, I love the ladies and all that they have done.

That is funny. It is a lie, and it represents so much more. I can only assure you, this topic is just one of many other’s that are sitting here on the site, for discussion and introduction – for the use and the purpose of taking over two and a half decades of observations, from a professional male, an intelligent man that somehow got transformed into a block of cheese. A solid piece of being, a cultured, and confident brinesanity abider, that has many observations, that are salient, subjective, and formed on the objective actuality of life, as was, is and will be lived.

In the state of true abide, having been proudly able to declare, that yes, I am very happy, but I have a number of issues with the quality, and the concepts of “modern society” and they are random, rabid, rancid, accepting, loving, passionate, real, intelligent thoughts that are founded on logic, and the sound principles of the delivery methods, or actions we take, to ensure we are aware of where we are going.

We are aware, of where that hair, and the holder of it, the admirer of it, the forces that are impacted by it, the unknown consequences are mitigated to the best of our ability…

We are the one’s that define those miles, and how we own them.

Don’t ever try to lie to yourself about that, at the very least. Don’t try. Truly, don’t.

 

*abide*

By

Frost – November Guest

My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She’s glad the birds are gone away,
She’s glad her simple worsted grey
Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.

Robert Frost

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Stupidity, knot cot…

“In a closed society where everybody’s guilty, the only crime is getting caught. In a world of thieves, the only final sin is stupidity.”

Hunter S. Thompson