Wednesday, November 5, 2003

My next column for the newspaper.

It's nasty now, but I'll change most of the nasty mean parts.
----


The old man laughs.

Hahahahah

His long beard falls on his face, all white as bone. As white as snow.

"It has been snowin' for all dese days 'cause I made it. Hahahaha." He puts his hand on my shoulder. "Ya knows...lets me lets you in on a t'ing. Snow ain't so bad, me boy. It's only as bad as ya make 'er. So I want you to go out there with yer hands all in a no'dle, an' I want ya to make a snow angle in teh snow. Make 'im a be'tiful li'l t'ing too. Even give 'em real feat'ers fer wings and real eyes."

It's been two days in a row now. It's snowed off and on endlessly, the demure white coming down in its little drivels, like tears crystallized from some cloud's eye. Like a confetti parade for the devil.

I go outside. The snow is pouring down in its little lazy way, a sloth too sloppy to know any better. I can see Santa outside the window, and I can hear him shouting at me, his ripe, wrinkled cheeks held against the window, making it look like his face is all squeezed. All I can hear of what he's saying is a going on and on mumble mumble, mumble mumble. I stare at him for a while, then it's off to work.

I fall into the snow, the cold froth grasping all around my body like a coat. I move my hands back and forth, back and forth. The snow bends to my will, and it is scraped off in the arcs my hands create. Moving my legs, I make the bottom arcs which serve as legs.

I've made an angel. A beautiful little scapegoat, as white as wool.

The flesh of fallen angels.

Something frail, something white, something faded. I look at it, and images of the clang of a church bell ding in my head. Images of a cross. Images of a candle burning, like a soul skinned to the bone.

It's just like the weather to me. Just like snow. It melts. It changes. It's based on faith. Based on something I don't have. It's just like the snow angel I've made. It is only there, but it means nothing to me.

All these countless hours of sitting in a church. All these countless hours of learning and knowing and caring and getting to understand. And even through it, all I can see is time trickling in its rivulets, like a river that's slowly drying up.

When someone dies, they are gone. Just like this angel I've made. Just like faith dying. Just like anything dying. Everything dies.

Everything dies

It's the universal thought that springs into my head each and every day, a mad psycho with an even madder knife. And all I have is the pure things. Well, the pure things I haven't turned my back on.

I can see Santa Clause looking at me through a window in some room of my mind. Some mish and mash of memories. I can also see this snow angel. And the premise both of these bring up means necessarily the same thing to me.

I remember being a kid, everyone remembers being a kid. There used to be a Santa Clause. There used to be a man I'd leave cookies out for. He was a man that was pure and great, just like Jesus was shown to me to be. He gave me presents for being good and giving to others. And he ate my cookies, and he had reindeer.

On Dasher, on Vixen, on Prancer, on Nazareth the red-nosed reindeer...

But he's all dead in my heart now. And so is Jesus.

One cannot imagine my disappointment of finding Santa Clause not to be real. I was so heart broken that I didn't care, and my parents still keep giving out presents each year for Santa as a rain check.

Boy, rain checks are really wet things, you know? Wet and slippery. Just like a lie.

No, I actually didn't care too much that Santa Clause wasn't real. Christmas was still the same. It was about getting presents and having a big dinner and being a family. It wasn't about Christ.

And nothing has ever been about Christ to me either. I guess the holiday is pointless to me. I don't even know why I vie in on getting my presents each year. It feels guilty to do it, because as I see it, there's millions of people on other third world and other countries who are suffering far more than I will for not getting a present on a holiday I don't even care for.

Why don't I believe in God and Jesus and everything so good and grand? It's rather simple. I label myself as an apatheist. That means I don't care if there was a God and a Jesus and everything so good and grand, and I don't care if there isn't a God and Jesus and all things so good and grand and beatific.

We have recently begun studying the well-known author of the name of Mark Twain. This man of this pseudonym was always bitter toward religion. In a book called Letters From the Earth released after his death, he claims he wouldn't want to go to heaven. I really feel that me and Twain would've been able to have a good chit-chat over things. I really do. He sounds so much like me. He's a humorist—uses his humor to make his cynicism have a better, more jolly skin. Something like Santa Clause gone skeletal and laughing.

And I wouldn't want to go to Heaven either, just like Twain. Since everything dies, I want to really die. Death doesn't mean going on to live again to me. Death means an end. Death means a maggot has grown to a fly and that fly has been squashed. Has been squashed just like Santa Clause was squashed like a dream from my head, or Jesus was squashed from all my beliefs like reason tasting on my lips. No, death to me is an end.

And to show just how indifferent I am, let me say this. When I die, I'd like to just cease to exist completely. Just crash, and nothing to ever remember or lament, and nothing to ever feel or have or pain. God, if you're up there, GIMME TEH SHIZ. Maybe then I'll slave my whole life away praying in thou holy name, amen.

I hope Santa keeps smiling in my head. It's really nice to see a lie, and I really like the way his beard just kind of fluffers around his head like a broken, white halo. Really nice to know that what I don't know can't hurt me. To know that if there is a God and Heaven and Hell that it doesn't matter. I'm still going to die. And I'm still not going to worship something for narcissistic reasons.

It comes down to this, and ends at this: Jesus is dead. Get over it. Because I know I'm over it.

Or perhaps it doesn't come down to that Jesus is dead. Perhaps it comes down to that I see religion as something that will eventually diminish slowly in society's ribs, and it won't be something needed to make its heart beat. But for now, I am fine with people believing in what they want, and always have. If it makes society's heart beat by having these ribs supporting it, fine by me. I just hope it doesn't get clogged with too much cholesterol and starts spewing out all over when it dies.

Now to begin my plans of removing one of society's ribs for plastic surgery purposes. Because really, society is getting too obese these days. Getting piggy, and this removing of a rib is just the thing.

And this column is the beginning of this operation. May all your hearts be woe as tear, for time ebbs its ear. And may it will, may it might, take thou's heart tonight, all ribless, and anorexic as white. For there's daggers in men's smiles. And don't you shake spears at that.
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Tuesday, November 4, 2003

Geo met ry.

Dilapoid: I should never have been here then..
Karmi55: Never have been where?
Dilapoid: Here.
Dilapoid: *points to message box
Dilapoid: *
Karmi55: why?
Dilapoid: Because the boogey man is scary.
Karmi55: ...
Dilapoid: :p
Karmi55: that makes no sense. but okay.
Karmi55: there are no boogey men here.
Dilapoid: It isn't supposed to.
Dilapoid: I am going over the point...something like a steam roller does.
Karmi55: ah.
Karmi55: the point is dead then?
Karmi55: it has become 2-D
Dilapoid: *shrug*
Karmi55: and because we live in a 3-D
Karmi55: world*
Dilapoid: For there to be a line there must be two points.
Karmi55: we cannot comprehend the point anymore.
Karmi55: there is no line.
Dilapoid: And for there to be a plane there must be three noncollinear points.
Karmi55: ...
Karmi55: i hate geometry.
Dilapoid: And two lines are parallel if and only if their Same Side Interior angles are supplementary.
Karmi55: with a deep burning passion that rages inside my soul and consumes my being like last years candy.
Dilapoid: It's easy.
Dilapoid: I slack and I have a B still.
Dilapoid: lol
Dilapoid: I slack a lot at school..
Karmi55: alternate interior angles are congruent.
Karmi55: ...
Karmi55: * throws a twinkie at him *
Dilapoid: I am not smarter than anyone.
Karmi55: you are smarter than me.
Dilapoid: I just seem to grasp things and let go of them when it is needed.
Karmi55: I cannot grasp geometry.
Dilapoid: It's not too hard.
Karmi55: It is beyond my ability to hold.
Karmi55: yes it is.
Karmi55: it's incredibly hard.
Dilapoid: It's something like writing..
Dilapoid: It has its rules..
Dilapoid: It has its symbols.
Dilapoid: It has its blah blah blah.
Karmi55: It is NOTHING like WRITING
Dilapoid: And you must learn them all and remember them.
Dilapoid: Yes it is.
Karmi55: Writing is a beautiful expression of the soul.
Dilapoid: lol
Karmi55: Mathemtics leaves no room for expression of anything
Dilapoid: Geometry is also a beautiful expression of the soul.
Dilapoid: lol
Karmi55: Everything has an answer. a set answer.
Dilapoid: *laughs*
Karmi55: there is no room for question.
Karmi55: it is not.
Karmi55: geometry is an ugly
Karmi55: horrid
Karmi55: terrible thing.
Dilapoid: lol
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I feel like writing.

trained to the pillows
i'll break the walls
and kill us all
with bullet fingers

you can gouge away
you can gouge away
stay all day
if you want to

la la
la la

listening to the cockroaches
in the kitchen sink
my nails are curled
like roaches.

missing some aggravation
dancing across lines
where things are buried under.

you can gouge away
you can gouge away
stay all day
if you want to.

sleeping on my belly
you broke my arms
you screwed my head
with your smiles.

missing some aggravation
that's in the closet
where my clothes are wrapped up.

as loud as hell
i'm bleeding down
behind my smile
it shakes my teeth
and all the while
as empires bleed
i feed.

i feed.

i feed.

i feed.

prithee, my dear,
why are we here.
nobody knows
we go to sleep
as breathing flows
my mind secedes
i bleed.
i bleed.
i bleed.

i bleed.
i bleed.
i bleed.

missing some faked death
that would kill us all
with bony fingers
that cut the walls.

you can gouge away
you can gouge away
you can stay all day
if you want to.

some whore in my head
some whore in my head
some whore in my head

hey.
been trying to meet you.

must be a devil between us.
or doors in my head.

but hey.
where have you been.

as empires bleed
i feed.
i feed.
i feed.

if you go
i will surely die.

in chains.

we're chained.

we're chained.

we're chained.
chained.

prithee my dear
why are we here.
we go to sleep
as breathing flows
i bleed.
i bleed.

i bleed.
i bleed.

and the whores like a choir
all night
and everything
she's tired

and uh this
and uh that
and uh this

the sound that your mother makes
when the hamburger is raw.

we're chained
we're chained.
we're chained.
we're chained.

chained.
chained.
chained.

missing some last desperate plea
old neptuna's long dead daughter.
died in the red sea.

i believe
in mr. grieves.

whores in my head
in my head
in my head.

we're chained.
we're chained.
we're chained.
chained.

chained.

cut the steel
and melt my heart.

you can gouge away
you can gouge away
you can stay all night
if you want to.

la la
la la la.
la la.

the earth is moving.
the sun is burning
in the big seas.

never seen things so off.
never seen things so cool.

i could never wait so long.

my words get blown away.

my words get blown away.

we're chained.
we're chained.

chained.












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Monday, November 3, 2003

Hahaha.

Total Members 6,666

It's the new 666.
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Yay,

Went down to eat, and I didn't want to eat what was made. I decided that I wanted some Ramen Noodles, and my Dad gave me crap for this fact.

So I start making my food, and he goes on again that I am an "egomaniac," and that I need to be saved by Jesus.

Saying I'm an egomaniac is one thing...but saying I need to believe in God is another. It's my fucking choice. Not his. He shouldn't even have to say that I should go see the priest up at the church to talk over my beliefs and whys to him. He shouldn't have to say that in his house I will believe in God.

Talk about not letting an indvidual be an indvidual.

Also, recently, at my Grandparents, my parents found that Fredrick Douglass paper I wrote--all those comments. I had said things like, "Blah blah blah blah...But I will change it, master."

I had meant those in a funny way, not in a disrespectful way. They obviously didn't understand that.

So I got my ass chewed to bits for that--they said it's just like with them; I disrespect them.

It felt horrible. My whole body felt tight and stressed from that argument. And rather than just argue more, as they watched Charlie's Angels I put on my headphones and listened to "Street Spirit (Fade Out)" by Radiohead over and over again. It still didn't calm me very much. I felt like just going for a walk, doing anything. I even began pushing my fingernails on my palms has hard as I could just to kill the feelings I had.

They eventually went away, thankfully.

I plan on apologizing to Mrs. Jundt--the teacher--tomorrow. It's belated but it's something.

My parents had said they were not going to go to conferences, but now they are. And now they have been saying that--well, my Dad has been saying that--I am an egomaniac and that I disrespect every person on this Earth and that I need to find Jesus and all this other crap.

And to top it all off in sugar coating and ice ctream goodness, my Dad also says that he's probably going to take me offline for this week since I don't have a job yet. And once I do get a job he says I will get it back.

Yay.

I actually don't really care. I don't care anymore. I am sick of hurting endlessly over nothing. I am sick of caring endlessly over stupid things like this. They shouldn't be big deals...but my parents just beat things into me and will not stop. So I'm only left to apathy, really. It's all I've ever known.
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ShadowedCloudX: talk about how ground beef is a misleading food

There once was a cow. His name was Cow. He was a really special cow. He knew he was a cow. But you know, he didn't know it in the right way that he was a cow.

He noticed that the journalist talked to him with a pen in his hands. He also noticed that the journalist talked to him with a condom in the pocket of his hands. He almost sighed and mooed at this rude sight of this object in the pocket of his hands.

Dilapoid: Shall I continue?
Dilapoid: Or restart?
Dilapoid: What is my master's consensus?
ShadowedCloudX: continue lad...I think you are onto something
Dilapoid: Yes master.

This condom Cow soon found was for the purposes of castration. Cow could not believe a journalist of all people could be this cold, and castrate someone such as him.

Cow had long been a family man. He would often sit outside the pents with his small family and be the man. He'd kiss his life in mooing enamority, and she'd moo back at him, saying he was such a man. The most man of any man.

And now here was the journalist, and he was asking Cow how it felt to be the father of three sons.

He couldn't believe it.

Cow had been a good cow, and this was a personal question. He left. He couldn't stand it.

And then he walked right into the arms of a nigger.

"Moooooooooo--what'cha wan' niggar?" said Cow. The slave, by then name of Jup, held Cow tightly.

"Wull dog my cats ef I didn' know wut I doin'." Jup let out a little smile. "I's doin' what I got' to, an' et be nice ef you' do what master say."

Cow could not believe this. He began bucking and fighting Jup as hard as he could, looking over his udder at his poor family, standing there.

"Mooooooooooooooooo--why dun't you guys hellllppppppoooooooooooo?!?" They only stared at Cow with the saddest faces ever.

Then the journalist walked over. He had a needle in his hands, it was bright as hell in the darkness. Cow thought it looked like a claw--something like the bears he had seen in his master's house through the window.

Soon the world was spinning like an empty bottle being spun in the wind. And soon, cow heaved over, his shoulders too heavy for him, his udder too heavy for his stomach.

Castration Porcedure Is Shown
Cow is castrated in front of reporters. Newly placed procedures make it not so messy.
By Mike Tyson.

Famer Jack Sparrow's an interesting fellow. He's owned his plantation for years and years. It's a fertile place.

"Me and me mateys live off our land," he says of his land. "And me an' me mateys, we came from this here land. And we ain't gonna let no stupid basthards aquiesce our rights, no we ain't." He lets off a little smile, pointing to his fence which holds all his animals. "I here's gots me the most amazing farm any matey could want. 'Tis really great."

He's been here since when his Father died in 1909. Since then, he's owned the farm with his wife, Bludy Marhey.

Recently, they have been slaughtering their cows with newer, more sophisticated equipment to stand up to the USDA's newer, more tougher policies. This included better castration techniques.

"We's now gots us condoms made 'specially fer cows. It's sorta like landin' a man on teh moon, really. Only it's mer of a sehual thing."

Instead of castrating the cows in cold blood, they now give them morphine, which often makes the cows pass out. It has also recently been shown the morphine, accomidated with some other drugs, it even fights mad cow disease, it is said. They also give them large masks to wear so they don't have to see it either.

"Yuh, we's give em masks," says his wife, Marhey. "Jus' like teh one Hannibhell Leuther wars." And then, her hands out as if to creep someone out, "Hullo Clarice."

Watching them castrate the cows still isn't a beautiful thing at all. It's far from it. Charles Loopeydoo, a wealthy banker, came out of his way to watch them do it.

First they injected the cow with the drugs, then put the mask on. Then, with a murderer's precision, Sparrow castrated the cow, blood flowing all over like some sick rain. Then he held the testes of it in his hands, squeezed them a bit.

"Dar's spurm in 'ere! I swears! Purfuct for arctifikal inseminkation!" Sparrow cajoles.

"It gave me mad cow disease," Loopeydoo said.

And it did. Loopeydoo was admitted into HellKitchen National Hospital May 20th, 1936. He's been dying ever since.

In closing, Sparrow says, "And this will be the day you remember not catching Jack Sparrow! Har!"





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Friday, October 31, 2003

Of rules and their death eyes.

Mood: Okay.
Music: Radiohead-Black Star.

I'm sure anyone that has been paying attention on OB has seen my post in the Suggestion & Feedback forum recently.

It was in that thread of KarmaOfChaos's. I posted a direct contradiction of the rules.

If you haven't seen it, here's a link to the thread, copy and paste it: http://www.otakuboards.com/showthread.php?s=&threadid=33121.

I have been a mod for a long time. I don't see it as anything but a privelege. And that's what it is.

I have always hated rules, and will eternally. I find that the rule stating that you can't attach a banner for linking to be stupid. It isn't even explicitly mentioned in the rules, just as favorite threads aren't.

I've seen people use them often. And with OB's newer database, it isn't going to slow anything down as far as I've seen.

So what's so bad about it? People post attachments superfluously in the art forum. What is the difference, I'd like to know? There is none, other than, most often, the posters of these attachments aren't linking. But really, it isn't hurting anything, is it? No.

I suppose this is besides the point. But this was where my reasons stand for posting like that in that thread. Stupid rules are things I won't stand by.

If James wants to demote me from my mod position, I wouldn't feel any bad feelings about it at all. If I were in his shoes I'd do the same thing.

I suppose I was feeling apathetical when I posted the reply to Sara's post, but it's the truth. Why should I lie? I feel the rule is preposterous. It isn't hurting anyone hotlinking from OB. It isn't slowing anything down. OB has a big enough server now as to where it shouldn't be too big of a deal.

James says he needs to think about this. I don't think I would need to. I don't deserve a second chance, but I am sure James is going to give it to me. What can I do, other than resign myself? Nothing. Indeed.

Whatever comes of this, it doesn't bother me too much. OB is just a site to me in the end. The rules are just the site. In the end it's the people, not the rules and not the site, that matters most to me.
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Added an MIDI finally.

Mood: Okay.
Music: Radiohead-High and Dry.

Well, today is Halloween as I'm sure all of you know. It's something close to my favorite holiday...I mean it's about creepy things and creepy stories. What's not to love?

I added an MIDI. Radiohead's "Lucky" from their OK Computer album. It's a great song, fits well with the mood I've been all week. I suppose I'll change the MIDI each week, if there's a want for it.

I don't know what it is about the song. I just love it. Thom Yorke's voice is amazing to me...how he just sings so well. I think that's what I like so much about the song, really.

This shall be my last post in here until..Sunday I am guessing. Right after school today we're leaving for Dickinson again, going to my grandma and grandpa's house.

I'm not dressing up. I didn't last year either. I'll probably just hand out candy or some other nonsense.

Happy Halloween, I suppose.

I've decided to make my In Memorium bit into a whole story with random characters. I plan to just jump around through character prospectives. Mix it up a lot, not make it linear as hell.

That's about all I have to say.

Tell me if the MIDI's working, I can't tell. I'm on a school computer, of course, and the headphone jack doesn't work. Also tell me what you think of the song..

It also appears you have to press play for the song to begin playing. What's up with that? Anyways, just click play and it'll go then. In the right hand corner is where the little playing box is, obviously.
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In Memorium Pt II

The officer was as yellow as piss. He smiled as he stepped out of his car to go to Starbucks It was a glorious day outside, the sun in the sky, covered by clouds, hiding up a little man too big to be seen.

The officer smelled snow in the air, like a meth bust. The day was skeletal, thin as paper, and the sky breathed a coldness only cold could make; like a needle in humanity's arm, intravenously injected that shook a body to salt and pepper, black and white. It was a grey day, grey like an old man's elegy being spoken in a stonecold rain, acidic but dead.

The call had buzzed the officer as he had just gotten his coffee from Starbucks, hissing in his ears as he drank his coffee. He almost burned his tongue raw as he was told what had happened. A star had fallen, he was told. A young star, one that had still been gold and pristine, just like the badge he wore. Driving off, no longer happy as piss, he felt the yellow smiles drain out of him as another toilet was flushed and purged, bringing in another mess soon to taint the now clean water that was just too clear to actually happen.

Things like this were never pretty. Never.

Officer Dalton tuned on his radio, putting it on the classic rock station. Soon Queen crashed in his patrol car, the ever so familiar song playing like a gun, cold as hell, like a sigh that was actually a scream.

Momma, life had just begun...
Now I've gone and thrown it all away.

Suddenly officer Dalton wasn't steering his wheel as he drove to the old road. He was in his head, brooding over a shivering memory, a snowflake that had melted and was refreezing in the cooly feeling that had hit him after he'd gotten the news of the death.

Wide eyes and goons groaned in his head, angels that died devils, fallen angels that had been clipped of wings. A racking mallet, banged with blood, so smushed it was curved like a pelvic bone, all thin and used, personal and covered in skin. The rag doll, sitting in his chair in his room, a lost attic all banged up and grim. Sad as a tear, and dead as a clacking clanging clock. The shadows covered the deadman like maggots covering some rat. The light ate away all the dead image, all the dead tissues and things that didn't need to be seen.

He lay a shadow in his chair. His long hair wisped in knots in black, his arms hung on the chair's arms, flopped off of them, beached and whale, black as a hole. He stood one with the chair, broken with the chair.

Then officer Dalton could see his hand reaching out, pushing the switch. Light flittered in on the maggoty darkness, shaming the rag doll in his full glory. His eyes were wide and goon, like some drug user tripped past a high. Tripped past death and glory. The boy was a fragment, sad and unfinished, unfurnished.

Hair clotted the mallet, a decorative art of blood only a murderer's art could make. The boy's head shown a clear and beaten brain, the brain's demeated spaghetti panting and dried like a prune all over. He could see the chair's torso and the boy's form.

Any way the wind blows

A sudden wind racked outside, and through the window by the chair and its seater it blew and blew, curtains like clothes moving and swaying like a mother's hand nurishing a wound. The doll body fell over in the sudden gust, and officer Dalton could now see his empty smashed head, a broken and brittled rib and bone. And below the cracked head, he could see wide staring eyes, accusing eyes, spheres that screamed at him.

He shivered, almost ran, almost cried.

"Hey hey hey, it's DJ Sam here."

Snap

"DJ Sam here. It's gonna be a cold bit out taday fer sure. Supposed ta snow taday. Snow hard an long, ya know. "

DJ Sam here DJ Sam here DJ Sam here...

Officer Dalton breathed deeply, finally getting rid of the boy's wide, accusing eyes. Getting rid of the mallet and the chair and the wind and it all.

Snap snap snap snap snap

But it wouldn't go away. He could hear bones snapping, feeble white ribbons being cut and broken. He could hear the boy crying, screaming, and the mallet hollowing it all out. It wouldn't die. A fire too bright with cold, too full of weeds and heart. It wouldn't die.

Screech

Suddenly he snapped back into reality. He was veering off the road, tires screeching, car droning not to crash. He slowed down, slow and silent like a sigh. He came to a stop on the dead side of the road, letting out a long breath of air, focusing his mind on what was now, not what was.

DJ Sam jitted incessantly, finally ending as another song was put on. Led Zeppelin aired in, Dazed and Confused and as jittery as DJ Sam. Robert Plant sang like a saint, an angel in human skin.

The flesh of fallen angels

The flesh of fallen stars, of black stars

Dalton opened his glove compartment as he held one finger on his temple. Soon the nervous crack crack of Asprin could be heard, a neurotic little apostrophe to Dalton's head. Then he put the lid back on, as cautious as ever, and placed it back in his glove compartment, the metallic hing of it reverberating on his sudden headache as it closed.

Been dazed and confused so long it's not true

Dalton did an amen to that, and shifted his car back into drive, and was off, off to the circus of horrors, the petshop of death.



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Thursday, October 30, 2003

Thank you. *stupid smile and stupid look*

Mood: Frustrated.
Music: Radiohead-Lucky.

We appreciate your interest in working at Target and we thank you for your time and effort applying. At this time we are not able to offer you a position. Should a suitable opening become available in the future, we will contact you. Again, thank you for your consideration.

Executive Team Leader - Team Relations.

*ahem*

Dear Executive Team Leader - Team Relations,

Fuck you too. I appreciate your wasting of my time in working at Target and I hate you for your time and effort sending me this letter in the mail. At this time I am not able to offer you the finger, but lest I ever see you, I'll put it on collateral. Should a suitable day come when an opening becomes available in the future, I will firmly shove my phone down in anger. Again, thank you for sending me this stupid letter in the mail, it is so considerately stupid.

Mitchell Grant Smith, future Great American Poet and Writer.

PS: When I get millions of dollars I will officially crush your store to crumbly little ruins. And then I will eat your heads off and splatter murder all over your store.

Again, thank you for sending me this stupidly considerational letter of crap.

Carpe diem, eh? Seize the day. Sieze it like a fucking madman. Like the useless uselessness you are.
Comments (2) | Permalink