232 lines
9.9 KiB
Plaintext
232 lines
9.9 KiB
Plaintext
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Playing With Fire
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I have never thought of myself that attractive.
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People say otherwise.
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Whatever.
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Looks are so materialistic.
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But the funny thing is, I am egotistical enough to think I am the best damn
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thing since the slice of bread.
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Whatever.
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My standard response.
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Here is the paradox. and while this can be appropriately applied to me, I
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have seen this applied to too many people in reality.
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When I am put in a situation where in essence I have to prove myself, in
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some way or some ideal, I am *the* best damn thing that you will ever see. I
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am more stronger emotionally, physically, mentally. the most intelligent,
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the most everything that you've ever seen and I *will* rock your world.
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And it works, because confidence is attractive isn't it?
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On the flipside, media is screaming at me: you are nearly 6' tall? You have
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to weigh 8lbs, have hunks of blonde hair, be incredibly stupid and like
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sex occasionally.
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And that is such bullshit. how can I strive to be "me" in every sense of
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the word, to explore and find myself, to stretch and become myself, to grow
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and to learn about myself if the goddamn media is feeding me this tripe on
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such a basis that I'm literally screaming "fuck off" in my mind every time
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that I see some walking clothes hanger walk by me. Because when she does,
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for the briefest of seconds I mentally beat myself up for not being the
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things that I described above.
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Whatever.
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That irks me more then anything else. That while I am still learning about
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me, my likes, my dislikes, that I have to fight Madison avenue at every
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possible moment.
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And its not the print, vision or Internet media, its the bimbo's that I see
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everytime I step out of the house who are running around with copies of
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cosmo, vogue, sticking their fingers down their throat, letting themselves
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be taken advantage of by guys in the name of love, being scared to be alone,
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to be strong, to be themselves.
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FUCK THAT!
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All in the name of beauty.
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All in the name of being loved.
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All in the name of being accepted.
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All in the name of getting fucked.
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All in the name of every conceivable media muckraking machine piece of crap
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that ever existed.
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When I was 20 years old, I dated a guy named Alan. This was love. This was
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everything I dreamed it would be. Sexually I let loose and did things I had
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only dreamed about. And as every post-teenage-angst being fed on a diet of
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diet coke and diet pills, we went shopping one day. He turned around and
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looked at me while saying most earnestly "you know, with your face and Cindy
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Crawfords body, you would make a lot of money modeling". Isn't that nice?
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yes, I thought so. Turns out he was fucking another girl for the majority
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of our relationship (1.5 years). Isn't that nice? I am sure he liked the
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fact that I beat the shit out of his 'fiancee' in a night club after I
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turned 21.
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Now that I am getting older, I am less conscious of how my face and body
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looks. It doesn't stop though. Men still sniff around regardless of how
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much I weigh, or if my hair is short/long or if I'm suffering from the
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lovely monthly round of zits from pms.
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Something about me...
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Playing with fire...
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This fuck file came along when I was just browsing the web and looking at
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sites at random. A friend of mine came online and we were talking about our
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first meeting which occurred recently. He had taken me to his place of
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business, and we had met an associate of his.
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Now this meeting was all innocent between my friend and I. He is in fact my
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publisher who contacted me about a year ago about putting my writings in a
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book form and actually be printed. We were meeting to talk about various
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and sundry things. And I do not have a habit on cheating on my boyfriend's.
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But I digress. My friend and I were talking online tonight about the first
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meeting and setting up another meeting soon to go over business related
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things, when he related that his associate came up and said to him, in
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reference of me, "your playing with fire".
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This never fails to amuse me. Because it seems that there is something
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about 'me' that is different then anyone else. My ex-boyfriend Dan kept
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saying that to me when I left Michigan to come to San Francisco. "Something
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about you, that I have never seen, will never see again. I love you".
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And that is the common thread it seems in all my life. Some deep inner part
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of me is calling out to just about everyone. Something inside of me that
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seems to shake people at the core of their souls that makes me unforgettable.
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Enough of "something" to be the product (indirectly) of marriage breakups,
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relationship breakups. I have had guys change their minds about one girl
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only to like me. I have been accused of sleeping with a majority of these
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people (not true).
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And I'm tired.
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I'm tired of the competition, of the bullshit, of the pseudo lying and the
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theorizing of who and what I am.
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And is it not ironic that Dan and I's song 'The Freshman' by the Verve
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Pipe is playing on the radio? I traveled 2000 miles to get away from that
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song, local heroes gone bigtime, only to be assaulted by it on a 15 song
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rotation.
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"When I was young I knew everything
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and she a punk who rarely ever took advice
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now i'm guilt stricken
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sobbing with my head on the floor
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stop a baby's breath and a shoe full of rice
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I can't be held responsible
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cause she was touching her face
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I won't be held responsible
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she fell in love in the first place
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for the life of me
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I can't remember
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what made us think we were wise and
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we'd never compromise
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for the life of me I cannot believe
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we'd ever die for these sins
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we were mearly freshman..."
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I probably never told him (Dan) what he really meant to me. Maybe I was a
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cunt bitch from hell, maybe there was too many wrongs, and I wouldn't
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compromise. Because when all is said and done, I walk away being the one
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with the most cake.
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My friend from the meeting said this about me tonight:
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"You are a magnificent puzzle-maker
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one of the best I have seen
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but like every puzzle-maker, you on some level
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want the pieces assembled
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and the clues to the puzzle are scattered...
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throughout the writing you have scattered on the
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Net and such
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and if one cares to read your writing verrry verrrry
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closely
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one finds, in the contradictions, the Scyllas and
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Charybdis's"
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While my boyfriend is at porno sites.
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And while i trip walking down the street looking up at the clear night sky.
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I marvel how I got from here to there.
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as I walk in city lights bookstore, running my fingers ever so delicately
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at all the wonderful books
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as I sit indian style at my computer picking a scab on my knee
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as my cat gives the both of us evil looks
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as I scratch my ear
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as I yawn
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I wonder what tomorrow brings
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where the day breaks
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where I begin and end
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while loving that I am me, and not some 'normal' mundane person concerned
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about their 2.5 kids and picket fence
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while I dream about an apt in Chinatown
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maybe this made no sense.
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I don't give a shit. I never make sense, least of all to myself. But the
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moral of the story is that what seems to be lacking in many people is the
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need to dream. The need to be. The need to go beyond the bullshit and to
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push ourselves into some sort of oblivion that doesn't exist. The need to
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break beyond the media, the muckrakers, the fucked up bullshit world we
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live in. A place that only exists in our minds. A place of worthy entrance
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and only the accepted are allowed to come in.
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Maybe all we wanted was to be loved for ourselves.
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But we won't allow to that happen now will we boys and girls.
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No we won't.
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We will be force feed what type of bullshit to buy from our condoms to our
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toilet paper to wipe our lilly white asses with.
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And we are all struggling thinking we are all so unique and ohh soo
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different when all we are is nothing but a bunch of sheep being lead to the
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slaughter by mind control of the media.
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And me?
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Am i included in this we?
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Fuck no.
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I will be dancing naked around a ring of fire while the rain pours.
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Hoping against hope that everything I've begun to search for will come to me.
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Plotting the stars.
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Reading a book that i bought without the help of ads.
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And listening to the voices in my mind.
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Because I'm not an addict.
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Really.
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I'm not.
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(and this is a lie.)
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-simunye
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June 7, 1997
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4:31 am
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= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, Submissions =
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= Mail: jericho@dimensional.com (Mail is welcomed) =
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= To receive new issues through mail, mail jericho@dimensional.com with =
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= "subscribe fuck". If you do not have FTP access and would like back =
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= issues, send a list of any missing issues and they will be mailed. =
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=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
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= AnonFTP FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK =
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= FTP.SEKURITY.ORG/pub/zines/fucked.up.college.kids =
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= FTP.GIGA.OR.AT/pub/hackers/zines/FUCK =
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= FTP.ETEXT.ORG/pub/Zines/FUCK =
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= WWW http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
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= http://www.reps.net/~krypt/fuck.html =
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= http://www.interlog.com/~lisa/f.u.c.k =
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= (c) Copyright. All files copyright by the original author. =
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