there should be an alternate killing spree ending to revenge of the nerds
louis skull-nick.
(Source: oldtobegin)
6-word short stories
For sale: baby shoes, never worn.
Ernest Hemingway
Machine. Unexpectedly, I’d invented a time
Alan Moore
Lie detector eyeglasses perfected: Civilization collapses.
Richard Powers
The baby’s blood type? Human, mostly.
Orson Scott Card
Longed for him. Got him. Shit.
Margaret Atwood
Epitaph: Foolish humans, never escaped Earth.
Vernor Vinge
(Source: cinderellainrubbershoes, via useonceanddestroy)
she remained bent at the knees, trying to absorb his raw presence, the wiry body and drawn look. what an epic force he must have seemed to her, taking shape in her kitchen this way, a parent, a father with all the grist of years on him, the whole dense history of associations and connections, come to remind her who she was, to remove her disguise, grab hold of her maundering life for a time, without warning. -white noise
the slowest drink at the saddest bar on the snowiest day in the greatest city.
deer bouquet
…behold, my thigh.
for you, dad: all goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, and to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.
fuckity fuck fuck fuck
hey insomnia, can i go to bed now? :’/
saturday night; feverish
in bed:
eat instant mashed potatoes.
watch twin peaks.
eat 3/4 bag of popcorn.
floss and brush teeth.
watch our town.
cry and cry and cry.
give self a headache.
get text that two fat ladies is on tv.
move to couch:
watch two fat ladies.
laugh til you cry.
read two fat ladies wiki.
get hungry.
finish popcorn.
polish off bag of pretzels.
eat bowl of rice.
brush teeth.
back in bed:
get called out by friend for playing words with friends on saturday night.
point out irony of this.
still feel like a loser.
horizontal.
eye closed.
awake.
addendum:
refrained from taking hydrocodone.
had work sunday am.
made it.
matter of fact.
you’re on a mantle,
you’re in a jar,
the point is,
you’re not here anymore.
and the colder it gets
the farther you float away.
every day it’s like
someone tore out my guts
and laid them out on a table.
splayed,
displayed,
totally fucked.
i bleed out from every pore;
on the train,
i carry my entrails as i exit,
gather them up in my arms,
“stand clear of the closing doors.”
you are. no more.
my veins are slit
i’m losing you in rivulets; in rivers and streams.
lakes of you are disappearing.
sticky, coagulating all over my desk.
no work gets done.
red sheets in my bed
bleach cannot clean it.
you’re in a box,
you’re hanging from the wall,
you’re this pain in my head,
the point is,
you’re dead.
