My dad's girlfriend's low noise tolerance has exiled me and my music to the coldest room in the house. The frigid temperatures leave me longing for the twin suns of stroggos. Music is just half of the magic equation for writing. The other half is coffee, the only caffeinated beverage badass enough to have a Black Flag song written about it. I've been doing this internet writing thing for so long that without even thinking my pen goes back and dots all the i's.
I once snuck a quick glance at my dad's girlfriend's secret diary. "What I think of Jed is" one entry read. It didn't matter that the rest of the sentence consisted of illegible runic symbols - I had read enough. Oh my dad's girlfriend, in your lurid accounts of my dire offenses I see society's failure to rise to epic standards.
New year's eve. I drove to C's house. "My dad's been wanting me to move out ever since the heat lamp for my pet mog almost burned the house down." I said to the two astronauts in the back seat of my car. "I was wondering if I could live with you guys."
"We reside on the astral plane." the first astronaut said. "I don't think you'd like it there."
"Why not? Would it overwhelm my senses like some kind of heavenly symphony, every note of which is an earth shattering prophecy?"
"No, but it's one floor below this guy who blasts hip hop music at three in the morning."
All the Lovecraftian crab people had returned to their mines for the winter. I had to be careful. The snowstorm wasn't going to let up until it had claimed one victim. A sacrifice upon the altar of some forgotten elder god. Autumn had plowed through my life with the reckless abandon of a zombie Hitler driving the batmobile. Now I found myself clinging to the things left in its wake. Smeared eyeliner. Drunken renditions of Cure songs. Photos posted on ratemychestvagina.com.
"Can't you watch Mad About You without yelling "You're dog meat pal!" at Paul Reiser?" C said.
"But I love Aliens." I said.
"Well, hardcore rapper, DMX once said that if you love something you should let it go and if it comes back to you it's yours. That's why I propose that you take your Aliens dvd, throw it off a cliff, and see if it comes back."
I awoke in the alleyway behind Cafe Eclipse. "I had the weirdest dream." I said to C. "I dreamed someone took all the people who picked on me in high school, dressed them in black, and called it a subculture."
"Go back to sleep." C said. "I'll fill your dreams with visions of what my home planet was like before it was ravaged by Jenova's offspring."
C and I went to Mcdonalds for breakfast. "Why do you have to wear your dress everywhere we go?" C said.
"You know how in The Stuff Mo Rutherford knocks out a factory worker and puts on his uniform but still wears his cowboy boots because they're an essential part of the whole Mo Rutherford mystique?" I said. "It's kind of like that."
"The total for your order is 12 gil." the cashier said. "Oh, and I just wanted to say it takes a real man to wear a dress."
Here's some advice for anyone planning on complimenting me in the near future: don't. Show me a real man in a dress and I'll show you a cross-dresser who's sick of being reminded of his membership to a gender he despises.
The life sized cardboard cutout of Ronald Mcdonald was stolen in a daring daylight robbery. I put some of C's lipstick on Ronald so we could suck off boys for rides home like the sluts we were supposed to be.
I am the city of Concord. Beneath my streets a hideous transformation is taking place. Barrels of toxic waste are turning homeless derelicts into elitist Quake mappers. Soon they will be roaming the streets looking for people to beta test their maps, which have gothyk names like "Chasing The Dark Oblivion". "My ex-boyfriend used to come here to score tek." C said. "Every tek junkie is like a setting sun."
"I'm glad I'm not a slave to any addictive, mind altering substance." I said. "Oh crap, I need to stop at the pharmacy to get my adderall, effexor, and zyprexa prescriptions refilled."
C, let's go dancing to celebrate our new completely platonic relationship. You can just wear that pink sweater - I'll dress slutty enough for both of us. All I ever wanted was to be the hamster in your cage. The only way a girl could ever hurt me is by not filling my water bottle.
"We can use this as a roof." I said. "It's a metal panel that fell off the wall in an edgy Doom 3 level."
"We can't use that." C said. "Fairy houses can only be made from materials found in the forest."
"What if a ghost decides to haunt our fairy house?"
"There's no such thing as ghosts. What we call the human soul can be switched on and off in a laboratory. The only meaningful thing we can hope to gain in life is something resembling preparedness for the punchline to this cosmic joke that we never quite understand until it's too late."
"What if our fairy house gets attacked by a sasquatch?"
I'm looking back on the highs and lows of 2004. The human mind never 100% recovers from emotional trauma but likewise it never completely loses the synaptic pathways formed during moments of ecstasy. Through audio logs found on their PDAs the dead speak. They tell me that even the bad times, the darkest recesses of the negaverse, are better than being complacency's hostage.
The guns are gone. Now what happens to all those paper targets? Don't tell me you forgot about the paper targets. The ones hanging from little clips on fancy clotheslines at shooting ranges. With no guns to destroy these legions of paper bastards, they go unchecked.
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