Graph Theory and Discworld: Discussion of the Youth, Family, Remorse, Etc.

It seems natural to decline the couth lifestyle in favor of frivolous things.

I’m not here to preach.

This is just a lush thought, though, isn’t it. I can’t combine words in a manner palpable enough to describe the luxuriousness of Black. Or the stampede through time in which manner makes gesture well devoid of lust, covet, disdain, malaise, etc. I’m rich in time, but not so much in… other regards. Digression? Just saying that some have it and some don’t. And that that that is variable from person to person. Puf. Well. It’s economics, isn’t it.

Here we are. Welcome.

Blood boiling, I’m sensing that there is something to grasp. Perhaps straws, perhaps straw men, perhaps hatchlings, gently. Softly. Scrub a dub dub. Or what have you. In time I may encourage the young ones to grow, and not only up but sideways and outwards and inwards and everywhere all at once until the convalescence of their generation turns into the success story of our time. I mean that. But I won’t speak to them now. Granted, I would, as it were to say that I will, in a sense, though will not, in reality; I would speak to them if I were not well. But that’s dumping. And you know the rules.

No Dumping Sign

Misgivings. Just the thought of it. Where was I going with this… If I mean to dump on the youth my dose of problyemas, would it be fair? That’s a frank enough question. Terds. Little terds. What nuisance. They ought to grow up and deal with it. Neh? But that’s just a ruse. It’s crap. There’s no speakeasy in the outhouse. You get the picture.

I guess the point, after stalling at any writing here now right at this moment in this space/place and time, right here in these words showing up on your retina, is that I don’t think about the youth that much. Really. I like kids. I don’t want kids. I don’t want to hurt kids. There’s no joke. Rochester. Inacritude. Multitudinous disguise. These kids, though. I don’t know much about them. Do they burn inside? Do they danse and rigole? All up in that snitch, or whatever the lingo would be. It’s hard to say without any datum. To sum it up for you. As the maths, integrated into the strings of the universe at all scales, are want to do things for people. How courteous and loving. Wow. We are wealthy beyond measure and it takes only to count the assets to know (that). I stray. Yes. But somehow, it pulls through. But this isn’t about me. Or is it? How trite. How trivial. At least I’m getting some creativity out for once. If you know of any children, do spy on them and report your findings to me. I love datums.

My personality seems to be returning. Hit the drums(tick). Tick. Ticking. Go on.

My personality seems to be returning. The youth. I was there. Not where they are. Not when they are. In my own time. Returning… to places I’ve never been. Okay, just a warning, but this is going to devolve heavily. But I assure you, I shall sum it all up, wrap it together with a boe tie, and ship it to Perth, Australia for Pogo to slice and disseminate subliminally across the globe. Trust me.

The aboriginal draws a pictogram in the sand. It is a sawtooth. He says, through the translator, that this is the sign for restlessness, which they also consider a form of pain. There are many forms of pain, and they have a word and a pictogram for each of them. I learned the common “pain” the other day.

For my mother’s birthday, her dead brother’s widow and she got the chance/opportunity to communicate over Facebook. The widow was, more or less, a slut, had many husbands, all presumably either dead or divorced, and when my mother brought up the topic of her dead-in-the-throes-of-dementia and dead mother, Tanya did not feel any remorse whatsoever. I told my mother not to worry. My mother said, “What do you mean–she was my mother.”

All this adds up to something, doesn’t it? I have to move on. There has been no “death” in my life (except all four of my grandparents). I don’t know what to say. My thoughts went blank at the thought of it. But I have died. Many times. I have been tortured and murdered, explosively once, yet brought back to life, and gently slowly sunk and asphyxiated in inches of water, over the course of 8 hours, repetitively, daily, slowly, sinking.

There is no remorse. It is a false precept. But I’m off track again… Maybe some day we can discuss.

Remorse is the pinnacle of evolution. No, that’s not it…

Do I need to mention the horror and pain I have brought unto my family? Through innocent fun, for myself. Do I think of them before making important decisions? No. Do I? Does anyone? This seems an odd thing to do to me. But maybe I have never made an important decision. I see it now. What some people live with. The guilt. The error. Distress and distrust. Drugs, guns, and bitches. All the slot machines.

The CBD and music be vibin’ in my head. Swell.

Like the swell of an ocean. Visualizing, distant, the sunset. Or sunrise. You can’t quite tell. The horror of a dark world slowly descends upon you and you think for a moment, quietly, and whisper to yourself, “Hello.” Proper, for once, well dressed and rehearsing moments from your past to spray onto the dark mountainous horizon like spaghetti graffiti. God forbid there be marks of art on the library walls screaming at the terror on the road. God forbid the mesmerization of little children in camps sent screaming to their death for one item or another at discount. What am I saying. Hello. This is too dark for me. The ocean is our only escape. Jump, brother, and swim swim swim into the night.

Well, that went jolly welly chipperoo.

I know. Sneeze sneeze. Ah well. My usual combos. It’s starting to add up.

Hold on let me play a chess game to get inspired/pumped.

Victory. Sweet. The promises wandering around in thin air. It just dissolves. There’s nothing for me here anymore. I am in space. I’m ahead of the game. No hate. Only transcendence.

Well, now that that’s decided, we can move on to more important things. Like the discovery of cheese. How I have pinned myself into a mouse hole with this one: and now I must escape. Find the cracks, climb up the window, out the house and into the open wild. But wait! Owls; crows; vultures; damnation hell animalia. No house in the woods. Just an old lady, swaying blissfully back and forth and repeating her mantra, “I’m never alone I’m never alone I’m never alone…”

It is my prime goal in life to avoid all pain and suffering. That is my sole directive. I am robotic, in regard, but not without congeniality. This murder. Fwhat is it?

Damn. That one escaped.

Image result for dream landscape

Liquid metal, rotating about the sun.

That’s it.

In recovery, mode, modality, mean, too so (ever). It’s on my ass again. Fjuckerstufcks. Fookerstaff. Just jump. Look down.

It is a false precept. This notion in your mind that you somehow exist at all in itself in originality is FALSE. Sorry to shock you but you’re already there. You just have to escape. To outrun it. It will exist. But it won’t. Because you will not be with it. Just send, send, oh never mind I’m losing you.

It’s too close. What is it? Just bow, just bow, I say hurriedly. Oh this is a farce. No just trust me we’ll make it through this. Journey. Save it for later, dufus. Yeah yeah sure okay, *googley eyes*. I smile. We’ll make it. Horror.

People. *gags*. More or less.

Well. What comes now? We’re through the other side. Ad verbatum. Distilled. Somewhere. In adolescence. Yay/yuck. High five a duck.

Well. There’s that. Another minute passes.

Deleted thoughts. Clarity of sight, with glasses. [Sure, why not:] Rose glasses. Ruse glasses. Clink. :)

Maybe just a bit more. What zis code, N-E-hao? Disease. Sure why not. Give it up. Thanks. Ok moving on.

Well she abused me a little. Is she gonna feel guilty about that, cuz then it’s worse off than better off. Hell no. You know why? Cuz I’m happy, and she can’t hurt that.

I think I turned into a teenager, you guys. Wait, did a leaf just drop on my back. What kind of forest is this anyway? Wow.

But srsly. My grandma died a horrible horrific death. Not epic. But horrible and horrific. Demented, alone. The other one too.

Sorry. Different behavioral patterns.

Surely the loo…?


Too fast?

Sorry guys, I only smear people if they don’t know I’m doing it. 

I strive to be a distant and removed stranger. I really do. But, ah, people do find me, if they find me. Doesn’t that make sense though? I’m not here to yell at anyone, even if they are kind of…


Do only philosophers understand what science is?

Guys. I really really need help with this one. I. Am polluting the atmosphere. What do I do about that? Just leave a comment below, thanks!

I totally fucking forgot about this song:

Good times.

I’m tired. Let’s be sincere for a moment: I hate writing. Ok goodbye.

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