tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22303310761662358992024-02-08T12:14:16.923-08:00Poetic DepravityAlexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07271434705383361486noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230331076166235899.post-11864595679202842162011-10-15T14:30:00.000-07:002011-10-15T14:32:37.932-07:00A preview of Unknown AtrocityUnknown Atrocity will contain new editions of my previous works Fragmentary Annihilation and Meditations on Ero-Guro plus a new work by the name of Cathartic Dreams. Below is a preview of how Cathartic Dreams is turning out. I hope to have it out Around November/December in a strictly limited print run and on Amazon Kindlge for $1.<div><br /></div><div><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size:22.0pt">The beginning, middle, and end.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size:22.0pt"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Gods: A pair of sisters of disparate ages. One of the brink of puberty and one in almost full bloom. A natural beauty recalling Roman statues still gaudy with neon paint that have yet to age and become even more ravishing. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">There were once a family of gods owing to continual ritualistic incest and sacrifices. Depictions of which would be unjust and inconclusive unless you’ve lost everything and looked up at the sun from a mud pit. To someone who has nothing the inconsequential can be mountainous and life-changing. For them incest and butchery were an every day occurrence bereft with minute hassle eventually leading to the usual drama, usual treachery, usual madness and therefore the usual suicidal plunge ending in Pyrrhic victory. What other fancies could describe the mundane?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The two sisters were all that remained and they went on a voyage to the sea; walking atop water, worshipped by no creature, promised no gift of speech to win a far off love, but into fog and blue set dressings. With each step they are being modified physically and mentally. A new neuro-peptide starts and finishes at each heart beat. The flesh becomes something more than human, lacking any flaw, and lacking less and less any existential ponder on the good and badness created. As though the air was an invisible chisel their bodies are enlarged and all the same become more refined. An increased height and hair length, skin becoming evermore bronze and reflective, and pairs of grossly enlarged tits like a Mona Lisa at a strip club. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Pardon my fantasies. Eventually the sisters arrive at a massive door, blueness shifts to grey then a phospherence like there being enough cum to turn to fog. The door opens, they enter, nothing.</p></div>Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07271434705383361486noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230331076166235899.post-34465821475195545332010-07-05T22:34:00.001-07:002010-07-05T22:34:31.888-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; color: rgb(68, 68, 68); line-height: 19px; "><p style="outline-width: 0px; outline-style: none; outline-color: initial; margin-top: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-right: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">My second legit book. Following Fragmentary Annihilation. A collection of scenarios and brief poems in examination of Erotic and Grotesque things. No appropriate category available. </span></p><p style="outline-width: 0px; outline-style: none; outline-color: initial; margin-top: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-right: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></p><p style="outline-width: 0px; outline-style: none; outline-color: initial; margin-top: 10px; margin-bottom: 0px !important; margin-right: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><a href="http://www.scribd.com/doc/33944956/Meditations-on-Ero-Guro" style="outline-width: 0px; outline-style: none; outline-color: initial; margin-top: 0px !important; "></a></span><a href="http://www.scribd.com/doc/33944956/Meditations-on-Ero-Guro" style="outline-width: 0px; outline-style: none; outline-color: initial; margin-bottom: 0px !important; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">http://www.scribd.com/doc/33944956/Meditations-on-Ero-Guro</span></a></p></span>Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07271434705383361486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230331076166235899.post-28541198169525496522010-06-28T22:40:00.001-07:002010-06-28T22:42:01.971-07:00UpcomingI've decided to continue typing up other obscure and great works. I think the next project will be The Black Mirror: Selected Poems by Roger Gilbert Lecomte.Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07271434705383361486noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230331076166235899.post-67370952208048776312010-06-28T22:38:00.000-07:002010-06-28T22:40:04.407-07:00Overman and A New Man (Remix Fix)<div>I forgot I had a blog.</div><div><br /></div><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/oGKTpwJcmGU&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/oGKTpwJcmGU&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><div><br /></div><div><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/OrYlXlM05eg&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/OrYlXlM05eg&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></div>Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07271434705383361486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230331076166235899.post-85741347684197364942010-05-27T17:35:00.000-07:002010-05-27T17:36:38.520-07:00Preview of the next book: Mediations of Euro Guro<div><br /></div><div><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-fareast- mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-fareast-language:EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SAfont-family:SimSun;font-size:12.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">It has become clear now, upon witnessing a self-disemboweling tiger, along with a million other plagiarisms and a million other unimportant lives; Hitler was right. With the promise of looking down from an Empire of infinity; mannequins in shop windows thrown onto the fires, cheered on by beggars with tongues amputated. All bodies broken, no longer needed, there is no more eternity, only union for cripples, awash in acid showers like tears from a Rockefeller. There is no society. There is no me. There exists on only feeling -truly dread- as if drowning in an orgy.</span></span></span></div>Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07271434705383361486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230331076166235899.post-61079910761999422882009-07-23T20:31:00.000-07:002009-07-23T20:32:10.133-07:00Something bold<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10px; white-space: pre; "><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Rhz3o_m-MFE&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Rhz3o_m-MFE&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></span>Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07271434705383361486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230331076166235899.post-861827273518868912009-01-24T22:31:00.001-08:002009-01-24T22:31:38.728-08:00Something new<object width="480" height="295"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/VLe8S_XurPU&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/VLe8S_XurPU&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="295"></embed></object>Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07271434705383361486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230331076166235899.post-29542028429422938482009-01-19T15:47:00.001-08:002009-01-19T16:08:11.907-08:00The EyesAn upload of Jesus Ignacio Aldapuerta's The Eyes on Scribd:<br /><a href="http://www.scribd.com/doc/10949760/The-Eyes-ByJesus-Ignacio-Aldapuerta"><br />http://www.scribd.com/doc/10949760/The-Eyes-ByJesus-Ignacio-Aldapuerta</a><br /><br />Born into a deeply pious Catholic family in Madrid, Jesus Ignacio Aldapuerta grew up into one of the most extreme exponents of scatological literature the world has ever seen. A devoted disciple of the Marquis de Sade who, some believe, surpassed the ferocity of his master both in print and in reality. If to read all the stories of the Arabian Nights is, in fable, to die, then to read all the stories of Aldapuerta's infamous The Eyes is, perhaps in fact, to become mad, or worse: they present a universe in which Hell, abolished by Aldapuerta's fervent atheism, is created anew by his minute rendering of horrors perhaps too vivid and immediate to be wholly creations of the imagination.<br /><br />These are the unblinking eyes in which Aldapuerta mirrors the foulness and corruption of our collapsing world, and the worse horrors that stir at its ruined foundations. More than stories, they are the apocalyptic scriptures of an atheist madman who worshiped at a shrine dedicated in blood and semen to both Eros and Thanatos. Once read, they will be with you always.<br /><br />WARNING: CONTAINS MATERIAL OF AN EXPLICIT NATURE<br /><br />Published by Creation books, and now a rare and expensive find. If you can; please purchase a copy of this book and support Creation, which have done a superb job in supplying the rare and bizarre in literature.<br /><br />...<br /><br />For those still interested, I have uploaded Fragmentary Annihilation through Scribd as well:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.scribd.com/doc/10950765/Fragmentary-Annihilation-by-Alexander">http://www.scribd.com/doc/10950765/Fragmentary-Annihilation-by-Alexander</a><br /><br />I am working on something new and more interactive. But Fragmentary is not yet finished, something for that should be coming along.<br /><br />"The correct way for a person to die is to die by giving hope and promise of the overman to those around him. The second best way for a person to die, Zarathustra teaches, is to die fighting."<br /><br />I'm not dead yet.Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07271434705383361486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230331076166235899.post-79824353446032934182008-11-29T15:30:00.000-08:002009-01-19T16:19:15.288-08:00Fragmentary Annihiliation releasedAvailable for <b><i><u>FREE</u></i></b> download here<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.megaupload.com/?d=A5HF1OO2" target="_blank">http://www.megaupload.com/?d=A5HF1OO2</a><br /><br />Scribd version: <a href="http://www.scribd.com/doc/10950765/Fragmentary-Annihilation-by-Alexander">http://www.scribd.com/doc/10950765/Fragmentary-Annihilation-by-Alexander</a><br /><br />The only way I could possibly describe it, trying as much as humanly possible to refrain from what could be perceived as pretension, or the old bull shit of 'I am the great Artist that needs not explain his work, but gives this gift to the peon masses'. I can only say it's a succession of images, like prose poetry, like Naked Lunch or The Atrocity Exhibition.<br /><br />Excerpt:<br /><br />The individual is born.<br /><br />The Great Individual: A handsome face stabbed and re-worked, a screaming face that spits. A tongue made from human faces, winking as it clicks and smiling as it lies. Here is what I give you, our god and master, your prophet and mentor, your martyr and rapist, your saint and chameleon, this Tao of pain and creation. Here, I am a man that wreaks their brain to create something, only to see another summit to surpass. White hands with short fingernails, palms are painted with tar, every fine hair has been plucked; no imperfection shall dampen a fine cannibalistic meal this moment in time I take from you, how well you feed me with blood and brains. There I am as a man that rapes the earth; I take your little joys and little death and will transform them into far greater things, through art and crucifixion. The torso is my mirror; here the roach may survive without a head till the end of time, the well of vice and greatness. Each body hair upon you is a wire brimming with electricity, to touch me would be enlightenment and to die for a cause. But there I am as someone who struggles, one that creates everything and becomes nothing. The legs are great serpents without need for genitals; they wrap around you and caress, be enlightened and look into my tongue. The feet are defiled with shit, the perfume attracts herds of animals, and each toenail is infinite and is marked with the portraits of saints and madmen. A nasal cavity deep and violent, as ethereal as a rain forest while stealing your oxygen. And now these eyes, red and deformed about to burst then and now from the strain of knowing, knowing I and you, and it is dead.<br /><br />The Individual caresses an emaciated torso atop a Gray planet. Stars bloom, a smile brings on erect legs to swoon such a torso, unity in great things: an idea and a mutilated body.Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07271434705383361486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230331076166235899.post-66387860958741135302008-08-31T01:40:00.001-07:002008-09-15T15:29:25.457-07:00Fragmentary AnnihilationMy next work will be my last. It will feature a revised version of Sacred, along with some new material. I have given all I can to writing, and have found this work to my pinnacle of what I can create. As for right now writing bores me greatly, in having to render what is the most Devine (The Image) in a primitive thing such as language.<br /><br />I will move on to film. What that yields is anyone's guess.<br /><br />Fragmentary Annihilation will be released in a limited paper back of 50 copies. It will be autographed and may include a CD of Spoken Word material and some astounding music by a friend of mine. The price will be about $14 and that would include shipping.<br /><br />We'll see what happens from then on.Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07271434705383361486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230331076166235899.post-91506200294188922952007-08-15T13:08:00.000-07:002008-08-31T01:55:29.579-07:00Sacredgone. links expired.Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07271434705383361486noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230331076166235899.post-20593817503491806772007-08-15T13:06:00.000-07:002008-08-31T01:53:19.206-07:00A Trip Through My PsycheremovedAlexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07271434705383361486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230331076166235899.post-87017299590109759522007-08-15T13:02:00.000-07:002008-08-31T01:53:43.652-07:00FinaleremovedAlexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07271434705383361486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230331076166235899.post-47914682114771538952007-08-15T12:53:00.001-07:002008-08-31T01:54:04.543-07:00A Return<div class="deleteBody">removed<br /><p style="color: rgb(119, 119, 119);" class="postBody"><br /></p><p style="color: rgb(119, 119, 119);" class="postBody">Notes:<br />human. </p> </div>Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07271434705383361486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230331076166235899.post-11796344130968801932007-08-11T21:41:00.000-07:002008-08-31T01:55:02.414-07:00edit<span style=";font-family:";font-size:12;" >gone are the insipid. At last survives indifference.<br /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -1in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:12;" ></span></p><span style=""></span>Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07271434705383361486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230331076166235899.post-87309657133944437922007-08-11T17:23:00.001-07:002007-08-11T17:23:50.926-07:00Two automatic passageswith emaciated bodies, intestines and brains laid by the roadside, <br />starved and beaten, what a splendid cruelty; to see and not feel, <br />such as your voyeur and shepherd. Woe be unto you who plants a pistol in the earth, and woe be unto the pretentious who use such phrases. There 'be gold in them mountains and bullets in those corpses. Among ravages, among rivers of urea, there 'be your virgin mary penetrated. Down amongst fallen teeth dung beetles pushes along balls of excreta made by refugees shot in the head and gullet, what a sight to watch when insect-janitors scavenge such human wreckage.<br /><br />Let there be a new mankind that dies and is reborn, then remembers what is bullshit.<br /><br />...***...<br /><br />A bum sleeps it off atop a potted plant, people continue on relentless meaningless speech. Obese woman with ripe ass, face riddled with acne like she were stung by hungry wasps needing a new oil. Screaming at another from far off, rage bellows and ricochets. A match is lit and falls on white hands, skin boils up into a bubble and ruptures, pot marked hands with millimeter deep wounds. People stand and scream at the sky, giant hand with sewing needle skewers those standing, needle forced into nasal cavity with cold efficiency, blood is sneezed upward. Cunt spread open, pink life forms rave onward, they look like the fusion of wolves, frogs, elephants and toads<br /><br />Of what is asymmetrical. So says the zeitgeist of the modern eraAlexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07271434705383361486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230331076166235899.post-1588746175123412212007-08-04T14:27:00.000-07:002007-08-04T14:29:52.071-07:00Sacred (Beta) cover artBeta cover art:<br /><br /><center><br /><a href="http://i15.photobucket.com/albums/a378/Jak00125/abusedwoman3.jpg" target="_blank"><br /><img src="http://i15.photobucket.com/albums/a378/Jak00125/th_abusedwoman3.jpg" /></a><br /></center>Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07271434705383361486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230331076166235899.post-54250698219910510222007-07-31T21:02:00.000-07:002007-07-31T21:08:34.430-07:00Sacred extractOne (relatively) small piece from Sacred. Officially my second book. I would say about 90% of the work is complete; only minor things need be added plus additional cover art.<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">“The girl screamed. The murderer laughs like made, she begs, he takes out a large knife. She prays, tears rolling from her eyes, a bone-crunching sound is heard. A shot from the policeman’s nine-millimeter pistol, the fatal shot to the head of the murderer. She pleads to her hero ‘I just want to go home’ “<br /><br />“This novel is my masterpiece,” said an eleven year-old boy struggling to become a horror writer, the author of the above paragraph. He has had two short stories published in very, very small fanzines and he has posted four more on the Internet. This “masterpiece” is a typical slasher story; so typical it would’ve been rejected for a Friday The 13th screenplay. He shows the novel to his boyfriends, and they love it. This Naïve boy who is devout to the followers of a passion-less manifesto, when the novel is sold to a large publishing house and it does all right on the market. People for the most part are simplistic and desire to be left un-challenged.<br /><br />I write myself in, “Naïve boy, you must challenge people.” he screams that he does not want to, that he only wants to be a jester, to be remembered for his entertainment. I retaliate, “True, that after your death people will remember you, but for only a shot period of time, fifteen minutes to be exact if we are to follow Warholla and his pretension. For decades after no one will care about your rotten corpse that the worm defecates upon, and they won’t give a damn about your work either; yet we always remember the pariah’s who wish to change the world and to show us glory whether introverted or extroverted.” A critic descends, casting me as perverted and unworthy. I will show misanthropy personified, this is the catalyst to view a new art such as the atrocity which inspires hope, pain, and numbness:<br /><br />In a room of turquoise blue we watch three figures through an iris window, looking out from within my two eyes. A man dressed like an aristocrat except for a black hood that hides his face who stands between a blonde-haired girl no older then seventeen trying to cover herself, and her mother with matching hair; whose limbs are chained to the concrete ceiling, holding her several feet in the air. Both are of course nude (for nudity echoes mutual fear, to be uncovered and filleted by wicked spears). The daughter cries, her hands blocking out her pubic hair. The aristocrat who does not show his face brandishes a very clean and defined sickle with a metallic handle painted yellow. The mother is silent. A portrait ten feet by ten feet descends attached to two near-invisible strings, almost a foot or two just above the mother’s skull. This portrait is in fact an enlarged photograph tainted (artistically) in sepia; the image becomes visible, showing off a victim of Ed Gein’s immortalized by her violation. Gein, one of the first American serial killers: his victim, this aged woman that hangs by her lifeless feet chained by ankles, torn open from anus to chest much like a hunter would give to a dear while the head is missing from this body. It is so beautiful yet so horrific that you’d think Dali would masturbate to it. The executioner tilts his skull slightly upward for which beams of light shine on him, thereupon a bent halo tears through his eyes and hangs above the skull; suddenly two large wings rip through his back and these wings are plastered with lined paper which drip ink. From this man’s spine the epitome of Goodness wrings loose from him, born form the pores of skin and showing its innocent flesh to human eyes. Goodness emerges as a limbless dwarf with empty, plastic bottles planted in its mouth. It’s Asiatic (recalling Shinto) skin turns violet from the exposure to oxygen, no longer shelled within polluted man, crawling slowly like the wounded slug while it approaches the child and rapes her with it’s bottles, to give her pleasure, for that is mutually good to the corrupt individual. The sickle approaches the mother, her child still is watching with a penetrated cunt magnified by a see-through bottle:<br /><br />The sickle (moving upward) penetrates the asshole by six inches, and then a slow lift approaches; working in a see-saw motion, the blade moving quickly; slowly tearing through the outer wall of the cunt, tearing through stomach. Torn en half. The mother is dead.<br /><br />The boy and the critic vomit in unison, I speak, “You see how I’ve made art out of a tragedy? Showing how our world is a constant mirror, I have taken a man who wanted to fuck his mother out of love and hate. He wore the flesh of his victims much as the same as we wear masks; whereas he wore them to become what he wanted to be, we wear a mask to be acceptable. And, by that dismembered woman we witness the birth of new pleasures, and new freedom. The mask becomes our weapon, and the trophy is our freedom.”<br /><br />“You’re sick!” the boy screams.<br /><br />“No, you’ve glorified Gein’s crime for your own profit. Simply creating a series of violent episodes does not make you a writer, it makes you a pornographer” said the critic.<br />I speak again, “I don’t give a damn if I’m right or wrong. I will change people by showing them our world simply as it is; deep down inside they know this is true! It is all a reflection of our corrupt universe that offers no solace but a blind faith while the elites continue on in murder and monopoly, while faith has only given us shit and democides.”<br /><br />“What is true? Showing men committing bestiality? Saying there is no God? You’re nothing but a hack wishing to gain attention for his crimes!” said the critic.<br /><br />“What crimes? This is everyday violence; you simply ignore it and refer to it as a tragedy. It is no tragedy; this is the way of life. Social Darwinism prophesized by the divine Marquis De Sade! To do away with it is to do away with the society that created it, a solution through artistic genocide.” I speak again.<br /><br />“I sincerely doubt that the essence of Good is a crippled dwarf, or champions of capital punishment fuck on a mountain in celebration. This is obscene. Enough of your ‘mirrored’ world, people want the truth” said the critic.<br /><br />In defiance, “I am giving it to them”<br /><br />The critic shakes his head, bemused. I speak once more, “You hate people like me don’t you? It is of course obscene but people need obscenity! Enough of this cushy world where imaginary characters are created to live in a tedious cycle of life and death, enough of these anecdotal biographies written exclusively for money, enough of everything that rebuilds people as puppets meant to follow the words of an invented prophet. We NEED work that will fuckin’ murder our glee and take with it our restraining morals. To gut punch us and implant it’s terrible voice in us” foaming from the mouth “We need violence to show violence! There must be this conclusion, the end of the moral coda and the end of the meaningless life, as with it the end of meaning. No more a truth to be found, that Absolution may only be a word to satiate the herd while men lie and give of them selves to nothing, and they die for nothing. Only in the extremes may we find what we have ignored, the Gray. Love and hate, horror and the paradise, are the same. No different to fly or fall.”<br /><br />The critic gives a good review of the boy’s work. They quickly undress and begin to fuck like student and teacher.<br /> “True that at times I must exaggerate my point, violence may be my one way of reaching you that is available to me.” I collapse, the critic and the boy still going at it. I laugh a little now when thinking of the readers who were captured, amused, or who masturbated to these words.</span>Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07271434705383361486noreply@blogger.com0