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28471 No.1   [Reply]

Does crackyhouse want moar?

>> No.2  
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45570
>> No.3  

Not really

>> No.4  

only if u have n00dz

>> No.5  

>>1
Yes plz



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996091 No.1   [Reply]

This thread is for the sort of people who go to colleges and sit in the cafeteria dining area, waiting. They are reading a manga novel. Involuntarily, their eyes rise up from above the top of the novel, subconsciously scanning.

They are waiting for a female Japanese student to sit down at their table. And Lord, sweet Lord, when their lucky day comes - please give that student the strength to get up and walk away, consequences be damned. Because she will be in for the most excruciating time of her life.

These people will engage these poor students in conversation. They will drone on about how they have studied Japanese since 1989, and give a demonstration of this. They will talk about how they can write the language, and offer up a demonstration.

With a smile, they submit their demonic script up for the poor girl's approval. Maybe she can make out the message (usually, it is "kawaii" or "this is written Japanese!"). The torment does not stop there. They will talk about how they can read the language. And demand to demonstrate this.

These poor girls did not come to this university to write in Japanese. Especially not for thirty to fourty year old male strangers. But write they must. Both etiquette and fear demand it. The comment is written. The man will read it out loud, translate it, and smile at this poor trapped girl. He is like a puppy, waiting for a pat on the head. He may ask, did I get it right? His voice is calm, with a hint of forced pleasantness about it. All the girl can do is fake a sincere laugh of happiness at his linguistic prowess.

Sir! Stop it! She is not interested in you! All she really wants is to do is drink her coffee, have a bite to eat, and maybe read the paper until the next class starts or her friends show up or she has to catch the bus. She doesn't really want to listen to you calmly gush about your dubious accomplishments. She has a whole nation she can and probably will go back to. What you are offering is nothing special to her.

Watch this situation progress. He is talking about how much anime he has seen. She doesn't care about this. It isn't impressing her. It doesn't impress most people. He will ask her if she likes anime. She will give a non-commital yes. She might feverishly wrack her brain, trying to remember a series she saw when she was six years old. Six years old, sir. It has easily been over ten years since she might have even cared about anime. Mister, why do you persist in this?

Finally, some law of the universe comes into effect, and dictates that the conversation must end. He says he's "always here" (which is true - how he earns a living is a mystery) if she wants to ever talk again. She quickly shakes her head, gives a quick and near-stammered parting statement, and leaves.

He will never talk to her again. He may never see her again in the cafeteria. If she does appear, she won't acknowledge his presence at all. Deep down, he knows why this is. But he won't do anything about it. There is manga to read, anime to watch, Japanese girls to torment with his creepy inanity. Maybe he just enjoys this game, on a subconscious level. Or maybe he is no longer the one rolling the dice.

I watched this occur several times. I wish I did something about it.

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>> No.2  

tl:dr anime fags



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82301 No.1   [Reply]

Who says I can't have?
Closer come closer
One step closer to somewhere
Almost home
Almost home
My home
My house
One step closer to nowhere
This is happening...
In my house
Mine for now sing with me
Lovely sound
Sing with me
Strapped and tied
Sing with me
Latent thing
Someone's treasure crush
Cry for now
Lovely sound
Cry eat devour
Feel me eat
Feel me eat
Sing to me
Sing to me
Together we sing
Comely thing
Together we sing
Strapped and tied
Lovely bundle
Sing to me
Pretty thing
Talking thing
Someone's treasure crush
In my house
This is my house
Mine for now
This is happening...
I can't have?
Who says I can't have?
Closer come closer
Almost home
Almost home
One step closer to nowhere
Closer come closer
Almost home
Almost home
My home
My house
Basement

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>> No.2  
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I've got a bone to pick
Maybe it's yours
Someone said
If you worked hard enough
Ran fast enough
Learned enough
You would amount to something
Fail
Trying is not enough
I'll hold you way too long
It's cold when I touch you
A release
And everything you are is on the ground
Broken open and spilling
Leaves soak they drink
You are blood
That's all
Fail
Trying is not enough
I'll hold you way too long
It's cold when I'm near you
A release
And everything you are is on the ground
You are blood
That's all
Blood
Fail
Trying is not enough
I'll hold you way too long
It's cold when you're down
Release
And everything you are is on the ground
Broken, opened and spilling
Leaves soak they drink
You are blood
That's all
Fail
Trying is not enough
I dragged you too far down
It's cold when I release blood
A release
And everything you are is on the ground
Broken open and spilling
Leaves soak they drink
Blood
Fail
Trying is not enough
I held you way too long
It's cold when I'm near you
A release
And everything you are is on the ground
And everything you are is broken
Opened and spoiled the body
Fail
Trying is not enough
And there I am above you
I won't let go
It's cold when you are down
It's cold when I touch you
And there I am above you
Opened and spoiled
You were blood nothing more
Leaves were soaked
You were blood that's all
Opened and spoiled the body
You are blood nothing more
It's cold when I release blood
It's cold when you're down
I'll hold you way too long
I won't let go
It's cold when birds fall from the sky
It's cold when I'm near you
Fail
Trying is not enough

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>> No.3  

Crest fallen sidekick in an old cafe
Never slept with a dream before he had to go away
There's a bell in the tower
Uncle Ray bought a round
Don't worry about the army
In the cold cold ground
Now don't be a cry baby
When there's wood in the shed
There's a bird in the chimmney
And a stone in my bed
When the road's washed out
They pass the bottle around
And wait in the arms
Of the cold cold ground
Cold cold ground
There's a ribbon in the willow
And a tire swing rope
And a briar patch of berries
Takin over the slope
The cat'll sleep in the mailbox
And we'll never go to town
Til we bury every dream in
The cold cold ground
Cold cold ground
Gimme a Winchester rifle and a whole box of shells
Blow the roof off the goat barn
Let it roll down the hill
The piano is firewood
Times square is a dream
I find we'll lay down together in the cold cold ground
Cold cold ground
Cold cold ground
Call the cops on the Breedloves
Bring a bible and a rope
And a whole box of rebel
And a bar of soap
Make a pile of trunk tires
And burn 'em all down
Bring a dollar with you baby
In the cold cold ground
Cold cold ground
Take a weathervane rooster
Throw rocks at his head
Stop talking to the neighbors
Til we all go dead
Beware of my temper
And the dog that I've found
Break all the windows in the
Cold cold ground
Cold cold ground

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No.1   [Reply]

After a couple of hours more sleep it suddenly strikes me how much I resemble Proust's well-meaning but idiotic great-aunts in the hilarious scene that opens "A La Recherche Du Temps Perdu", who prove incapable of thanking Swann for his presents to them in any manner unsubtle and unallusive enough for Swann, or anyone else present, to be able to recognize that thanks are indeed being offered.

So, with unaccustomed brevity and directness: Thankyou, Ophelia; a ministering angel shalt thou be, when others (I'll name no names) lie howling. (Fuck, when I started writing that sentence twenty seconds ago, there really WEREN'T going to be any allusions, let alone any iambic pentameter, in it)

I've listened to the recording again and it has, of course, already engendered a slew of reprehensible (yes, I think I can say in this case actually criminally prosecutable) dreams and plans. I hesitate to outline any of them here because I couldn't fail to recognize, of course, just from my short glance at the Crackyhouse Lia threads, that your adoration is an art and a science in itself and that a neophyte springing enthusiastically in on the strength of a happy accident like your recording of my post is liable to commit any number of annoying and embarassing faux pas. A lengthy apprenticeship is obviously required in order to learn just HOW to be obsessed with you: the type of desires compatible (even in, or rather, I would suppose, precisely in, their unsatisfiability) with your nature, and the type of desires that would be recognized as stupid and hateful abuses of you even (and again here, most probably precisely and first and foremost) by your most heinous "abusers".

Yes, I doubt very seriously and sincerely whether I have, as yet, the right to feel or think or say anything at all about you, Lia (and this "as yet" is frankly likely to endure ad calendas graecas, since the "application for a transfer of my affections" from RavRav to you alluded to above would, of course, in reality be a shabby and pusillanimous thing, and statistics, as we know, show a considerably lesser incidence of pussilanimity and shabbiness amongst habitual child-molestors than amongst almost any other section of the population).

If the lia/rs and necrophi/lia/cs among you can forgive me for it, however, I'll give expression to this one idea and fantasy largely for the sake of its inherent entertainment value just as an idea and a prospect and yes, what the hell, just for the further opportunity it offers for a literary allusion or two:

I honestly can't help feeling that your mesmerizing voice was kind of wasted, Lia, on what were, in my view, some of the rather more strained and self-conscious of the by now many thousands of lines I've written here about RavRav. If you really do possess the Christ-like humility, the world-redeeming power of "kenosis", to subordinate your own nigh-legendary persona to the persona of another (really, much less eminent) young woman....well, I would absolutely love to hear you lend your voice and personality to some pieces I'm currently in the process of composing for Stephanie (although, now she's back with "the boyfriend", I wonder whether that gap in the dyke of her self-esteem that these were intended to plug now needs to be plugged at all (Jesus, the opportunities for vulgar punning that I'm going to let pass unexploited THERE!)).

I don't know you at all, Lia, but somehow already suspect very strongly that the pieces I'm referring to somehow wouldn't be your sort of thing in the least. They're intended to revivify and address that whole central erotic element of whatever it is that I "have" for (i won't say "with") RavRav, which is an element which is tending to get obscured and throttled by all this wordy baroque ironizing on my part about the fact of my "having" it. That is to say, it's precisely anything resembling humor, or beauty or complexity of diction, or ironically-exhibited scholarship, that I'll be doing my best to KEEP OUT of the pieces in question - and I suspect that it might have been just these latter elements, along with the more or less total absence of anything overtly suggestive of sexual need or desire, that made the post you chose to record an interesting and attractive one for you.

Still, the idea of your consenting to do what RavRav appears increasingly disinclined to do and imparting an element of living VOCALITY - sorry, I'm incorrigibly pre-Derridean in these matters - to this whole fantasy made of words on paper, or rather light on screens...well, it's an idea that excites me beyond all bounds.

As always, the excitement over it is inextricably sexual and more (or less) than sexual. There's something inherently intensely stimulating about that slinging-together (in a melting-pot, or perhaps more appropriately in a burial-pit) of different personae and personal identities that it would imply. I'm actually and unfortunately one of the small handful of heterosexual males alive today who WOULDN'T be noticeably sexually stimulated by the Lesbian implications and insinuations of your voice narrating overtly sexual events in the persona of Stephanie Turner (I don't know why exactly, but whatever "does it" sexually for me has to involve at least a significant element of tension and encounter between feminine and masculine principles - perhaps because I feel so incapable of providing that masculine principle myself). But there's a strong fascination and attraction for me in the idea all the same. Maybe it's just that entirely cerebral and aesthetic fascination of a motif that recurs again and again in Borges, and which he suggests to be one of the central secrets and mysteries lying at the foundations of the miracle of the works of Shakespeare. The one viable form in which there might actually be realized, Borges suggests, the perennial, beautiful, and necessary dream of a universal salvation is if every one of us had either already once lived, or were bound one day to live, the life, from beginning to end and in every detail, of every other.

Not that, in playing out my fantasies of her - fantasies that are probably based on LESS real information about the fantasized individual than most other fantasies in the long history of fantasy - you would in any way be "living her life", Lia. But, as I say, this image of you becoming ragged bits of her through the uncertain medium of ragged bits of me has a certain "mass-grave-at-Buchenwald" experimental aesthetic (and yes, OK, erotic) appeal for me that I wouldn't be surprised to see shared by other contributors to this board.

But no, as I write I become, once again, strongly and inhibitingly aware of how little right I have to address you in this way without having even begun the long apprenticeship of your adoration that I referred to. Let me end, then, at last, just by thanking you without allusions or circumlocutions for your lovely and charming gesture.

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>> No.16  
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No.1   [Reply]

The Stalker is a majestic tower at sunset, hoarding scarlet from the setting sun. No apertures mar its austere beauty, and clouds of birds spiral around it, falling upward like scattering leaves.
Ophelia is an aging geisha with honeyed lips and lilac tongue, whispering her delights to you with hushed voice a melody of clear song. She coyly blinks as if you were her first, but many before have discovered the secrets that lie beneath her kimono.
Cracky is a sheet of ice at the bottom of a jade vase. It is a whisper between the chirpings of crickets. It is the sunlight behind a gauzy cloud. It is a pearl nestled in the snow.

>> No.2  

I'd say Cracky isn't a secret anymore.

>> No.3  

also the writer sounds like a weeaboo



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32801 No.1   [Reply]
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>> No.14  
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>>13

An "uncommon"

>> No.15  
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>> No.16  
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>>15

yay! Any more?

>> No.17  
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No.1   [Reply]

lmfao

>> No.2  

its rude to post on other people's walls ;-;

>> No.3  

>>2
Haha



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712826 No.1   [Reply]
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>> No.8  
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279873
>> No.9  
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>> No.10  

old thread is old

>> No.11  

Anyways, >>1, please listen to me. That it's really related to this thread. I went to Dairy Queen a while ago; you know, Dairy Queen? Well anyways there was an insane number of people there, and I couldn't get in. Then, I looked at the banner hanging from the ceiling, and it had "Free ice cream" written on it. Oh, the stupidity. Those idiots. You, don't come to Dairy Queen just because there is free ice cream, fool. It's only free ice cream, FREE ICE CREAM for crying out loud. There're even entire families here. Family of 4, all out for some Dairy Queen, huh? How fucking nice. "Alright, daddy's gonna order the sundae." God I can't bear to watch. You people, I'll give you free ice cream if you get out of those seats. Dairy Queen should be a bloody place. That tense atmosphere, where two guys on opposite sides of the U-shaped table can start a fight at any time, the stab-or-be-stabbed mentality, that's what's great about this place. Women and children should screw off and stay home. Anyways, I was about to start eating, and then the bastard beside me goes "Cone, extra fudge." Who in the world orders extra fudge nowadays, you moron? I want to ask him, "do you REALLY want to eat it with extra fudge?" I want to interrogate him. I want to interrogate him for roughly an hour. Are you sure you don't just want to try saying "extra fudge"? Coming from a Dairy Queen veteran such as myself, the latest trend among us vets is this, blizzard with extra Kit-Kat. That's right, extra Kit-Kat. This is the vet's way of eating. Extra Kit-Kat means more Kit-Kat than ice cream. But on the other hand the price is a tad higher. This is the key. And then, it's delicious. This is unbeatable. However, if you order this then there is danger that you'll be marked by the employees from next time on; it's a double-edged sword. I can't recommend it to amateurs. What this all really means, though, is that you, >>1, should just stick with the banana split.

>> No.12  
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229203 No.1   [Reply]
>> No.2  
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5684 No.1   [Reply]
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>> No.6  

>>4
Copied and pasted three times and organised three times into; sets, chronological and one sweet pile. I choose which I go to by mood...

>> No.7  
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>>4
A mix between suede's, gackto's and my own folder (set) structure.

>> No.8  

>>7

Did you just post 000000.gif in my thread?

>> No.9  

>>4
Per set.

>> No.10  

>>8
No i didn't



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