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I was practicing muscles, bones, anatomy, etc, but I found out that I was missing the 'visualisation' part, I could not 'move' and 'feel' objects in my head, so I was referred by someone on these boards to study Vilppu. That was exactly what I needed, thank you whoever convinced me to look for him! Now I got a problem, I don't know if I am mentally retarded or something ;
the first day after studying Vilppu I could feel, and visualise every form and play with them, but the next day, I lost that visualisation power, now I've been rushing my life 3 weeks in a row, everyday all the day and I can't get this feeling back. What the fuck is wrong with me? I'm never going to give up, but if anyone has experienced the same thing, maybe you can help me to look at the problem diffenrently.
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Hello dear /ic/,
this is probably the right place to talk about this, since it's art related.
Do you have own stories with your own characters?
When I was younger I loved to make up fantastic stories. I imagined characters, did some role playing and of course - I've drawn a lot of them.
But now I'm older, I'm studying design and I often have not much creativity left on the end of the day.
No matter how much I try, I just can't do how I did in the past. I can't come up with a new story and I suck at creating new characters.
Somehow this makes me really sad. Can I learn to be creative with storytelling again?
Do you still make up your own characters and stories? Tell me!
And sorry for my bad english, I'm not a native speaker.
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I am currently working on a book entitled The Tale of Scrotie McBoogerballs. It is very erotic as the title infers, but it is also about class struggle and guilt. I have finished the first chapter, and I want know how you all feel about it.
It was a warm morning when Scrotie McBoogerballs awoke to find a dirty, slutty bitch sucking his dick, glossed by his cum remaining from last night. The immoral energy facilitated a fine contrast between the warm, lovely climate and the coldness of Scrotie McBoogerballs heart. The thrusting of her herpes-infested mouth that created a rigid feeling against Scrotie’s chlamydia-infected penis manifested emotions incomprehensible for Scrotie.
The grease from his bed sweat slid his horn-rimmed glasses off of his head onto the slutty whore. And she, moving like a piston up and down, up and down, against Scrotie’s disgusting groin, pleasing him greatly, forced his glasses off her back, then across the room. He couldn’t visualize what was going on, for his eyes were prohibited by a strong case of myopia. Yet, Scrotie sat there, embracing the sinful pleasure. The whore, with her hairy ass, not wiped for three days, helped cycle a distinct odor in the atmosphere of the bedroom. Outside the circumference of the whore’s leash I could make out brown figures with wretched smells of colon and semen. Scrotie was a Roman emperor to the inferior and indignant woman.