I surveyed my canvas. The elaborate collage of child pornography reflected hours of hard work scouring the darkest corners of the internet. My plan was simple: create a conflict between those who would be offended by the piece and those who would say its offensiveness gave it merit as powerful, thought-provoking art. A conflict would mean publicity. I would grab the key from Fortuna’s golden chain and unlock a limitless realm of possibilities where fame and fortune awaited me.
I was in a forest. Not one of those New Hampshire forests that looked like mother nature threw up, but a lush primeval forest rendered in beautiful shades of amber. I was 18 and the red ninja I loved wouldn’t even give the time of day to a lowly blue ninja like myself. I wasn’t wearing any pants. I didn’t need any. The sin of my forbidden lust was enough to keep me warm.
"What’s patriot day?" my mom said. "And why are you dressed in red white and blue? Oh my God, are those gang colors?"
I decided to celebrate patriot day by visiting patriotic tourist trap, America’s Stonehenge. Hey Britain, my country’s Stonehenge has a nature trail and gift shop, so I guess what I’m saying is we win.
I browsed the internet. Once again I had to burn sage to dispel the negative energy generated by your writing. When will you show me your other side? The side that’s as compassionate as this side is venomous. We need to tear down these steeples before they become dark spires of obsession.
I read Pitchfork Media’s latest dissertation on how Trent Reznor is the antichrist. As a slight aside, my open letter to Pitchfork Media is as follows: please write something I can understand without a fag to english dictionary. It’s funny how the most insipid, clichéd Nine Inch Nails lyrics are always the most truthful. My first bondage experience needed a soundtrack. Thanks, NIN.
The strogg enforcer’s head was gone. The painter realizes that along with his artistic talent there also comes an aesthetic duty to please the audience. To create something they can take comfort in if only because it shows them that their feelings aren’t the only ones of their kind. The decapitation of the enforcer was my masterpiece.
The opening notes of the Quake 2 theme fell flatter with each passing year. The life of a Quake 2 mapper was not recommended for those with a low threshold of lonely. I had a Quake 2 desktop background. Like my taste in dresses I knew that my desktop background would become more understated and subdued as I grew older.
"What are you laughing at?" I said to someone at the mall. "I’d so give you the Italian scissors kick except I promised the person who taught it to me that I’d only use it battling the undead."
"Yeah, today’s your lucky day, dirtbag." C said, holding her thumb and index finger half an inch apart to indicate that the man was that close to suffering my wrath.
When cultural firebrand, Chuck Palahniuk said "You are not your fucking khakis." he should’ve appended it with "...but you are your fucking dress." Cross dressing was my one passion in a world that love forgot. I had spent the afternoon at Victoria’s Secret looking for panties that were sleek and elegant yet strong enough for my active lifestyle. When I got home my Nine Inch Nails bittorrent had finished downloading. I left the torrent open as a victory bonfire.
"What safety checks should be performed before activating the power loader?" question 10 of the exam read. I scanned my memory. There had been a thousand sperm gathered around an egg like the Greek army storming the gates of Troy. No, that was too far back. I thought of her again. It wasn’t fair that she had to be in that stasis tube surrounded by government scientists who totally didn’t notice her amber eyes, flowing hair, and radiant smile. Every aspect of her being filled me with an indescribable joy that made me want to high five the world.
I listened to a cd on my way to work. Dear southern rock legends Molly Hatchet, how exactly would I go about flirting with disaster? I mean it’s not like I actually want a disaster. I just want to briefly dabble in disaster brinksmanship. Mcdonalds appeared on the horizon, its golden arches a crucifix for my happy. I didn’t mind looking at the Mcdonalds customers and seeing mindless zombies. It was the thought of them as conscious beings seeing the world through eyes not my own that terrified me.
Most of the girls in the dormitory had retired to their rooms for the night. Now the vibrators could be heard, their tiny motors buzzing and chirping in heavenly chorus. Tell me again how you wish we were back in college. Tell me how much happier we were when life was just piss in one bag, shit in another. To be 18 was to know that every night the sun would set behind a jagged skyline of childish angst and frivolous vanity.
"Oh, if you’re wondering why you can’t feel your legs it’s because I gave you a large dose of hydrocodone." Hironobu Sakaguchi said. "I’ve found that without it my victims tend to go into shock, which totally ruins the session for me."
"Actually I can feel my legs." I said. "Also these straps aren’t very tight. Uh yeah, I’m going to leave now."
No amount of pancake makeup could hide the fact that goths were essentially trenchcoat-clad cousins of the people who picked on me in high school. Still, I wanted to go to the club if only to see how badly I’d get my ass kicked for wearing a post-1992 NIN t-shirt. I was wearing my pink rubber spiked bracelet. My pink rubber spiked bracelet was the manifesto of a tentative, halfhearted rebellion, like a brick thrown through a window with an apology note attached.
Hey my dad’s girlfriend, last night I dreamed I was you. I dreamed I lived in a tight little world where bulleted lists of goals encapsulated each day. How art thou, Mrs. chairman of the board? Mrs. my résumé has two accent agues so you know it’s professional. Oh my dad’s girlfriend, your voice is a cruel November wind blowing across the fall of the roman empire.
A thousand years ago, dudes were dying from splinters, but now the wizard potion that cleans our light wounds costs less than a Dr. Pepper in 1994. I love this medicinal 7up.
U2 and Apple have conspired to place a U2 album into your music in the year 2014. You own a U2 album. And you can't get rid of it.
Ron Paul spins in his chair, trying to grab his decorative antique musket but Freddy gets it first.
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