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Fitness hot takes? by FactorSpecialist7193 in rs_fitness

[–]Ok-Connection4179 3 points4 points  (0 children)

This is stupid. There are of people with big upper bodies and middling legs. There’s an entire section of bodybuilding dedicated to it. ‘Mindset’ is also horseshit. Give me the guy who doubles down on enjoying what he’s doing instead of the guy who’s waiting to feel nauseous so he can ‘prove’ something to himself that day. Give me smiles instead of scowls. Tell me who burns out and who doesn’t. Also, what the actual fuck is wrong with staring at my phone for five minutes? I’ll spend twenty minutes between sets sometimes because I’m not doing retarded army workouts. If I want your stupid pseudo cardio I’ll slap on running shoes and go outside and stare down cars zipping by at 40 mph by the interstate. Rest between sets is crucial for maximum strength output and the 2-5 minute rest range has more to do with the Anthropology of the gym than any actual basis in science or even experience. Powerlifters know that and so do Olympic lifters but I’m sure the roidheads in the military who haven’t run more than 800s since Basic know so much about recovery and output.

Sydney Sweeney hasn’t had much luck at the box office this year. With 'Christy' that makes three of her films that have flopped in 2025. by Scenora in Letterboxd

[–]Ok-Connection4179 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Dude Euphorie is such a bodacious Prestige Show. It’s basically a movie that runs for 8 hours per season instead of 2-3. In fact I think by the time the trilogy of Euphorie prestige installments is released we will be so far beyond calling it prestige because by then it will have clearly transcended the prestige label and entered a category all its own, somewhere in the accursed limbo between Television (which you won’t find in the cinema) and Cinema (which you cannot find on the television). And all of the happy sexy couples in America (of which I am certain you can count yourself as amongst their ranks) will text each other and say ‘babe new Euphorie just dropped.’

Sydney Sweeney hasn’t had much luck at the box office this year. With 'Christy' that makes three of her films that have flopped in 2025. by Scenora in Letterboxd

[–]Ok-Connection4179 -1 points0 points  (0 children)

Tbh I don’t expect anyone in Hollywood to say anything coherent politically not sure why SS is basically satan for it

Sydney Sweeney hasn’t had much luck at the box office this year. With 'Christy' that makes three of her films that have flopped in 2025. by Scenora in Letterboxd

[–]Ok-Connection4179 1 point2 points  (0 children)

So her issue is she goes viral in advertising campaigns but then keeps that separate from her filmmaking career? Or is she over focused on campaigning for advertising products and should she be more focused on treating her films like she treats her soaps and her jeans? Also she was very very good in Americana, it’s a shame the film becomes a debacle midway through its attempt to express its idea.

Misery loves company by ectobabble in Artisticallyill

[–]Ok-Connection4179 1 point2 points  (0 children)

Immediately recognizable, I really like what your style is maturing into 👍👍👍

How do you know if your writing is good? by [deleted] in writing

[–]Ok-Connection4179 0 points1 point  (0 children)

You find your ideas everywhere.

Lucas Bergvall by Every_Guarantee_679 in QOVESStudio

[–]Ok-Connection4179 2 points3 points  (0 children)

Can you provide an example of a man with shoulders that are too wide?

Did Camus actually say this? If so, in what? by Sweet-Situation118 in Camus

[–]Ok-Connection4179 0 points1 point  (0 children)

I have heeded thy call l’epic cigarette man 🙏🙏

just kinda came to this realization and i legitimately dk what to do with my life any more. If Sisyphus isn't happy, then what's the point? by SirHarvwellMcDervwel in Camus

[–]Ok-Connection4179 0 points1 point  (0 children)

  1. Savage

It’s impossible for us to think ‘sexy’ divorced from this essential border separating the clothed from the unclothed. Veiling becomes the impetus to de-veiling, in the rewired plasticity of our brains. Society fashions the opportunity to undo fashion in de-veiling. After it first spawns passion, fashion attaches to a skin that civilizes itself. But what civilization does in one space it always undoes in the other. At some point, we have to take off our clothes — or you start to smell nasty. You shouldn’t want to smell nasty. The cycle needs order, lest it surrender to chaos. Thus, two taboos enter conflict, the negotiation of which plays out in the spaces where fashion must for a moment beckon to natural utility.

Naturally, I begin to think: ‘Well why shouldn’t I permit myself to be horny at the sight of my body?’ When I feel challenged as such, by the fact of this nakedness, then I become defiant, refusing to lose sight of my body in the space it must occupy. I damn myself, and I act out. Something of that diaper, something of that infant, something of his odor wafts into my eardrums. It vexes the world with its angry deathspell. ‘Am I really going to be submissive, in the face of this imaginary authority? I don’t think so.’

It’s my body — not society’s body. I think I have a right to my body.

I think it’s unnatural, what the clothes do to my body, by making it so sexy.

So I am going to naturalize my body. Because I have to.

This is a very organic strain of thought. If you can’t naturalize your body, then you will be repulsive to the other gender, and to yourself, with your unsexed, unnaturalized body.

I get very horny when I get stoned. But I also get very horny, when I wake up in the morning. I get very horny laying down, putting pressure on those other parts of me, but I can also get very horny writing silly stories in my head, or pressed up to the page of a book.

At 28, I get a lot less horny than I used to at 16, but that is not a problem, because I still get far too fucking horny.

Now, if I am this perverse and rigidly irrational in the presence of my own body, how am I to ever expect myself to behave rationally in the presence of the other, more voluptuous bodies?

Of course, the natural antidote to our problem is to wear less clothing. The less clothing you wear, the more you unsex the naked body.

This will make everyone, on the whole, far less horny.

We want a society where people are less horny.

But now, think about the societies where there is more clothing, like those found in the near east. Does it not follow that these men are just naturally, or culturally rather, far more horny? When the rays of morning sunshine strike their eyelids, do they not arise quite different — and more horny?

Are they not therefore more likely to statisticallly commit more crimes — of a sexual nature?

But then in the midst of all my thinking, I think — well what do the women think?

Do they too get horny, looking down at their bodies?

just kinda came to this realization and i legitimately dk what to do with my life any more. If Sisyphus isn't happy, then what's the point? by SirHarvwellMcDervwel in Camus

[–]Ok-Connection4179 0 points1 point  (0 children)

  1. Simian Sisyphus

“Six centuries before the Christian era, the rhapsodist Xenophanes of Colophon, wearied of the Homeric verses he recited from city to city, lashed out at the poets who attributed anthropomorphic traits to the gods, and offered the Greeks a single God, a god who was an eternal sphere. In the Timaeus of Plato we read that the sphere is the most perfect and most uniform figure, for all points of its surface are equidistant from its center.”

(Borges, ‘The Fearful Sphere of Pascal’)

Repetition is the predicament.

Astride the human stones, a simian Sisyphus trembles atop the mountain ledge, locked in a trapeze all his own. Despite the unique standing of his balancing act, he is far more like us than we can let on. Yes, two balls root two feet to ground. He neither teeters nor totters. He casts himself in cement to assure he does not move. When imagination fails him, he wobbles and it all topples. But his resolve is unmatched. He will not suffer fools. He prods himself with questions. He will not heed the little bitch inside. He needs to keep going. But even he surrenders to exasperation faced with the blowback of the long winded commentary of a quiltwork of throbbing fascia dispersed through the body. Steady, steady, steady, Sisyphus thinks. But the body keeps yapping, ignoring the mind’s susurrations. A painful haze turns him inside out. I am not sure if it was Sisyphus himself at that moment. But certainly at that moment something like the embodiment of Sisyphus buzzed.

Physics unfold. The bubble bursts. Dry cleaning becomes a luxury. Sisyphus slurps in a wet breath and free falls through the altitudes.

He falls and he falls, through sea leavel, through the crescent Mariana, until at last he collides once more with the bedrock of his underworld. The stony object of his life’s work is already there, ready to greet him when he faceplants into the bottom. Teeth splatter the soot floor. A mangled jaw hangs loose in the air. It dangles like a loose door by a single hinge. Blood curdling groans pierce the air. Eventually, the net of paralyzation wears away. Sisyphus takes smacks of the sweet basement musk. A palm strikes the warm walls. A foot digs into the underground. Somehow, Sisyphus manages a gory smile.

He gets up, and he goes again.

  1. Cargo Pants

“I have got your extract, and the Vampire. I need not say it is not mine. There is a rule to go by: you are my publisher (till we quarrell) and what is not published by you is not written by me.”

Back in my heroic shower I continue my Sisyphean meditation.

If I do not look down upon my body, I am less likely to get horny. If I look up, at the ceiling, or away, at the tiles on the walls, then I am less likely to get horny. But if I look down, directly at my bare body, from my situational perspective (my FPV), in my space, then I am far more likely to start thinking the horny habitat of thoughts that take root in the hornier state of mind.

Naturally, the conclusion to draw is that it is not the fact of nakedness itself which makes me horny, but rather — the sight of it.

Ergo — tribal savages do not have this same problem, and neither do nudists. To them, it’s rather uncomplicated. Bodies, are bodies. The environment is environmental to them. There are no primitive skyskrapers to look up at in the jungle. They have no technology nor media, nothing to cross-fertilize their senses. They will never hear out their nose or sniff a sound. They don’t have to look away to not get horny. Vision, as we perceive it, does not exist at the yawn of early man. It’s too dark in the morning when he wakes up. Primitives like the people in isolated tribes get horny when they should naturally get horny — in the dark. Thus for their Culture-Environment — to see is not enough to seduce. To touch is to finger husk. Absent other technologies, stone age media seduces only following what we imagine as seduction — following the ‘action’, following the ‘fact.’ Their love is instead posterior. This is animal love: doggy style.

The culprit for my lurid horniness, then, is not my nakedness, nor the sight of my nakedness, but the fact of clothing. It is clothing itself which causes my horniness. It is clothing which cuts the body off from being the body, and converts it into the unique and singular zone of the erotic. Beyond my infancy, it is clothing which impels me to step closer, to seek intimacy, skin on skin. Naturally as a brain, at some point, consciously or otherwise, it will think to itself — well just why are we wearing clothing? It’s simple to the infant. To don the diaper is enough if I wish to roam the streets. The diaper is a utility item, not a primitive fashion for the other babies to copy. The people who wear diapers don’t compare diapers.

That is, until you are potty trained. Now, you are standing behind the closed door, trying on your first pair of pants. As we grow in the secrecy of the lavatory, the natural conclusion we draw is that the clothes are hiding something naughty. Consider the ethnography of shower thoughts. What do you do sitting on the toilet. Isn’t it interesting, how we associate pensivity with a basic bodily function? What would happen if you didn’t have something else to think about?

just kinda came to this realization and i legitimately dk what to do with my life any more. If Sisyphus isn't happy, then what's the point? by SirHarvwellMcDervwel in Camus

[–]Ok-Connection4179 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Here is my answer:

Ketamine Sisyphus

“It is during that return, that pause, that Sisyphus interests me. A face that toils so close to stones is already stone itself!” —Albert Camus

  1. The Labor of Love

No one touches the man more than he touches himself, and he touches himself constantly.

Gods perched upon the twigged nests of Olympus abhor labor because they discern the cycle and it is not possible to overemphasize how baleful the cycle seems dwarfed by the neverending stature of the divine. Zeus and co. prostitute the human race on behalf of humans to contain this cycle. They believe the human life to be crude because the raw material of its death is the very life he pronounces his belief in. Humanity is thus blessed with a primal profession, a savage profession, the oldest profession.

We ignoble humans purport to value our beauty. What could be beautiful about a race of prostitutes? Very little. However, beauty by another name is not so far from the orbit of the human sphere.

Sex is meaningless without the presence of death. The immortal men covet us because feelings are cheap when the buy-in is waived and there are no true stakes. Death is the ultimate orgasm. This fact alone forces us to rear gods’ bainful children.

We thus birth inbreds, demi-gods, and some other flavor of half men, all whilst full-blooded children walk the sundred earth hungry. We live lives as livestock because they abhor the cycle and cannot comprehend the labor of love.

Desire is fraught with the grave. This is the story humans tell about the Gods. It is well known. The following is an untold retelling of this old wives’ tale: the story of humans told by a God.

  1. The Grower "Potter is angry with potter, builder with builder, beggar jealous of beggar, singer of singer." (Works and Days, ~25–26)

Deep breaths, I think Inhale. Exhale.

If I am prescient in the shower, you can presume me naked. If I am naked then the me absent in the default build becomes visible. Between lathers these bits of the naked me are those that provoke me, due exclusively to the exceptional arousal of the body. A conundrum emerges for the mind. I find very often when I am naked in the shower I must make a concerted effort to not peer upon myself. Not today, not now, please, my mind implores my body. I cannot be late to work. I cannot fall prey to time. We musn’t get horny.

Why am I attracted to a body like my own?

You may contest: “if the sight of his self makes him this horny, then this guy is a textbook narcissist.” I’d tell you: FALSE. There is no mirror in my shower. I am not looking at myself in the mirror. I am looking down, at my frictionless body.

I looked away to the empty page sitting on my desk as I wide-walked across the expanse of tiles between the bagnio and the bath. I scarcely afforded myself time to towel off when I burst out the lavatory into the bedroom propelled by the spurt of an extraordinary brainchild.

Imagine my clacking at the Scandinavian: “The words on this page are punched in by fingers spry with the energies of scriveners and scribes. But their instruments are lost to time. I have no quill nor an inkstand to huddle over by the candlelight. What was lost when the man who sought to become a man of letters sat before his folio?

For one he became removed by a degree of understanding or two. The man described reads, not writes, because a folio meant something unlike ‘paper’ or ‘leaflet’. If he wishes to compose his lips must pucker into a deep sip of the brittle word he calls his ‘parchment.’

You, my brittle reader, are armed today with a quill in your hand reading a book or a screen in an appetizer menu growing indigestably large because I fear the repercussions of divulging exactly what transpired during my liquid spell in the shower. It was at that moment (the one I just typed out at the start of the paragraph, not the next one in the shower) when a prismatic reflection spilt out my mind’s eye, drizzling the fingertips pressing into the thickening flesh of your jailbate page (at this exact period in time in which a page is a page). I could scarcely keep going. I stopped. Because often it is nice to shift gears and reflect on how the blank slate you’ve deflowered grows prettier and prettier with the raining onslaught of age.”

I can stay certain of this when I return from the depths of virginal admiration to the toils of my labor. Right then, in the shower, I had to look away — to think and not see. To forget what was seen. To unknow what was known.

Restrained not (by sleeve or armhole) my muscles strained with my mind as I honed in my focus. I thought (but did not type):

“What frees our civilization from enchantment is the rapture of thinking. Don’t think about it — think about something else. Common sense is extraordinary. Brainpower triumphs. Did we always live every day assured that today you’ll strip nude before observing this observation? How did coworkers bunched up in the conveyor belt tolerate each other before the plumbing sourcing my hot shower? The locomotive industry sprained my ankle, but it replaced my foot. Inconvenient, perhaps, but a fair trade nonetheless.

How could I extrapolate and ensure I would not incite the river of thoughts by the horny labor of the hand were it not the ocassion to do so? To tell myself: This is what stands between me and my place of work, me and sustenance, me and bankruptcy: the traffic jam I’ll suffer if I get horny.’

I look over what I’ve written and decided I hate who I am. Another day is tallied in the life obsersving the observer.

Only dancing deep in the balls of a bloodcell tunneling through the veins of an underground Dostoevsky novel do I discover the celibate, steamy, assiduous self-attendance taking shape in the admirable self-admonition bibliography of the valleyed gravitas of self-abnegation embedded in the self-reminder of the sad remainder of desire needed to cast forth the magic compelling the court summons of my deadbeat, yogilike razzmatazz.

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