DAVID MOORE

[retrosmash]

Happy 18th uterine liberation anniversary, you magnificent bastard, wherever you may be. :')

[Necronomitr0n]

happy 18th you great big stud

[Lauch]

he's joining the marines because stacy felasco made him suicidal rip

[davidmoore0]

Aw you guys. Very sweet of you  

[retrosmash]

waht the fuck idiot

[davidmoore0]

what are you

Stacy had my soul

[billy]

This thread is gay. its one of those threads i never click because i know it wont be interesting. and i was right, it's not.

[DrRumack]

billy do you need a mop because you're owning us all over the floor

[Philip K Dick]

CHAPTER XXVIII

Two days are passed.  It is a summer evening; the coachman has set me down at a place called Whitcross; he could take me no farther for the sum I had given, and I was not possessed of another shilling in the world.  The coach is a mile off by this time; I am alone.  At this moment I discover that I forgot to take my parcel out of the pocket of the coach, where I had placed it for safety; there it remains, there it must remain; and now, I am absolutely destitute.

Whitcross is no town, nor even a hamlet; it is but a stone pillar set up where four roads meet: whitewashed, I suppose, to be more obvious at a distance and in darkness.  Four arms spring from its summit: the nearest town to which these point is, according to the inscription, distant ten miles; the farthest, above twenty.  From the well-known names of these towns I learn in what county I have lighted; a north-midland shire, dusk with moorland, ridged with mountain: this I see.  There are great moors behind and on each hand of me; there are waves of mountains far beyond that deep valley at my feet.  The population here must be thin, and I see no passengers on these roads: they stretch out east, west, north, and south—white, broad, lonely; they are all cut in the moor, and the heather grows deep and wild to their very verge.  Yet a chance traveller might pass by; and I wish no eye to see me now: strangers would wonder what I am doing, lingering here at the sign-post, evidently objectless and lost.  I might be questioned: I could give no answer but what would sound incredible and excite suspicion.  Not a tie holds me to human society at this moment—not a charm or hope calls me where my fellow-creatures are—none that saw me would have a kind thought or a good wish for me.  I have no relative but the universal mother, Nature: I will seek her breast and ask repose.

[Pants, the terrible]

i fucked that man so HARDD

[billy]

jk this thread is pretty good

happy birthday