When my co-worker, Billy, makes fun of me I lock myself in the janitor's closet and Lauren has to come get me. "Are you from Hot Topic?" I say. "Please hire me and give me free clothes to make me look more alternative. I want to wear a black skirt and fishnets and a t-shirt that says "You laugh at me because I'm different. I laugh at you because you have a deformed labia." One of the great things about the internet is that if someone talks to you through email, ICQ, or a messageboard it's perfectly normal and acceptable if you don't respond. It strips bullies of their primary weapon: the left field question that the victim can't answer without making a fool of themself. I'd love to drag Billy onto my internet where he'd be in a weakened and vulnerable state like Freddy Krueger when someone pulls him into the real world.
In a reality where all veils have been removed, life resembles the Sega Genesis game, Dr. Robotnik's Mean Bean Machine. When we connect the beans they don't just disappear. The only way to get rid of them is to dump them on someone else. This update is about the people who have been on the receiving end of my life's emotional refuse. In a moment straight out of a shitty Roger Waters concept album, my memories of these people will eventually come back to torment me until I either die or get distracted by some really good bondage porn.
In an ideal world, the girl I met in my british literature class would've gotten a chance to tell me what a jerk I was. She also would've mentioned how hard it is to be an extrovert what with the invisible astronauts that will torture her to death if she ever stops stream of consciousness babbling to people she doesn't even know. I told her how I associated places with emotional states. I wonder what she would've said if I told her the emotions she gave me were pure Mcdonalds. Yes, that's my big mac combo meal. I'm going to masturbate until my dick bleeds and then use the blood as lube so you'd better give me some extra napkins.
In the medium of life as thoroughly depressing yet oddly captivating art, my life is a flawed masterpiece. Or maybe a masterful flaw. The girl from my british literature class and I went to Dunkin Donuts. "Someone carved "fuck you" into this table." she said.
"They obviously hate me because they can't break me." I said. "No matter what abuse they throw at me I'm just going to take it because I'm a pacifist."
"I really like this japanese pocket pc ad. It gets in your head but then it doesn't leave."
"I don't know. There's something I don't like about a dinosaur that always smiles."
My dad, his girlfriend, and I were exposed to the t-virus and are now floating in stasis tubes in the Umbrella corporation's secret underground laboratory. "God, your tube is filthy." my dad's girlfriend says to me. "I can't even stand looking at it. Don't you ever use windex? I can't wait until you get your first girlfriend and bring her back to your tube. Do you know what she's going to say? She's going to say "There's no way I'm stepping inside a tube this dirty."
"This has to do with them choosing me for the nemesis program, doesn't it?" I say. "You're just jealous of my happy."
"You're only happy because they've implanted you with electrodes that stimulate the pleasure centers of your brain every time you kill something."
"Hey, if I can enjoy something and you can't which one of us is really smarter?"
My relationship with Lowtax is strained at best. As an update writer I'm chronically unreliable because I'm always busy seeking out new heights of pleasure and pain far beyond any mere mortal's wildest dreams. The other cenobites who are my friends maintain that status by knowing when to keep their distance from me. They only call once a month and never ask to see my necropolis of the damned. Whenever I let someone into my necropolis of the damned I always end up regretting it. Then there's the awkward process of getting them to leave. Move along. Nothing to see here. Please exit through the slipgate on your left.
Justin and I pretend to be friends with his roommate, Matt, just so we can use his collection of life sized cardboard cutouts of all twelve Livejournal current mood emoticons. "I can't wait for Doom 3 to come out." Justin says. "The lighting effects are going to make reality look like crap."
"Reality already looks like crap." I say. "This concrete wonderland impresses me not."
Jed's current mood: emo
"Is that a chest vagina you're wearing?" Justin says.
"Hey, my chest vagina is not proof that I am stupid. My chest vagina, believe it or not-"
"I know, it has nothing to do with me. That's bullshit. The feeling of empowerment you get from your chest vagina is based solely the way it makes others perceive you."
Justin's current mood: mad
Sometime in the future society will have found a way to deal with shy, introverted psuedo-goths like myself. I'll meet you when your cruise ship crashes on the island where all the goths have been quarantined. We'll take a moment to reflect on the social commentary of how people tend to ignore a problem once it stops playing a direct role in their daily lives. Then we'll play Rocket Knight Adventures except I'll have turned down the volume so we'll have to make all the sound effects ourselves.
In 12th grade I convinced my classmate, Adam, to join my band. I filled his head with pop fantasies and then discarded him like an empty syringe of nuke. While loading Adam's bass into his car after our final band practice I found myself looking at the stars and contemplating eternity. "Those stars are just part of the skybox." Adam said. "We can noclip up there and touch them if we want."
"No, we really can't."
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?
The Something Awful front page news tackles anything both off and on the Internet. Mostly "on" though, as we're all incredible nerds.