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Chop Persian cucumbers into dimes
Chop romaine into desired shape
Toss with tzatziki sauce
Add rotisserie chicken bits you can just pull off the corpus of the animal with your hands and shred as you go.
Season with salt and pepper

DIVA CORP USA:

Your website has been compromised and owner(s) and constituent(s) have been positively identified with basic ass OSINT practices and publicly available data.

Failure to act accordingly will lead to publication of this information. You have until September 11, 2024 to issue a public apology to Los Angeles. Why?

This is one of the most important places in all of North America. You're no artist. An artist respects the silence that serves the foundation of creativity. You don't have the talent, You don't have enough respect for yourself or other people OR what it is to express yourself; in writing or ANY other form of creativity. And I'm a Bard CCS graduate, SUCKA. And the Whitney ISP. I have keys to Dennis Cooper's vacant LA villa.

You SUCK. You're a NO talent. If you really had talent, you would get accepted to Cal Arts or Art Center. And then get yourself a lineup of gigs and a good grasp on PR. Instead of ruining the end of the day for everybody down here. You disgrace.

You're a self-consumed, no talent, mediocre piece of shit, and I've earned my right to say it. OKAY?! My body was dropped off on the steps of the FDA. I was friends with Michael Alig. Michael Moore made a documentary about Marilyn Manson. I told Jenny Borland to move to New York.

Who the fuck are you? I was part of ART CLUB 2000, who the FUCK ARE YOU!? You're nothing, You're nothing, You are nothing and you will never be anything. Never write again.

I don't care about your anonymous letterboxed profile posturing as an incapacitated rendition of MAR. Because it doesn't mean you know how to write, it just shows you are only capable of typing with your thumbs. I'm trained CLASSICALLY, I've trained contemporaneously with Mavis Beacon.

three african guys sitting at a mall food court table: one in a big blazer, another in a motorcycle helmet, the third dressed normal. the one in the helmet is playing a soccer game on his phone. the one in the blazer is holding his phone sideways watching a video of a pig being slaughtered

In the fluorescent aisles of Ralph's, where the hum of refrigeration meets the buzz of whispered secrets,
I found them those heart-shaped sushi boxes.
Their plastic lids, transparent yet mysterious, revealed secrets only the conveyor belt knew.
Was it love or mere convenience that shaped these morsels into hearts?
Perhaps the sushi chef pondered the absurdity of existence while molding each grain of rice, each slice of salmon, into a symbol.
And there they sat, nestled together, like mismatched lovers at a masquerade, their soy sauce dipping pools reflecting the flickering fluorescence above.
Did they dream of escape, of rolling away to a distant ocean, far from Ralph's?
Or were they content in their cellophane embrace, knowing that even in this sterile aisle, they were part of something greater a fleeting metaphor for Valentine's Day, a nod to the hunger and desire that binds us?
And so, in the checkout line, I smiled, my tongue tingling with wasabi and wonder, grateful for the mundane magic of Ralph's where heart-shaped sushi danced with romance, and the world turned on its axis one soy soaked bite at a time

In the fluorescent aisles of Ralph's, where the hum of refrigeration meets the buzz of whispered secrets,
I found them those heart-shaped sushi boxes.
Their plastic lids, transparent yet mysterious, revealed secrets only the conveyor belt knew.
Was it love or mere convenience that shaped these morsels into hearts?
Perhaps the sushi chef pondered the absurdity of existence while molding each grain of rice, each slice of salmon, into a symbol.
And there they sat, nestled together, like mismatched lovers at a masquerade, their soy sauce dipping pools reflecting the flickering fluorescence above.
Did they dream of escape, of rolling away to a distant ocean, far from Ralph's?
Or were they content in their cellophane embrace, knowing that even in this sterile aisle, they were part of something greater a fleeting metaphor for Valentine's Day, a nod to the hunger and desire that binds us?
And so, in the checkout line, I smiled, my tongue tingling with wasabi and wonder, grateful for the mundane magic of Ralph's where heart-shaped sushi danced with romance, and the world turned on its axis one soy soaked bite at a time

like a double suicide, ceremonial priest roommate facial piercing Skid Row yacht party fashionupcycle naked in a restaurant police chaser unidentified loverbottom of the ocean suicidal kiss 24pack of Tecates in tijuana

in an open style house, like glass hallway and step into room
trying to defeat two giants, one a vampire, i'm tasked with this and am at a loss as to how to damage it, finally think of breaking a leg, but it doesn't work i can't get it to bend back far enough - just to hurt it.
so i ask my friend that's there. a gay person and they think of an idea involving sex (to lure him in) and chemicals with hot oil, and sand, to finish him off. like get him in a vulnerable position by charming him, then make him eat sand, and then pour the oil into his rectum to cause a chemical reaction which'll make him explode. cray

i go to the living room where my old friend from middle school and JOHNNY DEPP as a young goth person are chilling

i wrap myself under a sheet and we put on a vhs..... an old show i used to like and have several of them, but i hadn't seen this one before. i stare at Depp ....he has long sorta stringysoft black hair and a soft face, with sunken eyes... i say, 'can i tell you something...' he says 'go for it...' but i change my mind. (i was going to say 'did you know i've always wanted to marry you, since i was 4' but decided peeking out of the sheet and in shy dissaray with my words would be very silly indeed.

family reunion: there's a little yard in the back dark and boggy with a steep dip to an old concrete ditch
theres a very hispanic-modded granny and many many young cousins running about, many ages, and a couple uncles and stuff. depp is one. cops come accusing him of murdering that vamp guy (my friend left after doing the job) but he protests, i've been drawing the whole time in this room --- he shows them his drawing which is of some...letters very delicately rendered. some5hing weird like this (attached)

and when he stands up, his whole back gives out and he flops backwards screaming in pain, but he gets righted, and walks out to the back.
out back a cousin is playing by the ditch and bemoaning the use of water, it was redirected from the yard which used to be so green to the other side which is just hotel lawns or something... but she finds a pipe with a flower sticking out and pulls the cap off, a trickle of water comes out and the plants visibly start perking up. she calls everyone over says, 'i found the water!' and plants the plucked flower in the soil right by it

no more tears
or infighting
renounce your thoughts of killing
one another, vengeful
clamoring to the top of this
or that stack, or weeping
dreams of stewarding the ultimate clique—
it all spells disaster
so uh
be neither a fool nor a killer.
we can build a world in a pearl
or a pothole
anyone wanna split a chicken bake?

art should be of course publicly discussed but should not be categorized into “good” or “bad” or ranked on a scale. except in the privacy of one’s home.

indeed.com

curious about a recent post. of course not everyone is a writer but the idea that only certain people can "produce culture" is absurd to me. i effectively agree with the post as a whole, but i wonder about how applicable it is to a forum like Spite, particularly this early on in its lifetime. what defines good art if there is no bad art? we all participate in the realization of cultural standards, whether as creators, critics, audience members, etc. i find posts like that one to be important, this isnt an "ohhh all art is good and you shouldnt be mean" this is simply a PRO CESSPOOL post. lets make a mess and let that mess develop its own rhythm. before posting ask yourself this: am i saying anything worth saying? and then post it anyway. or dont. up to you.

Gonna use spite as my dream journal. Today. Tomorrow. Til forever. You’ll hear from me soon xox

a lot of y'all are NOT writers. not everyone is destined to produce culture and thats okay, some of y'all would be better at realty or dog washing. enough of the clout chasing and performative intellectualism. put out shit that takes you longer than a week to produce. and stop posting the same .5x selfies in your bayonetta glasses. yoouo look retarded

eric dolphy

no me gustan los ninos que se visten como modelos adroginos pero se comportan como los hijos de ejecutivos billionarios. esas tipos de personas viven demasiado en sus mentes y abandonan la realidad fisica de diversion. intercambian el sol y la musica por luces artificiales y criticas culturales, eventualmente llegando a esas cosas que la humanidad ha amado desde su principo pero sus ideas y palabras bloquean su experiencia como ruido molestante mientras quieres leer un libro. en vez de apagar el ruido, ellos lo confunden por el fondo de la realidad y comparten sus observaciones miopicas con clones que hacen los mismo. y se rascan lascan las cabezas con la confusion que solo los que complican la vida pueden hacer. lo complejo no tiene que ser complicado cuando uno entiende sin su cerebro. no son cuentas de adas californianas el vivir sin esfuerzo, son las verdades de la vida que cualqier abuela te diria. quizas las cosas son muy simples para la comprension de la mente humana...

Tired of getting cucked by life? Looking for quick fixes to real problems? Is no other means possible? Try Desperation.

Desperation is your favorite saboteur. Desperation will have you manifesting miracles in minutes. Our primitive desires won’t ask you anything except what are you burning, and how deep into the ground?

Ruin him. End her. Let your compulsions define a lifetime. Let your death drive grip the throttle.

Searching for grief? Desperation. Lusting for love? Desperation. Leave your patience in the rear-view, and trade it instead for some embarrassing ass Desperation…

I love art I love art I’m crying I just love art so much it’s all beautiful I hate critics make something make something beautiful diva corp are you even making money? Are you making money?? I hope you are at least making beautiful money i love you