/lit/ - Literature

>>4058595

Anger is a naturally occurring phenomenon which allows us to exist as humans. It makes us human. Makes us productive. Some would even argue anger is only ever born out of love itself.

You could say then that annoyance is a lacklustre sensing of anger, a 'twinge' of anger. I still say then, they should ask themselves what is making them want to feel this way? Perhaps there is something territorial about it, there is something they need to defend? What is that thing then? Be it pride? Or honour? Are they themselves but synonyms to one another? Are they both not a direct path to anger? A product of cheap ego nonetheless.

So now; When one's territory is attacked, does he feel angry or afraid? Answer me that.

How drunk one would become upon sobriety, if his tap water were proof vodka? Such.

So what did you do with your day?

If you didn't write a neat paragraph to your novel, go to work for 7 hours then return to have a smoke and write two solid comedy sketches, then you haven't had a productive a day.

When you’re stoned, trying to retrieve a thought from merely five seconds ago is as if trying to retrieve a drop of neurones plopped into an ocean of brains.

OP here, have re written the piece based on all of the advice in the thread. Tell how it is:

Joe, depressed, entered the restaurant after he caught sigh of the voluptuous flowing hair of Lavette. The brown fibres reminded him of a copper statues hair upon a summer’s day, how it glinted and stood fast upon her head. Lavette’s eyes were the curved vaginas of Britney Spears, how they stood so green, lavished and green like the marijuana Joe had smoked one day with the janitor from his school where he had been left and forgotten by his guardians. Lavette wore a sequinned knee high dress, red like the blood from the cut throat of an Irish leprechaun, how Joe could feel the vibrations of death emanating from her dark eyes of pooled oil and resin that would stick one’s fingers together if it got on their fingers and then they pushed their fingers together. He tried to keep calm and return her stare, and he did, they met in competition, and suddenly the room was empty, but only existing was these two pairs of eyes, each with rambunctious roaring fires lashing away behind them, locked in a vibrational tension that could give the hadron collider a one over. Lavette and Joe. Joe and Lavette. Waiter! Joe almost stood up and swung his fist against the waiters nose; that is how much the waiter had made him jump when he came over. He ordered a stout ale, 4.5% alcohol level, the beer itself was a browny, oachy, about 80% opaque brew, with nutty accents and a wholesome satisfying core. She ordered a vodka whip, the vodka was a house standard, 37.5%, and the sweet tincture that was the whip no body really knew anything about. Joe reached out nervously and clasped several toothpicks in his hand and snapped them one by one; his fingers little tools of nervous energy abounded, rip and tear at everywhere!

A superstitious man counted 13 of 15. An optimist only wanted 10. The pessimist was seeing double. The loser counted his loss and the winner counted his winnings.

All in all there was nothing.

>>3647964

Can't say I'm not tempted to try it.

The plight of the artist is that as when a consciousness sees itself in the mirror, to see which form it has taken. The reaction is one of revulsion, denial and the result is ultimately quest for redemption. This inevitably leads, if he is stubborn, to his never ending plight to justify the beauty and meaningfulness of the lives he sees befall in his observation.

A man is conference calling a more mature gentleman, it is a business conference, they discuss strategies, policy, profit margins and other bullshit. It cuts off and the man stands up, revealing patterned underpants and hairy legs. Socks intact. He manoeuvres clumsily to the side and makes a bowl of cereal. Morosely, the spoon moves within his hand, to put the slop in his mouth. His eyes are empty and staring into the distance, withdrawn into thought about something deep. The empty bowl goes back onto the side, and the man moves again, to the sofa, unbuttoning his shirt on the way. Throws himself down and looks around. A newspaper lays beside him and catches his eye, so he picks it up and flicks through the pages. He reaches a page that seems to speak to him, and ponders it carefully ‘Gang rape by six men’. Perhaps he wondered how a man could do that. Perhaps he thought about the cheats he used to use on his super nintendo. He also maybe thought about those prostitutes he used to get an erection over in Grand Theft Auto.
A fly begins to buzz around his nose, zipping by his nose, twitching his eye. He attempts a few waves to tempt away the fly, but it keeps returning. It becomes too much and he slams the paper down as cursive words spit out of his mouth. His movements become more agile through the anger and he marched to the bathroom to throw on the shower. Maybe it had been a week, maybe two, since last washing.
Maybe he thinks he should call Adele. Maybe not.

[spoiler]ACT 1 SCENE 1
It is a home, warmly lit, Joseph sits on a chair
JOSEPH
Oh, it’s nice to be here, just to sit, isn’t it? I have no where else to be at the moment; mother’s doing the laundry, father’s still at work, I feel happy and content. When days like this come you mustn’t grab at them or risk having them disappear, it’s days like this where a ponder on thought nor ponders wish crosses my mind that I wish that life could last forever.
A door slams. JOE enters, visibly disgruntled.
JOE
Susanne, call the paddle locks, we’re moving! my desire for an occupation of time - which doesn’t curse and sod my egoic insistence to love the moment and give a brash ass not whether in expression it might tickle some poor repressed souls moustache - has grown and spilled over the tempting ocean of wonts and into the crude cup of necessities. The swine hath me over pales of repeated offal for taste, as if I were no gentleman but a stick in the mud!
SUSAN
Darling, please keep your mouth of hostile attitudes away from Joseph or remove it completely! You swear you on your fathers tongue, and only seeds of distaste root themselves deep in the mind of the young, growing abominations of thoughts thereby constricting the flowering of God. You know how we hold your materialistic craft dear, and how happy we are in this humble home, then why must you chastise your own creation?</spoiler>