/lit/ - Literature

>>13481254
>perching precariously on the ledge above the block.
Is he a bird

i need you Peterson !"


"Oh! Peterson, what's the matter? Are you hurt?"


"Hah, I'm fine." Peterson smiled at me as I began to sit up again. Looking closely at my injuries, I knew he could tell. I hadn't even seen a doctor. This had to be serious. "Well, you really need to get out of here." I began to lean against the railing. "Let me know when you're ready to go..."


"Yes, sir!" He said as he pulled me away. This was no mistake. This could not be a coincidence.


We set off down the trail. He got out of the car, took off my jacket, and tossed it into a bush on the side of the path. He stopped and stood up, and when he got to his feet, I heard the sounds of two men arguing and punching each other on the mouth of this creek. It was all I could hear for a few seconds in the silence. Once again, Peterson pulled the collar of my shirt back, revealing me to be nude, naked, naked. I couldn't tell if he was trying to get to me by myself or if a second man was following me. Peterson then lifted off the ground and placed his hands on my chest, holding me there; the pressure I felt was almost painful.

>>13481254
No. Fuck you, and fuck every Peterson-lover.

I was born in 2000, in Sarasota. My father was absent from the family, but I imagine him a salad of racial genes: an American citizen of mixed Indian and some form of European descent, with a dash of Dominican in his brains. I am going to pass around in a minute some lovely low DPI printouts of what my mother says is him. He left the family a 1994 Ford Taurus. His father and two grandfathers, were locked up at Leavenworth. At age twenty, he impregnated mother, and I was to be born a bastard some months later. Daughter of Latesha Freeman, and granddaughter of two one former slave, and allegedly a daughter of the American Revolution. My very unsightly mother, I am pleased to say, is still with me to this day.

>>13481254
kek

anyone have the big chungus pasta?

>>13481254
>I didn't ask for this

>>13481269
Yes and no! You see, Pete, without his special diet and two little capsules (bupropion and the fluoxetine) taken both quaque die in the ante meridiem, will, in fact, act on his desire to go over that ledge of his apartment, but much not like a flying fowl, throwing his precious brain and delicate skull down ten stories colliding into concrete—Peterson becomes Petenesont! And all the kings horses and all the kings men, could not put Peterson together again. Oh non, mon, Peterson, Oh non non non.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x35Rbe81vkU

This is what he looks like every morning. >>13482077 before the ketones and the Ki-binding of the aforementioned agents again reach their daily peak serum concentrations, transforming Mr. Edward Pete into Dr. Henry Peterson. Professor Peterson! The, THE, Professor Peterson! The most intelligent man in the world. My grumpy frumpy friend, able to muster enough energy to go on another day. Better living through Chemistry! I shudder to think of alternate realities where, Sad Pete rued the day, and got his skull smashed to bits—where that one, dare I say perfect, tome, '12 Rules for Life: An Antidote to Chaos' was never to be published on that fateful day in January 16, 2018 anno Domini (or exactly 55.5 anno Petersoni! Fate!). Without Dr. Jordan Bernt Peterson, PhD, my life would be meaningless in as many pieces as sad Pete's skull would have been in that reality and just as irreparable. My room, in shambles; my soul in sewage, and my heart ignorant of my true platonic love, Jordan B. Peterson.

WELL THATS THE BLOODY THING MAN

>>13482337
>>13481254
based and petepilled

>>13482337
10/10

>>13482071
>>/lit/thread/S12805451#p12808926

>>13481275
I rebuke you.

Just imagine if it was a real book.

>>13481254
is there an Oxford World's Classics cover maker?

baka

>>13482521
Yes.

>>13482545
do you have a link to it?

>>13482557
Select the Oxford option.
https://nullk.github.io/penguin.html

>>13482604
thanks lad

>>13481254
>>13481346
>>13482337
write some more.

>>13481269
A penguin.

>>13481254

>>13482077
You see, when you pull out your penis, and she pulls hers out

>>13484595
wait, is this real? wtf is this?

>>13482345
I CAN'T DO IT

>>13484772
>racial IQ is real when it comes to jews
>total silence and denial when it comes to blacks and browns

>tfw just washed my penis
I've never felt more unstoppable

>>13485670
Peterson suggests doing it in a cold shower.

>>13485619
>race realism is when you don't admit the white people have lower IQs than jews and asians, but its okay because atleast youre not african.

>>13485670
is that jack white?

>>13485733
That's Jordan Peterson

>>13484729

>>13481254
i'll give you a prompt OP

That morning when Peterson woke up.....

>>13486868
...with his ass still bleeding from the unwashed hemorrhoids...

>>13486868
That morning when Peterson awoke, he seemed aloof. Today, Pete, did not ask for coffee. His wife, with whom I was also boarding with at the time, a pestilent Harpy, suggested (the nerve of her) that I leave for a walk. This was a pattern of Tammy, and always interrupted what I wanted most—intellectual discourse. I reminded her of my foot injury. As I entered, I knew something was gravely wrong. Bucko, on the bed, was bucking to escape his blanket, which he had the habit of having his wife envelope him in every night. This done, he lay down on a mattress, and wrapped himself up in a quilt, which in summer was always of cotton,—in autumn, of wool; at the setting-in of winter he used both—and against very severe cold, he protected himself by one of eider-down, of which the part which covered his shoulders was not stuffed with feathers, but padded, or rather wadded closely with layers of wool. Long practice had taught him a very dexterous mode of nesting himself, as it were, in the bed-clothes. First of all, he sat down on the bedside; then with an agile motion he vaulted obliquely into his lair; next he drew one corner of the bedclothes under his left shoulder, and passing it below his back, brought it round so as to rest under his right shoulder; fourthly, by a particular tour d’adresse, he treated the other corner in the same way, and finally contrived to roll it round his whole person. Thus swathed like a mummy, or (as I used to tell him) self-involved like the silk-worm in its cocoon, he awaited the approach of sleep, which generally came on immediately. For upon that moment, Peterson’s health was exquisite; not mere negative health, or the absence of pain, but a state of positive pleasurable sensation, and a genial sense of the entire possession of all his activities. Accordingly, when packed up for the night in the way I have described, he would often gloat about himself (as he used to tell us at dinner)—‘Is it possible to conceive a human being with more perfect health than myself?’ A delusional the family was happy to keep up. In fact, such was the innocence of his life, and such the happy condition of his situation, that no uneasy passion ever arose to excite him—nor care to harass—nor pain to awake him. All nursing or self-indulgence found no quarter with Peterson. In fact, five minutes, in the coldest weather, sufficed to supersede the first chill of the bed, by the diffusion of a general glow over his person. If he had any occasion to leave his room in the night-time, (for it was always kept dark day and night, summer and winter,) he guided himself by a rope (his poor wife ever fretful that me might, just might jump), which was duly attached to his bed-post every night, and carried into the adjoining apartment. But that morning, he could not get out and so Tam the Terrible ended up taking a box cutter to the weighted quilt, and slashing it, leaving Pete in tears.

>>13482337
>>13482352
>>13482397
>>13483122
>37 replies
>14 posters
(You)