The pit.

luka

Well-known member
Staff member
That's definitely the most important victory, that initial one of giving yourself permission. Going, I'm not actually paste. My life has value. Im involved
 

kumar

Well-known member
having said that theres loads of times doing your thing feels like a complete slog and wasted effort and you seem to receive sign after convincing sign that its high time you hang up your boots
 

luka

Well-known member
Staff member
Of course. And no one pays any attention is remotely interested or sees any reason to take what you do seriously. Which is disheartening, war of attrition, you have to be bloody minded and vicious in defence of your own self image
 

kumar

Well-known member
clearly there is something pretty stinking about the thought of a society comprised of millions of weirdos hunkering down in the respective bunkers putting the finishing touches to their lifes work rather than becoming empathetic nurses or school teachers
 

kumar

Well-known member
one person i have been very inspired by recently is bfb da packman who has said many times that he is still a 9-5 postman and only bootstrapped his recent success by spamming celebrity accounts on twitter with his music
 

luka

Well-known member
Staff member
@Corpsey have you ever thought of devoting your life to studying and explicating the works of Luka? You could be the worlds leading scholar. You could write the definitive account
 

luka

Well-known member
Staff member
Ive helpfully provided a few pages of pithy quotations to get you started. Single scoop sweeteners
 

WashYourHands

Well-known member
The pit. It’s in everyone’s soul. Everyone gets touched by it or pulled into it to varying degrees. Uncle Fester, as an ex called it. If I stay away from booze, ballast rights itself. These last few smouldering summers have been primo cold drink seasons and what’s better than popping a bottle or 3 of your favourite poisons on such days?

Summer 1998. Similar scenario. In the arboretum with mates. Bag of tinnies tucked out of the sunlight. Pop the first can. Mmmmm, tastes of......cold. Glug away. Everything’s fine. Sun block on, ”x” is due with some gear too. Christ that first one was deliciously cold. What about another? Just one more (LIAR, YOU’RE LYING TO YOURSELF). Is there a more honourable way to serve the sun god? Grip a glass off the table next to us. Pour slowly, keep the head to a minimum. Civilised. Feel myself perking up, sitting upright now as the (STFU YOU SELF DELUDING CUNT) first one hits the subliminal threshold. Lovely day today. Look at the sky (YEAH YEAH, YOU KNOW WHAT’S COMING, DON’T YOU CUNT). Play keepy-ups with mates for ten minutes, get up to 20 and give up. Student lasses for miles. Where are my beers? Bust another ring-pull back, a magical sound. Enchantment through acoustics. Flop back in the chair and .....fade to black.

Wake up the next day. Something’s immediately wrong. Blood on the pillow. You what? Can’t think. Wherewhowhathowwhy? Try to reach my phone. Arm and hand trembles, grazed knuckles and I can taste blood too, pain coming in from above my eyebrow, cheek and lips. Fuck, must have banged into something. Can’t focus. Feel crumpled metal by my knee, is that a can? Spot a wrap on the bedside table. Jesus. Peer into the phone to attempt a decryption of memory loss. Oh no: “You fucking cock, no need for all of that was there. We’re all banned from the Vernon now and Mexxy‘s in central’s cells. Don’t phone. You’ve got a problem. Fix it”.

3 beers a year or less since (including the millennium), pit not remotely as regular.
 

Linebaugh

Well-known member
thats just a training phase that started and ends this year though. it would be cool to do something eventually that's like hymnen for the internet era.
you should drop the link in as your sig. its good! would have liked to stumble on it earlier
 

Mr. Tea

Shub-Niggurath, Please
Staff member
The pit. It’s in everyone’s soul. Everyone gets touched by it or pulled into it to varying degrees. Uncle Fester, as an ex called it. If I stay away from booze, ballast rights itself. These last few smouldering summers have been primo cold drink seasons and what’s better than popping a bottle or 3 of your favourite poisons on such days?

Summer 1998. Similar scenario. In the arboretum with mates. Bag of tinnies tucked out of the sunlight. Pop the first can. Mmmmm, tastes of......cold. Glug away. Everything’s fine. Sun block on, ”x” is due with some gear too. Christ that first one was deliciously cold. What about another? Just one more (LIAR, YOU’RE LYING TO YOURSELF). Is there a more honourable way to serve the sun god? Grip a glass off the table next to us. Pour slowly, keep the head to a minimum. Civilised. Feel myself perking up, sitting upright now as the (STFU YOU SELF DELUDING CUNT) first one hits the subliminal threshold. Lovely day today. Look at the sky (YEAH YEAH, YOU KNOW WHAT’S COMING, DON’T YOU CUNT). Play keepy-ups with mates for ten minutes, get up to 20 and give up. Student lasses for miles. Where are my beers? Bust another ring-pull back, a magical sound. Enchantment through acoustics. Flop back in the chair and .....fade to black.

Wake up the next day. Something’s immediately wrong. Blood on the pillow. You what? Can’t think. Wherewhowhathowwhy? Try to reach my phone. Arm and hand trembles, grazed knuckles and I can taste blood too, pain coming in from above my eyebrow, cheek and lips. Fuck, must have banged into something. Can’t focus. Feel crumpled metal by my knee, is that a can? Spot a wrap on the bedside table. Jesus. Peer into the phone to attempt a decryption of memory loss. Oh no: “You fucking cock, no need for all of that was there. We’re all banned from the Vernon now and Mexxy‘s in central’s cells. Don’t phone. You’ve got a problem. Fix it”.

3 beers a year or less since (including the millennium), pit not remotely as regular.
Don't be too hard on yourself. This sort of thing is probably inevitable for anyone who has a mate called Mexxy.
 
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