nugatory or purgatory  

somethingelse40 74M
2738 posts
3/16/2006 4:44 am

Last Read:
8/24/2006 3:05 pm

nugatory or purgatory


... with bells on ...

... so you can hear me when I cum ...

savvy this computer! ;!;

essentially an essential epistolary on how I got Buddhaized and back home again by six, in a kodak moment ... yet in no way in some otherwise validly conceivable way in a fuckin' New York Minute

the first of no telling how many more or less equally insignificant installments

Y’all cum now, yah heah?

Incidentally it's now been rather summarily calculated no less that a New York minute is somehow somewhat rather inexplicably roughly equivalent to precisely the lapse of time between the precise instance that the Old Manhattan intersectional stoplight in front of you returns to green before the driver behind you toots his rather obnoxious sounding horns or other tacky and rather alarming gismos of relatively heavy artillery in an incredibly ominous, profound, inveterate and continuous rage of otherwise unfathomable mystery. Indeed my liege, alas 'twas somewhat similar Way Down Yonder in New Orleans, Ole Man River Town ... back before the rather bad breath and indubitably quite horrible disposition of Katrina.

At the rather extreme risk of essentially repeating myself on essentially overarching sentiments, perhaps over emphasizing certain rather quaintly credible and incredible details, I’ve finally decided to just go all out and go ahead and let it all hang out, although generally quite frankly most of mine just tends generally to just sort of generally hang over, if you get my drift? All things considered and being somewhat unequal, I haven’t yet decided whether I’m a fictional writer or a non-fictional smuttier; perhaps neither in a professional sense … nor indeed with any kind of sense at all?

Let’s see now, I was born in a log cabin …
Oh No!
That was my other life.

Sometimes you'll notice I can't seem to resist a rather notable quote that somehow seems to hit me between the eyes, as seems to be the case here, and perhaps it could be notable for others as well:

When one's self is hidden from everybody else ... it seems also to become hidden from himself, and it permits disease and death to gnaw into his substance without his clear knowledge.
-- Sidney Journal

Where are you, self???

Contrary to some rather tacky rumors and speculations, I did not simply fall off of a turnip truck. I was born in a house. By the time the local shaman, old Dr. Uncle OK, stick out your tongue and say ahh, came around and finally decided that I might live, he scribbled a few notes on the back of an old envelope, then patted me on the butt and drove off in his rather sleek and black Model A, that is after consuming a rather nice country dinner of pork chops and turnip greens and tater pie. Come to find out the back of that envelope was essentially indecipherable; inside was a bill: don't know if it ever got paid or not. Nobody could read the doctor’s handwriting including the doctor himself for a few minutes after it got cold. We didn’t think too much about it at the time, but that rather illegible scribbling on the back of that old envelope was actually a rather rough, a very rough draft for my “official” birth certificate.

We had no idea what it was good for until several years later when the Selective Service came snooping around looking for young males somewhere between the ages of can and can’t. Confidentially, some of them were looking for young females as well. Normally they just didn’t wanna abduct anybody who had no proof of birth. You might run into a similar problem when you go to apply for some of that double indemnity alien abduction insurance. Don’t leave home without it! But then when it does happen you might have even a tougher problem in proving you had been legitimately abducted rather than somehow just mysteriously bumped off for the insurance money. Yet on a closer somewhat precursory examination my “official” birth certificate says I was born horny and breathing quite heavily, with an occasional smile on my face. Standby for elucidation … if that’s what you wanna call it?

The natural world is a spiritual house. . . . Man walks there through forests of spiritual things, that watch him with affectionate looks.
-- Charles Baudelair

to be continued (at least I hope I’m not about ready to kick the bucket) and perhaps read at your own better judgment

Almost everything you do will be insignificant, but it is important that you do it.
-- Mohandas Gandhi

Remind me to clue you in on the cats and my endowment?

Man is in love
And loves what vanishes
What more is there to say?

-- W.B. Yeats

It is extraordinary how extraordinary the ordinary person is.
-- George F. Will

overall score: {=} /8 only one sucks



ella1966 50F
1528 posts
3/27/2006 4:39 am

So you weren't in a New York State of Mind?

Boy, dear fellow you need visitors to post comments on here real bad, don't ya?

ella X


somethingelse40 replies on 3/29/2006 12:17 am:
I never get in a New York State of Mind. Well, I wouldn’t call it that even if I did. I’d just call it generally pissed.

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