I love how our society labels those who don't conform to its standards of "normal". I'm not "antisocial". In fact, lets remove that word from our lexicon altogether. The fact is I've simply transcended man's need for social interaction. You might say I'm meta-human.
I know I'm destined to spend the rest of my life cooking 10-1 patties. I stand by the grill, resigned to my meaty fate. Although I work a crummy blue-collar job I don't consider myself a working class everyman. Everywoman maybe but I'll talk about that later.
Drive thru order #41. Congratulations on your purchase of a heart attack. I give the customer a receipt which he proceeds to deposit into the Ronald Mcdonald charity box. People don't even deserve to be called people.
We're allowed to wear whatever we want to work for Halloween. Finally a chance to scare my coworkers by getting my goth on. Speaking of which, do you know what band is secretly goth? The Pixies. I mean they released their first record on a goth label, they write songs about vampires, death, and bleeding, and their lead singer is named Francis Black.
I blamed video games for getting me into drugs. Drugs had been a constant theme in the games I grew up with from the mushrooms in Super Mario Brothers to the marijuana plants in Resident Evil. The true test of a game was whether it was good on drugs. As I listened to the Quake 2 theme I could make out minute sonic details I'd never noticed before.
My dad still didn't know that his son was a cross dresser. I was saving that little surprise for the next time I was pissed off at him. As for telling my coworkers about my cross dressing I just hadn't gotten around to it yet. I would've worn my dress to work for Halloween except I didn't want to get grease on it.
When I saw the outside world it was through two dirty panes of glass; first my glasses and then my bedroom window. I watched as the Concord skyline swallowed up the setting sun like a dark shroud. A shroud of mystery obscuring that which my imagination dared not contemplate.
I missed Lauren. She was one of the few people I could talk to without feeling like I'd prostituted myself afterwards. It had been forever since we'd done tek and watched movies together. It was this I lamented as I journeyed deeper and deeper into the heart of lonely.
I looked out the window. The world looked drab and dull as though someone had switched reality into software mode. I could no longer enjoy my happys. Every time I should've been happy I was overcome with a paralyzing fear that something terrible was about to happen. Paradoxically I was most content when I was miserable.
It was a windy day. I watched the autumn leaves dance across the road. Another long bleak winter would soon be upon us. I wished I could spend the winter in hibernation like the noble creatures of the wood.
It felt like I was going through drug withdrawals. Well, minus the panic attacks. Ghosts of regret haunted my days and lingered long in my dreams. I knew no colors, only melancholy shades of lonely. I missed Justin and Brannen and the other 2 or 3 people my superiority complex still allowed me to talk to.
As a child I'd spend rainy afternoons like this looking out my bedroom window. Looking through it now the scenery was the same but the view had changed. Was there such a thing as pot withdrawals? I missed listening to my favorite cds stoned. I remembered when I could lose myself in a guitar solo. It was this sonic bliss that I longed to feel once more.
Brannen doesn't want our friendship to be based on drugs anymore. To quote Dolemite, bitch are you for real? We've been stoner friends for like a year and now you want to be real friends? First of all, you don't level jump on a friendship like that. Second of all, you'd have to do something about your constant one-upmanship and geekier-than-thou elitism.
There's a girl I like. Her smile holds the key to untold ecstasies of delicate serenity. She's beautiful, intelligent, but most importantly she's Christian. Maybe I'll ask her out to the upcoming concert by Christian rap/rock group Praise Against The Machine.
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
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