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

By

come4. Freedom.

To think how you want.

To be what you want.

To appreciate the life you have.

To not give a fuck about the judgement or the need to conform the requirements that others demand, but you are to be stripped of.

To find dignity in the cause, and doing the right thing.

Freedom – you have that right, of course.

*sip

To the men and women, regardless of their voice and their choice, who hold it high and fill the jar full of the fuq’s given…and all of those with open minds, and new frontiers, this is the world we live in, and the judgment is yours, mine is reserved for when I shake the cerebral joints, in the hands of the men and women who challenge convention with ethical, moral and logical anarchy to the degree of sum.

Two parts of an equation, from the come4.org website are quoted below and can be accessed by clicking on them, they are linked to the landing page;

“Sex” is the top word searched on Internet. With nearly 100 Billion of yearly revenues, the porn industry is one of the greatest markets online. Unfortunately, it is also one of the less ethical and transparent ones. Many people consuming free pornography think that the only risk they may run into is that of being discovered by others. This idea, however, is not just naïve, but also wrong, for the current model of consuming online sexual contents has many negative implications for all of us.”

“Provided no one is harmed and that everything is legal, is there any reason why part of these revenues cannot be used for better ends?”

THE LOVER from a group that launches belief grenades come4.org, an open mind organization

Stance has nothing to do with stand.

I have everything to do with place, and grace.

Of intellect, and of choice.

Respect of it, and the ubiquity that is allowed by it.

Freedom, to “allow” to exist is a criminal act, not an orange kite.

It is grand, there is no human that should not find joy without this freedom.

The wind prompts no harsh world, unless it holds its own.

The grass, it is orange.

It really is.

*abide*

 

By

Therapist Ingrid.

“The seeing of the therapist is an answer for some.”

The years that it took to get there, that is another thing – and the fucking chair, fuck.

The bullshit of having to hear her repeat, just one more time “but Ingrid says” – Ingrid has become a fucking bullshit voice that represents the ingrown toenails on your big toe, that you can never remove from the crown inside the meat of the toe, you know, where all it does is torment you, in any position. Fucking ingrown hair, right on the inside of the legs, in the special spot that all of the magic lessons are supposed to come from.

Ingrid believes…” sang the ball of confusion to my single daft hair. It was the left ear, and so it was kind of special, all the fuckers on the right got the front row seat, so with an equal opportunity for my disenfranchised friends on the does not feel like your own side of things, I kept my attention on the fish in the tank.

Wonder if fish would enjoy weed? Soggy munchies would suck tho.

This is how fucked society is, we are allowing others to tell us what to do, and how to run it.

“Listen closely, and do not think for yourself. There is a process to the paperwork.”

That would cause you be aloof, and obscure, you would be running amuck, and not in the right place according to the charts. These are the papers, that tell you that you shall be real, and well again. Do not worry about the other thoughts in your head, those are your own, and not for us to deal with now.

“We must take care of the social side of your performance,” she said with great curiosity.

Fuck, are my movements to apparent for this interview? Is she going to know that I did that, and where on the scale of the Klondike Bar would this fit? Is it ok to do that much, or should I have done less? What if it was a real hot day, and not only hungry, but thirsty?

Why in the name of all that is holy would anyone ever pick the vowel u? Who the fuck has to pick the vowel u, other than some – yeah, there is something hot about those legs, and with age it may come off as sounding sexist, but fuck. Wheel of Fortune has been on long enough, and we are in an open society. Physically attractive legs, are beautiful things, and we should be able to admire them. That is why they are groomed and made to look so delicious so we can enjoy them.

There – I thought it, that is a step.

Now telling Ingrid about what I imagine Pat’s legs to look like under those cuffed wool chaps he is wearing is going to be a bit of a challenge today, so maybe I can wait until after Maui Week.

“You must adhere to the rules, or you will not get any more assignments.”

Listening to the word is offensive, so don’t call them assignments anymore. Just hear objectives, sales objectives. The number had to be grabbed by one of the cogs. It was to be fed to another one, and into the machine went the dreams of the living, no regard for anything but keeping some kind of motion in tact for the performance reviews. They mattered, and not the lives of those vested in the funds.

The tulip farm was an ecological wonder, it was not without some pride the clogs just snapped into place. It was as if rhythm was a dancer, and he could feel it everywhere.

The sound of music the clogs made, three very distinct tones, Ingrid would never forget.

Wood across carpet, as it blended with the chords of metal along a zippered trail made for the Docker in you.

The small swift glance along the leather Herman Miller’s that were locked in place, long enough for three complete open and shut lids, in hindsight she wished she never allowed to get past the first blink.

The river dance of wood on wood was the golden pond of peace for him, for just that moment, for as the heels rocked him in his comfortable squat, he lay perfectly positioned over the papers on table and stared directly into her eyes, as he shit out dinner from Appleby’s the night before.

“Moon landing, shit cakes say what Ingrid?”

 *abide*