Little little scholar,
about to leave the nest
She needs to make some money
so a job is likely best
She majored in Anthropology
so she has no skills for a vocation
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[[Existential in the bathroom she screamed]]
Fear not little little scholar,
for you can search Indeed
They have a million different jobs
for a dumb, dumb anthro major like thee
She found a few possible options
but none of them were great
As a libra, she can't make decisions,
so you need to choose, before it's too late!
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Should she be a
[[A farmer]]
[[A sugar baby]]
[[A consultant]]
The Scholar now sugar baby
Was not feeling confident in her abilitiy
So to teach her a sugar baby lesson
She recruited her friends nick and nicky
The girls and gays were on the case and together they made a plan
So that the sugar baby could participate in some class mobility!
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But first they must decide where is their hunting ground
Should the sugar baby be attending
[[The Darty]]
or
[[The dinner]]Im not sure if I am going to keep this option, but is not filled out yet :(
(link:"go back to start")[(goto:"Start")]Maybe this is what she needed,
A return to the land
She has no money
but she still has her tiny hands
She reached up to the sky
And picked a juicy apple that was bright red
She took a bite, felt sorta weird
And decided to
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[[go to bed]]
[[stick it out instead]]
The little little scholar, now farmer, sat in her bed
Her tummy was still hurting so she searched on the MD web
She typed in her symptomes and her history
and the results read
"You're allergic to apples, you DUMB ASS"
soon you will be dead!
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Where are you sending the farmer
[[Heaven]]
[[Hell]]The scholar now farmer felt a little topsy turvey
Her head was feeling lighter
But her stomach still felt hurty
Still she carried on; As she was a fighter
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She reached the end of her estate see,
where there were mountain and lakes and trees high
But it seemed the land had a decision for she
[[From the right]] She heard Lana Del Ray playing on the beach, high
Still she had this compulsion, she did not know why
She could [[jump in the ocean]] and swin and cry
(text-style:"double-underline","expand","tall","shudder")[(text-colour:red)[WHO ARE YOU TO ASSUME THE GOODNESS OF THE FARMER
SHE HAS BEEN SENT TO THE ETERNAL ABYSS FOR YOUR INSOLENCE
]]
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HOW ABOUT YOU START (link:"THE FUCK OVER")[(goto:"Start")]Sending a woman of color to hell?
''NOT'' a good look for you babes. Anywayyyyys shes going to heaven.
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Maybe go back and (link:"Start Over")[(goto:"Start")]
(link:"WHAT AM I GOING TO DO AFTER GRADUATION")[(goto:"After Graduation")]
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</div>You succumb to the intrusive throughts
And enter the lake
It is cool and calm
until you realize the bottom is fake
You try to grab on to a reflective orb
But you keep on swimming and down into the water you're absorbed
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Further and further you go
Getting entangled with the weeds
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You take a last gulp of oxygen
and pray "God Please"
You open your eyes in the
[[open ocean]]
It was at this point the farmer released she was on shrooms
But what else could she do but see this process through
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She dipped into the forest, to try and find Lana
But over the tree tops she heard a voice say,
I have a [[question for the culture]],and I want an answer from you
"Where are you!" The farmer asked with dismay
she crained her neck to where the tips of the trees could errupt
"Now that Doja Cat, Ariana, Amila, Cardi B, Kehlani and Nicki Minaj and Beyonce-"
"WHERE ARE YOU" The farmer interupted
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She knew what was coming next in this play
"have had number ones with songs about being sexy -"
You interrupt her again and what do you say
[[YOU'RE SPITTINGGGGGG KEEP GOING]]
[[The question for the culture will only bring fire and brimstone to your legacy and will contribute nothing to the cultural discourse. You are not a victim. Please dont do this Lana I love you xoxo]]
really? This was a crazy answer so I have to assume you are either:
1) Not gay
2) Gay and not on twitter (why?)
Either way, Lana posted her infamous rant, and got cancelled because of ''YOUR'' choice, hm.
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She very publicly claimed you as her spiritual mentor on twitter and everyone blames you for the post. The Lana stans form a mob and they arrest you. Lana Del Rey is elected the new president of the mob and sentences you to death :(
Do you go to:
Do you go to (link:"heaven")[(goto:"Hell")] or (link:"hell")[(goto:"Heaven")]Suddenly the voice stopped,
and you began to feel week,
Your vising blurred, your knees were failing
Maybe you [[need a seat]]
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</div>You collapse onto your ass
And then collapse again [[onto your side]]
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</div>Suddenly in your view,
you see a woman dressed white
"Come with me, to the tunnel under ocean boulevard"
You reach our your hand
[[pass out, too exhausted to go any further]]
[[realize that this is not Lana, but a demon sent to tempt you. You pull out a secret glock and do what needs to be done]]
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</div>You wake up on a beach chair in the tropics
eyes still struggling to focus
Lana is nowhere to be found but you hear the
fair sounds of Paris, Texas
Trying to compete with the waves
But what you can make out as
a from then two;
Then the two in a suit and dress
And you realize you are at the wedding
probably not lana del ray's
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[[But just as important]]So guns cannot kill spirits, but you were right -- it was satan not Lana Del Ray. You realize you had holy water in your other pocket and feel dumb for trying to use a gun.
''Violence is never'' ~~sometimes~~ ''the answer! ''
The devil is a little pissed you tried to shoot him though so he sent along a little message:
//Congrats on figuring me out, its giving anthropology genius PURR! Stilllllll, I have to send you into a k-hole for all eternity for being rude bookie, sorry its policy!
D.A.R.E. :)
- the devil xo//
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Maybe (link:"try again?")[(goto:"Start")]And you are a little bit worried,
because where the fuck are you
but you accept it and lean in and try to learn
from all-knowing mushroo
You take out your headphone and put on chemtrails
and try to reflect and stew
When you catch the couples first kiss
With no one except an over eager hotel staff and you
To witness it's passion
And you cry a little over what could be a hallucination of these two
people who rather get married alone
than not do start thier lives on a beautiful beach in the tropics
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The grip of the hallucination is weakening,
but you have one final visitor
[[Your sister]]
[[Chistopher Columbus]]
[[Your future lover]]
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The Two Sisters Cave by Lorna Goodison (An award winning Jamaican poet)
Guilty as charged, yes, I was years in the pay of the Mad Men. Drew on my deep word hoard to sell
outdoor carpeting
and washed over gold; which is to say: base metal gilded like a dance hall don’s lily, who skin out,
bares all naked
for a fifty cent music video ; what else to do with my poet gift starve in a garret-like backroom?
No, I did my next best
exhalted flat house paint same way as I would delicate egg tempera; ( and to think I thought fine art
my great love)
I created commercials; one such meant to animate the Hellshire Hills; white marly old home of the coney
now Arawak ghost village.
Is there anywhere a sun as hot as in that place is?
On the first day’s shoot, me, the local camera man and the foreign director of diorama and smoke and mirror
real estate pipe dreams
were forced to seek shade from sun’s smite near the mouth of a great cave known as the two sisters; named
for ancient rock
formation shaped like two women; or maybe so called because of fabled Taino legend of two sisters
in a cave hiding out
From the blood hounds of the Spaniards, from the contagion come sudden upon them when not
long before they were
sudding the white froth of root of cassava free of its take-life toxicity. I’d like to think the two could have
been me and my sister
in past times when she and I in kindness kept one another company; each to each supplying salt and light’s
iron support .
We (both being action figures) might have projected ourselves to the shore and stopped up the holes in Columbus’s
` rickety old boats
So he and his band of wreck sailors would have waked to find their holey boats seaworthy; and set sail
and left us in peace.
My sister and me; if we two were the ones holding council in that cave, who knows how our family story
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An exerpt from Author Jamaica Kincaid from //A Small Plac//e on tourism in her Native Antigua: a small Caribbean Country of less than 100,000 people where 60% of the GDP comes from tourism.
IF YOU GO to Antigua as a tourist, this is what you will see. If you come by aeroplane, you will land at the V. C. Bird International Airport. Vere Cornwall (V. C.) Bird is the Prime Minister of Antigua. You may be the sort of tourist who would wonder why a Prime Minister would want an airport named after him—why not a school, why not a hospital, why not some great public monument? You are a tourist and you have not yet seen a school in Antigua, you have not yet seen the hospital in Antigua, you have not yet seen a public monument in Antigua. As your plane descends to land, you might say, What a beautiful island Antigua is—more beautiful than any of the other islands you have seen, and they were very beautiful, in their way, but they were much too green, much too lush with vegetation, which indicated to you, the tourist, that they got quite a bit of rainfall, and rain is the very thing that you, just now, do not want, for you are thinking of the hard and cold and dark and long days you spent working in North America (or, worse, Europe), earning some money so that you could stay in this place (Antigua) where the sun always shines and where the climate is deliciously hot and dry for the four to ten days you are going to be staying there; and since you are on your holiday, since you are a tourist, the thought of what it might be like for someone who had to live day in, day out in a place that suffers constantly from drought, and so has to watch carefully every drop of fresh water used (while at the same time surrounded by a sea and an ocean—the Caribbean Sea on one side, the Atlantic Ocean on the other), must never cross your mind.
You disembark from your plane. You go through customs. Since you are a tourist, a North American or European—to be frank, white—and not an Antiguan black returning to Antigua from Europe or North America with cardboard boxes of much needed cheap clothes and food for relatives, you move through customs swiftly, you move through customs with ease. Your bags are not searched. You emerge from customs into the hot, clean air: immediately you feel cleansed, immediately you feel blessed (which is to say special); you feel free.
* * *
The thing you have always suspected about yourself the minute you become a tourist is true: A tourist is an ugly human being. You are not an ugly person all the time; you are not an ugly person ordinarily; you are not an ugly person day to day. From day to day, you are a nice person. From day to day, all the people who are supposed to love you on the whole do. From day to day, as you walk down a busy street in the large and modern and prosperous city in which you work and live, dismayed, puzzled (a cliché, but only a cliché can explain you) at how alone you feel in this crowd, how awful it is to go unnoticed, how awful it is to go unloved, even as you are surrounded by more people than you could possibly get to know in a lifetime that lasted for millennia, and then out of the corner of your eye you see someone looking at you and absolute pleasure is written all over that person’s face, and then you realise that you are not as revolting a presence as you think you are (for that look just told you so). And so, ordinarily, you are a nice person, an attractive person, a person capable of drawing to yourself the affection of other people (people just like you), a person at home in your own skin (sort of; I mean, in a way; I mean, your dismay and puzzlement are natural to you, because people like you just seem to be like that, and so many of the things people like you find admirable about yourselves—the things you think about, the things you think really define you—seem rooted in these feelings): a person at home in your own house (and all its nice house things), with its nice back yard (and its nice back- yard things), at home on your street, your church, in community activities, your job, at home with your family, your relatives, your friends—you are a whole person. But one day, when you are sitting somewhere, alone in that crowd, and that awful feeling of displacedness comes over you, and really, as an ordinary person you are not well equipped to look too far inward and set yourself aright, because being ordinary is already so taxing, and being ordinary takes all you have out of you, and though the words “I must get away” do not actually pass across your lips, you make a leap from beingthat nice blob just sitting like a boob in your amniotic sac of the modern experience to being a person visiting heaps of death and ruin and feeling alive and inspired at the sight of it; to being a person lying on some faraway beach, your stilled body stinking and glistening in the sand, looking like something first forgotten, then remembered, then not important enough to go back for; to being a person marvelling at the harmony (ordinarily, what you would say is the backwardness) and the union these other people (and they are other people) have with nature. And you look at the things they can do with a piece of ordinary cloth, the things they fashion out of cheap, vulgarly colored (to you) twine, the way they squat down over a hole they have made in the ground, the hole itself is something to marvel at, and since you are being an ugly person this ugly but joyful thought will swell inside you: their ancestors were not clever in the way yours were and not ruthless in the way yours were, for then would it not be you who would be in harmony with nature and backwards in that charming way? An ugly thing, that is what you are when you become a tourist, an ugly, empty thing, a stupid thing, a piece of rubbish pausing here and there to gaze at this and taste that, and it will never occur to you that the people who inhabit the place in which you have just paused cannot stand you, that behind their closed doors they laugh at your strangeness (you do not look the way they look); the physical sight of you does not please them; you have bad manners (it is their custom to eat their food with their hands; you try eating their way, you look silly; you try eating the way you always eat, you look silly); they do not like the way you speak (you have an accent); they collapse helpless from laughter, mimicking the way they imagine you must look as you carry out some everyday bodily function. They do not like you. They do not like me! That thought never actually occurs to you. Still, you feel a little uneasy. Still, you feel a little foolish. Still, you feel a little out of place. But the banality of your own life is very real to you; it drove you to this extreme, spending your days and your nights in the company of people who despise you, people you do not like really, people you would not want to have as your actual neighbour. And so you must devote yourself to puzzling out how much of what you are told is really, really true (Is ground- up bottle glass in peanut sauce really a delicacy around here, or will it do just what you think ground-up bottle glass will do? Is this rare, multicoloured, snout-mouthed fish really an aphrodisiac, or will it cause you to fall asleep permanently?). Oh, the hard work all of this is, and is it any wonder, then, that on your return home you feel the need of a long rest, so that you can recover from your life as a tourist?<style> img {
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Scheherazade
Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
and dress them in warm clothes again.
How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running
until they forget that they are horses
It's not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,
it's more like a song on a policeman's radio
how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
to slice into pieces
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it's noon, that means we're inconsolable.
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Tell me we'll never get used to it. This will be a final club dinner story line coming soooon :)
(link:"go back to start")[(goto:"Start")]Nick and Nicky started on an outfit
But they needed some inspiration
They wanted to stand out
without revealing their true intentions
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[[hoochie mama outfit]]
[[Easter sunday best]]Silent and Mysterious
The shirt says it all
It might be time to head out
We're not on the list, so were going to have to climb that wall
They made it inside the function
And would love to have [[a drink]]
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The sugar baby gets no hoes and dies of embarassment; Picture and rhyme coming soooon :)
(link:"go back to start")[(goto:"Start")]Nicky opened up the cooler and it was full of dry ice
She wanted something strong, so she didnt have to come back twice
She weighed her options and thought what could be nice
She decided on something cute and pink and free of price
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Should she grab
[[A vodka cranberry with lime]]
[[A triple shot of pink whitney (no one has eaten today)]]This will allow the player to continue on the darty story line although it is unfinished :/
(link:"go back to start")[(goto:"Start")]This was a crazy choice
Some would call you masochist
Almost immeditely Nicky and the sugar baby
Had to ask where the bathroom is
One they reached the new location
They got a little curious
They wanted to explore
The life of who would make them misses
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[[Go into their medicine cabinet]]
[[Go into their shower]]Since you're hear you might as well steal
You call it reperations and you do it with zeal!
Oh shit? Is Nick coughing?
What happened to his neck?
Theres mouse shit in this bathroom
I think hes allergic reactioning!
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Grab something to help, quick!
[[prozac]]
[[A multivitamin]]
[[An epi-pen]]This will cause teh sugar baby to have a fight with her ex at the party.
She will then take five shots of pink whitney and circle back to ambulance story line this is unfinished tho :/
(link:"go back to start")[(goto:"Start")]This line is going to give the sugar baby the ability to read minds, it is unfortunetally not finished :(
(link:"go back to start")[(goto:"Start")]This will allow the player to finish the darty story line; That story is unfinished, however :(
(link:"go back to start")[(goto:"Start")]Damn this girl was quick
But still you almost caught her
You grabbed a chunk of the shirt on the chick
But her top was from shein and tore
The greedy girl escaped,
but its back to help the sugar baby
As her spleen still bled
But you are premed! You can cut it out safetly
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[[Call an ambulance]]
[[Channel the spirit of our Black sister Merideth Grey and CUT 'ER OPEN]] Good news: the ambulence came and saved the sugar baby!!!!
Bad news: the sugar baby passed away when she was told the price of the ambulence ride :(
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#HealthCareReform !!!I need to take a photo that goes with this option
You opened her up and go through fat, muscle and bone,
Maybe you see the spleen, but there kind of no way to know
Its either the organ on the left of the right
The green orb or the red sight
Its time to make a decision, you are in the zone
[[Cut out the left organ]]
[[Cut out the right organ]]
Congrats! You passed!!! The sugar baby will live
You sew her back up and send her off like your kid
She goes back to the party and takes another shot
You should be proud of your work
Its giving nobel prize winning Doc
(need a pic for this)Daaaaaaaamn you were so close, but the sugar baby did die :( I think you might go to prison? Idk the DA called it one of "the most horrific things he had ever seen" so theres that. BUT, good news is that she was able to find a sugar daddy before you did your crazy ass vigilante medicine on her organs. Bad news is that sugar daddy is suing you for millions. But you will find your way out of this one! Slay!!
Final decision send the sugar baby to heaven or hell, real easy.
(link:"Heaven")[(goto:"Hell")]
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Theres gonna be a story line that ends with the farmer fighting and killing a shark or befriending it, kissing it, and it turns into a human boy: princess and the frog if they had watched the shape of water first That is not finished just yet
(link:"go back to start")[(goto:"Start")]Oh shit I think someones in here,
Why do they look king of mean
A figure jumped out of the curtains
And kicked the sugar baby in the spleen!
"I know your trying to steal my sugar daddy,
his oil empire is mine!" She screemed
And then she dashed out of the washroom
never again to be seen
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(link:"Call an Ambulance")[(goto:"Call an ambulance")]
[[Chase after the greedy girl, like she could share and she was doing too much!]]