Gurcel316
Khazarcel
- Apr 9, 2024
- 738
As you all know this is a NEET forum so I'll post here a story about my ideology of comfymaxxing – that we shouldn't focus on stank pussy or Jew wagie-slop but rather on the consolation of rest and divine warmth, Love with a capital L, the food of soul and Kiss of Life, or in other words: the chaste comfyness and homeliness of NEET life and habitation.
So let me tell u a story. As you all know I'm a shitraeli. I live somewhere around the Sharon valleys (Sharon is the masoretic word for the northern-central coastal valleys in the Land of Shitrael). Not in a big city or whatever, and had always felt big FOMO about the urban scenes and action.
Nevertheless, since I dropped out of university and returned to the Sharon, I gradually reached the realization that there is no grace in living but in rotting. Being detached from whatever was happening – while fighting against my sexual urge and by extension my libido and power-drive itself – I gradually fell in love with the life that I had, the life of not existing and not being present in my body, not being casually possessed by its pulsations of need, desire and pride.
What created the atmosphere for that realization was having my social worker visiting me once a week (we would chat a lot and she would pretend to care about my life). But another thing was that my mom would take me to Café once a week.
My mom, I must say, is very concerned about me because of violent psychotic phases that I was enduring in September (I was still renting a dorm in jerusalm back in Septemb and one day began feeling my lungs being filled with stiff stuff and thought I was being invaded by evil voodoo serpents, and started screaming non-stop to get them out of my lungs, started walking in the streets for hours screaming like a bear, nearly got institutionalized).
After I returned to a normal state due to intense antipsychotic boost medications, I retreated home and stopped going outside you know the story. But my mom wanted me to enjoy life so she told me she'll take me to a local branch of Arcaffé, an aristocratic and prestigious Coffeehouse chain.
When we would go there we would see mostly bourgeois middle aged people. Sometimes there would be millennial careerists. The baristas were girls my age (maybe younger), but they didn't look exceptionally cute. Nevertheless, I still enjoyed going there because of the comfy weather (it was winter
) and the nice furniture and the good coffee, as well as the tasty vietnamese sandwich.
I felt so released and careless – I was feeling as if the progression of time became superfluous and unimportant in relation to the stature of my all-intimate comfymaxxed dementia. Looking at the cars from beyond the window coming and going made me feel like there are so much things happening around that individual mistakes such as myself do not hurt.
Now I do not go there at all because my relations with mother deteriorated. But in the overall this is my story.
Tl;Dr: I used to go to drink coffee at nice coffeehouse and felt for the first time what it is like to be completely careless about anything including yourself.
So let me tell u a story. As you all know I'm a shitraeli. I live somewhere around the Sharon valleys (Sharon is the masoretic word for the northern-central coastal valleys in the Land of Shitrael). Not in a big city or whatever, and had always felt big FOMO about the urban scenes and action.
Nevertheless, since I dropped out of university and returned to the Sharon, I gradually reached the realization that there is no grace in living but in rotting. Being detached from whatever was happening – while fighting against my sexual urge and by extension my libido and power-drive itself – I gradually fell in love with the life that I had, the life of not existing and not being present in my body, not being casually possessed by its pulsations of need, desire and pride.
What created the atmosphere for that realization was having my social worker visiting me once a week (we would chat a lot and she would pretend to care about my life). But another thing was that my mom would take me to Café once a week.
My mom, I must say, is very concerned about me because of violent psychotic phases that I was enduring in September (I was still renting a dorm in jerusalm back in Septemb and one day began feeling my lungs being filled with stiff stuff and thought I was being invaded by evil voodoo serpents, and started screaming non-stop to get them out of my lungs, started walking in the streets for hours screaming like a bear, nearly got institutionalized).
After I returned to a normal state due to intense antipsychotic boost medications, I retreated home and stopped going outside you know the story. But my mom wanted me to enjoy life so she told me she'll take me to a local branch of Arcaffé, an aristocratic and prestigious Coffeehouse chain.
When we would go there we would see mostly bourgeois middle aged people. Sometimes there would be millennial careerists. The baristas were girls my age (maybe younger), but they didn't look exceptionally cute. Nevertheless, I still enjoyed going there because of the comfy weather (it was winter
) and the nice furniture and the good coffee, as well as the tasty vietnamese sandwich.I felt so released and careless – I was feeling as if the progression of time became superfluous and unimportant in relation to the stature of my all-intimate comfymaxxed dementia. Looking at the cars from beyond the window coming and going made me feel like there are so much things happening around that individual mistakes such as myself do not hurt.
Now I do not go there at all because my relations with mother deteriorated. But in the overall this is my story.
Tl;Dr: I used to go to drink coffee at nice coffeehouse and felt for the first time what it is like to be completely careless about anything including yourself.
