Prude Isnt A Label Like "dumbass" Its A Condemnation Of Any Girl Who Doesnt Act In Alignment With The

LMAO.😂🤣😅 You gotta love it, truly unremarkable inspirationals that don't tax the imagination too dearlyl!!

It's adorable. An utterly banal and concrete observation gathering all its pluck and moxy and climbing way up into the heady heights where proverbs, koans, and poetic metaphors reside, taking its shot at greatness--it takes some real sand to pose as sublime unfolding wisdom. ❎❎❎ Unlocked: Achievement Mundane.

This is the problem with smoking pot. 🚭 It badly impairs the ability to accurately evaluate or assign meaning.

🤪💣🙈🙉🙊💣😵

My God, but if that wasn't the worst piece of advice I ever took--more than once, to boot, I can't imagine anything more ruinous, degrading, and irrevocably fatal for the soul.

Certainly if you must love anything or anyone, then do it while you are young and filled with foolish good nature and resilience. Spend both like a drunken sailor, because both wane no matter how you live your life.

Damn it!

Never gonna find that talking fish.

These were coveted precious artifacts for us kids; they were talismans in the truest sense like the root ancient Greek verb TELEIN, "to initiate into the mysteries." They validated and confirmed some of the hollow absurdity, stale lies, and frayed seams we were starting to notice about the adult world.

So we mounted them everywhere, carving our territory with heiroglyphs. We pasted Wacky Pack stickers where we'd always see them: on school books, desks, nights side tables, lamps, walls next to our beds. They served as wards that would stay blindness and ignorance from descending on us, save us from becoming like the sullen violent adults that surrounded us. The Storied stickers were a comfort, but also like a rallying call of transgression that poked the fake world in its eye.

We're a whole generation raised simultaneously under two religions: Consumerism and Anti-Consumerism. Wacky Pack and their spiritual cousin, Mad Magazine both in their own way, stood shoulder to shoulder with the stories of Jack London, John Fitzgerald, Roald Dahl and Mark Twain, that didn't talk down to us like we were imbeciles.

They felt special, like a secret visual language, intended for us, acknowledging our minds.

WACKY PACK WHIZ BANG

VISIONS OF VINTAGE WACKINESS

Topps Wacky Packages Series 16

Circa 1976

Yes.

EXACTLY.

Lest We Forget On Remembrance Day

Willie and Joe by Bill Mauldin

Actually, love tends to bloom between people who are not just at their best, but performing well past that level, a hyperbest. The chemicals(basically all of them) that burst into overdrive with infatuation are to ensure pair bonding, so they supe us up to be more charming than we usually are, more funny, more patient and genial, more doting and interested, more carefree, more romantic, and to feel inspired like they haven't been in ages, delerious with the mere thought of the other person. Nothing feels wrong in the world, nothing can bring the person down. This drugged out love psychosis can last six months or more.

So, what sort of person is relating to this quote about being such a mess and the mess pretending all that love walking on by must just not be real, right? Like a little baby fairy tale about unconditional love. Except unconditional is not meant to be bestowed on an adult.

Love between adults is necessarily and deservedly replete with conditions and boundaries and deal breakers. That's something the head shrinkers with all their crazy jargon would label "healthy". Compare that with the girl shopping around, who has an important condition of her own that Prince Charming be sturdy and resilient to her messes while staying unconditionally true and taking care of her.

Be very wary of girls who like this sort of accountability shirking qualification. The fantasy validating the true loved mess is everything because they are always a mess and the mess is a very big problem.

You see a similar sentiment in the spookily common meme that reads , "if you can't handle me at my worst, you don't deserve me at my best". This is an extra special red flag. Women who like this idea live in a paradoxical delusion about themselves.

These are women who spend a great deal of time at their worst, and if they have a best, it is like the fine China only for when the Queen is coming. So this girl who is a disregulated hurricane prone harpy has the sort of divergent mind that can cut a swathe of destruction and misery everywhere she goes but still have a diva level delusion of how precious and special she is and that her mythical best that perhaps no one has ever even seen is some extraordinary one-of-a-kind prize worthy of a perfect super human endurance doormat who will perpetually caretake her massive maintenance requiring hysterical mess. It's worth a shot. There are masochistic self loathing broken souls qualified for the job. She just has to nab one.

People express truths about themselves that aren't always apparent up front, but can be glimpsed with the smallest of gestures. The sorts of quotations, slogans and memes that resonates with a person are worth your attention, maybe even the fact that they are drawn to epigrams and aphorism in the first place is a flag. It perhaps suggests a hole in the person, a lost neediness seeking direction and reassurance constantly, not to mention a lazy attitude about fixes.

The ones demanding tolerance of their awfulness or conversely warning you off if you can read it, are a subset of this greater cohort who've earned a now cliché caution, that people who surround themselves with inspirationals are not the inspired or even the meagerly functional, but usually the neurotically depressed.

Those "don't give up right before the miracle arrives" vampires are worse than just an Eyeore. Eyeore is a pathetic creature mired in his mopey pessimism, but a sympathetic one, as well as being possessed of a certain self awareness and delimiting the amount of time he inflicts himself on others. The Inspirationals seeking are starving, voraciously seeking anything soothing, anything to feel momentarily better, or a facimile of whole. They're definitely not seeking personal accountability, it is anathema to them, requiring the impossible of them, like honesty, reflection, effort and acceptance. When they see you amble up, all you are is a big ol' rail of coke to them. To consume.

Heed the warnings, because they can exhude the most charismatic lures just long enough to dig their tendrils in to you. It's too late then. By then you're just a feed trough. For a while. Til you're empty.

“In the deep fall, the body awakes,”

— Robert Bly, from “A Home in Dark Grass,” The Light Around the Body (HarperPerennial, 1991)

As if I have the option not to.