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Mine would be:
"Before Turning The Bum On Himself"
^That makes no sense. It's arguing that holding a testicle is equal to or greater than a good shag.
"Self-Inflicted Cunt Shot Soup To The head."
"Achtung, baby: I am aroused."
Oh, I'm no good at this.
Many hands make tight work
Better than a dick in the face
kneehigh to an arse-chopper (midget porn)
You kid's don't even know you're torn (sorry)
shouldn't fuck relentlessly when the neighbours are watching
is this right?
i promise i had that in my brain first
“I know what it is like to live inside a loan. I know what it is like to be without a car, without the ability to pay for land—the rent charged in a capitalist ‘free’ market economy. I know what it is like to scream inside because the education system has locked my mouth with debt; it will not allow me to talk about debt; about poverty. Poverty and the University are not supposed to be synonymous, but they are; they are synonymous. I know the feeling of waking up in the middle of the night, terrified and alone, silenced, but ready to cry for help in an empty house. I know what it is like to be isolated, to live in constant agony and approved pain; to live with a sunrise as bright and clear as hot apple red and piercing orange flames, and be in pain; not able to enjoy any of it because my stomach pressures me, reminds me that it needs nourishment. I am weak and feckless, or at least I feel so. My body aches and my head pounds like a wave, angry and chagrinned that it has to stop at the shore. Where is the help? Where is the financial aid—the real financial aid? Not the kind at the financial aid office, but the kind that declares education a right; the kind that says knowledge belongs to everyone who can absorb it, produce it, and share it with others; the kind of aid that declares, outright and trenchantly, that a student is not a perfunctory piece of equipment for the enrichment of the almighty power-elite, but a deserving self. What happens at the financial aid office? What kind of people work there? Where do they receive their instructions? Most of the people are simply people cast into a system of perpetuating dominance and subordination, much like slaves that become promoted to the house rather than the field. The faculties at mot universities are not treated much better. The equipment is broken and beyond repair, much like the sentiment of rebellion and solid revolution. The tenacity to stake a claim in the politics of educational consciousness is lost within the halls of hate—the Congress and committees on education at the local, state, and national levels. The student is all but forgotten, so the student enters the financial aid office. My heart is pounding, I am embarrassed that I may appear nervous; this makes me more nervous yet. My heart beats faster. What happens at the financial aid office? What kind of people work here? Where do they receive their instructions?
Only one side of my headphones works. I cannot even afford to spend the money on a pair that works for both ears. If I want to escape into the escalating solitude of Bach or Beethoven, Sarah Brightman or Andrea Boccelli, I cannot. Their genius has become my downfall—the downfall of the university which has annihilated all equality. Inside this office, a lot happens: decisions are made, lives are changed, and dreams are permitted or pounced on and eaten like a slightly slower than normal gazelle being chased by a slightly-faster-than-normal cheetah. Fears are silenced inside these walls. Dreams are churned and molded like fresh clay until they are no longer recognizable. One must conform or refuse one’s dreams of knowledge. The people within this system seem distracted. They appear furious at the trivial and apathetic at the grandiose. I am terrified. Who else, I wonder, is feeling this way? The line continues to grow like a snake shedding its skin, hoping to flee into better scaling. Why is this help not guaranteed? Why is this help not a right? None of this is a guarantee because the instructions for financial aid come from postmodern slave-traders. They do not beat or injure; they do not interbreed or rape; they do not slap or punch or kick or shout at; they do not have to. They simple own the land, the people in the office, and the dreams. They own the goals and successes, hopes and failures, imaginations and sentiments. They own the equipment, the grass, the water-fountains, the trees, and the research labs, the journals and books and pens and pencils. They own, beyond all this, the access to futures; the access to the right to a social achievement, or a long-waited for personal goal. They do not need to be brutal with their fists, the CEOs of Bank of America, Citibank, Wells Fargo, Sallie Mae, My Rich Uncle, the governor of California, the senators and congress people and others, only need to have a foot; and this foot must be able to crush one’s waning hope, like a comet crushes a butterfly at the moment of transmutation. Their gain is our loss. The workers in between are caught in a struggle for power, and the student—this postmodern indentured servant—must give up all hopes of individuality; of becoming the materiality of something other than a corporate expenditure. Stocks are for sale. Students are not.
Repeatedly I hold in the cry for help, because the halls of help have become the halls of hate. Hatred of the student, hatred of the worker, hatred of the shrinking middle and the exploding population of the poor, destitute, marginalized. These are real individuals because the system we are in is real. The system of ‘free’ market capitalism, merged with the notion of “normalidade de branco” or “normalidad de blanco” and phallocentrism has further isolated mass populations of real lives into destitution. This is not an abstraction or dive into existential crisis beyond the fixing of a growing student movement for justice and equality.
This presents like a candle in a cave of hieroglyphics, to us, to students and workers and faculty everywhere now in “American” global capitalism and the prison-military-industrial-complex, the example to shine onto the rest of the silent suffering. Just as hieroglyphics tell a story without speaking, our mere presence tells a story of subordination and signification; without us, there is no market, and without a market, there is no CEO or politician to do the dominating."
its a harrowing comedy
It Takes One To Blow One
What Goes Around Cums Around