🍽️ حلال Connor Bible - Everyone's Favorite Molly Ringwald loving, adoption hating, aspiring writer and bellybutton fucker

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Which Connor is the most amusing?

  • Semi-Motivated Connor, aka "I've written 200 words on my new story and took a walk with my grandma."

    Votes: 127 13.2%

  • Depressed Connor, or "Give me one reason why I shouldn't blow my brains out."

    Votes: 73 7.6%

  • Edgy Rebel Without a Cause Connor, or "Shut the fuck up you stupid motherfuckering faggots!"

    Votes: 529 55.0%

  • Smug Pseudo-Intellectual Connor or "I've read Bret Easton Ellis, you guys!"

    Votes: 232 24.1%
  • Total voters
    961
Connor Bible said:
In our consumption of text for personal enjoyment or intellectual stimulation, we become gluttonous. The Internet has served the gluttony well, substantially adding to the proliferation of text to the masses. However, the gluttony, to this day, has never ended, and the demand for more text shall continue until I am six feet under.
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Gluttony is wrong because you can get obese and unhealthy and not allow others to eat. Reading does none of those things so gluttony for reading is perfectly acceptable
Ruin said:
Have you ever considered that the reason you tend to alienate people is because you talk like an autistic robot? Seriously, read what you just posted. Have you ever heard anyone in real life talk like that?
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He wants to sound deep
 
Connor Bible said:
I had this notion that through my dream of fiction writing, I could conquer my depression and provide proof that I was not worthless. Everyone likes to think of himself or herself as someone of importance, someone special. The reality is that no one really is. I am beginning to reach a point, philosophically, that I am abandoning any expectations that I have, of people, of institutions, even of society. I guess, in one sense, I am being reborn. When we have lofty anticipations of things like success or guaranteed happiness, we set ourselves up to fail. In the end we are all an orchestra on the same sinking ship. We are faced with the inevitability of death, of the idea that our song would play no more.

So fucking what? Play anyways.
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That's all fine and dandy but do you write anything?
 
Connor Bible said:
Hello.

It’s been quite some time. I possess no intention of staying long, so this post is going to be abnormally lengthy compared to the drivel that I normally post. When you really stop and think about it, all writing, in all forms, is drivel in the broad scheme of things. Opinions vary depending on the times and the people, but in the end, all writing is is merely sequences of words expressing ideas, images, and so forth to the senses. The sensations induced by these words range from the positive to the negative, affecting the reader’s emotional state in a multitude of ways. Fiction, non-fiction, academic textbooks, internet forum posts… no body of text is exempt from the same universal principle: communication.

In our consumption of text for personal enjoyment or intellectual stimulation, we become gluttonous. The Internet has served the gluttony well, substantially adding to the proliferation of text to the masses. However, the gluttony, to this day, has never ended, and the demand for more text shall continue until I am six feet under.

I am a young man of twenty-one years, a lowly community college student whose reach far exceeds his grasp. Yes, I am naïve, or perhaps I was. It is difficult to tell, even at this very moment as I type this on my Microsoft Word screen. The current word count on the document is 231. We have only just begun. The night is still in its infancy.

I had this notion that through my dream of fiction writing, I could conquer my depression and provide proof that I was not worthless. Everyone likes to think of himself or herself as someone of importance, someone special. The reality is that no one really is. I am beginning to reach a point, philosophically, that I am abandoning any expectations that I have, of people, of institutions, even of society. I guess, in one sense, I am being reborn. When we have lofty anticipations of things like success or guaranteed happiness, we set ourselves up to fail. In the end we are all an orchestra on the same sinking ship. We are faced with the inevitability of death, of the idea that our song would play no more.

So fucking what? Play anyways.
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lol
 
Connor Bible said:
Don't assume because I have nothing finished and ready to be published that I am not writing.
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If what you just posted is indicative of your talent you should give up and take up jogging or something. That was some of the most pretentious and needlessly wordy drivel I've ever read.
 
Connor, I am also a wordfag, and I agree with the above comment. But I disagree with you. Not all writing is drivel, but that post you made is.
 
Connor Bible said:
Hello.

It’s been quite some time. I possess no intention of staying long, so this post is going to be abnormally lengthy compared to the drivel that I normally post. When you really stop and think about it, all writing, in all forms, is drivel in the broad scheme of things. Opinions vary depending on the times and the people, but in the end, all writing is is merely sequences of words expressing ideas, images, and so forth to the senses. The sensations induced by these words range from the positive to the negative, affecting the reader’s emotional state in a multitude of ways. Fiction, non-fiction, academic textbooks, internet forum posts… no body of text is exempt from the same universal principle: communication.

In our consumption of text for personal enjoyment or intellectual stimulation, we become gluttonous. The Internet has served the gluttony well, substantially adding to the proliferation of text to the masses. However, the gluttony, to this day, has never ended, and the demand for more text shall continue until I am six feet under.

I am a young man of twenty-one years, a lowly community college student whose reach far exceeds his grasp. Yes, I am naïve, or perhaps I was. It is difficult to tell, even at this very moment as I type this on my Microsoft Word screen. The current word count on the document is 231. We have only just begun. The night is still in its infancy.

I had this notion that through my dream of fiction writing, I could conquer my depression and provide proof that I was not worthless. Everyone likes to think of himself or herself as someone of importance, someone special. The reality is that no one really is. I am beginning to reach a point, philosophically, that I am abandoning any expectations that I have, of people, of institutions, even of society. I guess, in one sense, I am being reborn. When we have lofty anticipations of things like success or guaranteed happiness, we set ourselves up to fail. In the end we are all an orchestra on the same sinking ship. We are faced with the inevitability of death, of the idea that our song would play no more.

So fucking what? Play anyways.
Click to expand...

Good evening, Connor.

Yes, it has been quite some time. It's been over a week, at least. Sure, you possess no intention of staying long, and to mark this special occasion, I shall render unto you a veritable wall of text that far surpasses yours in length and quality. In all actuality, this is just me having a giggle and writing a wall of text in like five minutes. Opinions definitely vary, but autism is forever, and in the end writing shall express all ideas no matter how autistic they are. The great question, however, is how long will it take the motor cortices of the brain to translate autism into a great, lengthy dissertation on what it means to be autistic. That is the core of communication: writing words.

Our consumption of text, whether it be words, or images, or videos, or games is a ritualistic consumption of the orgy-porgy. None can be bothered to read in this world, for why read when you can have everything told to you by a man or woman on the television or in the radio? The Internet is a fine place for television, you know; why read books or visit public forums when you can auto-dictate your thoughts onto a keyboard and create words on a screen that tell people what you're thinking? And why even type when you know someone, somewhere, will call you an autist just for thinking that.

You are twenty-one years old. You attend one college class per semester. You definitely are naïve, considering you think posting a longer post than usual will change the way the forum thinks of you. You must learn for yourself that in the end, the sum of a man's words mean nothing compared to the quality of whatever vomitous diction flows from his mouth, fingers, and/or anus. Microsoft Word will never tell you if your work is quality; that is for the eyes of those beholding those words into which you have poured your blood, sweat, and 'tism.

You cannot conquer depression. You can only win many battles in a great and bloody war of self-doubt and misery before the dark beast within consumes the heart you long to protect. A man's worth is not judged by how dark, brooding, and mysterious he makes himself out to be, it is judged solely by his actions and his willingness to be diligent in the face of certain doom. Indubitably, no one wishes to be floccinaucinihilipilificated by the cold hand of mental illness or by the silver tongues of those that do nothing but sit on the couch, eat nutty corn snacks, and complain about that which happens on the internet, but there comes a great noble truth from the core tenets of Buddhism which states that all life, no matter how righteous or corrupt, is suffering, and to end this suffering one must let go of all that binds him to the mortal plane so that he may break the cycle of reincarnation and reach enlightenment, something that we all know you could never obtain even after a thousand and one reincarnation cycles.

Dying is an inevitable force of nature, but death in the end is nothing more than an idea. A man who fears death is a man who fears life; why torture yourself with thoughts of the inevitable when you could spend a day living and forget you were ever going to die?

Good talk, mate, see you next week.
 
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Since we're on page 420 I'd like to reiterate my recommendation to Connor - smoke some weed and listen to some dub man. Chill the fuck out, dude.

 
Connor Bible said:
Hello.

It’s been quite some time. I possess no intention of staying long, so this post is going to be abnormally lengthy compared to the drivel that I normally post. When you really stop and think about it, all writing, in all forms, is drivel in the broad scheme of things. Opinions vary depending on the times and the people, but in the end, all writing is is merely sequences of words expressing ideas, images, and so forth to the senses. The sensations induced by these words range from the positive to the negative, affecting the reader’s emotional state in a multitude of ways. Fiction, non-fiction, academic textbooks, internet forum posts… no body of text is exempt from the same universal principle: communication.

In our consumption of text for personal enjoyment or intellectual stimulation, we become gluttonous. The Internet has served the gluttony well, substantially adding to the proliferation of text to the masses. However, the gluttony, to this day, has never ended, and the demand for more text shall continue until I am six feet under.

I am a young man of twenty-one years, a lowly community college student whose reach far exceeds his grasp. Yes, I am naïve, or perhaps I was. It is difficult to tell, even at this very moment as I type this on my Microsoft Word screen. The current word count on the document is 231. We have only just begun. The night is still in its infancy.

I had this notion that through my dream of fiction writing, I could conquer my depression and provide proof that I was not worthless. Everyone likes to think of himself or herself as someone of importance, someone special. The reality is that no one really is. I am beginning to reach a point, philosophically, that I am abandoning any expectations that I have, of people, of institutions, even of society. I guess, in one sense, I am being reborn. When we have lofty anticipations of things like success or guaranteed happiness, we set ourselves up to fail. In the end we are all an orchestra on the same sinking ship. We are faced with the inevitability of death, of the idea that our song would play no more.

So fucking what? Play anyways.
Click to expand...
I can't tell if Connor was really high when he wrote this or if he legitimately found a way to make his writing sound even more pretentious.
 
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