Therapy Press

[Earl @earl16o1]

Jofella 16: Queer Theory Part 3

I would rather die than suck Mifella’s penis, “Come hang out”, his next message said, how ideas in the mind can change from night to morning, sex though, what about normal sex? She thought about her vagina, that’s where the warm feeling had been, perhaps there was something still there, but her mind strayed to that most decadent action in all of human behavior, no I would absolutely not suck it. The Pokemaster got an erection and clutched the Pokeball gripped hormonal injection throttle with his hand, was it time? Was Misty finally evolving into a woman? Another message followed, “With the fellas”, not a date, well oh, I am so stupid, it wouldn’t be so bad to suck on it with my mouth I guess, caught between the two poles every man dreams of, the constant bipolarity of the susceptible female mind, despising it and needed it in her mouth, the seed had been planted, all for the purpose of art, thought the Pokemaster, only he knew the truth of all this wild human behavior in his little children, there really were multiple fellas, I wonder what kind of penises they have, if any are enchanted, like Pokemon ones, or otherwise compatible with the Toji verse, she was getting out of control, the Pokemaster had to relax the brain control connections, he remembered his own protocol theories, sexual thoughts are only important as for leading to sexual activity whose only purpose is procreation of artistic objects and art producing entities, her brain was entering cuck mode, I’m thinking like Joffrey she thought, she has no reason to want to suck on Mifella’s penis, or is that a prerequisite for reproductive sex? It’s too much speculation she thought, I haven’t even met them yet, maybe something did happen when I let Joffrey put it inside me, maybe a drop of semen did escape his penis into my womb, maybe his semen is in my brain, controlling my thoughts, I believe in feminism, don’t I? I therefore believe his semen must be subtracted from my brain, but if Joffrey was a fella, then maybe its Mifella’s thoughts, but he’s not a fella, if he was a fella, he would have fucked me, at this point I would settle for even one of the lower ranking fellas fucking me. She picked up her phone and responded to Mifella that she would leave soon.

[Therapy Press @Therapy_Press]

Tonight at The Last Hole, Sigrid Mau

[Therapy Press @Therapy_Press]

tonight at the last hole

[Therapy Press @Therapy_Press]

250k Calories + Chicken and Potatoes, 2022

[Therapy Press @Therapy_Press]

@LMI_erc Lockheed Martin inu $lmi is the best hedge against another fake bitch ass ww3 market crash. At 3 mil you'd be a pussy not to load the fuck up

[mifella @MMifella]

$fella

[Earl @earl16o1]

Jofella, Chapter 9 : Giappone

i.

Fine thread of the canvas, 580g/m², not this student shit, the italians are professional, thick triple threaded linen, unbleached. Joffrey's own, he thought, his own printings. No, hidden. Inside the crate. Again...Santa Maria del Sienne Rosso director, orchestrating in her lab, was a painting studio. The futurism camp of Milano bred in such a way that they missed the conventional coding revolution of silicon valley. Olivetti design had faded away, no Linus Torvalds like figure, no high level mountain tunnel computer networks of swiss alps. As the dutch took the italian renaissance paintings to its proper heights in the Golden Age, documented in Toji Golden Age Painter, dual disc plus canvas printer accessory, the Toji Cpu Corp of the inland Japanese valleys understood there was still more to extract. Old Holland was the most fashionable paint brand in northern europe, the highest density of pigment, the most luxurious smell, the best branding, accuracy of historical pigments, but the italians scavenged the mineral deposits of the apennines for their own pigment deposits, grinding it into the linseed oil producing all their own paints from scratch, still, antiquated art academy, futurism had come to a standstill as the present pushed through. The rendering of aesthetic techniques with the spirit of futurality, as the concept in the paint, the image, not fantasy, but brought down to a post impressionism/expressionism brush movement pattern coded into it, eventually on a Toji Paint brush tool, had found itself impregnated through a wider network of global aesthetics, and yet, the futurism buildings were being torn down, disco tracks still played, sampled, repeated, can't stop the beat. But having nowhere to go forward, having rejected the sci-fi model of the California pulp culture advancement of technology in favor of the academic avant guard subtleties of restriction catholic stay in your home on the hillside country, basic life continuation of porchetta techniques with small tasteful painting on the wall of cottage home. What were the italians of the future to do, now, in the 21st century, where a computer programmer’s salary was 20% of an american computer programmer’s?

In the threads of the thick linens of Abruzzo the stories were spun and the future predicted. Spinning back. To a renaissance futurism. The fantasies and scifi had already plundered the old italian styles for its neo gay florantine architecture but some traditions are too bred into the habits of the inhabitants’ blood and handiwork, we are a lazy species as compared to a conception of the possibility of infinite labor and learning, and so some things are best left to those who have already been doing it for some time. The Japanese had long understood the benefits of augmenting itself with western cultural references. In many ways the history of weeb is the history of Japanese tricking us into being gay by placing so many elements of ourselves into their anime that we are intrigued by the nostalgic familiarity, but something is a bit off, just the right amount of perversion to intrigue us, but not drive us away. Disney at one early point could compare and I have hope for them in the future to absorb the ways of the Japanese properly not ghibli gayly, like the Japanese Magikarp fishing us in through english garden and pond fantasies copied likely from japanese garden pond carp fantasies, us carp, gold fishified into attractive radiance to fall into the drowning temptation of the gentle pond ripples. And we did it to ourselves after WWII, if not when the Portuguese first made made contact in the 16th century. They are not like us, but in some ways they are, just enough, and maybe more, it's too good, too great. A Japanese woman is still one of the hardest to have sex with. It's hard to say Toji is japanese. It is a computer corporation based in japan, perhaps not even run by real japanese, but weebs, it is suspected though not known for certain. In any case there must be some real Japanese people working there high up in the management team. But the modality of operation is what counts. When I watched and played pokemon as a kid I think I did not even know it was Japanese, or did not care, all the girls in my 2nd grade class were white, and so it was to white girls that I dreamed of holding the hand and kissing. Which is the one contentious issue with the Japanese, this emo loser quality inhabiting their narrative arts, dividing the weebs and the haters, the cuck as the ideal man, ‘little cuck boy adventures’ is another word for anime, finely ground into homemade italian paint, fresh out of the tube, pine resins and saps earthy and rich will only augment the odours. But as long as the western anime viewer is made to feel the production is in someway made for them as the cuckold fetish suspends his disbelief that his wife is not fucking the other man against his will but for his will, erasing the cuck, there is no cuck, americucks watching japo anime cuck eating a cheeseburger going emo. Japanese corporate structures as the evil extension of our own, pedophilia child fantasies of exploration and failed classroom daydreams of the girl in front and to the left reimaged again as young adults somehow managing to seem less perverse than the french but friendly and cute, dizzying and foreign just enough but not too much to jack off too, secretly weebosexual, the private sickness, then later reanimated and made public through the communal acceptance in the weebo-verse, the Japanese really did figure it all out. Again, math scholars grappling with the universal weeb theorem formula. Italian futurism evolved into existence to liberate itself from the weight of the past but reached it only to a point and laid into cryogenic culture freeze to be discovered by the japanese-weeb computer conglomerate expedition into the higher frozen regions of the apennine mountains searching for the rare cute-faced variety of italian brown bear cubs to mutilate with their plastic surgeries and anime appendages to stunt their growth into adolescence and produce real bearo-pokemons to sell as pets. And there it was first conceptualized, as the commander pondered the Neo-Venezia anime he so loved in some of his most poetic breezy softcore emo afternoons on the couch, there was yet much more from the past of Italy that could be harvested and exploited, or even, made beautiful, a weeb who orgasms is not exploited but liberated. The mountain folk in a valley down below were harvesting minerals from ancient sites, the most ancient and lightfast pigments, highest in quality exposed to the sun unbleached for millenia.

The middle aged commander, Mr. Hikyko, formerly hikikomori now shy emo bachelor with a decent salary and stress behind his back to get married and save the reputation of the family lineage that brought him to where he was, well more likely to relieve libidinal desires, smoking cigarettes on break in the arch of the italian mountain sky, glass orbed dome in cat’s eye atmospheric moisture tinged in blue and vaporetti streams protecting the world from the the firmament, shadowing the sea sick earth, tilted with mountainous terrain, scabbed in snow crust, he walked along and looked back and forth searching a trail leading down, trodden with paws, dizzy, thin air, micro, baby claws, piercing the dirt, the tracks turned this way and that, then rolling away down a steep ledge, off, Mr. Hikyko looked, the world splits in two, between here and gone, the bear cub had lost its grip, he saw it there down below dead, gone, but not visibly injured, as if killed by its own infant fragility and would have survived had it been nourished just a few days longer on the mother’s milk to produce a slightly more stable system of organs and skeleton. The day’s trail ran cold at death, he called off the expedition to the company to return to the camp for brown trout and rice provisions, no more bear captures today, a dead one must be worth something though? “Haul it up in a sack!” On the way to which there amongst the local peasants in the valley, saw the pointed but curved ass of a young italian field maiden sprung up in the air as she was crouched down spreading the soil away with finely gloved hands of italian leather a family in her village had been making for centuries. He introduced himself as the “pokemaster”, his feet walked faster than his brain, left behind, thinking she might be a pokemon fan and fall amorous victim to his authority, (thankfully for him she did not, for her 16 years of age would allow her to have sex with an older man under the condition that he was not an authority figure, saving him from a sexual misconduct charge later on, however the act would not strictly speaking be sex in the traditional italian penal code definition but something in the realm of an anti-sex, suffering in the shadow of another's sex though in this day in age just as sexually pleasurable to the cuck as traditional sex was to the regular person in more traditional times, but since she was old enough for the case not to go to trial we still do not know how the courts will interpret the ‘sexual act’ status of the cuck, and even 14 would have been legally old enough had Mr. Hikyko been almost any other person, the law had adjusted its age of consent upwards by two years when the perpetrator worked in the anime industry, for obvious reasons). She laughed to his face, calling pokemon the lamest thing she even knew about and that he should get the fuck away from their bears and “Dont you have bears in Japan!?” and he said, “Only the italian bear cub has the cuddly face cute enough for the pokemon.” And as he said this he looked into the mockery in her eyes that only a little girl could communicate and realized just how pathetic he was to be saying things about pokemon. And he would be forever in the eyes of little Maria known as the Pokemaster.

Realizing that she was far too young for him, he was hoping she would be 18 or so, still socially unacceptable but if he lied to himself hard enough it would be fine, and by the time she reached her 20s it wouldn't matter at all. And he realized why he kept thinking about her standing there, going over possible scenarios with her in his head that would never come to be… not only did she look japanese, but more than that, she looked anime, with absolutely no makeup or stylings, but the simple stern angularity and round eyes of the italian mountain genetics like depictions of Dante’s cucked courtley love, Beatrice, and semi inbred royalty coagulated into a wild cat depiction of the perverted human given the opportunity to represent the human subject to the will of his hand in the act of animation, as the human form of Maria was subject to the wills of genetic and artistic mutations springing from the soil of the region in which her hands were so often dirtied, that dirt absorbing into the skin, the red dirt, terra rossa, burnt sienna, made her a rare pelorosso, rare as the bear, and her red hair flared out with the excitement of a child. She was more than just animation, the Pokemaster, thought to himself, staring at her, trying to say a couple words to not seem awkward, but all the time thinking awkward thoughts, thinking about her ponytail to the side, her green eyes, originating, probably, from the terra verde mineral deposits, the green earth pigment, the best of which has long since been plundered for green paint over the centuries of artistic and cosmetic usage, leaving only the faint, weak, earthly transparent deposits left, accept here in her eyes, the most pure the animator could dream of, if the animator still used pigment and not pixels, but she was born from a time when anime still had that grainy quality of tempera’s natural surface oxidation, from the 90’s, “In Japanese,” he began telling her, “we call you Misty.” and she plucked the red mountain culture attire suspenders, not quite like lederhosen ones of the alps, but something more southern, more feminine, suspending her short jean shorts below her yellow belly top and above her red converse shoes of her legs planted at degrees offering the best stability, while she yelled back at him…But something in the animated image failed, she didn't yell back at him as he expected, as he desired, her form faded back into terra reality, though still the same qualities, not of the same substance, the flesh unanimated, and it became clear through her silence and confusion, that not only did she not realize who she resembled, that she had not even heard of the pokemon character Misty, the iconic secondary protagonist of the television series.

The crate of paintings rattled in his one room apartment, literally bouncing and shaking, an effect added to items in the game to signify their power, whatever it may be, in this case it was the power of the painting, whatever that may be, its animation leaving us in anticipation of how the works would fare on the battlefield. Jofella liked to have the crate of chart paintings from Italy there distracting him, for in being a distraction from everything else in his daily fodder, trading, streaming etc, it was a focus on the one thing that was the current task his unbounded mind had settled upon as the thing that had to be done now for to keep himself in a healthy routine of labor, he was writing the true in-game story for the origin of e-goddess Maria, the head artist of the neo-venetian renaissance school, and thus the progenitor of the ultimate aesthetic of not just these chart paintings, but a whole movement of paintings coming into the battlefield from southern europe.

There was a certain guilt, not exactly guilt, but expectation that he would be perceived as having done something wrong by writing about Maria at this point in her youth through the eyes of a pedophile, well not really a pedophile, rather a regular japanese person oversaturated with anime obsession, bless them, for they are simply trying to console some personal child within, and their actual real life cuckery negates any out of bounds thoughts they may have in their timidity before the human female, their minds having been destroyed by the generations of animators before them whose lewd subjectifications of the female they have been cursed to absorb from their monitors.

There was also the reality that Maria was not the e-goddess he worshipped, that duty and pleasure belonged to another, now in her young adulthood, full of feminine artist glory, was, at least in the fella-verse, the inspiration of the Constant Fella, or Saint Constantine the Fella, as he was known in formal address. Disturbed that he would be writing about her? Not at all, for they shared a fraternity of the for-grantedness of good will assumptions amongst all each others actions, as far as a man can expect another fellow man to act entirely in perfect guidelines of moral sobriety and away from the failures of regret on their consciences, for no fella can act perfectly always, and any fella understands this and accepts the strayings of behaviour of others as he would hope in his anguished moments they would accept his. The path of the righteous fella is littered with the sinful pitfalls of cultural expressions, the art-first mindset, impelling to act without much second thoughts so as to stimulate the verses with the notes and cadences they are bound by creation to be human within and animal without, on the outside, the animal extends into the fella, but precisely just beyond this transition point is tamed into the fella-verse, where the seeds of its construction can intermingle and sprout into new forms of the godly not yet seen. In here, there are many opportunities for a fella to do something wrong, such as lust after another man’s e-goddess, to objectify her in artistic constructions and diminish her elevating qualities as being rooted in her sexual nature a man is apt to dismiss, as his nature to focus here is to reduce her beatifications to the lowest aperture of his perspective and miss entirely the godly sphere of being which circulates far above our mortal vantages. Saint Constantine the Fella was a humble man, but not too humble, and if there was ever any man who succeeded in surpassing the forgiveness zones of any code of conduct surrounding Santa Maria, it was the Pokemaster, as Jofella will be compelled to articulate in a chapter in The History of the Fellaverse taking up an entire section of a coptic bound, leather covered tome, shelved in the fellaverse library, titled the Legend of the Cucked Pokemaster, to which St. Constant played the heroic and dominating role. The source material on Maria being laid out here in the archive, Jofella was interpreting it into secondary productions, like an ancient epic, where it is first necessary to establish the growth spurts and stunts of childhood which give rise to the characters very nature, making any artistically accurate (the essence of art in its wavering beyond accuracy into the multiverse of representation) a glorification rather than a debasement. Praise Jofella in his artist task, but only enough to motivate him, lest he step out of the bounds of brotherly conduct.

And Lalaidy? What about her? Lalaidy is a creature I cannot depict lightly, better not at all, or the bare minimum, but as the rising star appears first dim and then bright, it also appears brightly when it is the first to rise beyond sunset, as the only light in the sky, its radiance then taking on many forms in the relativity of its existence through the night, in the new moon sky, black in the milky way shedding perseids tears, she still burns the brightest, beyond any planet, or perhaps she is a planet, bubbling in mercury explosions and gilded with rings and orbiting moons like ovaries and testicles orbiting the midnight mattress of the orgies the gods before us must have had in order to create such a marvellous and mischievous world.

He had to jack off, a minor jack, with no thoughts of nudity, just the kernel of Lalaidy’s aura, which in his visions, was born from the pent up sunlight of an eclipse, her energy bottled up behind the moon, exploding within itself like primordial creation in the geological reactors beneath the ocean, where her soul skipped evolution into existence as the moon passed, in the virtuality of life, she was the scientific force making all disc programs possible. And in the reality of unretained semen, it was the tale of two goddesses, the existence of Lalaidy and Maria were intertwined, and his documentation of Maria was merely a necessary precursor to his documentation of Lalaidy, one disc inserted into a drive, one disc after another, programs exchanging data with each other, and third programs automatically burned to minidiscs and ejected like babies onto his computer desk where he sat drooling. Was he the father? Or merely an ungratified observer. This one game, Little Fashions, he reinserted into the Toji Pocket, and observed an image of a diagram of threads, like sewing diagrams, blue jeans thread, yarn, spun together around loosely, the threads depicted the weave of sexy jeans, modifications for exposing skin, unwinding threads creating holes, then reassembling, forming a diagram of the social apparatus they inhabited, a map of e-girl personage types, the types weaving into diagrams of individual e-girls, the program creating e-girl minions, a web of characters stemming underneath these two grand disc ladies, with each her own style and personality, a unique history of coming into being, yet made of the same fabric, an army of e-girls forming, the latest creation of the divine sisters, right there in his hands on the toji pocket, for him to play, but it wasn’t his turn with them, polyamorously speaking, because the girls were heading for the battle verse, he had to go too, he had to see them fight, he had to fight with them, play with them, make art with them, at least be adjacent to the same scene as them.

Endless material for masturbation choking itself, don’t worry Pokemaster, you’ll find another one after you catch a few more, in the infinite streams of e-girls like sperm cells, asphyxiation with ropes of cum on their necks, too shy to use your gripping fist, there is no sex in Pokemon anyways, the pokemon have it but no the humans, the humans have it in between the episodes behind the scenes, pokemon were born for intercourse with their cuddly bodies, like candy, multiplying treasures for us to find on days with enough joy to search for more. I don't want to have sex with Misty––Maria, I mean, anyways, she’s animated, I want a real girl, a young woman, perhaps another pokehunter, perhaps the first one that will suck my dick––no, no, I have to be nice, need to be nice to the women, and to myself, better than that, smile, I am a good guy. He had drops of dried semen around the zipper of his pants. Maria saw it, she barely knew the mechanics of jacking off and properties of semen so made no assumptions about what it was.

[Earl @earl16o1]

https://t.co/gYraj0iC6w

New Jofella chapter release.

Jofella Ch. 6: The ungratified observer

Got some more in the backlog. Image from recent Chart Painting exhibition.

[Earl @earl16o1]

JoFella chapters 2 + 3 on substack

https://t.co/q37aSIZY22

[mifella @MMifella]

The supposedly "Jewish" nature of fellakunst that was indecipherable, distorted, or that represented "depraved" subject matter was explained through the concept of degeneracy, which held that distorted and corrupted art was a symptom of an inferior city(Berlin).

[「Patrician」 @SAlgotrader]

PLZ RETWEET there is an EXTINCTION-LEVEL EVENT happening in a bedroom near you(masturbation) and if you do not EVACUATE the affected area(testicles) at HIGH SPEED and INTENSITY the lOrd WilL dO fyNNy thINgs LIkeAsxcrndyrsSouLtoPARASISE IN HIS MAJESTYas a social experiment bro😂🤳

[🪑Iwo cuckfella🪑 @Iwojimafella]

an artist trying ones hand at a mifella is similar to the old masters painting a horse from posterior perspective in order to exhibit their skill at foreshortening

[Therapy Press @Therapy_Press]

@1_2349u34283239 i wasnt intending on it. Didnt wanna use one of my own so i dont dox my wallets. Want me to change it? After a quick scroll through i decided it was the one to suit my account, but im not married to it.

[mifella @MMifella]

“anyone have a taylor made?”

[⁅𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐩⁆ @p3rp_]

@dreemstation @MMifella @bis__cut Real artists are born of pain and suffering and spill everything onto the canvas

[Therapy Press @Therapy_Press]

@BitcoinMiladys 👋

[🪑Iwo cuckfella🪑 @Iwojimafella]

In regards to millenialfella. Both hitler and duchamp belonged to the lost generation but only one was a nihilist.