But wait, that's not the point of this post.
I dunno, I sort of wanted to put something like this off for a while. It's hard to accept facts when they insolently stare you down, sprawled out across the folder, squarely placed in your face. So much easier to just close that manila envelope and put it back in the front glove compartment, sort of shove it in there nice and snug, hoping it jams the axles of the lid when you close it up so that it won't ever open again and you won't ever be able to pick up that nightmarish report again. Jesus christ
i cant reakky jkaf shit
i can't realy typ right naow.i mean, i stoppe and all and my hands ar e reeallyl fucking numb and im still but lookjing at this is just, just brings up the question: why? why would you take it all out? not even a sedative, not even a merciful send off before the procedure, just SLAM! onto the machine and he pulled the lever and those spindly little incisors just revved to life and I just WATCHED because my quest is far more important than some low life spic getting torn apart in an iron maiden, right? Good ol' Mike, festering on the scraps of the lowest common denominator and building up an empire of SHIT to anoint himself savior! Just watched him slosh around as those silver-beaked bastards strolled on over to him and rippe dhis body apart, just took hism uscles and poked at and picked on and pulled out and packaged up
Ahahahaha. Wow. I sure do freak out at the strangest times, huh? But no, that isn't a liability I can afford to indulge in at the moment. When I told you folks I couldn't really describe what I saw in there, in my last entry, I omitted a small ounce of truth in my analysis: I wouldn't. Oh, I could, I could affirm with the staunchest sentiments all the descriptions of all the atrocities I...partook in, if that's the right way of articulating my thoughts. Because I didn't do a damn thing, a damn thing besides pick up that manila folder, turn around one hundred and eighty degrees, and stride out of the room while those bird-masked gentlemen delicately detached his throbbing heart, laying the organ into a sterile plastic cover with all the reverence of priests worshiping an idol of their god, chained and shackled before them, mouth agape with the labor of his eternal existence in servitude to his people. But those aren't his people, and they aren't my people.
They're nobodies, which frightens me the most.
I probably won't be coming back from El Paso. If here is where my descent into the lair of the foulest beast begins and summarily ends, consider this post my soliloquy and the few words of text below my epitaph. And Sage, take a shot on me, and then take a shot at all these horrors quashing our spirits. Oh, yeah, epitaphs and all that.
"There ain't a microphone worth bein' checked
But the one that's sufficiently wrecked
So if my sound booth ever goes up in flames
Let it be immortalized, forever warded from rain."
Signin' off, one last time.
SNORE-DE-BLISS, THE STUPENDOUS MENACE, WIELDER OF ALL SENTIMENTS, MASTAH OF THE NICEST PENDANTS