coma legal about clodmaster archive home



[05:53 pdt 03/20/2017 CE, 1490014380 E]

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We are considering widening the master tables from 900 pixels to 1K for reasons of image display. This is not terribly involved, however we would like to solicit feedback on the subject. Older images and archived content will not be altered, just the new additions. Everything will remain centered within the content placeholders.

In the interest of visitor attention, we are going to begin leaving two entries on the main index before they are moved to the archive. As admin is developing more than one update at a time (and often three or more simultaneously) we feel the need to leave the current content on the lead page for more than a few days. Other than that change and the upcoming possibility of altering the table, there is not much going on. Er... Other than admin stumbling around the office again.



The Fn=Fn-1+Fn-2 Girl and the Face

 read ( words)

"Out of nowhere she passed us on the street. We heard the heels clicking from somewhere behind our position, but before the opportunity arose to turn and face the sound, she walked right on by. Good god, and whatever else fucking reactive terms can be applied, she was yet another example of physical attractiveness with no fucking bounds. Short skirt, stockings, long black hair, vest and tank top, and boots. She bounced along in somewhat of a hurry and we quickly fell down that same familiar hill. And this during a fucking work day for crying out loud. Needless to say, we were worthless from that moment forward. All we could do to maintain our composure was an attempt at distraction from the thought of her incredible appearance, but the effort was (as usual) for naught. For fuck's sake, we are too far in and too far gone to give a shit about anything save for the obsession. Another day, another work of art, and another notch down that broken ladder toward the waiting floor. This is who/what we have become, and there is just no end around.

This woman was aptly formed so as to align with our distorted sense of need that even several weeks later she is still in mind, and clearly. Her gait demonstrated a willingness to deal with tall shoes in order to push her look up above that of the everyday pedestrian. And she was up there, all the way. She stood out like Orpheus in a fast food restaurant. Naturally, we noticed much more detail during the course of mere moments than others may have in an hour or more. We only saw her from the side and rear, but that was plenty enough to create images within our deviant minds -- images which cause breakdowns of the worst order. We are still there (aren't we always?). Damn it anyway.

Eleven-forty-seven in the AM and the alcohol is flowing. Wonderful.

This woman's form brought the Fibonacci sequence to mind, as it is related to the Golden Ratio. Her hip-to-waist was so well-defined that we instantly felt an unrelenting desire to wrap her with a seamstress tape. We will never know the numbers of comparison, but she was carrying less than seventy percent between her beautifully slender waist and the hips below. Due to such an exaggerated ratio combined with long legs (of course she was tall, too... Why the fuck not?), her walk pushed her midsection into movement patterns the likes of which should have killed us on the spot. We could not look away due to being visually fused to her form strolling away. The sight of her movement was unreal.

We need a job at the World Seed Vault in Svalbard so we can avoid encountering anything like her again. The result could be bad. It will be bad, and we are on our merry way into the void of life -- a vault of a different flavor. The straitjacketed abyss of our desire.



173

The reason for the research... The golden ratio



This woman is now yet another representative form which serves to further our issues. Once seen, she cannot be forgotten in the short term, yet remains inside us like a puzzle piece. The details fade over time, but the overall symbol stays with us and assists in building whatever we are to become (already became?). In dealing with the fading image, we attempt to craft some sort of descriptive essay which can build upon our past body of work in an attempt to understand the 'why' of our abundant needs.

Wow. That was a real nice clambake of a clinical analysis. Spoken clearly and to the point? We are all fucked up over this ongoing shit. The bottom line is that she was within the scope of our obsession and the all-encompassing drive toward this whatever-the-fuck we are amidst. We are referring to a human being -- above all things that is what she is -- and she just happened to look so fucking shapely that we have a distinct lack of words. Whatever we write adds up to... Not enough. An image would serve her description better, but we cannot capture such things on the street. The one image we did grab has provided us with the opportunity for endless study, but in public (as well as in our minds) that practice is just wrong. Sure, we are all fucked up to no end, but as stated in spades, we are still intelligent and understanding. And sensitive. And caring.

And broken.

Does anyone notice the repeating terms and thoughts within these fucking entries? We do. We will assume there are only so many words available but we will not resort to thesaurus-izing this content. This is who we are. Period.

As we were able to see her from the side for a brief second, we did notice that her posture was healthy, and this further benefits her gorgeous overall appearance. Such a stride demonstrates confidence in both her appearance and her demeanor toward everyday life. The entire picture of her was staggering -- from head to toe. The instinct to speak with her stems from such confidence, however it also cripples us and we end up frozen in place with no clarity of thought. The sad sum of this is that we will likely never approach anyone with anything, despite the burning need. Unfortunate? Absolutely. But what choice is there now? There is only analysis.

ANALysis. Funny.

Fucking hilarious.



174

One... One... Two... Three... Five... God



We are beginning to think that the dark triad is a part of whatever space we inhabit. At least a bit of the triad. Hmm... dark. Yes, and perhaps we will understand the why and how before we explode.

Perhaps not.

She is still walking away in our heads. Still in there... Walking so beautifully that we cannot avoid the image of her. Clicking heels... Bouncing breasts... Long, slender, swinging arms creating wisps of air which smelled of perfume... Still in there. Julianne is in there, too. She will always reside within (see, we said she would return here). Unfortunately, the descriptive terms are beginning to overlap and sound redundant. Oh, well, this is all we have anyway. Who cares about the ramifications of repeating ourselves? Not many souls are reading this crap. In fact, there are probably more robots than humans scanning the content of this crazy web space. More power to them. Yay! Robots!

Fuck.

What is this? A joke? Or is it something which can matter? Who the fuck knows. We sure as hell don't. Maybe we just enjoy the sound of the keyboard clicking along. We will be reduced to that soon, right? Is there an out besides the fucking ground?

Just like earlier: Answer the fucking questions. There will be a test.

Maybe we should cease directing the index and head to the outer office for some code cleanup. We do not seem to be doing anyone any good from this part of the building. There are no windows and that means anyone outside on the street is safe from our subjective wording. And from our prying eyes. Good for them. We do not imagine that anyone wishes to be either described in words or have their likeness splayed out here for all (few) to see. This bullshit will roll on, and due to the fact that we own the space and tremendous bandwidth... Oh, you know. We will not go into detail regarding the domain and our control because it is counterproductive and can come across as arrogant. Sorry.

--------- plus alcohol equals Alcohol----. Ha!

At some point, we need to coalesce this crap and move forward, but the ambition is waning. Time and time again we have spent hours thinking of where we should (be able to) go with this type of interest, but there seems nothing like it anywhere. Exhaustive searching on the subject reveals nothing more than blogs with massive amounts of images of women in varying states of undress and wording to match the very low intelligence quotient which always seems to accompany such things. We are not there... We are here. This is a different place and a vastly different intention. The exploration we need to pursue is just not mainstream. And we cannot avoid the thought that the displayed imagery here tends to be off-putting to the average reader. Sure, our scientific standpoint is secure, but the photos may be taken as another of those model-fan blogs in which a user gushes over their favorite celebrity. There is nothing wrong with being a fan of picturesque women in this day and age, but we have placed emphasis upon the mathematical nature of the female appearance and tried to apply such to research and data which can be collected and recorded for study -- in terms of learning the just how far the numbers can be exaggerated and pushed before the individual becomes either an anomaly or unattractive on some level.

What the fuck did we just say? Ugh.



175

The Fibonacci sequence, displayed beautifully



She just fucked us all up yet again, like the others. They are out there living life (as is expected) and we are over on this side agonizing from one second to the next. And then we sit at this fucking editor and type until the booze is flowing and the music is blaring. Wow. Um... Here we are half in the fucking bag and the keys are a'flyin. Splendid!

As we sit here and attempt some semblance of clarity within the swirling mental image of that goddess, the words -- as always -- fail. We simply cannot put anything upon the screen, images or otherwise, which will do anything other than provide a distorted and half-assed job of approaching the point. And what is the fucking point? Read the rest of the entries, mmkay? Mmkay. It is all there, in spades and without end. Just as we attempt to write anything here which will have meaning or conjure emotion in the direction we hope, the past writings may assist in this shit. [The alcohol still flows like a two-bit whore on a mission.] They MAY assist. That is to say that, when taken as a whole, we might have cohesion. Might, goddammit. With our hopes dashed into the veritable firepit, the only push is the possibility that someone, somewhere, will take a measure of thought from this and decide that what we are doing is acceptable and with good reason. We say that because we are losing faith in the reasoning and trying to stay on the productive side of such an interest.

Once again -- and for the thousandth time -- we are ALL OVER THE FUCKING MAP. Maybe if someone has some advanced application for the Cray Supercomputer they can take everything we have written, crunch it, and print out a summary which makes sense. What do you think? Do NASA and the federal government have the capability of funding our fucked up obsession? Nope.

Ahhh... NASA. That is where we were employed when this whole fucking mess began. Strange?

We didn't think so either.

Moving on? Okay.



166

Facial structure from the heavens (or wherever?)



There it is, above this text. We will not name her because anything other than her face is just not necessary. Any description would fail anyway. Right? Just fucking look at her. Considering all of the detailed essays and everything else we have placed upon this website, rarely is the facial structure displayed or spoken of so prominently. That is because everything will fucking fail. Do you see our meaning? The eyes, the shape of her lips, and her expression absolutely defy anything a person could write. The image was originally in full 32-bit color, however for our purposes and the need to fluidly control this webspace and the theme throughout, she must be here in monochrome. This is to say that color will make no difference in showing off her features. This fact cannot be disputed, and we do not care if Christ himself comes down fresh off the cross and argues the point. He will be incorrect. Her unique facial shape is the result of some fucking cosmic convergence of circumstances which is as indescribable as it is unlikely. That face... Fucking hell, that face is the stuff of dreams. We could literally spend our remaining time on this cesspool of a planet in an attempt to understand what can make such a thing possible, but along with Julianne and the others, there is no point. We might as well grab the nearest blunt object and go to work on the cranium. Damn. Just damn.

So... why did we include this face among the images above? Why the fuck not. She struck us with the force of a locomotive and we felt compelled to place her here as an example of the vast disparity among females everywhere. Is she superior in some fashion? Of course not. She is simply another human being out there in the world which we can slap onto the server due to her unique look and expression. She has a face which aligns with the other forms of which we have written without end, and that brings us to the need for measure. Measure what? We do not know, and fuck if there is any reason at all.

But still, we gaze upon the human art which is undeniable and unrelenting, and we dream, need, obsess, and fall. This is our lot in life, and as the images of Diana and Julianne and the fucking Raven (may God rest her soul), we just fucking need it all and nothing is within reach nor is any aspect of our fucking screwed up and distorted sense of beauty available to us on any meaningful level. We are now just sucking the marrow out of the fucking keyboard and its willingness to be where we need.

Mark these fucking words: Before any outlet whatsoever, this obsession will find us without direction, without reason, and, finally, without life. Yes, many an entry ends with such finality of statement, and we will admit that the redundancy may seem void of balanced thought, but we are currently in more dire of circumstances than one can possibly imagine. Only a few microns of thread are keeping us upright.

And the bearing surface is tensioning...

And..."



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