coma legal about clodmaster archive home



[18:44 pst 03/04/2017 CE, 1488637860 E]

This week we have streamlined and clouded the information which has become historic and at the top of the priority triangle. Having updated all of our content and placed everything where it needs to be, the next steps are to mobilize the operating processes. We go.

As predicted, a few of the sections have been removed due to lack of viewership and falling numbers from the nether regions of the world. These sections will not return, and have been archived deeply. The site direction will continue without further issue. Admin has (firmly) expressed his desire for a new frontend and logo, and the fabrication of a colophon in order to cover past and future print work. We are nowhere near brick and mortar, however steps must be taken for protection of intellectual property in the future. The site name and URL will not change until the realization of 2020, so for the short term we will simply alter the header and footer accordingly.



The End of All Things and Julianne... Again

read ( words)

"Or... the beginning?

This entry may be bad.

Sitting and staring at her endless beauty is not enough. We need to somehow be inside the machine and gaze without limit. We need it like nothing else. And such a fact does not matter. Inside? Yes, we live inside these feelings and damaging desires, and there is no way out. Just as the song by the legendary Genesis, we are in too deep. We cannot move and Julianne is a part of the reasoning. Fuck.

To reference other media is futile, however an apt description is the nightmare Kevin Bacon's character had when he learned of his wife's exit from birth control: He was sent, screaming and straight-jacketed along rails into an explosion. We are there, too. We are destroyed. Julianne is not at fault, of course (just as in the last fucked up entry), but the fault is our own for allowing this to take place over many years. There is no placing blame anywhere else. It is us. Period. And we knew this would happen over time yet we dove in anyway. And here we are, swirling among defeatist thought and horrendous emotion, backward hopes, and a desperate desire to understand. There is fucking nothing.

Her images are going to remain within this writing due to the fact that she represents every single facet of the fall.

And these entries are beginning to smear into each other.

And fuck it all.

The last several weeks spent both in the office and in San Francisco have shown us that the effort is for naught -- in whatever direction we face. Time in the office is quiet, dim, solitary, and nearly as therapeutic as it was years ago. Not bad. But inside... The storm presses us into a never-ending molding process which rarely eases off. The sides are closing upon our shoulders and mechanical stress is manifesting itself in everything we attempt. While in the City we constantly see images of hypersexualized objects along with gliding examples of mathematical attractiveness everywhere. The simple fact is the City holds a vastly disproportionate amount of physically desirable females, and each block traversed brings a new vision (or more) which stabs at us from every conceivable angle. We cannot look away, yet gazing and taking in as much as possible during those quick moments has become compelling beyond belief. There are just too many opportunities to see these beautiful women and the need to place numerical references all over them is very soon going to either kill us or send us into hiding. We know not which may be worse, but hiding means still dreaming, and that is bad.

Do the fucking math.



164

Beauty from any angle



Upon countless occasions have we stated that there is no positive direction. This continues with nary a thought for our survival. Well, here we are (finally) with some semblance of an end. The horizon is displayed before us just as the colorful representation upon the instrument panel of the aircraft we adore. Knowing this end, we can now juggle priorities and gather the things we need to help carry us to the soil. We can drink the errors away and drown knowing that we are pointed toward our destined cocoon. We can prepare for the issues which doubtless will attempt to uproot this direction and derail our path. Once mitigated, the open sea will embrace us and wash the need from our deviant and exhausted minds. Thank Christ the situation is sans irritation and lacking external power -- and we do mean 'lacking'. There is nothing and no one which can cross our desires. Considering the many years of dull, plodding, pedantic, and unrealized literary prowess, the simple fact is that we arrived at the end of something much more than we could have imagined. We are here, however we could have been in a place void of the technology which brought every micron of the obsession, desire, and the fucking need which is killing our being. Fucking killing it every waking moment.

Throughout the past several years we have attempted to understand and expand upon the mechanics and mathematical relationship between beauty and the limits of physical attractiveness. Unfortunately, this endeavor has bore no fruit nor any actual empirical research which is required in order to fulfill even the simplest of scientific theories. Time and time again we have sacrificed an inordinate amount of personal time in hopes of crafting and recording some sort of beginning format with which to expand.

Yep, nothing.

Surprised? Neither are we. The late days of our existence have shown us that the effort is fatally close to naught. One unfortunate fact related to this type of subject matter is that once we are displaying information or soliciting others we become labeled as some sort of deviant (and of course we are deviant to the core, however we need not skywrite the fucking thing). Yes, we can deal with what others may think they see. Most people can rise above such issues, yet somehow we still shy away from placing too much out there. This site? Who the fuck cares -- it is just another random stopover on the way to someone's destination on the Internet. Click. Hmm. Wrong page. Click. Gone. Remember the 'Twelve-second rule' from the early part of this century? Yeah, well it is now closer to five. Shit anyway.



158

Numbers all over her



And yet the Goddamned compulsion continues just like the Train (upcoming essay). We are powerless to change direction, slow, or stop. The images and Julianne's incredible form keep us from the bottom, yet push us somehow toward it. Think of a pendulum which has no positive side -- it sways to and fro and each change in direction sends the weight over to a different type of doom. The middle is peaceful yet there is nothing to halt the swing. We are the weight in question and each cycle causes more heartache and damage. The pain is endless and we wallow within. Due to the obsession of knowing, seeing, and exploring, we are still aware of the slim possibility, and that means remaining upright and open (to a degree, anyway). There can be no denying possibility, yet it is so far out in the stratosphere that we cannot even touch it.

Some of our previous entries mentioned the need to know 'why'. Well, we still do not know, nor have we any idea of where to begin that type of exploration. There was The Girl at the Car Wash way back in the 1236 days, and that may have been a part of the beginning. She appeared, we felt compelled, and the essay took form over the trailing months. Once polished to our twisted satisfaction, we published that writing and began to attempt an understanding of what made her so attractive. The only thoughts became about numbers (as a society we are obsessed with dimensioning everything interesting and searching for superlatives), and perhaps that brought on our dire need to know her measurements -- and we mean EVERYTHING -- from her long, ideally tapered fingers all the way to the insanity of the compound radii which lead from her inner thighs up and into her labia. Oh yes, up there. Insane, sensitive, and one of the areas of the female form which is largely out of reach... Especially for this type of study. Attempting to explain this interest to another human being is not a pleasant thought nor simple. Our mechanical interest is for the most part without emotion, although we will not deny the fact that performing and recording the study of a woman would be difficult without thinking of the sexual aspects of attractiveness and the instinctive direction those aspects naturally push the mind and body. Everything adds up to odds which have become astronomical. Ugh. Fuck. Whatever.

The girl at the car wash brought on a few things we had not previously considered, like her height as it related to other parts of her body. Tall women can tend to display unusually long fingers, an extended neckline, and (perhaps) a slender nose. One of the first thoughts which popped into our disturbed minds was as such: 'How long ARE her fingers?'. From there, the numbers which could be learned from measuring her entire body began to form some sort of need within. We wanted to know the numbers, and still do. So how does one approach a woman and politely ask her to stand in lingerie or a bikini and be subject to this type of study? Heh... The idea seems nearly impossible without her having the right type of mindset and personality, not to mention an understanding of, and appreciation for, human nature. Well, that was the Raven to a tee, but let us pass that beautiful soul and continue on.

As of this writing, the idea of seeking and contacting a subject is as alien as the fog and gases that make up Venus. The pain and compulsion which occurs each and every time we see an example of this type of mathematical beauty has become a catalyst of sorts -- a lever against which we have no strength. They are out there, and we are frozen in a manner so as to render us mentally and physically unable to function on even the most basic of levels. The resulting condition is a dire and fragile state. We have become less than both what we were and what we could have achieved.



144

The innermost of dimensional passion



As always, we are at an impasse. There is only thought and wording, and the need to continue in some Goddamned direction other than to the reverse. Gazing at Julianne's beautiful eyes presses us to think of the imagery and slim possibility of referencing some of them based upon eye separation. The photos are still only two-dimensional so the research is severely truncated and very limited to simple measurements, such as thigh diameter and so forth. We cannot place a hundred numbers upon these bodies -- not by a damned sight. The river is rising and we have become a slave to its depth and powerless to exit the water. Unfortunately, we cannot stop, either. Her incredible beauty will not allow us to seek another outlet nor alter the manner in which we think. Just fucking look at the image below and attempt to understand how such form can come into being, and how we can stop the need. No fucking way. God bless whatever type of power has created this woman and others similar to her. For fuck's sake... We just need it like nothing else on Earth. Look at her, and you are looking upon an example of the greatest and most compelling art in the history of everything. And we threw in a closer view of her eyes below just so we can slide down the slope a bit further.

Good fucking night.



162

Julianne's big, beautiful eyes... 2.55 inches apart



165

An absolute goddess, and still the fault is not hers



Where are we? Lost? Stuck? Who knows, but we have arrived nonetheless. Fallen, broken, yearning, and no longer knowing how to cope with all of it -- obsession, whatever the fuck.

For the time being, we shall sit here, coding and fucked up, staring and not knowing, typing and wondering. Without the Raven and lacking any other outlet, this is all we have. Of course, there is no limit to the writing and publishing, and that is one of the few parts of life which helps us to maintain a little stability. Well, we do have the alcohol, too. And -----. Those two items, along with the endless fucking need combine into a cocoon from which there may be no escape whatsoever. Unlimited time also pushes us into the alcohol/music/goddess shithole and allows for (occasional) exploration of our feelings, which is generally quite damaging and serves to cripple us temporarily. Hopefully, this will not become permanent as we cannot deny the fraction of possibility that our endeavor will bear fruit at some point. If we continue to destroy ourselves before that nearly-impossible dream is realized, well... You know. Dirt.

As usual, we arrive at the stoplight which asks the question: 'What do we do?'. There is no answer, and attempting to let others in to assist will doubtless lead to ostracization. Yep... Further outside than we are already. At least this place is familiar. From limitless options fifteen years ago to the nether regions of the late 2000s to the pit of fucking despair which is the now -- well, further comments are retreading and tired. The lack of descriptive terms comes as no surprise to us. Suffice to say, we are alone, hurt, fractured, and distressingly analytical about every second of our existence.



163

Unbelievable, and part of the reason we have fallen



Living in this massive fucking Goddamned sewer of a society is going to force us to reduce everything we are down to our own tiny universe -- within which we will sit and slowly destroy ourselves. And we shall perform this action whilst staring at a giant image of Julianne's eyes, along with the last photograph of the Raven that we still possess. As we sit now in front of this wondrous editor, we will fucking make it happen.

Or, give up completely, realize that there is no longer a reason, and fire the bullet which can carry us the fuck out of all of it. Either is fine.

Fuck you."



top

ren

This site contains mature content
Created by REN in Microsoft Visual Studio 2022
Copyright ©2002-2024 Brandywine Engineering    All rights reserved
All other trademarks, logos and graphics are the property of their respective owners
Questions? Comments? Gather your thoughts and compose a message to the assholes in charge