Hell isn't that scary. It's actually kind of lame. Hey Satan, playing "Hot in Here" over the intercom speakers was pretty ironic the first few hundred times. Thinking about her is what gets me through this eternal torment. Hers is an angelic beauty born of fire and the tears of a prophet.
My Mcdonalds is now under 24-hour surveillance by the newly installed cameras. They're trying to crack down on the recent wave of thefts, although thus far no one has listened to my suggestion that we bring the Hamburglar in for questioning. There's a picture of C in the crew room. Every night I tell myself I'm going to take it home and every night I change my mind.
You walk into Mcdonalds. You say "Hi." and I say "NO I'M NOT!" Haha, that's my little drug joke. My writing hobby exhibits many of the patterns of a drug addiction. The rare gems on this jeweled chalice lose a little more of their luster every day.
I really should've gone with the hot pink cast, I mused. The cast would weaken my ankle ligaments and reduce my muscle mass. Meanwhile my social life was undergoing an atrophy of its own. My only real social skill was my uncanny ability to instantly make people feel sorry for me. It was a unique talent to be sure but it never really got me anywhere. Relationships didn't last very long when all they were based on was pity.
My life was an epic film 22 years in the making. The plot had more twists and turns than a William Joseph deathmatch map. I was watching an episode of NYPD Blue. I wished I could do an interview with Dennis Franz just so I could use the title pun "copping an attitude".
Hot Topic wouldn't think I was alternative enough. My only chance was to tell them I was a black albino and hope they practiced affirmative action. Brannen and James made derogatory comments about the goth girls at the theater. Forgive them, they know not what they do.
There was a psychic studio on loudon road. I didn't believe in psychic phenomena. I knew but one all-encompassing cosmic power and that was the power of Jesus. In this world of deception and uncertainty where nothing was as it seemed Jesus was your only friend.
The tv at Radio Shack was tuned to CNN's coverage of the war. It was the second year of the U.S. occupation of stroggos and still no end was in sight. The prevailing climate was one of social tension and political unrest. The Radio Shack employee laughed at my dress. "The joke's on you." I said. "You see, I'm the only real person in the universe so as soon as I leave this store you'll cease to exist."
I was going to see my friends again. I could feel the social anxiety building up inside of me like a swelling crescendo. Every group of friends needed a leader, someone at the helm to keep them on course. I always left that job up to someone else.
It was another party. Don't reveal that you have any. Wait for someone else to do it first. Then they'll be the one who has to share their stash. The stereo was playing a Dire Straits song. Mark Knopfler's guitar was good at adding little phrases in between Knopfler's gruff vocal delivery but the man could not pull off a captivating lead.
My heart knew a passion that burned brighter than the perpetually flaming trash barrels in Kingpin. Girl I liked and I sitting next to each other, our spirits intertwined in paradoxical bliss. I dedicated the next song to her and prepared to launch into an explosive electric lute solo.
After the party everyone passed out on couches and chairs. You used to be able to tell androids by the fact that they never got tired but nowadays they made models that could simulate sleep. I looked out the window at the City 17 nightscape, my soul longing to take flight on the gossamer wings of a delicate fancy.
When balkirys flew out to sea it wasn't a migration but a death ritual. Weary from the day's travel, the great bird asked if he could spend the night in the tree in our yard. A superstitious man, my father knew it would be bad luck to deny the request of such a noble robot. When I woke up the next morning the balikiry had already left. I had an impulse to climb the tallest tree in the yard and see if I could spot him on the horizon, but I knew it was useless; he was long gone.
I understood the latest Penny Arcade strip even though I didn't read IGN. A window popped up informing me that my Fileplanet download had completed successfully. The Something Awful thread I was browsing contained a link to a Pitchfork Media article yet didn't descend into a flame war. "Can someone help me?" I posted. "I think I'm on the wrong internet."
And you thought women had one-dimensional script intros that treated them like sex objects. Ewoks have it even worse.
No one seems to like the new Doom box art. But it's still the same old Doom Guy under that space marine helmet. Right?
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