I’ve noticed I don’t daydream while listening to music anymore (now that I’m over Tabitha). Women have no mystique, only the breasts of a mother. What is daydreaming exactly? It’s an alternate life based on our selfish terms. Whether those terms are to exercise confidence and suffering in ways that paint us as the hero. Heroes are a dime a dozen looking to exchange their circumstance for celebrity. Isn’t that why heroes exist? You know why heroes deflect that praise? They REGRET the attention in hindsight. I…am a hero. Every day. No one knows about it. I choose between a dancing god, and a physical-juggernaut-flying-through-space-using-only-thought as propulsion. Propulsion is the shark gills of the mind. Thought-propulsion is a fancy term I just made; it’s just another way of saying “I daydream about rescue culture.” What’s the purpose of daydreaming? It’s a mechanism to entertain a scenario that paints us in the best light. That’s the building blocks of delusion. I know a thing or two about delusion, because my IQ is (allegedly) 667. Delusion is thought-propulsion because so long as my delusions are met with perspective, I acquire wisdom through the unique thoughts I document in isolation. During psychosis I convinced myself I understood the universe. That lucidness…hospitalized me purely by its insanity.
How can you tell if that the integrity of thought is based on reality? Perspective ordains our delusions and conspiracies as success or failure. How we get there…is only a consequence of time. Is time linear? Time looks like a tree (with no leaves): You can’t tell which side is up or down without the perspective of soil. What’s the soil’s perspective? “I’m growing two things.” One breathes air, and the other suffocates it. Our subconscious sits on the soil’s whims to delight our delusions (and conspiracies) with perspective. Trees grow upside down. The leaves are the roots, like your mouth feeds the stomach. Irish folk tolerate love through the stubbornness of their spine. Stubbornness is your spine. The Irish are oppressed by their stubbornness to admit they love to envy obedience; someone who is ready (and willing) to answer for their fear in the face of emotional suicide. The inverse of affection envies the SPINE of obedience (in the face of experiencing emotional suicide); like a sponge (or a beer coaster). If we live life in the past to ignore the future in its mirrored reflection, your reality lives in the echo of the present. That means our future is consumed from our obsession over the past. How? You sugar coat the nostalgic memories (our predictions trigger) with rejuvenating optimism. Nostalgia is a religion for a Godless soldier, and the appealing backwash of delight tickles emotional fools to love them jealously.
Women just want to be moms before they think about the consequences. That’s the good man’s job to outthink their wives. Daydreaming such a terrible scenario prepares us to respond without pause. Daydreaming is surviving yourself. Delusion and conspiracy prepare us for the war that never comes. During our wait we become annoyed by our neighbours as their disagreeableness represent the taxing experience of angst. That angst must be exercised through competition (i.e., work, politics, sports, courtship, bloodshed). The angst of the war that never comes fuels our appetite to exchange their circumstance for the “relief” of celebrity. Relief from love’s envy for perfection, juxtapose to the relief your daydreams never manifest to avoid celebrity. It’s a strange dynasty our minds reign without mercy the possibility of conquering a worst-case scenario; and be a hero. But…maybe that’s down to the fact our stubbornness is our spine. That’s what it takes to survive ourselves. Nostalgia is a religion for a Godless soldier, with the stubborn spine, envying obedience. That is Irish folk, according to an Italian.
This is the abuse of power (woman have) to take advantage of love’s envy of (fallible) perfection. There are many fallible perfections abusing the power over horny retards. If you cannot stop your pursuer’s unwanted yearning (to continue its war on peace), that is an abuse of power. So long as you are fuckable Tabitha, your army of losers will help you forget bruised skin is seldom tart. The young are tart, you are bruised sweetly. That is your forbidden fruit: you are bruised sweetly within your pursuers emotional suicide. Never tart. Daydreaming for the day I’m happy, came true. If stubbornness is your spine and you yearn to yearn, I can help you overcome your immutable flaw (that breaks you like clockwork).