/lit/ - Literature

uh......
>woke up at 12pm
>smoke weed and sit in bed reading news
>keep doing this
>browse other sites, wiki some stuff
>6pm
>eat food, smoke weed, read
>11pm food, creep to store for drink
>4am sleep

I think I want to start writing to get out my crippling rage and what not, feedback bros?


You don't know who or what you are, there's a gnarled block of cheese to your side. You can smell whiskey, and feel the fear, then the general decay of refuse cushioning it, blending with you. Sitting up, you give an involuntary plaintive whine to your ancestors. You've slept in filth, days of chicken bones and an ecosystem of crumbs. Blister packs, cutlery, cumrags, pissjugs. You remember who you are now, just not how you got here. Your teeth hurt, all off them-and your gums. All of it throbs. Years of bongs, trash sugar booze and deliberate neglect have turned your teeth to chalk. And it makes you happy.
You've seen the people, milling and going about their shit. You've read their case studies. Samuel Doe got William R. Tolbert Jr'd, just not on the beach. The Prince is our dirty bible. The kindest civilizations will brutalize you for wrongthink, in South American prison riot fashion. It's you versus 75 dead-eyed Sureños-they lower their prison issue greens to reveal uniformly large bunker busters, impossibly rigid-humming. 12 hours, and innumerable AIDS loads, later, you're bleeding out, your boy cunt and your soul. You can feel yourself dying, and hear your murderers laughing, and all you want is one of them to face-fuck you to sleep, so you don't die alone.