Requiem For A Dreamcast
My wit is a very dull implement. Iíll never be a good writer. Thatís okay though because the key to happiness isnít self improvement but self acceptance. Take Charles Manson for example. Every morning he looks in the mirror and remembers heís a horrible monster who orchestrated unspeakable acts of murder and torture. It doesnít bother him, though. Why? Because he loves himself unconditionally. If Charles Manson can love himself unconditionally then so can I.
Iíve finally found someone who understands how I feel. No, it isnít Trent Reznor or Maynard James Keenan or any of the music industryís designer saviors - itís a girl I know. Do my dreams about Girl I Like deserve to be fulfilled? Does having the capacity for happiness entitle us to happiness?
I loved the conversations I had with Girl I Liked. We didnít just talk to each other, we listened to each other. Girl I Liked was a goddess. In a previous life I was a vortigon slave building immense shrines to her beauty.
"What the hell are you playing on the stereo?" my coworker Nate said. "Is this Vaginal Mutilation Fetish by Smash My Brotherís Face In?"
"I thought it would give us a beat to work to." I said.
I trusted my coworkers. Teamwork - that was the Mcdonalds advantage. My cash register was waiting for me and I knew there was no order I couldnít take. I could smell the aroma of freshly cooked 10-1 patties. It smelled like victory.
Iíll always remember the time I made a customer feel sorry for me. He was asking me demeaning questions in a tone of mock friendliness when out of nowhere I shot him this wounded look. He never even saw it coming. Needless to say he promptly apologized.
My dad asked me when I had become so disgruntled. I told him that I had always been disgruntled, that I was never gruntled to begin with. That wasnít entirely true. There once was a time when life had all the limitless potential of an empty Worldcraft grid. You may have noticed I lament the loss of my childhood a lot. Am I crossing the line into adult babydom? Seeing as how I also went out with a girl who liked wearing diapers, probably.
Another Saturday night found me alone in my room. I had some percocets but I only used them socially as using them by yourself was a recipe for lonely. I decided to spend the night browsing the internet. The best part of Metallicaís new album was downloading it. It was all downhill from there.
I no longer held any grudges re: the flamewars I got into during my mapping days. It was all func_water under a bridge as far as I was concerned. On a whim I entered the URL of planetquake only to find it had become a horrible cataclysm of flash ads. It was intrusive advertising on a level heretofore only seen in the cyberpunk genre.
I listened to NIN. If youíd ever been picked on by the captain of the football team, worn a pink rubber spiked bracelet, or had a really awkward bondage experience with your girlfriend then you already knew Trent Reznorís music by heart. I was wearing my black dress, fishnets, and spiked dog collar. All I needed was a pair of welderís goggles and my goth slut outfit would be complete.
"Eminem may call gay people fags but at least he doesnít call mentally challenged people anything." I said.
"Yes he does." Lauren said. "He calls them his fans."
Donít tell Eminem but I think he just got zinged.
System Of A Down? More like System Of A DON'T.
I was browsing through the magazines at Borders. THIS MONTH IN WOMANíS WORLD: IS HE CHEATING ON YOU? NEXT MONTH: IS HE A DEMON LOOKING FOR A HUMAN WOMB TO CONCEIVE THE ANTICHRIST? The person next to me had a trenchcoat and lots of piercings. When thereís no more room in Hot Topic the goths will walk the earth.
I was standing outside the food court at the City 17 mall. The goths didnít come here to smoke cigarettes anymore. It was just as well since I didnít like being around people. It was difficult to tell how much of said dislike was Jean-Paul Sartre-esque existentialism and how much was just social anxiety disorder.
I didnít like public places. I knew my social anxiety could eventually lead to suicide or, even worse, a lifetime of awkward dorkdom. I was filled with tension as I walked down the snack aisle. Fun Fact: Slim Jims are named after the snackís inventor, James Marshall, who has anorexia.
My friends wonít let me move in with them. I saw friendship abandon Everyman in the allegory of the same name so why then was I so surprised when it happened to me? Et tu Justin and Brannen? I hate myself for letting you hurt me so easily.