Scene: Night. Chill air. Bare concrete strewn with trash and empty bottles. Brick walls crawling with old dust. A square of raw chipboard doubles as a tool rack, rusted nails supporting screwdrivers, pliers, scraps of twisted metal. One lone fighter moving through the steps of the dance under the bare rafters and cheap white light, hands gloved in
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:O
*SHOCKED, MORTIFIED, FORCED TO SPEAK IN ALL CAPS, CAN ONLY BE CURED BY FORMAL PHOTOS*
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I love it when you write, m'darling.
... Oh, Catch has better treat Magritte right XD
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Trust me, she will. Asexual? Nevah.
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I don't know where you got that idea from, my dear.
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See, I'm faced with a dilemma here. I want to give the punching bag a name, but here's the thing.. do I give it a name I like, because it's a Cool Thing, or do I give it a name of something I don't like, because it's a Thing I Beat The Crap Out Of, or do I give it two names and thus be directly responsible for its schizophrenia? Help, say I!
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No, seriously. I'm sorry I was kinda short with you on the phone, my dad was being a shit. Next time. Realleh. <3
(Also; yay randomness. :D)
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http://pers-www.wlv.ac.uk/~fa1871/surrext.html
Dadaism seems much in line with discordianism, sort of fnord.
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As for your story, well, we all knew what I'd think about that. ;]
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