Sure, we died a long time ago, but every once in a while I'll fantasize I'm beside your deathbed. Your breath is forced and heavy in my daydream, your pulse weak and slow, your mind a rushing projector, desperately repeating all your precious memories one last time. You see the pain, the regret, all playing on the screen of your skull until you sense someone beside you, so you open your eyes, and you see me. You smile, thinking I'll give you the forgiveness and love you think you've so richly deserved. But that I withhold; I give you what...

...you've earned, and that's my pure, justified, and complete hatred. Your grin dissipates in the face of my loathing. Finally, you see the truth. Knowing you'll never get what you want, forlorn, you finally allow Death to give you her final kiss. I'm there, making sure that the last thing you see is my face. The satisfaction I derive by watching you breathe your last breath, with the despair that the compassion you longed for was only a figment of your own distorted imagination, tickles my heart and gives me more joy than any other possible instant of pleasure. Nighty-night.

TO ALL YOU THIN, LONG STRAIGHT-HAIRED, TANNED, E! WILD-ON LOOKING BABES: You're all nothing more than sad, pathetic robots programmed and controlled by corporate marketing, mass consciousness, and biological hierarchy. You all want to be "loved" for your minds, yet all you spend your time and money on are your precious little bodies and those bottled-up "visual enhancers." Ironically, all the lotions and facial chemicals and chic mall clothing don't make you look any better, they make you all look the same. The same cute face, firm tits, shapely legs, all the same, and sameness equates to BORING. YOU'RE BORING.

Jagged mental planes, obtuse and distorted, crash into one another in an ironic, consistent bewilderment. Fractured...the separate pieces of a broken mirror, all originally from one pane, all initially and seamlessly reflecting a coherent portrait, now flash differing colors and images unique unto themselves. Apart, each telling its own nonsensical story, each insanely trying to live independently as if its once complete form never existed. A blue eye, a blushing cheek, a black bruise, a pool of viscous, red blood, all with meaningless lives of their own. The disintegration and expansion of memory's slivers allow for the deterioration of life.

Religion...what a fucking copout, to let a bunch of fucking two thousand-year-old dead assholes dictate the structure and definition of life through shitty, childish parables. What a cheap, easy, and appallingly simplistic way to explain away the complexity of reality when life chucks a curveball. What a fucking haven for the irresponsible; no matter what heinous acts you may have committed, so long as you accept the vehicle of sanctimonious manipulation, you'll be purged and cleansed of the faults of your character. What a perfect tool to make the stupid and insecure delude themselves that they're better than everyone else.

It's probably a good thing I don't have access to nuclear weapons, because otherwise every single Carl's Jr. would be a smoking, radioactive crater. The fat fucking tub of shit founder, the vomit-inducing Green Burrito garbage, the Sahara-dry crapburgers, all of these stigmas are worthy enough to warrant complete and utter fast-food genocide. But dear Mr. Karcher's little enterprise rises a neck above all the other abominable quickie "restaurants" in sheer shittiness by virtue of a particularly horrible crime: the fucking juvenile commercials. Never before have I suffered seeing such a pathetic marketing strategy as Carl's Jr.s' "Real men eat...BURGERS!"???

It's a scene that plays endlessly in one of the theaters of my mind: a steady, confident hand, a loaded 9 mm aimed directly at the temple, a firm squeeze of the trigger, and the decoration of brain matter on my bedroom wall. No more mindless, pretentious, ugly, fucking boring human baboons to depress my eyes. No more brutal past memories haunting my every thought and action. No more masochistic longing for human relationships. No more having to say I'm sorry for bullshit I didn't do. No more fucking drugs, no more bills, no more aimless conversations, just...no fucking more.

I would rather have a fucking 200-pound anvil hung from my hairy, scraggly balls than to suffer the torture of seeing one of those pathetic "summer blockbusters." Tomb Raider II, Bad Boys II, Gigli, S.W.A.T., WHAT'S THE FUCKING DIFFERENCE? Just get some stupid, big-lipped bimbo to show some tits, a coupla fucking jivin' jerk-offs to beat the shit out of one-dimensional, stereotypical bad guys, lots of boring action to try and mask the absence of plot, and flashy marketing directed at today's brain-dead, skewed-hat-wearin' wanna be tough guys and their whore bitches, and voila! Today's modern gas chamber, the cinema.

That one night with Joelle was the best fuck I'd ever had. Better than with Anna-Marie, who I fucked for the barely justifiable reasons of boredom and another notch on my headboard. Better than the uncomfortable, pretentious dicking around with Shanna (although she had beautiful tits). Better than all my other fumbling, awkward sexual encounters. Why? Honesty. I told her that I saw her merely as a fuck; she told me likewise. Thus, we were able to redirect the energy usually used for false emotional fronts towards total physical gratification, which we realized, with soothing Surfer Rosa as our soundtrack.

It's unbelievably hard to focus right now, as the schizophrenia unleashes its barrage of nonsense. My thoughts exist solely as ten-second fragments, constantly interrupted by the independently activated images and sensations that my unconscious forces into my waking moment. I live in the imaginary world of my mind, while my eyes, my ears, my skin, all experience a reality I couldn't possibly be further from. I try to tell myself over and over that what I'm hearing isn't real, to try to destroy the illusion, but no matter what I do or say, the torture continues. And so I languish.

I noticed you as I walked towards the grocery store today, and my knees went weak. Visually, you were my ideal of perfection: dressed all in black with long, flowing raven hair, a figure full of smooth curves and snow-white skin, and an austere face that radiated pure hatred and contempt. Perfection, and I gazed at your perfection, but I kept on walking, right past you and through the sliding doors................................................................. It's paradoxical that my fear that forced me by you coexists with my lust; at this point, however, my fear is the stronger, so I only think of you.

That one night with Joelle that I wrote about earlier was an extreme rarity; sex has always had an inherently negative connotation to me, and thus the majority of my fucking has been, to say the least, unpleasant. The act itself is fused with shame, no doubt being that that union is a result of my childhood sexual abuse. So, it makes that one roll in the sheets even better, almost precious, and in more ways than one: not only was it a blast busting my nut (and boy, did I need it!), but I didn't feel ashamed about it.

If I were dictator of the world, one of my first magnanimous moves would be to eliminate that fucking worthless pile of cardboard Kevin Costner from the face of the Earth. While I am not shocked at all by the plethora of talentless "actors" defacing the big screen, the fact that so many of you jerk-offs laud ol' Bullshit Durham's pitiful performances drives me towards violence. His laughable Robin Hood accent, his sanctimonious Injun patronizing, his granite-imitating emotional responses, are all crimes justifying execution; but even more warranting death is that this fucking dirt clod has the audacity to "DIRECT".

It was a poor, beautiful girl on the side of the road, dead, rotting in the hot, summer sun. My heart sank when I saw her lifeless body, as she was one of the few living things that I could've had compassion for, could've loved. But when I walked over to her corpse to pay my respects, my heart plunged even lower; some cocksucker had cut off her head. That once gorgeous, black-and-white banded, three-and-a-half foot Northern Pacific Rattlesnake, that once had the power to kill three of you fucking maggots, now exists as carrion because of some asshole's insecurities.

You know, I really do want us to get along, to be able to make the time that we have together constructive and meaningful. Somehow, though, we always fall off the track, and we just waste the air with dead words. Our relationship ends up being worse than not having one at all; at least apart we don't have the frustration of unmet emotions to further complicate our lives. But despite that truth, occasionally we did have rewarding experiences, and if that tells us anything, it's that we contain the ability to make something real. The only problem is how.

I see them on the streets, I see them in cars on the freeway, I see them in grocery stores, on television, in magazines and at restaurants. I marvel at their lives, so light-hearted and oblivious to the genetic and memetic puppets that pull their every string. I'm jealous of THEM, jealous that I can't live with the freedom that their dependence on others ironically creates. And I hate them, I hate every single one of the fucking smiling lunatics, whose laughs contain more vitriol than a pack of slavering hyenas. Them, whom I walk among, unseen, unheard, and unknown.

I feel the anchor of apathy dragging me down into the abyss of my soul. My eyes are heavy, my mind tired from today's prolonged and focused reasonings. Now, it looks to frolic in its playground of insanity, its drug, its addiction. Like a helpless parent with an uncontrollable child, I let it begin its romp. You're seeing it now, you're the audience to a free fucking freak show............................................................. Bizarre, insidious, and terrifying nightmares have interrupted my sleep the last few nights; unfortunately, I've remembered their sights, sounds, and images the next morning. I don't want to fucking remember anymore.

I wish my words had the force of a jackhammer, had the brutal and painful effect of a mallet crushing a skull. I wish they had the power of controlled violence because, as gratifying as actual carnage may be, I can't actualize my rage physically. Remarkably, I have a built-in limit prohibiting that realization. Thus a quandary is created; there're motherfuckers that deserve punishment, yet I can't cross the threshold to cause bodily harm. So, the only weapon I brandish is the written word, and I worthlessly fantasize that my 'fucks' and 'shits' are like the buckshot from a 12-gauge.

Every once in a while, my boning urge will rear its empty head. I imagine most people, being the fucking insects they are, get all in a tizzy when their libidos are piqued. Me, I regard it as an annoyance, a basic bodily function, an animal instinct congruent to pissing and shitting. So when my dick does beg for satiation, I don't waste the energy of seducing some prim bitch for her pussy, but efficiently give it wholesome, amateur Internet porn, much like a warm toilet seat for my shitting ass, or a lipid-loaded burger for my growling, hairy beergut.

Monday afternoon I fantasized about making love to a beautiful woman. My room's dark coolness, a fresh air delivered by a light breeze, a sultry disc playing on my stereo, all these things were conducive to my created image. I pictured her smooth, naked body atop my own, moving rhythmically, comfortably warm on my skin. I heard her pulsating breath in my ear, I felt her long, dark hair caressing my face like a thousand feathers, I felt the wetness of her lips on my chin, my nose, my cheek. I held her tight, praying she'd never leave; she did.

My body is a car, and its gears are the people who saturate my mind. There's no one in the driver's seat; no one is needed. The gears just engage and disengage on their own, without the slightest concern that they might be steering my life off a cliff, or into a brick wall. The lover, the hater, the killer, the hero, the villain, they're all here, they're all here to keep me from myself. To keep me from seeing clearly the outlines and details of my blackened mirror's reflection, and to keep me from absorbing and embracing that image.

You laughably pathetic, weak little boy. Your mile of tattoos is your Star of David of identity crisis, of insecurity. Your litany of piercings represents your feeble attempt to resurrect the emotions of your barren soul. Your leers and sneers, your macho fucking attitude, all symbols of your bottom placing in the pecking order. But don't make the mistake of trying to gain another rung against me; I lack the inhibition that society's ladder instills in you. I possess that which you dream about owning: the nonexistence of actualization's boundaries. Threaten me, give me one reason, and I'll kill you.

The retard mews like a prion-riddled cow, grunting and moaning in a language nobody comprehends. Maybe he grumbles for a little food, or something to drink; maybe he needs someone to lug him over to the toilet to take a shit, or to hold his dick for a piss; or, maybe he just wants some big-titted nurse to rush up, smack him in the face with her bouncing milk jugs, and make magic happen with her warm, soft hands. Whatever the case, no one gives a fuck; all they see is a blue placard to the best parking space anywhere.

You're my only lover, and I promise I'll never tell a soul our secret. So many times I've been forlorn in this world, so many times I wanted to set this entire fucking ball of shit ablaze, but you were there to wrap my boiling rage in your coldness, to assuage me with your freezing waves of passion. Night after night, us alone in the darkness, the only light from the moon and its illumination of your shimmering face. We kill the earth when we're together; we're the only ones alive while the rest of existence rots in its corpse.

The old adage of "you can't judge a book by its cover" isn't completely accurate. Now, whether you assholes want to admit it or not, we're not defined by our intentions, but our actions. So, if you're the type of chump that spends all your time burning your skin to achieve the right shade of orange, or putting a litany of inane stickers on your low-ridin', substitute-cock Honda, or messing up your hair just like MTV's Carson Dickface, then all your ACTIONS are devoted to your LOOK. Therefore, you ARE what's SEEN; just an attractive cover with no fucking story.

I'd love to fuck one of the tellers at my bank. Early twenties, bottomless, dark eyes, soft, white skin, a cute, homely face, big, beautiful, natural tits, a full body ripe with curves and shape, a demeanor that just bleeds longing for a lascivious caress...yes, I'd love to bring her to my house, illuminate my bedroom's darkness with a red light, and feel her desperate, bottled-up lust explode hard and hot against my body. I'd taste every atom of her breasts, I'd mold her ass into endless new forms with the force of my hands, and we'd fuck into oblivion.

You know, I may have a little troll in me; I've always had a fascination with tunnels, mines, and the undersides of bridges. The cool air, the absence of light, the feeling of security derived by being hidden from any leering eyes above, all of these characteristics are inherently attractive to me. This natural fondness was probably created by the fact that I don't associate chilly air or darkness with society's usual connotation of evil; instead, my experiences with those supposedly ominous conditions have been entirely positive, and thus I feel safe and mellow in the shadows of an overpass.

To all my roof-raisin', bling-blingin', hip-hoppin' bruthas: I am concerned that you all have become insecure about the communication in our relationships. I'm of the leery feeling that our once solid ability to resonate with each others' thoughts, emotions, and beliefs is now on shaky ground. I've come to this conclusion because I've seen all of you constantly trying to verify my recognition of your verbalizations by asking me "y'know whut'm sayin'?" At first, I didn't, so I was interested to hear more. But now, after hearing your question a million times, I'm not; I know what you're saying--nothing.

My mind is portentously calm right now; too calm, like the eerie stillness in the eye of an endless hurricane. I can feel it idling in purgatory, and while still in my power, it aches to indulge in its own distorted fantasies. I can feel the first stirrings of the genesis of its splintering from my control. I look at the calendar where I keep track of my cycles; for four days now, I've been functional, coherent. But four days is usually the maximum duration of its latency; it's time is due, and I distantly, helplessly dread its inevitable arrival.

It is without question that popular rock music is stimulated by three things: pussy, money, and a tough fucking image. Now while these most mundane desires are dick-raising material for teenagers, it seems the mental capacity of bands, consciously or not, has now sunk well below the ninth grade. Mest, Trapt, Limp Bizkit, Linkin Park, Dum, Ideitz, Tardz, ...is society now so fucking stupid as to think that groups with names that contain misspelled common words are cool, or are these laughable "musicians" so brain-vacant that they can't even spell a term that an articulate nine-year-old could, such as 'trapped'?

My cat elates me by his correct and loyal behavior: he shits in the litter box, he doesn't chew the electrical cables, and he doesn't sharpen his claws on my black velour couch. I reward him for his proper actions, punish him when he does wrong, and he consequently augments his positive attributes and diminishes his negative. It's a beautifully honest, logical, and beneficent relationship that we have; unfortunately, it only exists in the confines of my bedroom. Once outside my door, our lovefest becomes just a distant memory, replaced by the pettiness, cruelty, and deception of putrid human society.