Why do you still come here?

[Jorge]

I genuinely still find this place entertaining. There are some funny people here.

Same. RM is good

[epilogue]

I genuinely still find this place entertaining. There are some funny people here.

Same. RM is good

I swear I try. But someone always ruins it.

I think I'm just not cut out for the internet in general. It's not RM, it's me.

[Jorge]

You take disagreements very personally (I do too sometimes)

[epilogue]

I don't know if that's entirely true. I don't mind disagreements (though, I am hypersensitive, I admit). I do take personal attacks personally.

From 2004 to 2016 I found ways to get along just fine and have great conversations with many who disagreed with me. My tastes aren't very like most of RM, so there are a lot of disagreements. This seems to go way beyond that.

[epilogue]

There's also the expectations/reactions of everyone else. So many times I post something and others think I'm being sensitive or serious or aggressive or whatever when I'm just trying to play around and joke and have fun. It's a tone thing, a misunderstanding, so much of the time.

Again, it's not RM, it's me. I've never really found a way to settle in here. Especially since it's gotten younger and hipper and more internety and less earnest.

[tragabigzanda]

There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

[Jorge]

We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun

[epilogue]

I do enjoy that song

[The Argonaut]

Ehhh, there was a period where you, Joe, were the most popular RMer. Anytime anyone was asked the question "which RMer would you like to meet" or "who is your favorite poster" or whatever like that, the answer would be d,t.

Then you became a mod.

Did you become a mod in 2016?

You became less popular and beloved when you became a mod. Of course. You never should've done that

[lennytheweedwhacker]

That might actually be a good point, and true.

[lennytheweedwhacker]

That's also when you developed a lisp.

[epilogue]

Ehhh, there was a period where you, Joe, were the most popular RMer. Anytime anyone was asked the question "which RMer would you like to meet" or "who is your favorite poster" or whatever like that, the answer would be d,t.

Then you became a mod.

Did you become a mod in 2016?

You became less popular and beloved when you became a mod. Of course. You never should've done that

I didn't become a mod until like 2019.

But your reasoning doesn't really make sense. No one automatically hated Ruddo when he became a mod. Something else changed. Maybe me. Probably me. I should shut up and stop complaining.

[spike]

Didn’t you have a big meltdown on here? Was that 2016?

[lennytheweedwhacker]

Where is chud?

[epilogue]

Didn’t you have a big meltdown on here? Was that 2016?

I don't think so?

[epilogue]

Where is chud?

In a happier place

[lennytheweedwhacker]

Where is chud?

In a happier place

Not Boston?

[epilogue]

Where is chud?

In a happier place

Not Boston?

Not our Boston. His own private Quincy.

[tragabigzanda]

There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

[lennytheweedwhacker]