Tuesday, November 6, 2018

Economy Music - Highenergytechobasetomovethehumanrace

Friday, October 26, 2018

Layers, like Onions

        Professor Murphy was proselytizing the ethical and political significance of the movie Shrek to a lecture hall packed with students. Today's lesson focused on examining Shrek's individualist anarchism as an implicit response to the totalitarianism and bigotry of Lord Farquaad's kingdom. The course, Social and Political Thought of Shrek, was one of the most popular in the philosophy program at Swarthmore College, owing not only to the ironic appreciation of the movies by the students but to the charismatic and engaging deliverance of its content by the lecturer.
        Edwin Murphy was the youngest full professor in the entirety of Swarthmore's faculty, attaining tenure at only 31, an impressive accomplishment resulting primarily from the popularity of his creative and unique lectures, which he posted on YouTube, each receiving up to hundreds of thousands of views. He was an occasional guest on pundit shows like Real Time with Bill Maher and he had written two books and published numerous papers on the subjects of social, political, and moral philosophy, with a focus on modern cultural and technological trends. His paper, "Memes and Morals: Political Implications of a Post-ironic Society," received an honorable mention for the 2017 Kavka/UCI Prize, an award given by the American Philosophical Association for outstanding achievement in political theory.
        The lecture concluded and the students began to file out, chatting amongst themselves about the subject matter discussed over the previous two hours. Professor Murphy was always confident that his lectures were not only engaging and informative, but also enjoyable, as evidenced by the positive reactions of his pupils, some of whom called out their thanks as they departed the lecture hall. So when he noticed one student taking longer than the others to pack up, occasionally glancing up at him as he unplugged his laptop from the projector, he correctly recognized it as a deliberate attempt at pursuing a moment of his time.
        She was wearing a grey turtleneck sweater, an olive and beige tartan skirt, and a dark blue beret, attire appropriate for the brisk autumn climate and a typical cliché uniform for a philosophy major at the small, liberal arts college. Under her left arm she held a Mac laptop in a purple hardshell case tucked close against her breast, and as she approached the professor's dais she used her free hand to push a pair of round, tortoise shell glasses up the bridge of her nose. The professor noted that she acted with an air of confidence and maturity unusual for an undergraduate student approaching a distinguished professor and he attributed this to her attractiveness and, he surmised, her intelligence, as he too possessed both of these qualities and utilized these gifts to his advantage.
        "Excuse me, Professor Murphy," she began, as these encounters usually did. She had a few questions about the lecture and he was happy to answer them. As they spoke, he was surprised by the breadth of her understanding of some of the more complex philosophical concerns brought up during the class, as well as her ability to reference the theories of other philosophers and apply them to his lesson. He was surprised that he had never noticed her in his class before, as someone of her exceptional intellect (and looks) surely would have caught his attention on a previous occasion. But while he ruminated on her mystery the conversation began to shift, and before he knew it they were discussing their shared appreciation for mid-century modern art, and then they discussed a recent exhibit on Constructivism at the Philadelphia Institute of Contemporary Art, and then all of the sudden she was asking him to dinner, and he was accepting her proposal and making plans to pick her up in the staff parking lot after his next lecture was finished.
        Later that evening, as they dined at a nearby gastropub (he had the blackened tuna, she had the house salad with balsamic vinaigrette) the professor continued to find himself surprised by how natural and engrossing their conversation was. He wasn't used to this level of discussion with a student, let alone the subject of a potential romantic encounter (for this is what he found himself considering more and more frequently as the night went on) and he realized that there was very little keeping him from viewing Danielle (her name) to be his equal, as she clearly possessed the same gifted intelligence and communicatory ability as him.
        After paying the check he realized that he had reached the point in the evening where he would have to decide whether or not to invite her back to his house, and he weighed the ethical and professional implications if he were to do so. A philosopher through-and-through, he examined the possibility from a classical utilitarian perspective and determined that there were no negative ethical transgressions from doing so since neither party would be adversely affected or harmed by it, and he felt that, other than potential social backlash in the event their tryst became public, there were no actual professional ramifications that could occur so long as he did not participate in any of Danielle's evaluations, and he felt confident that his tenure would ultimately protect him should any issues inadvertently arise. But before he could ask her if she wanted to come back to his for a nightcap, she asked him, and he said yes.
        They had already drank an entire bottle of pinot noir so he suggested they walk, his cottage house only a 10-minute walk away, about halfway between the restaurant and the campus. They left the car in the parking lot and set off into the labyrinth of winding, dimly lit roads that made up the suburban Pennsylvania township. A few minutes into their evening stroll, Professor Murphy took in a breath of the cool, night air, and cast a satisfied look around the quiet neighborhood. Behind them, a little ways back, he spotted a car idling in the road, facing towards them with the headlights off. They didn't pass the car so he realized it must have been driving behind them. As they rounded a corner, he heard the sound of tires crunching on gravel and looked back again to see the car slowly drifting in their direction.
        The car's presence unnerved him, but he knew that he was just being paranoid, his moral apprehensions about the coming encounter between him and his pupil manifesting in coincidence. Nevertheless as they trudged on, he would occasionally check back to see if the car was still there, and there it was, trailing them at a distance but mirroring each turn they took deeper into the maze of knotted streets. After the third or fourth turn, he decided it was worth mentioning, although he still felt convinced there was a perfectly logical explanation, perhaps a lost out-of-towner with a dead phone battery.
        "That car is following us," he said.
        "What?" She followed the direction of his gaze. "Why would a car be following us?"
        "I don't know."
        "So if there's no reason to follow us, I guess we aren't being followed." She smiled and wrapped her arm around his, clutching it close to her chest in the same way she had with her laptop, and he realized that she truly valued the relationship that was beginning to form.
        He forgot about the car.

        Professor Murphy stoked the fire while Danielle poured them each another glass of muscat. They sat together on the couch, watching the fire while discussing their favorite poets (his, Baudelaire--hers, Coleridge) and listening to an Antônio Carlos Jobim album on vinyl. Later, when the night seemed poised to culminate, the professor stood up and moved to the window to draw the curtains shut. He stopped suddenly and stared out into the dark abyss.
        "There's somebody there," he said.
        "What?" she replied from the couch.
        "There's somebody standing outside my house. He's looking at me."
        She got up from the crouch and crossed the room. "I don't see anybody."
        "There. Right there. Next to the tree." He pointed towards the shadowy spectre of a willow oak across the street.
        "It's so dark. How can you tell?"
        "Trust me, I can tell. There's somebody there."
        "So what?" She placed a hand on Professor Murphy's shoulder and drew the curtain across with the other. "It doesn't matter."
        "It does matter!" he exclaimed, yanking the curtain back open, searching for the figure, but seeing nothing. "Where did he go?"
        "Where did who go?"
        "The person who was just standing there! He was just there a second ago!"
        "Are you all right, Edwin?"
        He turned to face her and they met each other's eyes. They stared at each other, and she glanced down at his mouth, and he looked at hers, and they leaned into each other, and their lips met, and he wrapped his arms around her and brought her in close to him, and he heard the quiet whirring of a servomotor, like a camera adjusting focus.
        Professor Murphy leaned back suddenly, his hands on each of her shoulders.
        "Is something wrong?" she asked.
        He stared at her.
        "What's wrong with your eye?"
        "Your eye. What the hell is wrong with your eye?"
        He pointed his finger at Danielle's right eye, the iris of which was spinning rapidly.
        "What the fuck is going on?!" he cried, backing away from Danielle.
        "Nothing!" She stepped closer to him, her iris spinning faster and the mechanical whirring getting louder.
        The professor, panicking, backed into the corner of the room, yelling at her in confusion, and her pleas for calm were drowned out by the sound coming from her eye, and sparks began to shoot out from her eye, and smoke began to seep out from under her eyelid, and all of the sudden with a loud pop and a puff of smoke and sparks the eye exploded and the lens of her glasses shattered, projecting shards of glass towards the professor, who held up his arms to protect himself, and Danielle collapsed to her knees and fell forward onto Professor Murphy's feet, and he lifted his foot to shake her off of him, and she fell onto her back and stared up at the ceiling, her mouth opening and closing rhythmically but not making a sound, faint wisps of smoke emanating from her eye socket, where a red, yellow, and blue wire, the ends frayed and burnt, poked out from a circuit board located just behind the front part of her skull. The synthetic, plastic-looking skin on most of the right side of her face was black and melted.
        Professor Murphy stood in shock, mouth open, for a good minute or so before snapping out of it. He didn't know what else to do, so he ran for his cell phone, charging on the kitchen counter, and dialed 9-1-1.
        "9-1-1, where is your emergency?"
        "134 Rutgers Avenue."
        "What's the nature of the emergency?"
        "I-- I don't know. There's a young woman who... I thought she was a woman. I don't know what she is. I think she's..."
        "I'm sorry. I've made a mistake." He hung up and tossed the phone down on the kitchen table.
        Through the kitchen's entryway he could see Danielle's legs poking out on the far side of the couch. Questions swirled in the professor's head. He was finding it difficult to comprehend the events that had just transpired, let alone formulate any possible actions that he could take next. Moving cautiously, he re-entered the living room and sat in an armchair across the room from where Danielle's body lay. Her mouth was still moving up and down but had slowed now to the point where each movement took several seconds to complete.
        A car door slammed outside. Professor Murphy jumped up and rushed to the window, carefully peeling back the curtain and scanning the darkness frantically for the source of the sound. He heard footsteps and his heart raced, and as the footsteps grew closer his heart raced faster and he gripped the curtain more tightly until the point where it almost tore from the rod, when one of the seven officers of the Swarthmore Borough Police Department stepped into the area illuminated by the porch light and knocked on the door.
        Professor Murphy grabbed a throw blanket off the arm of the sofa and hurriedly threw it over the body. The officer knocked again, louder this time. He took a few deep breaths to try to calm himself down before opening the door.
        "Good evening, sir. We had a call from this address."
        "Y--yes," stammered the professor, "I called, but everything is fine now. I made a mistake. I'm sorry to waste your time."
        He started to shut the door but the officer put his hand up to stop it.
        "Sir, is there anybody else here with you?"
        "No, just me. It's just me. There's nobody else here. I'm on my own." He smiled, his eyes looking anywhere except at the police officer.
        "Do you mind if I have a quick look around?"
        "Well, actually--"
        The officer stepped forward, pushing past the professor and turning into the living room.
        "Excuse me, I didn't say--"
        The officer stopped and stared at where the body lay.
        "Please, I can explain, I'm being watched by somebody, they followed us home," the professor began as the officer yanked back the blanket, revealing a hyperrealistic full-size, Japanese sex doll dressed in a grey turtleneck sweater, an olive and beige tartan skirt, a dark blue beret, and broken tortoise shell glasses, with one of its eyes missing.
        The officer and the professor stared at the doll in silence.
        "I don't understand..."
        The officer turned to face him.
        "Sir, have you been drinking tonight?"
        "I... Well, yes, I--"
        "Are you aware that misuse of the 9-1-1 system is a first degree misdemeanor in the state of Pennsylvania?"
        "No, sir."
        The officer narrowed his eyes.
        "You're a professor at the college, aren't you?"
        "Yes, sir," he admitted, reluctantly.
        The officer shook his head. "I don't want to have to come back out here again."
        The professor swallowed nervously and nodded. The officer cast one final look around the living room before making his way towards the door. As he reached for the knob, he stopped and looked back at the professor with a look of apprehension, opened his mouth slightly as if preparing to speak, but seemed to change his mind and walked out the front door, leaving the professor alone with the disfigured fuck doll.
        He stared at the door considering the events that just occurred when he heard another knock at the door. Fearing that the officer had returned to further reprimand him, he opened the door slowly, but it wasn't the officer he found standing on his front porch. It was Shrek.
        It wasn't a person dressed as Shrek or a person in a Shrek costume. It wasn't a CGI movie character somehow transposed into reality. It was Shrek, a real, live, green, seven foot tall, 250 pound ogre, wearing a white long-sleeve tunic and a brown vest, olive and beige tartan pants, and dark brown boots.
        "Good evening, professor," said Shrek.
        It was too much for Professor Murphy. He fell to his knees before Shrek, sobbing hysterically and swaying from side to side, pulling at his hair and pounding his fists against his head.
        Shrek stepped across the threshold and placed a meaty, green hand on the professor's shoulder. "What's the matter, professor?"
        Professor Murphy looked up at the mythical monster towering over him, blinked, and then resumed his temper tantrum.
        "Professor, please," implored Shrek, "I need your help."
        The professor coughed and gasped for oxygen. "My help?" The professor grabbed the bottom of Shrek's tunic. "You need my help?!" he screamed.
        "I need to borrow $60," said Shrek.
        The professor stared at Shrek. "This can't be real. This has to be a dream. I must be dreaming. In any second I'll wake up and I'll be in my bed. This is impossible. This is beyond possibility. You're not real. You're a fictional character from a children's movie. Either this isn't real, or I've lost my mind and I'm suffering from paranoid delusions. Yes, that has to be it. I must have experienced some sort of schizophrenic episode. That explains the girl, and being followed, and you. I've lost my mind. I've gone insane."
        Shrek grabbed Professor Murphy by the arms and lifted him up. "Are you done now? I need you to give me $60 so I can get back to my swamp."
        "Your swamp?"
        "Yes, my swamp. I need $60. I have to get three trains to get to Pawling."
        "Yes, Pawling," said Shrek, growing impatient. "It's where my swamp is. Pawling. It's in the Hudson Valley. New York. You know where New York is?"
        "Yes," said the professor, "of course I know where New York is."
        "So you know how long it's going to take me to get back to my swamp, and it's already almost midnight. Now give me $60."
        Professor Murphy slowly dug out his wallet and produced three $20 bills. Shrek snatched them out of his hand and made his way towards the door.
        "Wait!" called out the professor. "I don't understand. Why are you here? Have you been watching me? Do you have anything to do with her?" He pointed at the body.
        Shrek looked into the living room and then back at Professor Murphy.
        "Did you know," said Shrek, "that they originally cast Chris Farley to play me but he died of a cocaine overdose before the movie was finished? He had recorded almost all of the dialogue and they had to start all over with Mike Myers."
        "Listen," said the professor, "let's say that this is real. You're the real Shrek. Let's say that everything that happened to me tonight actually happened to me. I-- I would no longer have any kind of perception of reality. How could I continue to live my life when everything I know, the laws of the universe, the rules that govern what is real and what isn't, I now know to be false? If Shrek is real, then is God real? Am I real? I don't know how I can go back to my normal life without having any solid ground to formulate a worldview on. I would doubt everything I saw, everything I sensed, everything I thought I knew. How can I go on?"
Shrek smiled. "One day at a time, little donkey." And with that, he walked out the door.

        The next day, Professor Murphy got up and collected his car from the parking lot of the restaurant he had eaten at the night before. He put Danielle in the back seat, drove to the woods behind the college, and dumped the body in Crum Creek. He got breakfast from Dunkin' Donuts and ate it in his office. He looked through the student rolls but there wasn't a single student at the school with the name Danielle. He went to his classes and lectures.
        The first time he returned to teach the class on Shrek was difficult and he stumbled through the lecture, but each time after that became progressively easier, and eventually he was back to his old self again. Occasionally he thought about what had happened but for the most part he was able to live his life the way it had been before. He pretended it was a nightmare and so that is what it became. He wrote more papers, and more books, and eventually he moved to New York City to take the post of Sidney Morgenbesser Professor of Philosophy at Columbia University, and he married a bassoonist in the New York Philharmonic. He had two children. He lived to be 79 years old. And then he died.

Thursday, July 26, 2018

Walk of Fame/Celebrity Exclusive

There is no worse hell than fame
Where everybody knows your name
Your life is just another thing to read about
in the section between politics and sports.

To be famous is to have contracted reverse leprosy
People are drawn to you for no discernible reason
They chase after you, screaming out your name
and they shoot you in the chest for not wanting to accept their gift,
a shoe box filled with their pubic hair.

Imagine that you are famous
Beloved by all and immensely talented
in the field of your choosing,
and everywhere you go people stop you and say,
"Hey! You're (Your Own Name). Did you know that?"

You smile and you nod and and admit it,
you are, in fact, yourself. They scream with glee
They ask if they can take a photo with you
Or, if you can shake their hand
Or, if you can write your name on something
Some of them will savor the memento,
others will sell them on the Internet.

This happens constantly.
You cannot go out in public
without hordes of people chasing you,
fighting with your personal security
for a chance to grab a piece of your skin
or massage the grease from your hair onto their fingertips.

If this was your life
would it make you happy
or would it make you sad?

Hollywood Boulevard
Los Angeles, California
Your name is being trampled
beneath the feet of thousands daily.

Would it make you happy
or would it make you sad
to know that you will be remembered throughout history,
not for who you really were, but as a character,
all of your actions and achievements
condensed down into a sentence or two.

They say fame is fleeting
But if you have a Wikipedia page
you will be famous forever.
Fingers crossed that you do enough before you die
to be anything more than a stub article
flagged for deletion or merger
with the page of someone or something
that is more famous than you.

I have decided
I want to be famous
I want to be hated
I want to be famous for being hated
I want to be the most hated man in America
Fuck you.


Blinded by photographers, you veer blindly off an escarpment, careening through a guard rail and scattering aluminum debris across the roadway. Vespa-mounted paparazzi collide into each other to avoid running into the jagged metal spikes left in your wake.

But by now, you are already rolling down the hill, surely dead by this point. Your body is smacked around the interior of the limousine like a rag doll. You are sucked violently out of the broken rear window and sent flying, only to land softly in a patch of cacti and poison oak.

As the dust settles, one photographer remains standing at the top of the hill. His video camera is pointed steadily at the smoldering wreckage and your mangled corpse. He is covered in ash and soot and he has twisted his ankle from jumping out of a moving car that was headed for a head-on collision with a semi-trailer in the opposite lane.

He will be paid handsomely for this footage. He will probably make enough money to take a break for a while and focus on his artistic photography. Maybe, one day, he will become a famous photographer like Ansel Adams or Terry Richardson. Maybe, one day, he will be lucky enough to have people want to take his picture.

Maybe he will be the greatest photographer of all time, his art inspiring peace across the globe to the point where he is worshiped as a God, and you will be remembered as the celebrity whose death, although tragic, is celebrated for giving rise to such an incredible genius.

Or, instead of that, maybe he will take the money he made off the footage of your death and lose it over a three-day blowout in Las Vegas with his best friends, and when he wakes up at the end of it all, with his hair stuck to the bathroom floor of his penthouse Bellagio suite, the room he spent your money on, he'll pour out the very last drops of vodka into a glass, raise it, and toast your life, and your death.

Wednesday, June 6, 2018

My Condition

About two years ago something happened and ever since then my life hasn't been the same. I'm not sure exactly what caused it. The changes weren't sudden, they were gradual, and it wasn't until a few months in that I really started to notice the full effects. Eventually, however, I became aware that, over time, I had started defecating constantly, way more than the average person, anyway.

I would wake up, have a shit, go to work, have a shit, eat lunch, have a shit, etc. On average, I was shitting about 10 times a day. As an experiment, I went a full two days without eating a single bite of food,  but if anything, this only made me shit more. I went to the doctor but I got the feeling he didn't think my problem was very serious. He told me that my digestive system probably just worked differently and that I should just get used to it. How dare he trivialize my condition? I'm sure he wouldn't be so nonchalant about it if shit was coming out of his ass ten-plus times a day.

I tried taking my doctor's advice but after a year of non-stop shitting I really started getting frustrated. I decided I had to solve this mystery once and for all. For a month, I recorded every minute detail of my life. I made a spreadsheet and documented everything I did, where I went, who I spoke to, etc. Then I spent another week analyzing the data and looking for patterns. But in the end, everything seemed normal, apart from the shits.

It was only after I desperately made a post about it on Yahoo Answers that I finally had a light bulb moment. Most of the people replying to my post didn't provide any useful information, but one person trying to be funny wrote, "Do you pee normal or is that weird too?" At first I thought that, no, I still pissed at a regular frequency, but when I looked at the data I had gathered, I was a little confused.

I drink a lot of water, and I mean a lot of water. It's the only liquid I consume, really. I drink maybe 20 or 30 cups a day. My pee is so clear that I don't even have to flush. But the pissing data didn't seem to reflect that. I was only really peeing once or twice a day max. So I decided to stop drinking altogether to see what would happen and boy, oh boy, could you imagine my surprise when I suddenly stopped shitting?

When I switched the experiment and went a day without eating—you guessed it—I stopped pissing. I made a appointment with my doctor and was overjoyed to bring him the news of my discovery, but he didn't believe me! He said there was no physical way for my urinary and fecal functions to swap, no matter what my data said. I argued and I pleaded but his opinion wouldn't budge.

That was almost half a year ago now, and I've spent all that time trying to figure out another solution, but I haven't had any ideas. The only thing I can think of doing to end all of this frustration is to kill myself, so tomorrow I'm going to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge. Then I will never have to worry about piss or shit ever again.

Monday, May 28, 2018

A Letter to the Woman I've Always Loved

Dear Trudy,

I've been thinking lately about how you can only remember other people as they were the last time you saw them. For some reason the human brain seems incapable of storing more than one memory of a person's physical appearance and constantly overwrites the previous memory when you see that person.

Even though you've had various "phases" throughout your life and your appearance (hairstyle, clothing, etc.) changed as often as each week, I can still only remember you as how you looked eight years ago, the last time I saw you, when you were dressed like a French mime and you had just had surgery done to make your lips much bigger.

When I was a kid I was obsessed with the concept of brainwashing. In school, I read The Manchurian Candidate and it made me afraid that maybe I had been brainwashed but I didn't know it. I thought that maybe my mind had been erased. How do you know if your mind has been erased? There's no way of knowing if your mind has been erased. It kept me up at night.

But now I know that my mind has been erased, because I can only remember you dressed like a French mime with freakishly plump lips even though I have photos to prove you once went through a punk phase, a hippie phase, a police officer phase, a businesswoman phase, a prostitute phase, a baby phase, and a Nazi phase, to name a few. But lacking physical evidence, my mind is only able to conjure up the image of you wearing a black-and-white striped shirt and a black beret, your face painted white, screaming at me about something, presumably, but I couldn't understand what you were saying because you weren't making a sound.

People only ever remember TV quality in HD because we see the world in HD. People think that before the 1950s the world was colorless, and hundreds of years ago, everybody was made out of paint, or marble, or clay, or whatever. When we met for the first time, the world, as I remember it, was the same color and tone as the depressing, hazy sepia filter of movies made in the '90s, like Se7en or Fight Club, but that's only because those movies were made around that time. While looking through an old photo album, I was reminded that at that time in our lives you were going through your Italian phase, and on that day you had on a chef's hat and jacket and a false mustache.

I was 55 and you were 26. I asked you if you came to that particular bar often, and you said, "Welcome to Umberto's Italian Ristorante, can I take-a you order, signorrreeee?" I was instantly overcome with a sense of sexual arousal that I had not felt since my wife had passed away sometime earlier that month. I asked you if you were from New York originally or if you moved from somewhere else and you pinched your fingers together and exclaimed, "Wow, that's-a spicy meatball!"

I remember you were initially uninterested in my advances until I told you my name, and you asked if I was a real -------------, and I said yes, and you asked me how, and I said that ------------- is my last name because it's my father's last name, and you asked me if I was a member of the real ------------- Family, the ones who own all those skyscrapers. I said yes, and six months later, we were married.

Against the wishes of our family attorneys, you insisted on not obtaining a prenuptial arrangement, and for the sake of our love, I agreed, which made the divorce process two months later very arduous and painful. I recently rediscovered a newspaper clipping about us and there you were, with an eyepatch and a parrot, flashing a gold tooth at the photographer. You were quoted in the article. "Arr," you said, "I've captured his ships and taken half of his booty, yar!" My father was furious and I was cut off from the family trust.

I know that my mind has been erased because there are large chunks of the next few decades that are a total blank for me. I know that at one point I was in a car accident because I still have the scars, but I don't remember you ramming into the side of my car at full speed in your Hummer, and I certainly don't think you would have tried to strangle my unconscious body with the seatbelt until the paramedics pulled you away, despite what the police or any of the eyewitnesses say, although I do have nightmares about an Egyptian pharaoh trying to strangle me ever since I saw your mugshot photo on TV and saw that you looked like Tutankhamun.

The last time I saw you was eight years ago, a little while after you got out of prison. I came to try to win you back. I told you that I still loved you but I couldn't hear what you said, so I yelled, "You're not a real mime!" and you wrote "Fuck off!" in Sharpie on the hood of the Porsche that I had bought you as an apology gift, before you smashed the mirrors and windows with one of my golf clubs that you, despite never having played golf once in your life, were able to convince the judge belonged to you. I always said you were the most charming woman on the planet and this is just more proof.

I'm worried that soon, all of my mind is going to be gone. I'll be 79 years old soon and I know that they've been brainwashing me or erasing my memory because there's less and less that I remember each day. I've started forgetting darn near everything. It took me weeks to write this letter because I kept forgetting who I am. I've sent you maybe 50 or so letters since the last time I saw you and you haven't replied once, but I'm begging you this time to please, please write me back, or call me, or visit me, if you truly love me like I know you do. I'm afraid that soon my mind will be totally wiped and I won't be able to remember who you are, or who you were, the astronaut, the viking, the zookeeper.


Tuesday, March 27, 2018

Economy Music - "Volume I"

Thursday, January 11, 2018

Derek and I Got Promise Rings

Last weekend, Derek took me to the mall and bought us promise rings. I knew Derek was, like, nice, but I didn't know he was, like, the one. Derek is the nicest, sweetest boy I've ever known and I love him so much. I wear my promise ring all the time; I never take it off.

Last summer, on our first date, Derek taught me how to shoot his dad's AR-15. We've been dating super seriously for, like, almost five months now, so I think it's almost time. Rebecca said if he puts it in my butt, I don't lose my virginity. I think Rebecca is full of shit and just likes it when Jack puts it in her butt.

Rebecca is an ugly fat cow. I hate her. She is poor. One time I went over to Rebecca's house. It smelled like shit. Rebecca's mom made Weight Watchers beef hotpot microwave meals for dinner. Rebecca's mom doesn't have a job, she just smokes cigarettes and meth all day.

Jack said he loved me. Jack bought me a promise ring. Fucking asshole. I told Jack I wanted to wait until marriage because I want to get into heaven. Jack said I was a prude, and the next day he got with Rebecca, that slut. Fuck Jack. Fuck Rebecca. They can both go fuck each other up the ass.

I don't care that Derek was born without half of his head. I don't care that Derek is deaf or blind or retarded. One day Jack and I will be married and have kids and be one big happy family. Rebecca will be addicted to meth and nicotine like her whore of a mother. Jack will probably be dead from crashing his truck while drunk driving, or maybe he'll overdose on Percocet in the bathroom of a Waffle House.

Maybe if Derek and I don't work out, I can move to New York City. My cousin is a model and lives there and said I could move in with her. I could leave this place and these people behind and have a fresh start in a new place. Nobody would even know who I am. I promise if Derek and I break up then I'm out of here, and I'll become a model, rich and famous, and that's a promise that I can keep.