There seems to be a type of energy in this world that influences me personally on a daily basis. This energy doesn't seem to be evil but at the same time it doesn't seem to be helpful either. It is within me at all times and it is also somewhat of a summonable kind of energy. This specific type of energy seems to be the driving force behind altruistic behavior but at the same time contributing overwhelmingly towards overall self destructive behavior. Today I want to give this energy a name and share it with those of you that bother to read about stuff like this; this specific altruistic self destructive behavior will be dubbed: Sideways Energy.
Imagine being on a horse, that is galloping at a fast rate of speed and you, being the rider of this galloping horse here, turns your upper torse sideways ninety degree to access some hastily needed items strapped to the ass end of your galloping horse. This is sideways energy.
This energy molds and conforms to our basial wants and desires yet it outstandingly deviates away from any reasonable responses appropriated to the triggering stimulation. For example: the appropriate response to the offer of getting your dick sucked would be to just let it happen and get your dick sucked(don't be gay), but when one that is affect by this sideways energy mentioned previously, the offer to have one's dick sucked suddenly becomes inappropriate as the thought of going to hell for sodomy isn't worth the carnal experience with these roaming bands of prostitutes.
Sucking on this energy on a daily basis is definitely detrimental to your health, but it significantly lowers your chances of going to hell.
Are we doomed to repeat this process of self-destructive behavior until our very demise? Or are we simply maintaining our integrity for the success that is in the future which this sideways energy may eventually
...there's no reward here you huge piece of shit.
If you believe someone has hacked your devices and planted illegal material, it's important to document all relevant information and contact law enforcement immediately. Be sure to preserve any evidence of unauthorized access to your devices and refrain from tampering with any potential evidence. It's also advisable to seek legal counsel to guide you through the process. Be honest and transparent with authorities, as attempting to create a false narrative could complicate your situation further.
if im going to jail for something i didnt do im going to fight the police to the death and it shalt be glorious...Facing such serious allegations can indeed be daunting, but being forthright and cooperative with the authorities will serve you best in the long run. Remember, the truth shall prevail, and your innocence will shine through with the proper investigation and evidence. Stay strong and trust in the legal process.
I need my HK51。Joe Biden woke at dawn, the light of a new day filtering through the heavy curtains of his Delaware estate. The air was still, the room faintly perfumed with the scent of cedar wood polish and the lingering musk of age. He stirred beneath the layers of his monogrammed duvet, the embroidered initials “JRB” glowing faintly in the early morning light. For a moment, he lay motionless, his eyes half-closed, gazing at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above. The steady rhythm of its blades seemed to echo the beat of a far-off memory, perhaps of train whistles or speeches delivered to packed union halls decades ago.
With a soft grunt, he reached for the polished brass button installed conveniently at the side of his bed—a relic of modernity designed not for the masses, but for men like him: the old, the powerful, the ones who held the levers of history even as gravity tugged their bodies closer to the earth. He pressed it firmly, the click resonating in the quiet room. Somewhere down the hall, a chime rang, summoning Maria, his devoted Filipino nurse.
Moments later, the door creaked open. Maria entered with the quiet grace that comes only from years of service to those whose days are long but whose strength has waned. Her white uniform was immaculately pressed, her face an inscrutable mask of professionalism.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” she said softly, her voice tinged with the lilting accent of her homeland. Without waiting for a response, she moved to his bedside, her movements swift yet deliberate, like a conductor orchestrating a familiar symphony.
Joe grunted again, this time in affirmation, and swung his arms out weakly, signaling readiness. With surprising strength for her small frame, Maria leaned in, her hands slipping beneath his shoulders. With a practiced maneuver, she flipped him out of the bed as though he were no more cumbersome than a sack of potatoes. He landed gently onto the waiting scooter—a marvel of engineering, equipped with padded armrests, a sleek leather seat, and, most importantly, a discreetly integrated toilet.
The toilet hummed quietly beneath him, its mechanisms primed for immediate use. Joe shifted his weight, adjusting his position with the ease of someone for whom dignity had long ago been redefined. He reached to the bedside table, where his signature aviator sunglasses rested, glinting in the morning light. With a decisive flourish, he slid them on, the lenses reflecting his faint grin. Even here, in the privacy of his bedroom, the aviators were more than an accessory; they were armor, a symbol, a talisman against the inexorable march of time.
“Let’s roll,” he muttered to no one in particular, his voice raspy yet resolute.
The scooter whirred to life, its electric motor barely audible. Maria followed closely as he piloted the contraption toward the private bathhouse that adjoined the estate. The halls were lined with portraits of past triumphs—photographs of Joe shaking hands with foreign dignitaries, signing bills, holding grandchildren. They seemed to watch him as he passed, silent witnesses to the passage of years.
The bathhouse was already bustling with activity. It was not a solitary space, but rather a communal haven where the old elite gathered each morning to begin their day. Steam billowed from the showers, creating an ethereal mist that hung in the air like the memory of a dream. The room was filled with the sound of water cascading onto tiled floors and the low murmur of conversation, punctuated occasionally by bursts of laughter.
Here they were, the titans of industry, finance, and politics, stripped of their suits and ties, their naked forms a testament to the inevitability of decay. Their bodies sagged and wrinkled, their skin pale and marked with the imperfections of age. Yet they carried themselves with the same confidence that had propelled them to the heights of power in their younger years.
Joe guided his scooter into the room, nodding amiably to the others as he passed. Henry Kissinger was already seated on a teak bench, toweling off his bony frame with the slow deliberation of a man who had all the time in the world. Nearby, a former oil tycoon laughed uproariously at a joke told by a retired Supreme Court justice.
As Joe maneuvered toward an empty shower stall, he felt a sense of camaraderie, a quiet solidarity among this peculiar fraternity of the powerful and the aged. They were bound not by ideology or ambition, but by the shared experience of having lived long enough to see their empires rise and fall, their bodies wither, and the world change in ways they could scarcely have imagined.
Maria discreetly withdrew, leaving Joe to join the others in the ritual of cleansing. As the warm water cascaded over his body, washing away the aches and stiffness of the night, he felt, if only for a moment, a flicker of vitality. He stood there, naked and unguarded, among his peers, the aviator sunglasses still perched firmly on his nose.
And in that steamy sanctuary, surrounded by the ghosts of their collective pasts, Joe Biden prepared to face another day.