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messed up lmfao. for moar go to
(via fuckyeahskinnyboys)

messed up lmfao. for moar go to

(via fuckyeahskinnyboys)





It’s not funny, really.

And the music drums deep in my ears, the giggling storms through my brain, a colorful bullet ripping through layers of skin, skull, useless lumps of flesh.

Scarlet-stained white gloves, neverending laughter and dim lights circling around; I just want to vomit. I want to get off,

you must be this sane to ride.—

Contra-auguste groans his lungs out of his mouth, pirouettes puke out the bits of sanity left inside.

Let the acid run up and burn your flesh,

let it burn your words and spit them out in the form of vomit.

Inhale the smell of rotting mankind, for you are the maggots feeding on it, laugh at your own misery; And if you can’t I’ll be your clown, I’ll stand there to cheer you on.

And I ask is this a joke?

because I’m not laughing.




Gaga in Japan

Nothing’s impervious, really.

Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank and of having nothing to do: humankind at her feet

stared upon the clearest example of purity.

Because before we all realize, we’ll be falling down our own rabbit hole and

tic-toc, tic-toc.

Be trapped into our own wonderland. A tea party of subsistence, a celebration of our own misplaced sense of beauty and gore. All what you thought was beautiful is gross, all what you thought was gross is impervious.

Until I wake up and realize this is just a dream; I’ll stand here and watch them fall, because in the end,

You’re nothing but a pack of cards.



It’s a replica, really.

And one after another, we drop out of a womb into our mindless corruption. Like some kind of industrial factory, mindlessly racing to surpass a set amount of product.

Because we are all product. Yet we like to think of ourselves highly.

Since the first dropped out of a womb,

the first dropped out on all of us. Let us down and condemned

our already-otiose continuance.

But we wear our pretexts, and pretend everything’s just fucking swell. Ever since we walked this planet, we gained this assumed sense of superiority over any other living creature on it.

Cleopatra, used crushed carmine beetles to give a deep scarlet color to her lips. Shimmering lipstick was originally made with pearlescence found in fish scales. The majestically awe-inspiring Queen of Egypt, masked on the dead carcasses of small animals.

Geishas in Japan, used to apply nightingale excrement on their face to achieve a lighter complexion. Beautiful grace and allure built on shit.

Just after all we’re all built on corpses, shit and waste.

Everything we’ve ever accomplished is because of something else’s sacrifice.

There,there. Stop crying, smear out your eyeliner.

They’re all a paragon, really.

And it’s because of our lack of humbleness, our lack of self-acceptance and the improbability of being at peace with our current endowments.

Around the first century B.C., plastic surgery was already being practiced by Romans. Nose, lips and teeth repair for cosmetic purposes, Physician Cornelius Celsius practiced the procedures of circumcision reversal and male breast reduction.

Because since the dawn of time, none of us are enough, because since the human race appeared, a nonsensical stress for competition also did. And our shallow selves.

And the things that really need surgery can’t be helped

because we can’t be helped and our whole existence is a disgusting urinal, and we are the flies swerving around to lick the puddles of piss.

Give me an absurdity reduction, how much is a superficiality transplant?

I want my self-acceptance done, how much is a hollow-plasty?

Fuck this shallow world, and fuck me for being helplessly abducted into it.

I don’t care what the fuck you say, we all care about our perpetually vomit-provoking appearance.



It’s a fake, really.

Because honestly, I’m a lie, and everything that shaped me into the fake I am. But don’t feel sorry; so are you.

When you hold a seashell up to your ear you can hear what some claim to be the ocean. It’s pleasant to think that an object as simple as a seashell can trap in the essence of the sea and liberate it on demand when you hold it up. A beautiful chime of waves freed for your own selfish enjoyment. Truth is what you really hear is the amplified echo, the sound of the blood running through the vessels in your ear.

Everything you always thought was beautiful is a romanticized version of the raw and ugly truth.

Because we’d rather mask what’s real with something that’s beautiful, put liquid foundation on your bruises, paint your split open lips with Wild Orchid #43.

Put expensive shoes over your calloused feet. Chemically exterminate your unwanted hair hue.

Hold a seashell up to your ear and tell yourself you’re hearing the ocean.

It’s oneiric, really.

To attempt to control totalitarian control over other or oneself. It’s a self-spreading disease, virus.

Although the easy way out would be to admonish others for our own acquisitiveness. The first documented case of cancer was noted by an English doctor, who in 1775 discovered that prostate cancer, was rather not rare amongst chimney sweepers.

And if only those people would’ve left our chimneys dirty.

And if only those people just didn’t have chimneys.

Those men would’ve lived, fed their families, contribute to society’s slow yet imminent decay.

Because everything is a direct consequence of a cause, and humans, people.

are the direct consequence of misfortune.

I wouldn’t mind not cleaning my chimney. Most individuals just like to admonish others with their own dirt.

Blame me for your mistakes, I’ll blame you for mine.



self portrait comic imagery for selfish enjoyment.
Andy Dickhol chapter 1. Took me 30 mins in PS.

self portrait comic imagery for selfish enjoyment.

Andy Dickhol chapter 1. Took me 30 mins in PS.

It’s futile, really.

And it really is when you think about it.

According to suicide statistics, Monday is the number one day to blow out your brains. Just when you think “Fuck I don’t like Mondays.” There is always, always, someone who will hate it more or less than you.



and there’s always someone there, and you’re most likely the miserable middle, the one bastard who couldn’t conform to an extreme and played it safe by just staying warm,

not cold, nor hot.

And in the back of my mind I’m trying to recall the one line my grandmother used to unconciously repeat. Some Jesus bullshit. Some fictional barf.

These people feed my ire, and I feel like the scum on the edges of a dirty toilet.