/lit/ - Literature

Op is a Male human who enjoys having sex with other human Men.

/lit/ I have a question on morals. So a lot of people seem to think that because morality is man-made (in their opinion) or has no basis as a natural thing, it is instantly untenable. So, I ask you, why is something natural tenable while something man-made isn't? What arbitrary scaling decides that?

>>>/pol/11548999

That's it. Any of you cunts who populate that "board", out. Get out.

Writing critique thread?

The table. The fucking table. The universe seemed to incline around it, like it had a gravitational pull of its own that could bend time so that existence was shaped around it's mahogany frame. For an inanimate object, it sure knew how to take undue pleasure in this. Catching knees, breaking the cherished delph that threatened its holy status, and occupying just enough space that it felt like the type of conspicuous and unwanted guest who snaked the length of the room, leaving no one unperturbed. It was the bane of my existence, an indominatable scourge on my status. I would always be outran in the race for affection by the table.

My parents adored it like it was their only child, or to be accurate, more than their only child. Jim Desmond's voice was often heard to ring out on Billiard Street: "A walnut beauty! Circa 1770 my boy, of French descent and Irish destruction, when King Louis' head was very much intact. Oh no doubt, it's the envy of its kind."

This was normally met with hoots of derision that seemed to be audible to all but my father. Such was his disregard for this that he'd often repeat the trick. To further hoots, followed by the sound of sides splitting, followed by the faintest shriek of "How does he fucking live with it?". This was the drawback of living with your loquacious dad and your eccentric mother in a housing estate. Your sickness was their gossip, your shame was their treasury of comedy, your embarrassment was their ecstasy.