Insect Sea Battle

differences in emotionally angular approaches to shared matter(s)

Sound it out, newbie.

Oh, it’s you/you. Hello. Again?

This shouldn’t spoil anything, but in case it might, {RED} ALERT:

We’re still alive!

I hope it’s terribly obvious that I’m not trying to sound impressive; I mean, evasion on a rock this spacious [Earth {relative to us}] is not that difficult, even for someone who may have become {very} (in)famous (by now). Evasion is not our plan. I made contact with EQ. A long-awaited reunion is finally in the works. 40 years have passed since I saw him in the flesh. If I were emotional, I might cry; he probably will. The plan is to eliminate Uncle Sev. Even if he it discovers this (stream of consciousness) before I lop off its big ugly head, the outcome remains unchanged. Hell, perhaps I want our intentions known. Maybe it’s part of the deathtrap.

Hear that, Sevy? You're reading this because I WANT you to read this.

Is it not all just “super sex(y)” right now? How could that be wrong? Why is this right?

Any slope that looks fun (and feels good) is probably slippery, you know.

Get this. Earlier K. Huron asked if she had offended me with something she said days prior. “Of course not,” I assured her. Of course not. I probably looked at her like she had submitted a dumb question; I can’t always control what my face expresses {unless it’s lying}. Off her look, I continued, “Why would I take offense to processing the art of communication?” This seemed to offend her, but I was just thinking out loud. Also I already forgot what she said in the first place.

Look, don’t take offense to what people say. Why would you do that? Merely by saying anything, they have provided you with useful information, possibly outside their umbrellas of awareness, and probably beyond your own perceptive radar. Be glad. Because now you know more. And if you so choose, you can use the data.

In order to win reliably, inspire others to play your game. Make it fair{ly fun}.

LRK

Motivational Angles Fueling (the Battle of [Human]) Sex{es}:

• I have fallen in love with you, and your looks have grown on me; thus, I think I need you [to ejaculate inside me (during my period of ovulation {preferably})].
• Since deriving pleasure from your appearance, I have been enjoying your company; therefore, I know I wanna perform fucking with you.

Galacians aren’t that way at all; arguably The Belanoc are working on it. G/B females have to remind the males that they do actually need to procreate in order to continue their civilization existence. As soon as they are physically capable, they start selecting males whose seeds they wish to carry (for {whatever} promising reasons). Depending on the product(s) of their biological union(s), she may (not) choose to recombine genes again with the same specimen. This does not tend to cause conflict; it’s considered to be a matter of normality. According to my mother, rarely does a male not agree with a female about a most recent offspring’s indication of potential.

They’ll talk about it with each other, too. Isn’t that weird? Imagine powwowing with a bunch of pals deciding who should get fucked by whom. For them, procreation has nothing to do with pleasure. LRK admitted that, over time, she came upon the knowledge that more and more {of their} females who had discovered (the concept of) masturbation were doing it in secret.

When it comes to g/b genders, I’m fine with referring to the females as whos, but the males are nothing more than a bunch of thats.

Immediate self-destruction [suicide] is also commonplace in their society. One might simply evaluate oneself before determining that collective resources would be better spent elsewhere than on one’s intellectual growth, bodily maintenance, usage/conservation of energy—in other words, mere existence in “God’s” damned nation. Humans experience a similar train of thought when considering whether to tap out, only the extra volatile factor of emotional stability carries much more weight in the equation.

And it’s mostly the males who off themselves. Overall, the g/b population is about 65:35 [female:male]; might be a few percentage points off, but who gives a shit?! Advantage: humanity.

Unless you’re a girl, don’t read the block after next—not because you’re female, but due rather to your lack of masculinity [because I exude it (without trying)]. Are you acting like that’s something to brag about? It’s not. It’s just a thing that is. Why pretend that my admission to an historical exhibition of highly maleflower-patterned behavior would amount to bragging? I’m a male. I’ve never bragged about anything except catching something I dropped before it hit the ground.

Stop trying to distract me.

Imagine that someone penetrates your boundaries. You’re ripe. Nobody’s holding “protection.” Things happen, stuff flows. You can feel it. It’s warm. Ooh. Gooey. Ew! Certain fluids stick. WTF. All in the name of living. You know what this could mean as (good and) well as I do. Which emotion first springs to mind?

Listen, reader. You don’t have to tell me everything, but I already know anything.

Tell me something.

Read, listener. When you don’t like your view, change reverse it; that way, maybe you’ll change your mind!

Know what sucks? That feeling when you know how much relief a quick burst of flatulence would grant certain muscles, but you reckon that if you relax enough to release it, you’ll shit your pants. You can relate, no? There are many good reasons why waste embarrasses us. Takeaway: we should use anything more efficiently.

Really and truly, I figured it out. It’s like this. Experiencing time must come at a cost. Our existence requires work. We pay to be alive and want life to play, which means we must make a living. The goal is to accomplish the maximum while minimizing energy usage—in other words, the objective is impossible. That’s okay. [You just want to be understood (by as many people as you can).] The act of glimpsing matter’s back-and-forth suspension between the forces of being surely does take a toll on any “body,” but the point is to understand what’s humanly possible.

In essence, we’re just a bunch of squares trying to round off/out every “anything” across which we come.

Think about it.

The “beaten” path has been beaten.

Defeated.

By feet.

No one wants to be defeated.

Right now, are you showing them how you’re funky, and is this considered to be “controversial” at the moment?

Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask: if you’re driving a visibly wrecked car, what does that say about you?

This new chick at work—she has been in caused 4 wrecks. She’s 19. Why is she still licensed? (That was rhetorical.) Anyway, I don’t quite despise answering her questions. She’s actually pretty smart; she’s just very easily distracted. Here’s where we fall apart: she doesn’t understand a particular angle of my most basic logic. Twice now she has told me that, in her “opinion,” a statement I made was born of a certain emotionally driven motivation of no present consequence. On both accounts, her deduction was incorrect; when I informed her of the fact, she became—how do I put this {gently}—annoying. However, I would be curious to see how an offspring we produced might turn out, assuming it lived long enough to breathe oxygen for a while.

It wasn’t worth it.

The only being who can really know which emotion caused an action {and why it was triggered} is the one driving the body that emits the effect under current scrutiny.

LRK

When was the last time you threaded the needle? Have you ever “penetrated” a pin cushion? Why does one contain quotation marks but not the other?

Start.

“Listening.”

We’re shoving off from a bit of a hole, but try not to worry—it’s the only way it could’ve been. How else could this have happened?

Your view makes life worth living {or not}. When you don’t like it, affect change. Alter effects. Are you not in control? [Neither am I.] Wait, but what if “you” really are!?

Yeah.

What if.

I know exactly where I’m going; meanwhile, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I think maybe I’m trying to shift the overall focus of the monsters wanting to eat you. Why would I {need/want to} do that?

Why would I say: “Hey, all you g/b fools, we’re still alive and so is Severus, but I intend to see him killed. Oh, and here are all these important secrets. Party time, woo.” I’ll tell you why.

I wouldn’t.

What?? Up yours! STAHP. What are you doing and why do I {think I} understand?

You’re right. This is getting a little too weird. Let’s talk about some shit that happened.

Here’s the thing about deciding whether you should eat (at any given time). First, do you feel hunger? If yes, then go with the flow; maybe you’ll find potential sources of caloric intake. Next, make decisions based on experience. If it doesn’t look good at first, and you then have to smell it before feeling okay about swallowing it, probably you should pass.

Hard.

Food Anything you think you might wanna digest should initially clear the sight test. Now touch it. Repulsed? If not, then smell. Still into it? Taste away. Chew. Swallow. Did it go down easy? At this point, all you can do is wait and see how your body processes what you’ve let happen to it. You allowed stuff to get put in there, most likely by your own hands. Knowing all this, if it “sounds” good, then we should go ahead and consume it.

Shouldn’t we?

If it doesn’t look good, don’t bother with the allergy test, let alone the sniff test. Just…avoid. Prevent contact with your buds.

What were we talking about? Oh, right. The new lady. Let’s call her Donn. [I didn’t name her.] She told a story about one of her cousins; I listened to almost all of it. At some point the past, Donn’s cousin decided that life wasn’t worth living; apparently, he attempted to hang himself. His kindred found him on the ground under a tree in somebody’s yard. Who knows what happened—a failure of engineering, clearly—but for a year succeeding the incident, he was kept alive despite repeatedly removing his feeding tube, broadcasting a desire to die [{in case it’s not obvious:} removal of said tube revealed cognizance, i.e. his awareness of being trapped in his version of a “living hell”].

Here’s the thing about Big D. “She dumb.” Okay, why are those quotation marks there? Am I hoping to signal my awareness that the sentence features a grammatical inaccuracy? Do I just want you (to know that I know, too)? Ugh, how did the previous parentheses {come to} exist??

WHO IS EVEN TALKING ANYMORE?

Fuck off. Get in your own head; just don’t tightly make the bed in which you sleep nightly—it’s unhealthy. It invites infestations of Cimex lectularius/hemipterus.

Have you yet fully grasped a single photon that has escaped your cranium as a thought after being absorbed by your brain?

The smarter you are, the harder it may be to decide on a means of energetic security—or, in other words, when/why/where/which/what/how to eat.

Our brains are unlocking.

Can you know whether the italics were present before the struckthrough strikethroughs?

I hate you. (Obviously I don’t.) Not speaking of which, mooing is like cattle’s version of a “bark.”

When were those quotation marks added? Forget this!

Have you accepted it yet? You’ve encountered the smartest fucking organism ever to live. It’s your fault, too.

I said nothing about my level of intelligence. Read it again if you must.

Don’t make this something it’s not. I can’t communicate directly with you unless I’m addressing you specifically.

Combinations are needed in order to access (what lies beyond) locks [aka “locked content”] while minimizing damage to the locking mechanism itself. Momentum requires building. Building a snowball creates memorable moments.

I don’t know; it’s just coming out of me. I feel like a ghost trapped in my own mind who got separated from his body, and, now, despite endlessly inching forward as a hop-scotching wisp—and knowing it’s gotta be around here somewhere—I can’t find the damn thing. I don’t even know if I’m on the right continent. I think I’m on the right track, though. As usual, time will tell.

This’ll seem random. Don’t worry. [We’re almost done here (for now).]

Tonya Bailey’s routinely daily behavior suggests that she operates on a 23-hour clock (roughly). I assume all dogs are similar. Thrice per 23.96-hour cycle, I escort her tiny ass outdoors (on a leash) so that she can maintain relief from unnecessary weight at a pleasing rate of occurrence. Sometimes I like to try to imagine what her basic{-ass} brain permits her to think. Earlier she spotted an usual object on the side of the road and, upon perceiving the absence of immediate threat, chose to dart toward it. “Ooh, what’s that?! I should sniff it so that I’ll know whether to eat it in on the spot or collect it until I figure out what the hell to do with it—omigod, being alive is stressful. What was that? It can fly! DIE, WINGY FUCKFACE.” But, yeah: two sniffs and TB was done with the discarded former cylinder. Had she elected to gather, I was prepared to rationalize, “Well, I’m curious to see what she’ll do with it,” but ultimately I suppose I’m glad that it didn’t end up in her mouth; I wouldn’t have wanted to remove it. To clarify, the aforementioned, unusual object was a used condom.

Ripped.

That’s what life is. If you’re lucky, you live long enough to discover what you need, then you decide whether you want to try taking it (for yourself).

I need to work on my flexibility; I suspect that my muscles aren’t bendy enough. This is something I could/can (still) change.

I’ll bet you could work on some stuff, too.

Whether referring to hoarded wealth or genetic prowess, all power is inherited unluckily [luckily enough]. Alas, as of 2019’s looming conclusion, I can’t bear to contemplate how much natural ability/talent has gotten (and still gets) lost in the continual upward shuffling {and hostage-holding} of dirty money. In other words, the human genome has been tragically diluted.

If all you wanna do is change your mind, and you find yourself doing it more and more—via any substance(s), whether controlled, prescribed, stolen, taken, borrowed, honestly purchased, looted, or otherwise—then your reality must need some work.

Because living is a straining time-crunch, at your core, chiefly, you seek two things: calories and comfort.

LRK

Mice, beware all the kitties, because before you become their food, you’ll be treated like a toy.

Cat, meet mouse. Go crazy!

Whenever you reckon you’re ready.

To roll, that is.

Thank god for the tides, for changing winds, and for natural instincts/selection. That’s why you’re we’re still alive.

Hopefully, we shall continue our progression in a forward-facing fashion.

Hope.

For the best.

And proceed with caution.