5 minute brain farts or, ‘Saint Cunt of Cuntcutta.’ by Monkey.
Since I discovered ‘The Most Dangerous Writing App Ever’* which isn’t an app but a webpage I have been holding myself to a once-per-week exercise of writing non-stop for five minutes.
*Note, if you stop writing for more than a few seconds you lose all progress
Here is entry #1 unedited and purposefully bombastic.
For each person there is a limit to be found within which one finds cartharsis. Does this matter to any of us – this supposed cartharsis? Would you learn important lessons by understanding what one specific moment has contributed to the whole gamut of your life perspective? One would or even should argue that too much importance attributed to one specific moment removes the power of collective learning. Does this make you all stupid cunts? I would say – ‘yes’ – with a loud and stiff bardoun. Chaucer was fun; he knew us all to be cunts and he celebrated it. Why don’t we all celebrate our cunthood rather than life in apologetic tears and disingenuous concern – huzzah! We shout, full of guffaw, mirth stamped out but always kindled anew by our inner cunt. Yes – CUNT. I wrote down that word, deal with it, you bleeding ass liberal dickhole who’d rather feign concern and crocodile tears for your SaintHood CV like that whore thief Mother Cuntresa. Not a single one of those poor, starved, diseased Jib-Jib punjabis saw a single penny of that money. She blew it on gin and opiates. Mother Theresa was a cunt. Yes, she was a cunt. We should celebrate how her inner cunt led to her beatification. Saint Cunt of Cuntcutta. What a lass.
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