few more steps and they block it for everyone including adults fucken duh?

 

 

Gunna be Frank. Unless some shit starts to change real fucking fast, we are nose diving into some history book level nightmare shit for ourselves and everyone we care about. It’s not alarmist anymore, the house is on fire.

 

she lacks impulse control over cheese

 

 

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I get so angry about the walmart shopper doing a different size for my peanuts its like dude you are buddhist just deal with it lol u have the skills like only peanuts bro hahaha like just seething and boiling with rage over them

 

Does not matter if you have $2.47 or $3 trillion we are still all in hell? just the money seems to make living in a 4th grade hell realm more livable thankfully there is no obese burn victim skinheads in this masonic hell that are taking off your skin and eating it here

 

She wrote about lesbian desire, abortion, and prostitution in 1946—and when critics finally accepted her in 1964, she said: "I have been ugly. I'm still ugly. If I had been beautiful, I would have had a lot, but right now I would be forced to give up so much of it." Violette Leduc didn't write to be liked. She wrote to exist. Born illegitimate in Arras, France, in 1907—the unwanted daughter of a servant and her employer's son—Violette grew up under the weight of shame her mother never let her forget. "My mother never held my hand," she later wrote. When guiding her young daughter on and off curbs or down staircases, her mother would grasp Violette's coat sleeve, careful never to make contact with the girl's skin. That kind of rejection doesn't fade. It calcifies. By the 1930s, Violette was drifting through Paris—expelled from boarding school for affairs with female classmates, failed exams, dead-end secretarial jobs, turbulent relationships. In 1939, she married an old friend. The marriage lasted a year and ended with an abortion that nearly killed her. Then came World War II. In 1942, broke and alone, Violette followed writer Maurice Sachs to Normandy. They survived by trading on the black market. Violette would bore Sachs "to distraction" with endless lamentations about her traumatic childhood. One day, exasperated, he ordered her: "Go sit under an apple tree and write down all the things you tell me." She did. The result was L'Asphyxie (In the Prison of Her Skin)—a searing memoir of her childhood that would change her life. After the war, Violette returned to Paris with her manuscript. In 1945, she approached the rising feminist philosopher Simone de Beauvoir, handing her the dog-eared pages with trembling hands. De Beauvoir's first impression: "A tall, elegant blonde woman with a face both brutally ugly and radiantly alive." Then she started reading. She couldn't stop. De Beauvoir arranged for excerpts to appear in Les Temps Modernes, the influential journal she'd launched with Jean-Paul Sartre. In 1946, Albert Camus published the full book through Éditions Gallimard. Jean-Paul Sartre read it. So did Jean Cocteau and Jean Genet. Genet said: "She is an extraordinary woman. She is crazy, ugly, cheap, and poor, but she has a lot of talent." It was a compliment. But the public ignored her. Critics were lukewarm. Violette continued writing in a tiny studio in a poor section of Paris, struggling to survive. Then came Ravages in 1955. The novel opened with 150 pages depicting Violette's sexual awakening with her female classmate Isabelle—vivid, explicit, unapologetic descriptions of lesbian desire written with devastating honesty. The publisher censored it. They cut the entire first section. Deemed it "too shocking" for publication. The censored pages wouldn't see print until 1966, when they were finally published as a separate novella: Thérèse et Isabelle. By then, Violette had suffered a mental breakdown. In 1957, Simone de Beauvoir took her to a psychiatric clinic. Violette would struggle with mental illness for the rest of her life. She kept writing. In the late 1950s, Beauvoir encouraged her to write an autobiography. "Tell your story," she said. "All of it." So Violette did. La Bâtarde—The Bastard—was published in 1964 with a foreword by Simone de Beauvoir: "A woman is descending into the most secret part of herself, and telling us about all she finds there with an unflinching sincerity, as though there were no one listening." The book recounted everything. Her illegitimate birth. Her mother's cruelty. Her lesbian relationships. Her poverty. Her involvement in prostitution. Her abortion. Her blackmarket dealings during the war. Her obsessive, unrequited loves for gay men. Nothing was sanitized. Nothing was softened. France's prestigious literary prize committees didn't know what to do with it. They wanted to give La Bâtarde the Prix Goncourt, but how could they award fiction's highest honor to something so scandalous? The solution: reclassify it as "autobiography rather than fiction" and remove it from consideration. But readers didn't care about prize committees. They devoured it. La Bâtarde sold 170,000 copies in its first few months—a stunning success for a book its own publisher had initially feared. The critic for London's Sunday Times compared it to Rousseau's Confessions. Yale professor Henri Peyre called it "a courageous confession and a work of art, sumptuous with images worthy of Rimbaud." For the first time in her life, Violette had money. Recognition. A degree of literary fame. And she was absolutely clear-eyed about what it had cost. In a 1970 interview, at age 63, she said: "I have been ugly. I'm still ugly." Then she added: "But I have no regrets. If I had been beautiful, I would have had a lot, but right now I would be forced to give up so much of it." She understood something most people don't: beauty would have given her comfort, but it would have required silence. Compromise. Playing by rules designed to keep her small. Ugliness—society's rejection of her—had paradoxically given her freedom. Freedom to write the unspeakable. To refuse to perform femininity as expected. To tell truths that beautiful, acceptable women weren't allowed to tell. Violette Leduc spent her final years in an old house she bought near Mount Ventoux in southern France. She died of breast cancer in 1972 at age 65. She left behind eight books that shattered every taboo about what women could write, could say, could be. Books about lesbian desire written before Stonewall. About abortion before Roe v. Wade. About female sexuality before The Second Sex became mainstream. About poverty, prostitution, and the messiness of desire in an era that demanded women be pure, silent, decorative. Jean Genet had called her "France's greatest unknown writer." He was right—and wrong. Unknown to the masses, perhaps. But known—deeply known—by every writer who came after and found permission in her pages to tell their own unvarnished truths. Simone de Beauvoir championed her. Albert Camus published her. Sartre, Cocteau, and Genet praised her. But Violette Leduc didn't write for them. She wrote to resurrect her grandmother, the only person who'd loved her without conditions. She wrote to understand her mother, who never held her hand. She wrote because Maurice Sachs told her to sit under an apple tree. She wrote because Simone de Beauvoir said: Tell your story. All of it. And she did. Every ugly, beautiful, devastating truth of it.

 

oh wow did not know there were so many of them around in this economy !!!

 

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this is NOT a game - ur fucken SOUL and presiding over you for all of eternity (TORTURE) is at stake/steak everyone here automatically already qualifies for this by default only the exceptional with friends in high places ever get out of the endless buttsniffers maze I pray I can take ALL of my relations with me but I think it may be only my loved ones

 

 

($265 w$14 tip for home delivery) vegetarian pantry restock complete before ww3 pantry restock stabilization cache now I can focus on fresh fruit and veggies and other goodies thankfully I had a healthy tax refund this year lmao and some of it is stuff I needed right away like toothpaste and cats food/cola/margarine etc lol dont be mean about my anal health purchases either lmao j/k