/lit/ - Literature

she's a cunt
I hope she dies

you just know

>>14459368
I would like to punch those glasses out of the other side of her head.

>>14459368
She looks like she has horrendous hygiene

>>14459959
>>14459958
>>14459950
Sounds like you got Boyle'd alive *bum bum tsst*

>>14459963
I want to like her but her teeth look disgusting

>>14459965

>>14459965
Kant looked disgusting too. Don't judge a book by it's author

>>14459368
>reposts a thread that had been on the board for half a month
kys idk why mods let that shit thread stay alive for 16 days.

Distantly waving fronds, and now they seem to be marching, a caravan of them, coming from around that last bend of the range and into the arboreal waterfall valleyed pasture, no ceasing of them, a paraded queue, tiny specs darting between and around the wisps, the tornadoes, the tethers to some invisible fleet of kites, through the haboob’s hazard it became after a mystifying while that the queue were not the Nephilim husbandry of local lore and were driven dromedaries towered in samite and sendal fringed pillows of every desirable hue, argent patterns, bejeweled tassles, ornamental cages incapsulating glowing forgotten creatures, and hoisted to those pendulous colonnades of stacked fineries were the rope-toting crews keeping the undulating things aloft, each dromedary encircled by a delicate balance of some ten to twenty so tethered ones, the scale of the rope-bearers being implicative of the unruly potentials looming above and ultimately a reflection of the generous gift bearer sending to the same Khan sought by Megan this unfathomable stream of gifts that had now moved beyond the pillows and linens and into haunch-bursted crates and cages filled with lushly corpulent hogs and lambs and exotic poultry and strange globoid formless things nestled in larger verdant leaves, some of them rippled open by bright magenta blooms and the rope-toting crews keeping those undulating towers aloft swaddled their faces and tried to avert even their eyes from whatever alien enticements called therein, and then the steeples of Enochian pears, their female ends swaddled in silk diapers, the spired charcuterie, cured in the salt and brine of the very journey, and onto menacing sable citadels braced between pairs or quaternary dromedary platforms bristling with guns, festive fighters, boxes piled with crossbows, rockets, shells, scarlet-colored crates of liquid danger, the mobile bazaar’s inexplicable routing had sent such investments in motion, there were on display whole inventories, warehouses, coastal and riparian economies even, apparently liquidated or absconded with by the gift-bearer’s seeking of favor with this most secret and valued man of the mountains, who was as his legends explain many other types and modes also a man of studious logistics and so must have been particularly pleased when he received the terminus of the caravan which featured no more camels but a small army of puttering motorcycles and scooters overladen with tanks and rope-tied bottles of fuels and gases.
“Hey, Professor Wallace, did you know we were supposed to bring a gift?”
“Well, we didn’t exactly RSVP either.”

>>14460692
“What do you get a guy in this part of the world?”
“Well, if you’re the Frontier Corps, usually a helicopter ride.”
“Shoot, I didn’t bring any wings.”
“Well, think of something Bechdel Test-ish because he has a harem and his file says he has a strong phobia to western women.”
“Does he have an Instagram?”
“Well, he has a trophy room full of cell tower communications equipment.”
“That sounds really cool, honestly.”
“Well, dig deep, Gumplin. You need this guy to like you and I don’t have access to the Silk Belt Cooperative merchants like the guy before you.”
“Can you get me anything? Like, what’s on Prime Now Orbit?”
“That can be delivered into the Kush?”
“Wherever I am.”
“Ok, one moment.”

So there's that trick of the Mona Lisa where Da Vinci knew so well not merely painting but the human visual information system's reception of painting that he created something that dwelt in this pre-cognitive cache of self-imposed perception, our brains improvising and hazarding a guess where there's barely more than nothing to go upon, and by only his sense she lands somewhere smiling and not smiling, our brains tricking us, then a further acuity tricks us anew and we wonder which trick is real. Switching amidst the layered perceptual phenomena of the Mona Lisa is something like devouring Infinite Jest or, and the pace is key, perusing Megan Boyle's Liveblog, assembling by way of the textual slats or tiles the real thing, the authoreal expanse. If Infinite Jest's endnoted intricacies cohere as tapestry, Liveblog is a fresco, a work done upon whiskable, gelatinous personage. You touch the painting, inevitably, reflexively, too intimately, an unseemly thing between author and writer, a baring of something cored and brilliant.

>>14459958
this is not a healthy response to a young smiling woman

I thought /lit/ would be about nice literature, but why is it as cancerous as /pol/?

>>14459368

I really, really, really want to fuck her throat

Behead all megheads

Entering the fore chamber, Megan caught a glimmer of the Khan, seated, the details of his ornamentally carved throne obscured away by the yanked curtains pulled past one another and affixed to freshly-staked poles by sprightly courtly staff who fluttered about various duties wordlessly, seating beneath Megan a chair and adjusting its recline in synchrony with the crew lifting Megan up and placing her gently down upon it, so that she felt mostly weightless and then in a state of hospitable relaxation that was more amenable to the flurried throngs of busy beauticians, coiffeurs, barbers who engulfed Megan as glow does sunlit gold, placing her surrendered hands and feet into toasty towels and bubbly basins held lovingly in the laps of those preparing the Khan’s guest, a ritual performance done as much to honor the Khan and all he surveys as to benefit the received in riches of the Khanate. In the minute or two that elapsed, Megan felt the winding helices and curlicued henna crisscross up her toes, the tops of her feet, wrapping her shin and calf, thumb and two-finger-pressed jewels, chilly spritzings with aromatic waters blessed by the cloistered mountain poetesses who keep their whole virgin convents afloat with such magical tinctures, daubings of honey, sprinklings of fine shiney metallic dusts and crushed fresh flowers upon their finished work, before suddenly the Herald blared the gilded skull flute of a slain patrilineal ancestor, dispersing the pentads attending each of Megan’s hands and feet, the clutch of coiffeurs combing out her hair and massaging her scalp, working in half-skull shifts that were just barely finished by the Herald’s signal, so that they too gracefully set down their tools on their ornamental stools and tables and noiselessly whisked them out of view of the court, whose view to the Khan was now completely and conspicuously open and accessible, the lines of helpers and high status guests standing silently in the offlit enshadowed portions of the court outside the Khan’s reception for the moment, the torch light illuminating only radiant and bejeweled Megan and the seated Khan. She admired the ruby-pollened water blossoms on her hands and the mirthful sapphire-eyed frogs on her feet. Outwardly, she tried to affect a slow grace, but felt welling in her a profound unsettling. She sought the Professor subvocally.
“Ok, now what?”
“He hasn’t killed you yet, so that’s a good sign.”
“Not much help! Can I swear subvocally?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“Fuck me!”

>>14459950
The cunt is a sacred type of woman, Anon. You do not know the female until you must take the cunt.

>>14459368
Who is Megan Boyle?

>>14462079
She's a Mistress-level Sinceremancer

>>14462079
A lady who knows no irony. All her actions are 100% sincere

I'm not sure I believe everything I hear. How can she smell earnestness? Has some psionic bundle intersected her olfactory circuitry? Does she sense us or the merely the mellifluous aural pulses emanating from those of us so heartfelt? Is she part of a hyperperceptual sisterhood or yoked to emotophagic archons appearing only to Megan during dusk bubble baths or dawn dhanurasanas?

https://thoughtcatalog.com/megan-boyle/2011/02/how-to-write-how-to-shit-on-lsd/
>Write two-thirds of “SHITTING ON LSD IN A PUBLIC BATHROOM” while sitting on a toilet in NYU’s library on a medium-low dosage of LSD at 2:30PM. Half-close the lid of your MacBook, wash your hands, and hurriedly exit the bathroom to finish writing before you forget the “juicy details.” Wave to your husband, exiting the men’s room. Remember being on a much higher dosage of LSD together at the library two months ago, sitting side by side, creating a two-hour long Gchat containing phrases which have become integral in your joke lexicon. He stops walking near a vague grouping of chairs. Walk to him and hug each other lightly. Ask if you’re going to work in the same room. As he is quiet, considering his answer, know that having an urge to ask the question probably means you’ll work in different rooms, because the last time you were on LSD you naturally walked into the lab together.

>He says “Let’s just work separately,” which seems more sensible now anyway. Nod quickly and say “Are we meeting at 4?” He says “I don’t know, we’ll talk on the Internet,” as you briefly maintain eye contact and walk in different directions.

>Sit at the least conspicuous table in the cafeteria-area of the library. For twenty minutes, type more of “SHITTING ON LSD IN A PUBLIC BATHROOM.” Don’t look at the Internet. Write the sentence “Think of an overgrown lawn, unexplainably.” Give yourself permission to imagine an entire chapter in a literary criticism textbook devoted to your delicate, bizarrely groundbreaking, hypothesized-as-accidental-“but-given-Boyle’s-oeuvre-we-now-know-this-must-have-been-intentional” symbolism.

>Do not scream when bees zoom past your ear.

Nice hustle, Megheads!

cooking with Meg
smokers of keg
beer braised I beg
chunked lamb leg

>>14459963
Niccuh, get a colander for these wet noodle anons