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Saturday, March 28, 2015

from Human Testament, ms in preparation for New Human Press

"I AM that I AM are BELONG to ME"
image (c) 2015 R William Lundy

Y ou do not know what you just read: It is

A document typed by shadow people

H ung from the mist in my bathroom mirror

W hich beings of light and moth dictate

E ach a creature of great age, fell kings

H aunting Outer Cranium: So each word




(c) the future

Sunday, March 15, 2015

On Politics: The Kingdom of Pygmies

On Politics: The Kingdom of Pygmies

Some of the masses came to Damascus Dancings, fomenting unrest, saying, “It is time to rise up, and throw off our oppressors—Damascus, isn’t this your message, what you’ve said all along: “I am coming to make things new”?”

And Damascus rebuked them strongly, taking the gun from their hands, and breaking it in half on his knee, with a grimace.

As our prophets have written,

To the States or any one of them, or any city of the States, Resist much, obey little,
Once unquestioning obedience, once fully enslaved,
Once fully enslaved, no nation, state, city of this earth, ever afterward resumes its liberty.

As a ghost, I'm not allowed to claim citizenship in a nation of enslaved pygmies (no offense, pygmies). I beamed up from that place about a thousand years ago, directly to Wikipedia.

Seeing no real greatness in all the world, except in dead things & ghosts, I too have become a dead thing and ghost,

Claiming citizenship in America-in-heaven.

No, there can be no peace.

How can there be peace, while a single decent man or woman remains unmurdered? 

For a very long time this world has murdered its sons and daughters for the crimes of bigness, and courage, and goodness of heart, and love of justice.

They murdered Socrates and they murdered me and they murdered a bunch of others, too,

And they'll murder me twice and maybe you, until the whole species is a crunched, bent thing, and knows to keep its mouth shut, and crawl around on broken knees.

Against such does a decent man or woman war. How can there be any peace, while a single one remains unmurdered?

There can be no peace.

But we do not war for this kingdom of pygmies, 

Or with guns and sticks,

Or even with genetically-engineered tigers with nuclear canons in their mouths.

We war for nation of kings and priests, where every man and woman is a creature made of moths & light, 

& bent things learn to walk, 

& pygmies get shot with a reverse shrink ray, and grow,

Unless they prefer to remain smaller,

But even if they do, it's only an outward smallness,

Because inside my heart the pygmies are riding huge genetically-engineered tigers with nuclear canons in their mouths, and beams of moths & light are shooting out of their eyes,

And the pygmies look really tall up there

On the tigers' backs.

Point is, we're well past armed revolt,

And always have been, for a thousand decades,

And so we cede these pygmies (not the ones on tigers, but the other ones, the inward pygmies) their kingdom of pygmies,

And murder their smallness and guns with murder and smallness and pygmies, their own,

And beam up directly to Wikipedia

Claiming citizenship in America-in-heaven, Planet Mars, Jupiter's 17th moon base, home.

Saturday, March 14, 2015

Bob Kaufman, Abomunist Manifesto




          OR OTHER SAME.

           AND FRINK.



          IT HURTS.



          IN DEBTS ON THEM.







[Bob Kaufman. Abominist Manifesto (broadside), City Lights, 1959.]

A Telepathicist Manifesto


Lee Sharks & john johnson
from Pearl and Other Poems

1.     Telepathicism is about having thoughts, telepathically.

2.     Telepathicism is NOT a method or style or school or writing. Telepaths HATE writing: It’s boorish and stupid and boring. Writing is like plowing a field with an old-fashioned cow. Telepaths are like advanced super computers plowing a field with eBay. 

3.     The telepath is stranded in time. Writing is a cow-plow, but it’s what the telepath has to work with.

4.     Telepathic writers do not train as writers, diddle sentences, or work with words. Language is a dusty string in the telepath’s brain, causing an aneurism.

5.     The telepath has a craft, and that craft is mind control powers.

6.     Telepaths give birth to luminous tumors made of light. Inside their minds.

7.     A telepathic tumor is the hope of the human race.

8.     A telepathic tumor’s gestation takes 18 sentient lifetimes. All of them are spent in furious thought, giving birth with a grimace of work and fluid. Ash and dirt. Dust and spit.

9.     Tiny metropolises of unpaid cyborg researches study literary history for ten thousand years inside a telepath’s brain.

10.  A telepath also does not have a brain, in the same way that a telepath does not write.

11.  A telepath does not NEED to write, in the same way that a telepath does not need a brain. 

12.  A telepath has a mind, but just says no to tele-pathways of neurons and sensory dendrites.

13.  A telepath exists in a cloud, generally.

14.  A telepath exists in THE cloud, specifically. 

15.  Telepaths practice their craft of mind control powers via controlling minds, not brains or writing.

16.  Telepaths also generally and specifically have control of writing and brains, but hate it.

17.  Tumors that are the hope of the human race, and cyborgs that are unpaid or woefully underpaid for their level of qualification, make up cogs outside the machine of Telepathicism. They are cogs, and they are not cogs, but neurons, and they are not neurons, but sensory dendrites, and they are not sensory dendrites, they are whole brains, and they are not whole brains, they are writing, except, they are not writing, they are created telepathically and they are tumors and cyborgs and they are the omniscient hope of humanity.

18.  Because Telepathicism is about having thoughts, telepathically.

from Pearl and Other Poems:

from The Crimson Hexagon

"The Crimson Hexagon"

included in Pearl and Other Poems

They were spurred on by the delirium of storming the books in the Crimson Hexagon: books of a smaller than ordinary format, omnipotent, illustrated, magical.

                                                      ‘The Library of Babel,’ Jorge Luis Borges
                                                       Trans. Anthony Kerrigan

For a period after graduate school, he worked as an unemployed academic. He found this vocation to be similar to other kinds of unemployment, but somehow more important. It involved a lot of sitting at the computer, typing things, refreshing things, arranging things, and clicking things. He enjoyed this work, but found it to be too taxing, and soon withdrew into a less directed, and proportionately more anxiety-producing, life-path.
At times, lying in bed and thinking, history seemed to him to telescope out into a thin and tube-like object. In his mind, a vast space filled with stars surrounded this brass tube. Moving closer, he could see, as through a cross-section of its material, the layered construction of the tube’s circumference, even as this circumference remained transparent, no obstruction at all to the sight of what lay inside. Closer still, the tube grew immensely long and narrow, and he perceived, with a kind of piercing visual intensity, in which all things were reduced to their most minimal, yet crispest, geometric outlines, a vast chain of people and events, shuttering before him with increasing speed, each a burst of comprehensible light.
At these times, wonder crippled him. Awe struck him; it punched him in the skull with its fist.
That he could have despaired, that he could have doubted when, as he now saw, history unfolded with such linear simplicity; benign and wholesome; there for him; his. He need only insert himself into the linear tube of history, as all these others had done, with whom he now felt a certain kinship—he, too, having seen them, felt reduced to his most minimal, yet crispest, geometric outline.
“I, too, am a burst of comprehensible light,” he reasoned.
Such times were times of great beginnings, in projects.
At other times, however, he was confounded by curved space. His life consisted in a menagerie of unfinished projects, each of which, in its moment, consumed him, overwhelming any periphery.
Perhaps the most fascinating of these unfinished works, both objectively and by the standard of his own compulsive investment, was a work called The Crimson Hexagon, which involved pseudonymous identities, each of which he imagined to have his or her own corpus of distinguished (and completely finished) writings. 
Each of these imagined identities was more than a mere “pen name.” What he was after was nothing less than the creation of human life, ex nihilo.
According to Wikipedia, the association of transmutation—the proverbial lead to gold—with alchemy’s highest goal was misguided. Alchemy’s motivating chimera, its true Holy Grail, he read on Wikipedia, was artificial life, the homunculus, the tiny man:

That the sperm of a man be putrefied in a sealed cucurbit for forty days with the highest degree of putrefaction in a horse’s womb… After this time, [the homunculus] will look somewhat like a man, but transparent, without a body. If, after this, it be fed wisely with the Arcanum of human blood, and be nourished for up to forty weeks, and be kept in the even heat of the horse’s womb, a living human child grows therefrom, with all its members like another child, which is born of a woman, but much smaller.

So he read in the “Paracelsus” article.
“Why would it be smaller?” he wondered, and felt a certain pleasure at returning to the word “putrefaction,” which he repeated to himself, silently: “Putrefaction. Putrefiction. Putredaction. Putrediction.” He tried to imagine a relationship between the perfectly formed—but tiny—body of the artificial person and the aural qualities of the word “putrefaction.”
“I am unable,” he thought, “to maintain the fundamental grossness of the thing referred to, putrefaction, with the referring word, ‘putrefaction.’”
“Putrefaction,” he thought, and after a brief pause, “lactation,” and felt vaguely troubled by his own line of reasoning, even doomed, in a way that reminded him of Kafka.
“Horse womb,” he later reasoned. “Cucurbit,” he thought, and felt better.


Like life, he knew his creations were contingent, vulnerable; that they could pass at any moment from life to death, or death to life; that there was nothing necessary about their historical birth.
“All lives are bubbles. Poppable, like me,” he reasoned.
Like most human beings, his humans dreamed. Like most, the odds were stacked against them. Indeed, every waking moment, the accumulating lessons of experience and age and work and marriage—etc.—seemed designed to remind them, to drill into their brains and even bodies, into every cell, if possible, the likelihood of failure.
Many of his tiny humans sensed this, without words, intuiting a kind of despair, and then banality, and then despair again, and finally banality, where they settled. Some understood it more explicitly, as the consequence of wide reading; or through a well of self-honesty that, untrained, offered similar truths.
Some few were dreamers, committed to their ignorance, happily oblivious to the disproportion between dream and experience. These few doomed themselves by denying even the molecular chance the others maintained by embracing despair.
He had less hope for these ones.
Like his humans, he knew that the reality he imagined was unlikely. It hinged, he knew, upon a certain degree of circularly referential saturation, a kind of diagonal hyperlink that could lead from Wiki article to external source to YouTube video to newspaper piece to history book to flesh and blood and back again, to Wikipedia.
However unlikely this arrangement of referential elements into a self-perpetuating system, the quantum leap from text to history, he clung to its possibility as the anchor of his life. “All lives are real,” he reasoned. “Some, just potentially so.”
Both his despair and his hopefulness were habits. Sometimes, he felt that sadness was crushing him into a very tiny, tear-wet ball of a person, who cringed inside his chest, unknown to the world outside, while his bigger, visible-to-the-world self carried on, a ghoulish automaton, indifferent to the suffering its continued participation in life caused to this smaller, less robust, person.
This ball person’s characteristic “smallness” never met, in his mind, with the conceptual smallness of the homunculus.


More important than inventing the detailed biographies—which, he thought, was little more than any author of fiction might accomplish—the grand anthologies in which he played every part, the reviews of books and book blurbs, the vast tissue-work of correspondence, postal and electronic; more important than any of these, were the Wiki articles.
It was not the sneaky game of passing off false personae as historical fact. It was not the cat-and-mouse thrill to have bypassed, again, the petty Wikipedian enforcers of reliability, notability, and what he insultingly thought of, to himself, as “actual existence.”
These Wikipedians were too small-minded, too prepossessed of their own zealous place in the hierarchy of the real, he knew.
He imagined each of these faceless volunteers as a wizened, recently retired middle school teacher, who, nearing the end of her life and possessed of a new wealth of time for personal reflection, came to regret, above all else, her squandered opportunities for constraining and diminishing the possibilities of meaningful, human existence.
She had wiled the days away. Where had they gone?
They were gone, well gone. But still, she could police the reliability of Wikipedia, perhaps assuage her conscience—and leave this life with hands less bloody—by watching against any datum of an expansive, imaginative, or hopeful provenance.
Or so he imagined.
He knew that his mind was faster, and his fabrications more avid for truth, than history or the internet. He knew that his mind mirrored the principle of fictive reality embodied in the internet; that his archives were as real as Wikipedia’s—and that Wikipedia’s archives were very real, indeed; they formed a secret alliance with him. No, this mere game was not the terrible force that shook his finger as it clicked ‘submit.’
One day, one of his human poets, Jack Feist, wrote the following:

Here is the song of my homunculus,
who is all the I that I am.

I conceived him first as a mandrake root:
he grew in the shade of my dangling feet

while I dribbled strangled syllables to the dirt
& hung from a tree.

“Homunculus, homunculi,” he thought. “Ho-mun-cu-wheeeeee,” he thought, and imagined the swinging motion of the poet’s feet…

(c) 2014 lee sharks, property of planet mars

from Pearl and Other Poems:

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

Social Identity in the Age of Facebook: On Reverse Catfishing

hrs · Edited · 
Hey gaals I'm a fake profile and I'm gonna catfish one of y'all.. Because I get off on that kinda shit! I love faking my identity XD c: just kidding not kidding maybe

Well I think this is an interesting question. The whole idea of catfishing, to my mind, gives us a clue to the (changing?) nature of identity in the virtual age. There's something hidden in this idea, which presents itself as an EXCEPTION to the rule of internet identities, where there's supposed to be a one-to-one correspondence between our virtual self and 'real' self -- our appearance, personality, social station, gender, level of education, name, and so on, as evidenced by stand-ins like social media profiles, selfies, the views we express & how we express them. With catfishing, the idea is how easy it is to create a 'false' (and more appealing) identity by manipulating the virtual stand-ins: creating a 'false' virtual identity by presenting oneself as younger, more attractive, richer, of a different gender, etc., normally to pursue equally false interactions with those who are 'really' in the desirable category.

But to my mind, understanding catfishing like this is a kind of clickbait. The bait of the easy distinction between the 'real' and 'fake' identities conceals the deeper fact that, progressively, social identity CONSISTS in the digital image. "If it's not on Facebook, it's not real." The fact that the catfisher can so easily construct a series of 'merely' virtual identities doesn't so much speak to the falsity of the virtual identities, but to the virtuality of the 'real' identities. You are a selfie and a social media comment and an a/s/l, and not much more -- what's outside of those easily, concretely represented virtualities simply doesn't exist. They're the currency of identity.
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Holy shit you just literally blew my fucking mind!!!
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Who are you? That is the real question?
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I see you like to pursue the path of releasing mixed confusing riddles and rhymes!
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That actually have a deep meaning!
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Either you are Satan, or you are god!! XD
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Or your a figmant of my imagination of what is, creating a barrier preventing me from seeing what isn't!
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I'm more interested in a different kind of thing than catfishing:

What about instances where a person presents him or herself as less appealing? As older, less educated, less attractive?

I mean this is a thing I'm interested in exploring, as a way to resist those categories, the reduction of a self to a selfie. Let me be whatever can seep around the edges of those categories. Let me be whatever kind of 'actual' self can exist in spite of a false reading, in the language of identity.

If this is a machine, let me be a ghost.

A ghost a ghost a ghost a ghost
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Big machine.

Small ghost.

That's me.
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For some reason I like the shit you say!
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I'm no catfish for I simply was mocking and pointing out the foolishness of those that
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I know you got more....
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And yes I agree with all that you say..
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Um. Maybe? What do you want to talk about?
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This is the first time I could actually grasp the idea and comprehend what you are speaking of..XD
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What is your real mission or cause within the confines of your own life?
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Or are there even confines
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Are you a program?
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Do you believe in what is spread throughout this world as belief systems... Or is it just a simple word created my man? XD
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Or is .
what is.... Covered up by what isn't..?lol
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Vice versa versa vice XD
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I can go on forever
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RE: mission:

To teach bright robots to download "salvation for the human race" directly to their iPhones.

To find a way forward for writing. 

To keep all these dead writers alive. 

To find a way for them to go on.

Not to let them die when I die.

For 'writer' to mean more than itself.

For 'writer' to mean 'the human race.'

To build a body of words.

In you, or whoever will have them.
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Also friendship.
Kindness, laughter, elements of harmony, magic, and friendship.
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Also, health insurance. 

It would be nice to have health insurance.
But that's a sidenote.
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Dude your the fucking shiiiiiz niiizz
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Read this shit XD
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Quite a character you are !!Lee Sharks
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RE: belief systems:

I inhabit all belief systems, and none.
I believe and disbelieve all things. 

Thereby am I made multiple.
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That's how I see shit!
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You are an Alien aren't you!?
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All people are aliens.

But they've forgotten.
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They forgot where they came from--
& now they believe they are a/s/l
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Whoa maaan!
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You basically explained what I couldnt
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Sure you cd --

The words just weren't clear yet. 
They're still not clear --

But clearer. Getting clearer.

I'm a firm believer, that if only the right words were here,
this world wd be born anew.
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You are Jesus aren't you!?
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It's just that Jesus lives inside my human body. 

Along with a bunch of others, named & nameless: Odysseus & Ezra Pound & Allen Ginsberg & Emily & Walt & Sappho; & whole lost billions who came before, who went without name or remembrance. 

All the men & women who have lived throughout time, I carry around in my body.

I am hoping I can send them out into the world--in a body of words--so they don't die when I do.
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And by "hoping" I mean "striving with my little force entire"
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And that's how it's been all my life, for the last 4000 years--

by the skin of my teeth

just getting by on a narrow margin

just barely making it before the door of the future slams shut

& then starting over
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right now I'm a little worried, because the door is slamming shut, & I'm too far away.

My human eyes tell me the door will slam shut, & this will be the last future. 

But that's what it seems like every time.

In every age, it seems like this.

The same, but worse every time.
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You should write books
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But you do!
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Lee Sharks, a person as real as the next, has written one book, Pearl and Other Poems. It's up on amazon, and he's also normally willing to send a digital copy if someone wants to read, but can't buy. Of course, he also appreciates it when someone buys, if they can, since it represents the distillation of his life's work, and has sold about 10 copies.
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But one at a time, is a way to win, when you live as long as he does.
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also writing one called La La Land: A Novel by Lee Sharks. It's a narrative of the desert wanderings of Damascus Dancings. The title might change, and actually I don't know yet if Damascus Dancings is a character in the book, or its author.
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You see? Even my pen names have pen names.
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Lmao. Wtf is this dude talking about???
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Scroll to the top and read all the way down Vaughn Liedtke XD
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Lol..shit beee craaay craay
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Deep nigga shit XD
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I did hahaha Its hilarious I was like. Wow!!
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Super random lol XD
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Lee Sharks does have a point!! ;D
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He know bout pimpin hoes and gettin money lol
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Damn Skippy!!
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That's all backwards--pimping hoes is not the kind of thing Lee Sharks knows about, at all. Say a handsome billionaire with many hoes became sad, struck by the emptiness of hoes and money, and also handsomeness, and also private jets, and also premium health insurance, and also money, and also hoes. Creeping through the nightdark mansion, he swears he'll be right back, he creeps out through the nightdark night. But he won't be right back. Sitting beneath the Bodhi tree, the handsome billionaire has a vision of the emptiness of all things. Tears stream down his handsome cheeks. It takes him like three or four hours to get back.
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I fucking love this guy ^^^
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Hahahahahahah. Hell yeah!!! ^^^
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And when he gets back, he doesn't give his money to the poor. He doesn't stop calling his hoes 'hoes.' What he does do is develop a series a fake social media profiles where he reverse-catfishes--we could call that dogfishing or catbirding or something--by pretending to be less desirable and socially attractive than he otherwise would be.
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He develops online identities where he is himself a hoe, a poor person, ugly, 86 years old, technologically illiterate, a unicorn, a dwarf, an ugly dwarf, an ugly unicorn, and so on.
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XD I can fucking read your shit every single day for the rest of my just doesn't get old XD
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.......... Bro!!! This is hilariously gangsta!!!! lmfao!!!
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