Energy coffee from the 7/11 is supposed to make me stop being sleepy, yes? Well then why the fuck do I still feel like killing everyone in this dorm and then taking a snooze on a mattress stuffed with their entrails? I feel like absolute shit and I don't know why. Was it the cheese I ate? Was there a cockroach in our Cajun sausage rice and beans? What the fuck...
My stomach just mockingly gurgled at me like I'm the asshole here. Well fuck you! You're the culprit here, not me! Never me! Perhaps I just need some back support. Let me try resting a pillow against my wall. Ok, that's a little bit better. I heard somewhere that if you eat a cockroach you're fucked. You're going to die a horrible death in agony eaten from the inside out by tiny little cockroach babies. Or maybe they secrete some sort of poison that stops your heart. Either way something is dangerously out of place here.Have my muscles atrophied? Is this the beginning of a dangerous downward spiral into madness? What the fuck happened to freedom and democracy? I demand universal health care right now! Barack Obama better get his ass over here and give me some drugs. I want a dozen amyls, three grams of coke and a Thailand underage hooker pronto!
Life is not fair. I need to VOTE FIGHT WIN, dig myself out of this rut where I cannot write cohesive stories. This break has proven to be dangerously long for an art student like me. At least when I was working I could channel my horny fucked up delirium into the project. Now all I can do is stagnate like a glass of water you left in the den and never got around to drinking.
My girlfriend cannot help. Though we try to quell the inner madness with touch and tickle, there's no escaping the fact that we are wasting our time! Our youth is fading! Soon we'll be like all the other sad fuckers, drinking ourselves to death, wondering what the hell happened. Better to cut life support, disconnect the feeding tube while there's still a spark to douse in Kool Aid.
Never ever say the word cunt on live television. The bastards will do you in. I'm sorely tempted to do it just to troll the lily livered FCC. Fuck those motherfuckers. I want to take a giant dump on Hollywood's chest, but I can't do it unless I'm as famous as, say, Brad Pitt. I'm not as handsome as him, fuck. Maybe I can do a brain swap. I'll catch him at a time when the paparazzi isn't smothering him, inject him with morphine and then get to work. I can't imagine, ok maybe I can imagine, the horror on his face as we carve the top of his skull open with a circular saw. He can't feel it, but he can see the reflection in the fucking scalpel, the handsome bastard. There's a lot of work to do dammit. I'm still trying to start the Egg O'Reilly collective. Join the fight! There will be punch and pie.
In short, this is an SOS.
I want in and I want out.
I don't want sex though.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment