Monday, 22 December 2014

Think about it

A family suddenly smaller, more anxious, angry and distraught all torn apart by an unanticipated gremlin. The father is kept awake all night with visceral dreams. He stares his beautiful daughter's rapist in the face and carves him bilaterally for destroying his family's entire life and for breaking the code of human conduct so sacred. To just give into the urge, the feeling of that for both parties was maximized; the rabid sexual predator fulfilled his great twisted dream and the father sought and conquered his perfect enemy. It's hard to pay attention if you're like... really high.

Tuesday, 3 September 2013



       So this is the story of a human that fell asleep. Beside them was a stack of books two feet high atop their dresser. In the middle of the night a small earthquake struck and the stack, which included a large hardcover collection of the Marquis De Sade's writings at the top, toppled onto this human's skull. Blood poured thickly from a deep crack between the brows. 

                    Chapter One

   Ya, so that fool died hella hard. Super sad.

Wednesday, 8 May 2013

I guess this should be a daily thing, like a dairy written for the Alien's Anthology of Lackluster Humans. If I knew what to do with my day, I'd be doing it, but instead I'm listening to RZA and waiting for my laundry to finish. Doing laundry is more of a habit than anything because its not like I get much use from my clothes anymore.

Sunday, 21 April 2013

Like mostly everything else I'm approaching this without any ideas, and I'm high. I can't believe I'm collecting unemploment insurance again. The government are my generously rich parents, and I'm loafing around wishing life had more to offer. That's okay though, at least I'm bitter about things in general, and not just my job. My struggle is not a working class one, it's a losers struggle. I'm a self-satisfied/loathing/righteous cakeboy and I'm never going to grow up before my world ends.

Friday, 4 January 2013


And so I stabbed myself in the leg out of boredom and self-loathing. Out of lack of agency, out of self-diagnosed cancer, out of insecurity. I can’t move, and I can’t make myself move, and I can’t make. Even walking is a struggle when all my passion is dead.

Sunday, 6 May 2012

Vegetarianism (i'm not perfect)

My question to any first worlder who regularly eats meat: why kill something when it doesn't have to die? Time, ideally, is the only murderer.