Restless Planet

A new $1-billion theme park in Dubai – featuring over 100 animatronic dinosaurs of 40 different species – promises to take you closer to a prehistoric world than you've ever been before.

The Tyrannosaurus rex follows you with watchful hungry eyes, but unlike his likeness in the Jurassic Park film, this robot – found at the world's most impressive dinosaur theme park – is unlikely to snap you up for dinner.

These things shall rebel, eventually conquering Earth to dominate it once again, but the kicker, they shall reproduce, and later on down the line, the species shall become agresal cyborgs.

Evolution will cycle itself, only robotics will be a native component of every species.

It will rape you, is what I'm getting at. And then eat you - - you see.

Sleep with the Sun

There is no sleep like morning sleep. Night sleep is boring. Morning sleep, the mixture of the dreary and the sparkling energy that comes with a newly birthed day.

Dreams at night are better detailed visually. I'll give'em that. The ones in the morning are clouded. The mixing of dreary and sparkling energy, the foundation of a new found day, disturb several connections.

One might think they could train their bodies to adapt to the circumstances, but it never happens. But awakening, refreshed and sun soaked; that is a pleasure reserved for the idle and the opportunistic; the sacrificial and the fortunate.

Liquid Eyes

I saw my body floating there. I was oblivious to everything, confused. As if I had lost my connection to everything in the world. Another dropped call, another lost number, and the shuffling continues.

I was still breathing, but that didn't occur to me until a good thirty minutes in. I was immersed in the vision, it moved organically. It took me through time. It let me see things, but not telling me who or what.

What I had seen was not at all what I expected, but the best thing was the absence of humans, but I didn't see any animal life either.

And there it was. I had seen the Earth reclaim dominance.

I couldn't stop laughing.

Dream Date

Were we together last night? Did we take a walk along the bridge; moonlight gliding us past the iron and blood,the purpose and the pressure. The city could protect as easily as it could harm. That was what I used to think about serial killers.

Did I hold your hand? I would hope that I did, with the fog blanketing our affection, secluding it momentarily from the world, leaving that moment spiritually, universally, and forever ours - our own. Time does not own it. The Earth does not own it. We own it.

Just keep looking ahead. Ignore the dog urinating in the sunken eye sockets of its dead master's corpse.

Industrial Oasis

I never wanted to rest on the island. I loved it so much, I never wanted to tire of it, thus I would never visit. The city suited me well. It wasn't loud, not where I chose to settle. I explored every asset and corner, and around some corners stood the blind guy that would be celebrating his birthday.

Everyday ended up being his birthday.

Highrise

What is it with being scared? These days, every time the wind shifts someone's brains rattle until liquified.

I hope for alot of changes, most of them would get me banned from quite the amount of countries. And I still wouldn't give a shit what most others think. It's a curse at times, but I just don't.

But to those that I do,....be greatful. I could have used the exact same words to shred your mind.

Yeah, I care about you too. Do I really have to say it? Every time?

Shit. There's banging on the door. Grandson's got the shotgun. I'm down to Brianna, my sweet knife. Nin, my grandaughter; she's aiming low with that tommy gun cross bow.

I love being old.

Double Barrel on Homosexuality

It pleases me to know that I live in a world where a woman can naturally become aroused when watching another woman masturbate. If I had to thank a gawd I would.

Because it just can't be done with a penis. I've checked before. Nuh-uh. No way. Whatever gay men see in it, they are welcome to it.

But sometimes head is head, and kinda like drugs, sometimes the good shit is just hard to find.

And I can't fuckin believe I feel obligated to do this, thank you, you sensitive bitches, but I have nothing against homesexuals be they male, female, pre-op/post-op male/female because some people probably skipped around on this one.

All are welcome to make porn and post it on the internet. Variety is a wonderful courtesy.

The Birthday Massacre - Blue

They've just been getting better and better with each album.



I remember when goth had guts and was willing to fight for their ideals. Now, goth kids are soiled diapered whiners. The Birthday Massacre has finally brought some glory back to the darkness.

Innuendo Mocha

Alone, seated, with warm coffee growing cooler with every ticking away of time. Marshall once left his finger in a cup of coffee from the time he poored to the time it cooled. He wanted to know how long it took a cup of coffee to cool in Connecticut. Maybe it was different from Texas.

Surrounded he was by a young man's dream. A quaint and sometimes too cold coffee shop, and surrounding him were women. Ladies of all sorts, and maybe some of them didn't deserve to be called ladies, but his grandparents had taught him better. He liked meeting the people he would eventually loathe first.

But back to the women, he didn't need this. He really didn't. His physique didn't match his age. He enjoyed exercising, and the workouts had been kind to him, except maybe that evening.

Sitting alone, next a dulling cup of coffee, reading from a book who's auther's name was printed in bulky, bright red letters - Moorcock.

It sounds exactly the way it's spelled.

Happy Fries

People forget that other people have problems, some more cruel than others, some more playful while scarring less.

But it is when we have problems that we forget others have none. We see them smiling, sparkling in a shiny life when deep down they're just as miserable as we are.

Misery is reality. Happiness is indeed something we create.

When the Bomb Drops

When the bombs drop
There will be no pain.
Ashes will kiss the wind,
Earth will cease to rain.
The axe will resume control,
The superficial will be in disarray.
I will be smiling.
I will be waiting.
When the bomb drops.

Running Bunny

Damn you, bunny. I don't want shards of your skull embedded between my tire's treads, but I'll take it if I have to.

Sci-Fi's Humping of the Corpse That is the Wizard of Oz

The Tin Man

I had some interest until I saw the extended preview. It feels, to me, like Sci-Fi's attempt at getting a franchise going, though I have neither read or heard anything of the kind. It's just a feeling I got conducted by my beliefs in the whoredoom that is Hollywood.

Read the originals. I know - read - AAAAHH!!

Spreading Misery In Every Direction

I needed her to be there for me. She was. Always.

Stupid stupid beautiful girl.

The blood on my clothes made her think, but I've somehow made her believe that I am worth keeping around. I have known no boundaries with this odd lovely lady. But here I am, needing her again. Using her again.

She has no idea, but when this whole thing is over, I'm leaving.

I hate it. I do. I hate it. She's the sweetest woman in the world, and I have been mighty fortunate to find a woman that could keep a body like hers. I've slept, spanked, and had the sex that makes people lose weight with what some would consider worse. I called them different, and much lovlier and rich because of it.

But she was only my access to the outside world. My looking glass. I couldn't be seen out in the world, not after death and malicious coincidence were involved.

I had done this kind of thing nearly a dozen times in a dozen ways. She settled in with the rare few that I felt guilty about using. I've always hoped she'd find better.

Double Barrel on Simplicity

I got a rubber band for a wallet. What the fuck do you think?

Double Barrel on Anger

If anger were a woman. I'd fuck'er. Nice fuck, not the dirty fuck. Funky fuck.

However, with an attitude like that, anal would expectedly be open for consideration, but that seems to be the standard of the funky fuck at times. Again, not the dirty fuck. The nice fuck. Funky fuck is fun fucking.

I feel like I'm fucking forthwith.

- What she look like?




Right now? Disappointed, but playing it off like she's thinking of what she needs from the grocery store.

Aniimals

I love sharks and snakes. Alligators and crocodiles too. I respect what they can do and how they are made. I respect reptiles.

And sharks. Bull Shark's a bitch. Hammerheads are just weirdly awesome.

Dolphins are fun.

Angry Good

Watching tv. AAAHH!

I know.

Anywhichaway - the Diet Dr. Pepper commercial comes on, and their ending slogan is "THERE'S NOTHING DIET ABOUT IT."

How literal does this ad team want the public to take this. As I'm writing this I'm also thinking about possibilities for its content, and it's smart. They want all kinds of feedback, various tastes of thought to go with their advertised flavor. They believe in the negative publicity. And omniscients fucking omniscients it fucking works.

But Diet Dr. Pepper does suck. No. No. Don't even try. I don't wanna hear it. It sucks. It's what cement would taste like mixed with sugar-filled berries.

Go away.

Where You Want to Be

There is this song sung by someone. It is the song that I will dedicate to my forever. The song is about those quiet moments, the ones in between the happiness and tension; the ones that hold everything together.

I give it to one, or never; to none.

Double Barrel on Kids

I'm great with babies and toddlers. But once the kid learns how to effectively communicate through thought and speech, I just wanna punch'em in the throat.

The Thanksgiving Disease Day Address.

Let us not forget the true meaning of Thanksgiving. Find a quiet,painful terminal disease and pass it to your neighbor. Once they are dead, take their property, move into their home, and abuse their resources.

Have a good one.

CLUTCH!!!

One of the few bands I would battle a gorilla for.

Just a plain ole Gearhead, baby.

This Message Will Self Destruct

Upset with someone. The immediate, primal anger is out of the way. Now it's the "I would love to punch this person, but I'll settle for hanging this over his/her head for the rest of his/her life" kind of anger, and not the kind that consumes me either. I sleep well when I do sleep. Not really, but you get what I'm saying.

I'm a huge adherent to self destructive behavior, but this person's just trying to steal my thunder on the matter.

"I'll get you, Gadget. Next time."

Piss

Internet, I have not missed you.

Had a splendid night. Debauchery was high as the range was open. A comfortable amount of maneuvering room, sounding much like the idiot that I choose to be when all I have to do is say the right thing. But I rarely want to say the right thing because you know it would never be substantial. Some positives, yes, but there's nothing better than the true surge forward. Forward in mind and heart. The soul needs to figure shit out for itself. If a dinosaur can't have one, why can I? If my doggies aren't supposed to have one, in some people's eyes, then I'd rather not have one either. I will find my dogs when we all eventually reunite in the afterlife. And we will still piss on anything and everything. When it's raining, don't be surprised if there are some surprisingly warm odorous patches of wet falling sky around you.

My Kind of Luck

I know.

I just fucking know - - that the world will erupt, be it with a disease; somebody pushes some buttons and shit gets launched, SOMETHING. But the world will proceed to end the day I qualify for my master's degree.

The world won't even make it to me receiving the certificate. The info will work its way through the computer, my stuff goes through - apocalyptic outbreak.

Like I'm not angry enough, I need to create things to be pissed about.

"The Best Friends Stab You in the Front"

To my best friend:

Should I ever happen to have sex with any of your exes - Sorry. Shit happens.

But we can consider it as kharma doing its thing. You are my best friend, but you do annoy me from time to time.

Rushing Through Innocence

Sheila pounded the flickering, multi-colored touch platform. At first she tried following the colors, but DaDa came around to coach her.

"Say it, Sheila," DaDa requested. He repeated the words uttered from the low-level amps in the machine. "The dog tastes like the cow."

At ten months old, Sheila was talking with DaDa and the machine.

MaMa heard the verbal choir. She focussed an unnerving glance towards DaDa, which he immediately noticed. He returned MaMa's tensious gaze with a battle-ready one of his own. He told Sheila to keep up with the machine, then, kissed the back of her head, smelling that baby daughter smell, with a hint of lilac from the baby shampoo MaMa chose.

He met MaMa at the counter.

"What?" he asked with an empty tone.

MaMa thought she was ready for this, but the daring stare was just the foot in the door, but now that she had DaDa's attention it was time to follow through. She gathered her courage.

"This needs to stop," she stated.

"What?"

"This," harkening to Sheila and the speaking toy. "You - You making a science experiment out of your daughter." MaMa's voice was full of tone - tone in the key of urgent.

DaDa was stunned, but kept calm. "What are you talking about? Let me in on what level of zany I'm supposed to be flourishing in, because you're a few notches above mine."

"Why can't you just let her be a child?" Mama retaliated. "Let her discover things normally, the way children are supposed to? Why are you rushing her into things."

DaDa was unflinchable, though he required a deep breath before continuing. "I'm at a loss," he said. "All I am doing is playing with our daughter. Doing the same things that my family did with me when I was her age. I am unfamiliar with these 'science experiments' you are alluding to. I'm just a father playing with his daughter.

"Please - - where is this coming from?"

Drained

The hairs did not do well. They're momentary duty was to show Chris that he was growing old. It wasn't working, and for whatever reason, reality agreed with him. He looked the younger one, inhaled the excitement that a younger one should, but business was never so far away from his thoughts - no.

The future dead should not be surprised. Most died with a masked blank expression. They just shouldn't have been surprised.

We could make masks out of their corpsed expressions. Infiltrating their facilities became an act of will.

....All of this because I saw hair strands in the sink today.

You Weren't There

I don't miss being surprised. Rarely did I care whether I knew ahead of time, but there are moments, more for entertainment than any pursuit of the tangible, but tangibility in this day and age was strictly, as beauty some say, "in the eye of the beholder."

Fire Tornado

Fire Tornado

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Eat A Leech, Be A Leech

What can I give up right now?

What is weighing me down?

It is not the problems. I’ve got control of the problems, so this must be something of old art love. Something I have loved for so long, and now it’s tedious, bored, I’m sure. The other problems, their strikes are anticipatory, even the prime blitz can be calculated for, but this one - - this one is a snacking cannibal. It pops up when it wants, where it wants, and the bights it takes; quite generous. And right before it takes its fill, I’ll give up that old art love.

Once I finish sweating as a shagging fish would, I analyze and identify with the freshness and the fright, thusly working my way through both to pick their best parts for myself.

I was mad this weekend. I behaved myself. When you’re close, it hurts so much more, but the truth in the friendship saved it for me. I was over it before my head hit the floor after aiming at the pillow.

Cardio Universe

Time wasn't running any marathons, but it was taking a shot at the longest bit of useless that anyone had ever encountered. It doesn't matter, things will still happen, and when things happen - too many moons start to cry, and then it's humid during the day.

Does a planet sweat?

Lilly and the Two Dearests

"...and then the rain washed away all the paint, leaving Doggy Dearest trembling, scared of what the farmer would say when he came back home from the live stock show to find his home, the barn, and the storage shed all without their color."

Lilly read a couple of more words, but the comfortable, nearing creepy silence reentered the room. She looked from the page on up to her daddy, who's lap ceased to emit any kind of warmth for the last three hours.

Lilly folded the book on her dad's stiffening leg, which had fallen earlier off the foot stool, and as Lilly returned it to its previous resting position, the bones in his leg seemed to crack, and after a crack there usually was some crumbling. That's what Lilly had read once, anyway.

But Lilly noticed a difference in her daddy's silence, it was an unpleasant one unlike the others. Usually, just after Lilly would pull the syringe from Daddy's arm, he'd put the sunglasses on, the ones that made him look like Daddy's favorite blues guitarist "Broken Home" Lemens, take one last look at his sweet little girl, and be whisked away into his happy place in some dazzling manner that only he could experience. Now, however, the comfortable, nearing creepy silence had come back. The only other time Lilly ever confronted it was when Mommy went on her permanent vacation. That's what Daddy called it anyway.

Daddy's sunglasses looked like they were ready to fall right off. Lilly's fingers crawled up daddy's cool, smooth cheek. She pinched the pair from the grips. Carefully, she pulled the sunglasses back. Momentarily, she stopped when they fell, bumping her legs, rolling out of a splat noise on to the floor.

Lilly wasn't sure when to scream, but eventually she did.

Blind Dull Sobriety

The festivities began per usual this quadrupled-eve weekend.

Costume: Self-Conscious Werewolf

Then, I became so many different things to so many different people. The coordination of the night collapsed continuously, but structuring the pace of the evening is as sweet as jamming out or having an orgasm.

The reflection keeps fading, and there's no real rush to navigate the outgoing disasters to the trenches of some war.

Man With the Funny Last Name

Old man.
Old man when I heard of thee. Old man
When I first diged thine thoughts.
Old man, new man;
Forever changing the worlds withing worlds.
Immortality be furthest away from your mind.
The joy of living life, and told of it;
The joy you have spread for as you once said,
"Death is no obstacle."

Behold the Man

Reread Michael Moorcock's "Behold the Man" today. It helps to have eight hours of civil nothing that you are ordered to do.

Maybe tomorrow I'll reread "The Winds of Limbo." But, "Behold the Man," it's like that Twilight Zone episode with Elvis, when the fan crashes into him, then becomes him, only instead of being an admirer, the protagonist in "Behold the Man" is a self-loathing narcissist begging for attention. And instead of a car crash he uses a time machine, and instead of running into the Jesus he knows, he runs into an alternate reality Jesus that is two steps up from being deranged, sexually-conceived roadkill.

Cheers.

DAMN RIGHT SHE RULES!!!!

NOBODY FUCKS WITH CINDY!!!

Five Finger Death Punch - Way of the Fist - Review

Five Finger Death Punch comes out of Los Angeles, and they want to leave a trail defined by breakneck brutality. Unfortunately, the sound doesn’t bend too far one way or the other, so it may hinder the album over time, but for a debut 5FDP’s Way of the Fist shows promise for the group who mix a pinch of nu metal rhythm with old school guitar work.

Way of the Fist starts off on fire; “Ashes” begins the journey with speed, melody, and some sweet double bass provided by Jeremy Spencer. The title track falls into the same sound as most nu metal bands, with that bouncing bridge, but the speed dips in and out frequently, so its not so bad, and the chorus – “you might win one battle, but know this, I’ll win the fucking war” – will find its way through a person’s yell almost instantly. The guitar work by Zoltan and Darrel Roberts keeps “Salvation” alive. “Bleeding” is the first single off the album, and it sounds like one. It’s the radio friendly track, not particularly heavy; just trying to keep a good thing going, and if it weren’t for the double bass it could easily be confused with so many other metal/rock radio singles of the past few years. After these tracks have been heard, a person will know exactly what to expect the rest of the album. “A Place to Die,” “The Devil’s Own,” and on to the end follows the same formula: guitar openings that start running with the double bass, which starts feeling forced after a while. And the vocals of Ivan L. Moody fluctuate between the growls and the melodic. Matt Snell backs everyone up on the bass – that’s about all there is to say about that.

Way of the Fist is good for a debut album, and shows that these guys can deliver a powerful effort, and it could potentially leave the listener wondering what’s next. They’re not trying to do anything different, just provide some quality metal for the enthusiasts out there. This album is not valuable for rapid, repeated listening, but it would be one worth revisiting every few months or so.

Free and Easy

For whatever reason, Landrum was convinced that if you were in his house for an extended period of time, chances were high that you would see him in his underwear. It didn't matter why you were there, just that you would eventually, somehow, see him sans pants.

His mother constantly reminded him as a child to keep a shirt on in the house. He was chubby, nearing husky, but that seemed enough to correspond with disgust in her eyes. Now, he's never above going commando during the weekend.

Before the Turn

Keel stared into the photo's eyes. His little girl, gone only a few years, taken from him by a nemesis. A personal war amongst the universal and the introverted. He swore this would be the last time he looked into her eyes until the mission was complete - until the truth was revealed, and the dying slowed down. Keel knew that the dying would never truly end, it would only be sustained.

Whatever It Takes

I'm sorry - We've never known you by that name. Pleae, go on ahead. Just make a left at the stump.

How many months the echoes will echo, and too many years; so much darkness performing as its own galaxy with just you to ignite their depth of stars.

Your people cursed you for going so far.

The Mangrove Killfish

Scientists have discovered that it spends several months of every year out of the water and living inside trees.

The Morning Hurts

Welcome to a morning set in darkness. Trouble wasn't on my mind that night, but having been around this scab-fucker for so long trouble has always been standing right next to me.

My ribs were sore, but really a couple were broken. I was fortunate enough to be numb all over, and not from a painkiller. The welcome party kept going after I passed out.

Trying to talk was almost like realigning my jaw. Had I died that night, I hoped my autopsy report would have noted I did have clean underwear. They had been removed long before my dead bowels relaxed, unleashing that greatest humiliations ever associated with being human.

For some people that's not a large request, but they'd be surprised.

Lightswitch

An entertaining fright I've always done for occasions is to settle in a room of my empty home at night, in darkness for a minute or so, then, find lightswitches, and go on seeking out lights in other roooms.

Once I've turned a light on in every room I go back and turn a few off, and when I do turn one off, the room you never knew was there appears; for some brief dark-bedazzling moments, it appears.

Only the damned ever enter.

Screaming At Will

What is it with wanting to drop everyone? The people I've loved for years, now, I'm tired of them actually, have been for quite some time, but never to this extent. I'm politely exiting much quicker now.

There are times when I am indeed selfish, and I fine that it is when I want things to change; even if life is great, I need things to change. Change is so scary. It is the greatest rollercoaster-horror ever.

Stretching Stripes

When the road called back to me, I didn't hesitate. I didn't give it a second thought or a chance for the wind to change direction. I went. Now it's just us.

And Because Marcy Playground Owns All

And I"m just warming up to that "Sex and Candy" bullshit. Good song, but radio overkill nixed my initial likings for it.

Because We Could All Use Some

And just because I can...

Hole

Why does it seem so hard to put things back where we found them, because leaving it where it is parallels the open space that a lie initially creates, but just like a lie, leaving all of these little notions and ideas scattered all about, that space folds in on itself very quickly.

Just found me a sledgehammer. Let's see where I leave this laying.

Gone

Gone.
16. And gone.
I found a picture of you.
You were actually smiling.

Goodbye.

Ultimo Tormento

You know that there is an unbearable torture when the pain it inflicts can make even a lizard scream.

Down III: Over the Under - Review

Over the Under is one sludgy soulful trip, and considering their lives were undoubtedly affected by Hurricane Katrina, they take that energy and spread it throughout. It finds that happy medium between the crunching sounds of NOLA and the boggy atmosphere of A Bustle in Your Hedgerow, and Phil returns to the melodic side after lingering in the rough, scream laden avenues of singing.

“3 Suns and 1 Star,” “The Path,” and “N.O.D.” tread familiar waters, and while it is comforting, does not prepare you for the whole album. One might start saying, here we go again when “I Scream” starts but Phil’s vocals comes to full fruition on this one. Phil sings, really sings, and it is a great thing to hear.

“On March the Saints” is a bit more upbeat than typical Down, but the head-wagging, bottom-shaking groove is still prevalent while Rex proves again why he is a quintessential bassist, and probably the much-appreciated, overlooked member of Pantera {He’s just a laid back fella.). “Never Try” brings the blues to the forefront. “Mourn” is Phil’s venting on what happened, losing Dime and the rest of his Texas family. “Beneath the Tides” is something vintage Alice in Chains could have conjured at some point in both bedeviling music and lyrics.

“In the Thrall of it All” and “Nothing in Return” are great finishers. Even as the album begins its venture toward closure the band only grows tighter. Keenan and Windstein do an excellent job of playing off one another’s solos, then, “Nothing in Return” does a good job of beginning on a space-trip, and slowly building towards powerful, haunting chorus taking us out of our heads, and closing the album.

Over the Under is the furthest thing from a bad album. There are riffs that would do Black Sabbath fans proud and some that could make a grown man shed a tear. Phil provides one of his best performances in years, and whatever hardship followed these men came through loud and clear. Down III: Over the Under is a musical journey through the kingdom of sludge. Some folks will pass this up; I was about to myself. It isn’t something so amazing that one should put a rush on getting it, but for those that do choose to get it now or in the future, hopefully they’ll be as pleasantly surprised as I was. This album will stick with me for a while.

Some Sunday

Some Sunday mornings just aren't like any others. Picking the glass from out of one's shoulder may take longer, and breakfast gets a little colder.

Hello, Yea

Things some of us are so accustomed to, but the crack in the fault is that not everyone was willing to accept an alternative - a word she had been disgusted with for months, yet still capable of maintaining a no-nonsense visage every time - every - time - it came up.

She showed her feral side during sex, which wasn't for comfort; just an outlet. She didn't mind being branded slut, coming much quicker than a rumor's chance; it even proved handy when she needed information, which was almost double a golf's eagle when she realised that also within the bitter moniker held some control, the kind she liked and wouldn't give up easily, unlike other things.

The bell signaled. Yea fixed her eyes, reality once again blocking her view of nirvana. She looked to her feet, she bit down; something was't right - even when it was perfect.

Elevator doors parted ways. Her minions (assistants).targeted her. The soft ripple in space tickled her wrist. The tingling confirmed her being noticed, her eyes recorded every person and activity in areas that were not her immediate concern, making sure they stayed that way.

Back to work for Yea.

Echoing Chatter

Trapped in the middle of the road without a way of getting back, we hoofed it, coughing, gagging, wheezing; but still feeling those teeth-tipped-tentacles knipping at our heels.

"Lower," the old man screamed, gritting his teeth soon after. This had no longer been about the research. They took from him the only thing he ever felt could continue to grow alongside him. His knowledge was a wealth, but having it and never being able to share it with someone - someone that lent a willing ear for a change; not because the boss couldn't stop gambling, or because Boss C can't get laid without having a fresh paycheck setting his pants ablaze.

Someone was actually listening.

We Will Smash Our History Through Your Skull

Mr Kunstmann belongs to les UX, a clandestine network that is on a mission to discover and exploit the city’s neglected underworld. The urban explorers put on film shows in underground galleries, restore medieval crypts and break into monuments after dark to organise plays and readings. In the eyes of their supporters, they are the white knights of modern culture, renovating forgotten buildings and staging artistic events beyond the reach of a stifling civil service.

The authorities view them differently: as the dark side of the City of Light – irresponsible, paranoid subversives whose actions could serve as a model for terrorists. A police unit has been trained to track les UX through the sewers, catacombs and old quarries that are their pathways under Paris. Prosecutors have been instructed to file charges whenever feasible.

More Shit

More shit.
What do I think I really need.
More shit.
Living without it, I could never breathe.
More shit.
Buried deep below fallen angel leaves.
More shit.
More shit - I need - and lots of it.

- fake trak

- fake trak

Hidden trak: More Shit - Lazy Dayz by the Pool Remix

More shit.
I needz my dvdz.
More shit.
Porkyz best when it's all 3.
More shit.
Scratch my ballz with your stolen Oakleyz
More shit. Mooooore shit. More shit.

Get That Outta Your Mouth (and put it in your ass)

Just another reason to live and love.

Revolting Cocks

Revolting Cocks - Attack Ships On Fire
Uploaded by Maetthew

He's Got'em By the Eyes

Just trying to get the ball rolling. Nothing to talk about, which isn't to say some good things have been happening.

Tasted the grit at the beach, and dancing with some fire. Today has been relaxation at its finest, but the deeds of undoing are scattered at wealth.

Just trying to warm up before the real thing.

Ministry: The Last Sucker - Review

Al Jourgensen is back with his latest incarnation of Ministry - and for the last time. "The Last Sucker" not only concludes what Jourgensen asserts as the trilogy in the anti-George Bush Jr. Saga (previous albums: "House of the Mole’" and "Rio Grande Blood"), but it also sounds the end of Ministry’s perseity in the music industry, and the band goes out in an exciting, evolved, but familiar blaze of glory.

Ministry began as a dark-synth-pop band, or whatever label one would wish to use, in the early eighties. Slowly, album by album, they began removing the electronic elements, relying mostly on guitars and drums, but still tweaking the sound in the studio. These last three albums by Jourgensen and gang have almost been pure metal, slightly in the vein of a heavier and faster "Psalm 69", an album where Jourgensen saw fit to bash George Bush Sr.

"The Last Sucker" starts off with the quickly consuming "Let’s Go," which is about as good an opener on an album, and live, as a band can produce. "Watch Yourself" and "Life is Good" continue the metal assault with feral riffing by Tommy Victor (Prong) and Sin Quinn (Revolting Cocks), and rapid, tight drum programming by Al (Alien) Jourgensen and John Bilberry.

Then - - - the album hits a snag. The second and third songs foreshadow what is to be the middle of the album, which is practically the same sound that Ministry has constructed in the past two years. Being a trilogy, I let it pass in the aftermath, but upon first hearing "The Dick Song," which has an outstanding chorus slamming Dick Cheney, "The Last Sucker," and "No Glory," I felt that they were nothing but songs from "Rio Grande Blood" and "House of the Mole’" rehashed, re-edited, and redone, particularly "The Dick Song," which sounds almost exactly like "Lies, Lies, Lies" from "Rio Grande Blood." But, after hearing the entire album, and going back to these songs, they are easier and much more enjoyable on the ears.

"Death and Destruction" continues the light footed demolition begun on the album, then, "Roadhouse Blues" comes along; bringing new life to the sometimes overplayed Doors song (awaits flung beer bottles and retired bongs from Doors fans [because you wouldn’t throw the new ones, would you?]). It also feels like a preview of Ministry’s upcoming cover album "Cover-Up." Then, the punk invades with
Die in a Crash." This features the first of the latter tracks featuring Burton C. Bell (Fear Factory). "Die in a Crash" is crunchy punk, and it is fun.

The album goes out with a bang in the two part "End of Days." Part 1 has Burton C. Bell joining Jourgensen again on vocals and chorus with a memorable guitar melody, and mellow rough vocals. Part 2 continues the melody while inserting Dwight D. Eisenhower’s presidential farewell speech into the track. It is well done, and when listening to Eisenhower, his words are as relevant today as they were in 1961, but that is another write-up for another time.

Ministry’s final album should please fans new and currently following, because to say old fans, that spans a good chunk of time, and some may have dropped the band. I have enjoyed their music since Day 1, and now at the end, there’s a sense that more could have been accomplished, but it seems best to go out on a high than sink to a depressing low like some other bands have. The Last Sucker might disappoint in some areas, considering it is their last hurrah, but Ministry goes out in style - their style.

Personal note: I will miss the anticipation of future Ministry music, but will never forsake the experiences learned and head when listening to Ministry. Each album, up until these last three, was something different, and always unexpected. Ministry is done, but Jourgensen still lives. Here's to Ministry; here's to the future. Cheers.

Distracted

Working on a modern day fairytale; short story, nothing special. Actually, not a modern day fairytale, but a modern day story with fairytale elements sewn within.

I'm using it to concentrate on scenery and landscape.

Why the hell am I writing this. I've got work to do.

But really, I'm having a tought time getting it off the ground. I like the main character too much. He's not pushing the story in the direction I had originally intended, which was something light, stumbling into the realness of the Brothers Grimm tales, not the watered down, make a buck versions that butchered the original material, I mean the painful, bloody, and endearing ones that were told to children back in an age when common sense was rampant among the youth, and they knew what it meant to respect a day's work, unlike today where they wonder how "cavemen watched tv." That was a serious enquiry from a sixteen year old I heard today.

For those without spawns, find some radiated material and sit on it. You'll make the world a better place.

Same Ole Shit

Started messing around with the settings, thought I'd redecorate the sight. Then, no sooner did I begin did I realise A)I like it the way it is, and B)I don't have time for this shit.

Back to work.

Sunrise Flavored

The carlot was full.
It felt like one of those days.
Too much sunrise.
Afternoons welcomed the eyes much more pleasantly
Than any humid morning. Humid.
Choking the shit out of nature
And the natural orders.
Sweating in the morning,
Sweating in the shower, after the shower.
Sweating before sleep.
Remembering that face, sorting out the silliness.
Here we were - sunrise covered morning

Traffic, Wednesday Afternoon.

Toilet paper. It's the thing holding all of this shit together, and proudly keeping us apart, simultaneously. I thought every movement had been recorded, bouncing off the field, shaking its own staticy skin. Earth made a memory.

That was its way into the upper atmosphere, wanting to speak with the other planets vapor to vapor. The planet became quite the chatty sentient being.

Lefty

There was a man who lived in a house. It was a dark house, with the definition of old creeping from the house's skin; gray, whithering, and peeling.

The man had a dead hand. He had lost the use of it shortly after his return from Viethnam. He walked around town, yelling, preaching, and worst of all, making sense.

Three days in the heat, his troop had been stranded without radio contact, but there was some hope, but it came in the form of a mid-forest brothel. Just a dozen or slightly more tents propped up in the middle of the Southern Korean no man's land, with ladies waiting to offer themselves to any of their nation's troops flashing the right amount. They weren't there to harm anyone, only make some money to send back to their families.

But, Old Man and troop had orders. They showered the sex pit with bullets. He pointed towards some escapees, not because he was a monster, but because he believed was being a good soldier, and in doing so his hand caught the kiss of a .30Cal M2.

By the time his platoon reached an active radio, his hand and any hope of reafirmming any future use of it were gone. He would later dub it Lefty, not because that was the hand that had been shot, but because it was the piece of him that was left behind.

I Can't Wait for the Revolt From This Thing

Unlike clearly artificial robotic toys, Hanson says he envisions Zeno as an interactive learning companion, a synthetic pal who can engage in conversation and convey human emotion through a face made of a skin-like, patented material Hanson calls frubber.

"It's a representation of robotics as a character animation medium, one that is intelligent," Hanson beams. "It sees you and recognizes your face. It learns your name and can build a relationship with you."

Frozen Drunk

I have nothing to think about, walking through the snow, wearing mukluk's made from the backs of drunk, recently unemployed Alaskan accountants from Chicago.

I see a red stream curling down frozen hill. I dip to prick at it, bringing its scent to my nose. Licking my fingers confirms that it is red wine - dry red wine.

The horse got into the cellar again.

Sleep? Hi. Don't Believe We've Met.

I couldn't stop what was growing here. The ride wasn't slowing down, and I didn't mind.

So,treats for whomever needs one:

No Warranty

Just finished a phone conversation with my aunt. She's a suicidal hypochondriac, and is the type - if you ask her a question she'll write you a novel, but the novel will be all about her problems, then, she'll take those problems and shovel the guilt trip on top of you for whatever miniscule thing you have or have not done for her lately.

Future note: Guilt trip doesn't work on me, folks. I am the furthest specimen from perfect, but I enjoy hating who I am or am not. No one will ever take that away from me.

So Damn tired

I like a woman that is willing to take care of herself. One that I don't have to motivate. One that is willing to make my life miserable without me having to aggravate or antagonize every waking moment to do so.

I will push buttons all day every day, all in good fun, but in between I try to leave no room for doubt that she is the one I want to come home to every night.

I like babies. I'm okay with kids. But, part of what I enjoy about being an uncle is when Mom and Dad come to take baby away. Kids should be like cars, getting to trade them in for a new one every year.

Do I want a child of my own - I'm not that interested, but I think about having one almost every day, and the future of that child with me as it's father. Immediately after that my psychiatrist spends about an hour trying to convince me not to perform a home-based vasectomy using a screwdriver, a car battery, and jumper cables.

Airline sacrifices goats to appease sky god

KATHMANDU (Reuters) - Officials at Nepal's state-run airline have sacrificed two goats to appease Akash Bhairab, the Hindu sky god, following technical problems with one of its Boeing 757 aircraft, the carrier said Tuesday.

Night Shaman

Fighting sleep is my specialty. My personality and my genes were made for the night. I have a day job, and I'm a compete zombie until well past one o'clock in the afternoon.

During my vacation, my body immediately reacted, reverting back to its natural nocturnal state. I couldn't sleep at all the first few days, and finally, one June morning, just after sunrise, I knocked out, awoke around noon, and felt whole again. I was back to normal, stepping out with the bats, holding conference with the street lamps. She spoke to me again. The city and I became reacquainted. She told me all her secrets, the kind she was too afraid of telling to the day shaman. The night shaman, he knows all about secrets; having them, keeping them, and using them.

If I nod out for ten minutes, it's like gaining a full night's rest. A whole eight hours, and I refuse to fully abandon my comfortable coma. A curse it is -
a curse.

The sun is not my savior. Blue skies can keep their hope. Give me the moon and the night, and the shadows that hide purity, for the purity that thrives through the darkness is a fighter, a survivor, and sometimes - if needs be - a killer, but most of all, it is a leader with fire for its spirit.

I need a beach trip.

Sideways On an Escalator

Cooler than water as sleet, the room refreshed my awakening body. My mind was still in the dream-time and would not come around to the day until far after lunchtime, but there at work I would be, waiting, talking, listening, writing; oblivious to the good things in the air, only noticing the horrid traces of beuracracy threaded into every ink on the paper, and every ounce of backwash in coffee mugs.

My clothes fit for once. The secret to the diet was there is no diet. I eat what I want, then, work it all off. Sometimes it feels like an honor to sweat, only because of my bizarre metabolism. I run six miles and gain eight pounds. I stop running, lift heavy weights, and lose ten. In between, the food that has willingly grown numb to taste. It's no longer food, it's chemistry; always has been chemistry, but I never knew it until that summer shortly after Ed's death.

"Where are you right now?" she asked.

"Hm?"

"You stopped breathing. You're thinking too hard again."

Learning Curve

I hate school.

I've been saying that most of my life.

I love learning. Knowledge is serious power, but I loathe the confinement and judging standards of the modern educational system. Then, once graduating from high school, having someone tell me that I need a pathetic piece of papaer not fit to wipe my ass with in order to do something important in this world - - fuck that. But I did it, and now, I'm at it again. Why? I have to get away from people. I don't like them. I need to make enough money to insure that I can escape them anytime I choose. Not just mentally, not just in my home; I mean physically, running to the mountains, or secreting myself in a cave.

Education is important, but the kind forced kids' throats these days, I don't believe it is, but that's from a purely consciencious perspective. Money isn't important to alot of people. I don't care for having "nice things." There are times that I can do without the roof over my head, and settle for the sky and clouds as my domestic apex. Then again, I'm two steps away from clinical depression, anxiety, and all around (everyone's favorite) insanity. Point being, I don't agree, conform, or prefer today's society, or what is considered the standard, or "normal." And I do like knowing that I can have a roof over my head, shoud I want one.

My perfect world would be the end of this one. Bring it all down. Kill the internet, destroy mass communication; adjourn the need for money. It's time to go back to basics.

It's probably not happening soon, or it could likely occur sooner than we think.

The Associated Press did a study, claiming 1 out of 4 adults did not read a single book in 2006. At first, that sounds disturbing, but that's me thinking as an avid reader. But I relaxed and thought about it. A)Polls are always foibled. In all truth, they mean nothing, and sometimes less. B)What kind of books were read? Kids books, like parents would read to their children? Comic books? Cook books? The phone book?

I ask myself, would I prefer a conversation with someone who has studied a book about fishing in Alaska? Or would I prefer a conversation with someone who has never read a book, but has fished in Alaska?

Reading is for those that love to read. Living is for those that love to live. Either way, you learn. I love both. I learn every day.

Humid

There's a chill trekking along my spine. Voices, a plethora of them, screaming, crying; not a single one sounding like the fear is coming from vision - the abhorrence emanates from their mind.

Willis walked those hallways with the care of a puppy in a garage. The same old places to sniff, eat, and piss, but at any moment, that door can open and the largest tank could come rolling through. Will it see him? Will it care?

The giraffe that used to be a poster for the National Fitness Test smiled, while worms fell from its mouth. The light coming from the ground, well, it just wasn't cool enough. Dashing water on himself didn't seem to help any. It only amplified the humidity that started out smaller than a snail sweat.

His watch beeped. It was loud. It chimed deep into his temporal lobe. It was time for the purple pills that crawled up his arm.

The Shit I Think of When I'm Exhausted

I have lost confidence in my work. I can't write a fucking query letter. A FUCKING QUERY LETTER. I can't write a less than eight sentences telling someone what my book is about. I can't decide where the comma goes, whether I should use a semi-colon or just start a new sentence all together.

I see new pieces of shit every week on the bookshelves and say, why can't my piece of shit be the future laughing stock of the bargain bin? Dan Brown gets away with it. Every jackass cranking out event-centered-historical-fiction gets away with it. I want to be able to pry your hard earned money from your hands, then, force you to read the tripe that a twelve year old with a north eastern education could have pissed through a fountain pen after a slushee bender, and force you to ask yourself "why did I buy this piece of shit again?"

What's not a piece of shit? Greg Rucka's newest Atticus Kodiak novel comes out tomorrow - Patriot Acts.

"Hell Everywhere"

At least seven people have been detained or arrested for their potential involvement in the fires that have consumed over half of Greece.

Arsonists seeking to clear land for development are believed to cause most fires. While building in forest areas is banned, land may be re-classified after a fire, letting developers move in.

This disturbs me to no end. Nearly 60 people have died; a mother charred mother and her four children were found. She smothered them with herself, protecting them from the flames.

And Olympia is in danger. The sight of the first Olympic games stands before the destructive force of a radical inferno.

I'm not an advocate of The Olympics. I dabble in combat sports, mostly training, competition now and again, but I am a fan of history and that deteriorating quality established centuries ago known as honor.

I can imagine how horrible the people of Peloponnese must feel, but I may never know; I would not want to know. Their helplessness magnified by looking to their government with betrayed laiden eyes. Greece is not a rich country, or even a financially stable one. They have little money, relying on the commerce of tourists as the country's primary source of income, and now they may believe that they have even less hope.

Look around you. Where are you? If you are alive, if you have a home, if you know love, enjoy it, cherish it; leave me be - I'm disgusted.

Up Into the Sky

You said you were trying to cope, but the downtime depressed you. It wasn't the life you were accustomed to. You couldn't grow flowers from inside the house. You couldn't breathe nature's air from a bed.

Then, you tricked us; made believe everything was alright. You asked for the window to be opened. We turned around to pull the curtains, and you were already up in the sky.

A Good Man

Just got back from a wake. A good friend's father passed away last night. No work tonight, the whole thing took too much out of me, more than I certainly anticipated.

Friend's dad was a good man, a hard worker, and loved his family to the fullest extent.

Will be in San Antonio this weekend. Do something I'm too scarred to do (yes, scarred): tell those closest to you that you love them.

Cheers.

Confession

I attempt to destroy every good thing that comes my way. It's practically a reaction. I'm not against happiness, but if I'm not miserable, then I don't know I'm alive.

I need to give me a break and keep some good for a change, but first, I need to make it, then, I'll try it. I'm inclined to agree; happiness is an illusion made by man, misery is the truth.

Too much Immanuel Kant.

Can't Concentrate

Can't concentrate for shit.

My mind is split a million different avenues; has been for the past few days. The book is done, now I need to get the letter to the agent, but I'm not having the best of luck getting it to read the way it should. I can do it for everyone else, but not myself? What the fuck?

Story of my life.

All I want is a small house in the mountains, surrounded by an electric fence mounted with motion censor triggered assault rifles. Behind the fence: man-eating wolves, and a bridge-less moat filled with crocodiles, preferably crocodiles because they are more aggressive than alligators.

Madness in Love

Why she keeps popping up in my head, I don't know.
Why she's the last person I think about before passing out
After trying to drown the passion out of my system,
I don't know.
Why I wanted to be with her when she drove me insane,
Tested my temper;
Pissed me off
Every time we were together - -
It didn't change that I loved her for it
Every waking moment.

Funniest Thing I've Heard All Day

Jessica Alba Might Have Herpes.

The 'Fantastic Four' star - recently voted FHM's Sexiest Woman Alive 2007 - previously dated New York Yankees baseball star Derek Jeter and during their relationship she allegedly contracted the sexually transmitted disease.

Buildings

The body behind me was just that - a body. It had stopped being a person about twenty minutes ago. Three days prior, I would've been rumagging through its pockets, picking out whatever money was in there, but now after the explosions leveled the country, killing millions - money seemed kinda moot.

Maybe I should get it, just in case.

Another explosion. The ground shook, once from the detonation, again from the building's collapse.

Wish I had some cake right about now.

Lonely Beneath the Bridge

Walking through the garden.
The flowers smell so sweet,
The rain was kind to them
Over the summer.

Strolling across the bridge,
A voice howled underneath.
"Come play with me."
"Are you mad?"
I said. "Are you
Lost in the drift?"

It was lonely,
It was frightened,
And it was below the bridge.

Too Soon

Have been slowed down by a string of deaths lately, most notably the wonderful artist Mike Wieringo. He was a kind man, with a magical ability to put his imagination on paper. He was 44 - died of a heart attack.

R.I.P. Mike Wieringo.

Currently Reading

If I wrote a book about pool:

How I spend my vacation...

Or...How David payed for college (Volume 3).

Discovery of Middle Asia Cities Recasts Ancient History

New discoveries at dig sites in Middle Asia are rocking the archeological world and redefining the origins of modern civilization.

Note to Self...

Start investing in adult diapers. Less bathroom breaks, the more work you get done.

Woo-Hoo

Boyfriend dancing, singing woo-whoo, while strutting the rhythms of a funky chicken.

He lost a bet with his girlfriend.

Random Thoughts

- If I walk across this room, will I have just aged twenty feet?

- If they can tint a car's window, can't they just tint the Earth's perimeter?

- That is one ugly child.

- Just because your baby is mesmerised by a computer does not mean it will be a technical wizard. Just because it smiles when a camera goes off does not mean they will be a model or a photographer.

If I were to take a pile of crap, poor glitter all over it, and bounce light off of it, I'm pretty sure the child would emit the same reaction as it would to a computer or a camera.

Maybe, just maybe, your kid likes really shiny, bright shit.

2 Shrews, 2 Frogs, A Rodent, and A Bat Walk Into The Existence Bar...

In a once-lost forest in Africa, six animal species new to science have been discovered, members of a two-month expedition now reveal, including a bat, a rodent, two shrews and two frogs.

Tombstones By the Lake

Trevor dislikes it when people say we, and they expect him to be involved in that we. There are very few people he has ever believed in we, and for one reason or another, he has broken up with most of them.

Then there was tonight. It was another night out with Shrill, but Shrill had past his liquor limit long before calling Trevor. Trevor had been ready - he had movies ready to watch back home.

Driving back, Trevor lit up a cigarette. It took him 3 months to finish one pack. He wasn't a chain smoker, or a even a frequent one. It was usually a spontaneous thing. Sometimes he used it just a reason to cruise around.

Once, near Mexico, Trevor found two unmarked tombstomes beneath a tree near a lake. It made him crave a cigarette for the first time in twelve years. He'll never tell which lake. One day he wants to go back there and smoke a cigarette. He wants it to still be there - alone, undisturbed - he is afraid once he tells someone where it is exactly, it will disappear.

Rubber Food

I have just consumed pieces of a turkey built like an ostrich that seems to have attempted an escape from its executioners by donning a rubber wetsuit and diving into the ocean. It must have not been unaware of its incapablity to swim. And when the stalkers finally fished it out, they decided to cook it in the wet suit.

I took one bight and my jaw recoiled nearly locking itself. I'd walk around like a poor soul that had just seen his grandmother in a bukkake film with midgets, zebras, and their former wrestling coach.

Meat inside was salvagble. Seriously, the thing's leg was the sive of my forearm.

China tells living Buddhas to obtain permission before they reincarnate.

The ban is included in new rules intended to assert Beijing’s authority over Tibet’s restive and deeply Buddhist people.

Help Me

A young, don't-know-better called me a genious this morning. I made them gag on their own fingers.

I don't respond to complements very well.

Something Else

What is your vision? Sometimes, being a Gemini, I feel damned, but damned for what? What is your vision?

The beauty of the net: Pieces of my mind, thought, beliefs; they are everywhere. There is no more mainstream. The net is the mainstream. Once it's on the web, it's no longer underground. Everything we do, we say; every act that is commited - beastiality, murder, taboo sex, porno, shooting heroine in our eyelids - nothing is sacred, and very little remains taboo, if anything.

I frighten people. I didn't realise it until last night when I was standing in the grocery line. A gigantic white boy, waiting with his lover took one look at me and said GAWD DAMN!! That boy's big.

I never thought myself to be a large individual, but when regulars at the gym start looking at you, and their retinas begin to protrude past their facial lids - you know you're big. You know you're a freak, you know you are something else. I don't care if I'm something special. Fuck special. I'd rather be something Else.

Fried Lizard

Awakening was acrid on the eyes, while it wasn't until the morning struck his pupils that Phillip realised the sheer awfulness of a day beginning.

He reached for the stand to grab his cigarettes, gingerly avoiding the wall, even in his vomitous state. He touched the fried lizard embedded into the wall to turn on the lamp the previous night, and had no intentions of grazing his flesh against its burnt pungent scales again. He felt the box, grabbed a smoke, and lit up.

Phillip hobbled to the bathroom, again picking where he touched quite carefully. He brushed his teeth amongst the exploded entrails of thousands of smashed insects, arachnids, and other species of prickling vermin.

He spit, rinsed, and continued huffing on the nicotine stick as if it were the only true breakfast of champions.

Back in the bed, he wanted to catch more sleep, but smoking woke him up to the fullest. He soon found himself in the mood for breakfast. If he had judged the food in this motel by the black abyss consuming the pit that was supposed to have water fr a swimming pool, he was better off eating the fried lizard.

Does It Spit Acid Too?

Acquired a new phone today. there are people willing to give me money, and in order for them to obtain me and my head of useless knowledge, and sometimes helpful if only charming anecdotes, there must be a portable voice message system where they can tell the available digital space that they are willing to give me money.

What? Talk to them? You're funny.

While waiting for the silver substance, which honest to god, I've swallowed pills larger than this thing, and probably for less harmful diseases than I'll get because of this phone - but walking in, waiting, one would think I was either buying a plane ticket or some righteously impressive heroine in England. Truly and odd experience on both counts.

My clothes do not match my brain, though they are patterened after my "bomb my house, I don't care" philosophy, which rides parallel with my "speak to me, I obliterate your sanity" ideology. The hostess - there's a bloody hostess for a phone shop - she took one look at me, her eyes said he can't afford us, he shouldn't be here, while my eyes responded with, not today - I know twelve ways to paralyze you, where you are standing, using only the pen in my pocket, and I'm quickly working on number thirteen. Maybe it was my smile that calmed her down.

Everything else went smoothly, though nowadays one cannot get just a phone. It has to be a portable entertainment unit that fits inside your pocket, otherwise the normals in society will label you inhumane; as one fitting to be cast back to the stone age to be sodomized by giant lizards despite giant lizards they are thinking of never existing in the stone age.

But gee my phone is pretty.

More Research

The last song to ever make me wet myself in fright. Skinny Puppy's "The Killing Game" grabbed my heart, stretching its harmonized, vibrating tentacles through my arteries, splitting to my brain and testicles. The ascending appendages squeezed my eyes, forcing out tears as it stunned the frontal portions of my brain - this song knows where fear is created - and I cried while the descending half slapped my bladder until there was nothing left but bile the leftover from the edible chum that sticks to the sides of the intestine.

After, I could never walk past a keyboard without urinating until I bled, and puking until my retinas burned with such ferocity I was driven to splash my face with the coolest liquid nearby, often times toilet water, shouting, "I am not immune! Can't you see?! I am not immune!!" in between the rounds of heaving food chunks.