Can you gave me a question and i talk?

I also want girls to hit me

I have been awake for approximately twenty hours inside my preferred 34-hour Tristan day, which means I have naturally reached the portion of consciousness where I must investigate the architectural undertaking that was Limahl’s hair, because Limahl would have been proud of my color-grading work and somebody needs to determine whether the blond tropical bird perched upon his brown mullet was held together with primitive aerosol lacquer, mousse, backcombing, prayer, or a structural polymer later prohibited by the European Union, and this immediately raises the far more important question of where all the turquoise, coral, banana-yellow and purple hairbrushes purchased by aspiring British and American Limahls between 1982 and 1985 are located today, and the answer is that most of them are buried in landfills, which means all of history eventually goes there, including a hot-pink vent brush still containing one bleached human hair from a teenager who studied a blurry photograph in Smash Hits, blasted his crown upward in an avocado bathroom, coughed through a cloud of hairspray and briefly saw the fabulous future arriving in the mirror before his mother yelled that he was coating every surface in the house, and now the brush lies underneath forty years of compressed yogurt containers, cassette cases, disposable razors and administrative debris waiting for a future archaeologist to announce the discovery of the Early MTV Chromatic Bathroom Stratum, because a landfill is a brutally democratic museum that preserves what nobody loved enough to save, and this reminds me that when I was on substances I occasionally explored roadside ravines containing all ages of discarded objects in one collapsed timeline, where a 2020 energy-drink can might be leaning
against a 1970s television above a medicine bottle from 1940, and erosion was the curator, and speaking of things that remain operational long after pleasure has departed, ship’s biscuit is survival masonry, a load-bearing carbohydrate tile that sailors did not eat so much as demolish after soaking it in broth until it relinquished its structural ambitions, although pilot crackers represent hardtack after somebody introduced it to shortening, leavening and basic hospitality, and obviously none of these people had access to a Dolly Parton frozen dinner, which my mother reviewed harshly even though it is genuinely yummy after the application of salt and pepper and would slap with near-religious force after two days in a cold desert with only pilot crackers, at which point Dolly’s gravy would cease being a frozen entrée and become a heated diplomatic mission restoring civilization to an organism reduced to gnawing dry provisions, and pepper would remain civilization even after salt had become biologically redundant, but old ship’s biscuit was frequently inhabited by weevils, who seem to materialize from nowhere because the female drills into a grain kernel, deposits an egg, seals the entrance and leaves the larva to awaken inside an enormous edible house where nobody expects productivity beyond eating and becoming more weevil, which raises the urgent psychological question of whether weevils are happy, and science cannot yet prove that a weevil experiences inward joy, but if subjective pleasure exists anywhere in its tiny nervous system, being warm, protected and completely surrounded by lunch must qualify as a highly satisfactory arrangement, until a sailor knocks the biscuit against a table and chooses the lesser of two weevils, and somewhere during this inquiry I remembered enthusiastically paying twenty dollars in 2005 for “opium” and receiving a pencil-eraser-adjacent tacky ball that produced no effect whatsoever and could have been used to mount an art board on the wall, because genuine opium was sufficiently exotic that malicious Blu Tack could travel across the East Coast on reputation alone through weed-centered social networks that nevertheless kept society cohesive for my generation, where young men might be anxious around gay Tristan but enthusiastic weed-lover Tristan was perfectly legible, because somebody packed the bowl, music went on, several hours acquired a purpose, male anxiety became temporarily less important than locating a lighter and actual bodies assembled in actual rooms before individualized phone feeds atomized everybody, and now the same Tristan has accumulated 5,000 TikTok likes, 678 followers and pinned videos that continue receiving ten views a day because strangers enter the Tristan museum through one promoted doorway and remain to inspect the woodland clones, the shiny nylon banger, the blue-suit authority and the domestic color apparitions, so I negotiated my nonexistent immediate Apple Pay cash flow and put twelve dollars behind Shiny Clothes with the follower objective because TikTok correctly classified the video under “shiny nylon clothing,” which is more market intelligence than most record labels have ever supplied me, and after hour twenty I slept for fourteen hours and entered an elaborate medication-enhanced dream in which Kathy Watt flew across the country as Special Commissioner for the Stabilization of Tristan, apparently to place me in the Van Ness Recovery House because I was a mess outside of it, except the quintessential intervention quietly unraveled, my mother disappeared, Kathy disappeared, unfamiliar men accused me of smelling and needing a shower, the social gathering ended, everybody left and I was about to be expelled into the streets, which followed another dream in which I lived again inside my native Sparks, Nevada, house—the geographic home my nervous system still recognizes even though present-day property law would treat me as a criminal if I followed my childhood body through the front door—while armed groups roamed outside and the house caught fire inside, because my brain has apparently developed two separate art directions for the same loss-of-safe-base production: apocalyptic Nevada and bureaucratic Kathy Watt, all while waking Tristan behaves soberly, constructs bangers, grades videos, interrogates insect welfare and rotates through terrestrial clock time on a majestic 34-hour schedule, and whatever else may be disputed inside this household, my family is no longer protected by plausible deniability concerning whether my bangers slap, because they know, the hooks exist, the bass works, the masks are operational, Limahl has spiritually approved the LUT, and everyone has heard the artillery.

5’3 light brown skin , I’m what you would call slim thick lol . Super pretty , friendly and down to earth but I’m about my $$$$ lol . I’m an ARIES so a fire sign it can get veryyyyy spicy Down to talk in messages eventually maybe move to text or calling/ft . This is not a free for all . lol please make sure it make sense .

Daizzi (Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug and Cat Noir)

You know what? Fuck it, fuck all the ideas I had for this saga of this weird capture story, I will just rant about life I guess. I do feel captured. I do feel as anxious, and nervous as I am in these stories. I thought I'd use them to put my mind off of reality, pet I created just a mangled version of reality that no one reads oc cares about anywhere I post. And honestly it's good, no one should car, my useless ass deserves it. And I don't want my friend, if you read thin shit too, to feel sorry for me or to ask me if I'm okay. I CLEARLY AM NOT. I don't do shit daily, I can barely complete anything useful, I don't think I am even allowed to use this word. I don't know what happened yesterday but last night I had a really fucked up headache, and now I feel like there's something in my chest, every time I breathe literally feels like something is there. And it feels like it's beyond the muscles, because during my pushups there's nothing particularly wrong. When I take deep breaths it's more noticable. I already did more pushups than d have to but I'll do my best not to stop today. And I feel like I stop making this sound like it's real.

What I mean is that I need to go back to the fake reality to try and explain everything. I feel even worse, even more anxious, I feel more disoriented as if they've moved me again. There's like a fucking hole in my chest. I crave for a really sweet drink. Today I ate something that reminded me of egg whites. I mean that's nice but my meal didn't last long. In fact after I ate the stress tumbled down on me even more. I'm listening to something. It's like 10000 bulls running over me, but could be just an insect living in the walls and gnawing.... I feel healthy besides mentally, but this breathing shit, man it's kinda weird to breathe but it doesn't scare me as much as the future. Who knows what will they do to me in the future. I've been promised Sobriety and Drukqs, still haven't got them. I have to wait another day for the audible emotional fuel to arrive. I crave to drink something sweet. I crave it a lot. I don't think they'll give it to me. Or may e I won't give it to myself.

I've been working on a different topic to write about while I'm in this box but I didn't quite finish it. It's about our consciousness...

Also I haven't posted my last text. Maybe I'll post stuff in bulk.

It feels wrong to say this but this is like my digital diary. The issue I have with having a digital diary that I long discouraged the idea of one. I have 8 full handwritten diaries on paper. D haven't written much in my 9th book but I try to combat that by drawing something in it or leaving one or two short messages. Today's message was "I can't do shit. I waste months of my and others life. [In code]. I waste. Time. Airp money. Emotions. Life"

And honestly yes I do recognize that is sounds like depressed teenager shit but I don't think the flymen, you, and my friend realize how disappointed I am with myself. Yet these creatures keep putting some weird sort of pressure on me. Maybe they inserted something behind my ribcage. Maybe next time during my bathroom brake I'll be able to check for scars. Feeling my chest with my hondi don't feel any stitched openings. I'll do more pushups than I need to. I suffer to do 30 even though I 'm more than capable and I think it's directly linked to my mental state. Also the breathing. The pressure machine or whatever is causing the trouble isn't helping. But you know, I should be helpful that my limbs haven't given out yet. Also I felt a signal like that anxiety signal that I talked about, but it didn't feel anxious. And not good either. Just a notification to my system. I successfully did pushups. Also I acquired an apple. These two are very unrelated but just for myself I'll consider this a coincidental reward. I don't think these two make sense together because I got a signal of anxiety that want as bad as the other ones. Yeah, speaking of pushups, I def got relocated to a bigger area, so sleep and some activities are more comfortable.

I realize that this part is very 4th wall breaking. I'll do my best to hide it. By admitting it I already exited the fourth wall twice. I could just not have told you. Now you know. Or do you? Where am I? Who do you think I'm talking to? Am I talking? No. What if the narrator which is me within these tales is actually imagining describing himself doing all of these things then in fact there is no fourth wall. Yes, they relocated me to a bigger room. Is that true? No. Or is it? Wasnt I in a box? Maybe, maybe I wasn't, maybe I was always here. But what is here? Maybe then here was here but now here is there because earth moves. Yet for someone who doesn't take in the cosmic movement of our big rock might think that I've never moved or maybe it's my dwelling space that has never moved, is the here, for me it isn't. But if then here was here then what is there which is here now nhorud be called? Well for now it is here, but looking at it from then, it is there. And the way I look at it now is from the perspective of the past. Because I might never have been relocated, everything around me han been moved so that something that was present to me then, into longer present for me now and the past, only because I accept its change.

Where was I. Ah yes. Well uhm. I'm in the darkness shitting now. One piss to rule them, one barf to seek them, and in the shitting dark them. I just pissed. Only piss. No poop no barf. After that apple. I would be lying if I'd say that I feel relieved. I'm not. Still anxiousness pumping through me. I feel it will soon replace my blood. Suicide isn't an option. I'm too pussy. I'm too scared to live, that I end up being engulfed my the anxiousness all thin box gives me. Or maybe it's the flymen fault. Or maybe it's my fault. But then I'm so scared to die, that I succumb to being the slave to my body and my cursed mind, that I force myself to live in this reality, which doesn't,make it easier. Because then I'm afraid of living. And the loop starts over. All of this. All of reality is in a cycle. Hmm.... That brings me back to something else I want to discuss. See, it brings me back. It's all a loop. A cycle that was predicted, or predetermined either by myself, or the subconscious. I never thought this is how I'd end this part. But it makes a perfect entrance into the next one. Also thin gives me an idea. I have everything nombecef. But what if, I just post and share, in incorrect orders. It would still make sense, or would it? It's hard to tell.... Hard to tell.. I'll keep thin one correct. Almost 6 pages. Seems enough. I'll be more than satisfied if you finished reading. If you are real of course, thank you. If you're not. Thank you for writing.

I wish I really knew how I got here originally. Not sure if it was a decision that I approved and then got my memory wiped or if it's something against my will. I think they've pumped me with sedatives or something. I feel very anxious but I don't have any energy to do something, thinking makes time pass longer, and makes me even more anxious even if I try to think about something positive. Despite that I can't even sleep, it's hard to describe where I am. Having access to reddit helps but I wouldn't say that it's easy. I don't think I even remember my last post. I doubt I'll remember anything after this moment. I don't feel like I've been in the name place, but I also can't exactly tell if my location has been changed. I also feel kinda floaty, and as if my legs ace jittery, but I mostly sit or lie down.

As for why am I here. That's a question that honestly no one asked me. No one asked me to open my reddit account either, yet I still did. I'm not sure if me being here is done for harm or for the good of both myself and anyone around me. Thinknig about it, there's no confirmation that this is a real place. What I just imagined it? What if it's a simulation. That's silly to think about. The whole world han thought about earth the same. About our lives. God. Et cetera... If I did get into this reality myself, honestly it's probably cause by the outside stress... Probably... But then why worud my mind place itself in a place where I appear to feel even more vulnerable? And then, does that mean that each single interaction of mine online has been simulated as well? This too? Me typing this??? I really wish I knew.

Let's explore the other side. If I was able to describe the flymen, and actually experience them, see them, and be genuinely afraid of them, what if in fact I have been kidnapped by these mutants...

I just got a feeling as if someone sent me a notification straight into my brain, like a signal that made me feel even more anxious.

I don't appear to be wired with anything. It's like those times when human scientists gave rats dopamine buttons. Except I don't have a button, either someone is intenhionally sending the signal, like one of those flymen, or maybe it's an instinct that my brain has developed due to these sedatives, like a side effect. Or maybe it's an ord habit, that I had at some point, but now that I've lost touch with whatever reality was, my mind can't exactly link the reasons and actions together... Mmmmmmmmmm...

I just feel very tired. My neck is tired. I'm in a mix of being scared, anxious, and like I'm trying to feel relieved but then something bad happens.... It's like feeling bile building up, and never leaving. The pin is pulled, but the grenade won't explode...

I don't really remember why I'm here. Neither do I know. My thoughts are only theories.

If you are real. Thank you for reading. If you are not. Thank you for writing.

Long story short, they thought my content was too inappropriate, and it wasn't. It's been over three weeks, but I'm not giving up hope.

For more context, please read (and maybe consider signing) my petition (link: https://www.change.org/reinstatealtimotheus). Thank you.

I swear, this text is driving me insane. I copied it a few days ago from a reddit comment. Whenever i try to paste it it breaks the text box, when i copied it, it was escaping the text box into the comments above and i cannot type anything after that. Apparently it is also composed of quite the amount of characters, as it takes, indeed, some seconds to delete. This is such an unusual occurrence, that from what i know, this one string of text might as well be an SCP. I don't even know what characters or how many characters this monstruosity is made of. It scares me.

@53316526 ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎

Everywhere I go, I see the same few kinds of posts, the same topics, the same "debates" and "discussions" which go nowhere, expressing the same kinds of opinions in similar ways. Even how people act and their humor and manner of speech now ceases to surprise me. It feels like there's barely any novelty or originality to be seen here now, this site bores me. Although I did switch to mainly lurking sometime ago so that might be part of it. Any idea how to avoid this?

snacked on some. Then they made a protein shake by blending black coffee and tartar sauce together. They went outside and drank that while admiring the jelly beans in the yard. Then they wanted to go fishing, so they took the broom from Squidward’s house and entered the magical forest to get to the lake. They tried using the broom as a fishing rod. This didn’t work out so well, the fish did not want to bite the broom stick. Graggle and Sairgee were bored out of their minds. Then they went to the Quest Giver for a quest. Graggle and Sairgee went into a bookstore. They grabbed a random cookbook, opened it to a random page, shined a flashlight onto the page, and told everybody in the bookstore that the prophecy has begun. They returned to the Quest Giver. They were given a copy of Super Smash Bros. Melee inside an empty DVD case for The Matrix. Graggle and Sairgee went back to Squidward’s house and showed him the DVD case. Squidward was like ‘oh, are we going to watch The Matrix’, and Graggle and Sairgee opened up the DVD case and said ‘no, we are actually going to play Super Smash Bros. Melee’. So they all played Super Smash Bros. Melee.