/lit/ - Literature

>>8070420
>Far Left
>short men with small dicks, feel double oppressed by the natural order and are desperate to change it. give themselves a sense of masochistic power by ceding power in the victim hierarchy to minorities and women.

>Centre Left
>tall men with small dicks, can live with the current status quo but still dream of some day in the progressive future when men like them are seen as equals to their big-dicked counterparts.

>Centre Right
>short men with average dicks, understand the value of tradition, but still seek some sort of popularity/credibility with the left-dominated culture, so brand themselves as "moderates" and find common ground with their opponents. punch to the right.

>Far Right
>tall men with large dicks or short men with small dicks. either believe wholeheartedly in the natural order because it benefits them, or delude themselves into believing that sometime long ago there was a time when people with their inherent disadvantages were pitied (or in the case of white supremacists, elevated).

>>7555851
>sci-fi
>fantasy
>Like Water for Chocolate

TURBOPLEB DETECTED

Go back to reddit, and take your shitty plebeian tastes with you.

You don't belong here.

Christian Existentialism; to bring glory to God and to make use of my talents. I had a run-in with my conscience recently and realized how shitty of a person I am, and that to redeem my soul I'm going to have to do a lot of good works. Faith w/o works being dead and all.

Ideally, I'd like to start an orphanage and raise the fatherless as my own, bringing up a generation of learned, cultured, and empathetic people. I'd take them fishing. I'd show them the beauty of our existence. I'd lead them on the straight moral path and send them into the world to do good and to share what I shared with them. Of course, this is all presuming I'm published and successful and yadayadayada

I want to be the best dad ever desu

College dropout, currently working in the least enjoyable position at a hotel for yuppies. I take out the garbage, vacuum hallways, pick up after housekeepers after their breaks, and scrub toilets on the daily. I push a foul smelling cart around all day and load plastic bags full of diapers and shoe boxes and beer bottles and broken champagne glasses into a dumpster that's neglected by the municipal authorities, and have cut myself on shattered bottles of wine more times than I've had sex in the laundry room.

Unfortunately for my ego, I have placed myself into a position of humiliating labor. It keeps me humble and enforces the work ethic I place myself into while writing my novel, constantly reminding me that I am low, and I must labor to become wiser and more learned. I read every day, and write every morning, and spend my weekends at a bookstore watching people who make more money than I sip five dollar coffees while I nurse my free hotel coffee that I brought myself.

LISTEN TO ME /LIT/, you can make it through virtue and hard work. The path will be long, and hard, and frustrating, but as long as you focus on your own improvement and seek higher understanding and harmony beyond that of mortal men, you will rise to levels you did not know possible for yourself.

I always feel a little more aware of the world when I put down my historical nonfiction. Feels patrician.

Sup guys. I'm attending a mandatory book reading for one of my writing classes and it's an author I've never heard of. I'm not going to enjoy a bit of it, so I'm basically doing this for the sake of an audience; i.e. you.

I'll keep you guys up to date on the strange characters inside and throughout the reading, as well as tell you how good the lady is and whether her writing is shit or not.

While waiting for the room to open in a comfy seat, an old woman with a face like the "this makes me moist" image you see every once in a blue moon. She stepped in front of me to look at a painting on the wall, and then burped. Made eye contact. Stayed there.

Got accosted by the usher, an MFA looking brat with plaid and sweater shit, saying I couldn't sit in the front row. I am now just barely peeved.

>With one smooth motion, the glass was lifted, brought to lips, drained, and sat back down on the right side of the table.

Dropped. I'm not going to read your play by play of Jack Dickburger's drinking exploits. It's tedious. Your whole piece is tedious. It has no point. It has no meaning. If it's some sort of vehicle into the next scene, then it needs to be shorter and to the point. What you have, friendo, is fluff, and not the prosaic kind that at least gives me meaningful imagery.