-
We've had very few donations over the year. I'm going to be short soon as some personal things are keeping me from putting up the money. If you have something small to contribute it's greatly appreciated. Please put your screen name as well so that I can give you credit. Click here: DonationsDismiss Notice
- Last Activity:
- Mar 12, 2025 at 3:07 PM
- Joined:
- Jul 14, 2011
- Messages:
- 12,338
- Trophy Points:
- 123
- Positive ratings received:
- Neutral ratings received:
- Negative ratings received:
Post Ratings
| Received: | Given: | |
|---|---|---|
 |
9,898 | 7,782 |
|
5 | 0 |
|
54 | 4 |
|
1 | 0 |
|
39 | 11 |
|
16 | 10 |
|
28 | 4 |
|
3 | 8 |
|
3 | 0 |
|
2 | 1 |
|
0 | 0 |
|
0 | 0 |
|
0 | 0 |
|
0 | 0 |
|
3 | 0 |
|
0 | 0 |
|
0 | 0 |
|
0 | 0 |
|
1 | 0 |
- Gender:
- Male
- Location:
- Toronto
- Occupation:
- Editor
Baraka_Guru
Möderätor, Male, from Toronto
Staff Member
I'm apparently responsible for 2% of the messages posted on this forum. Feb 12, 2025
- Baraka_Guru was last seen:
- Mar 12, 2025 at 3:07 PM
- Loading...
- Loading...
-
About
The details of my life are quite inconsequential. But very well, where do I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen-year-old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy, the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical — summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring, we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent, I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds — pretty standard, really. At the age of twelve, I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen, a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum, it's breathtaking, I suggest you try it —Interact
Signature
“I can't remember anything. I remember only ideas and sensations.”
—James Joyce, Ulysses (1922)“Humankind cannot bear very much reality.”
—T. S. Eliot, “Burnt Norton,” Four Quartets (1943)
