write me, my dog (writememydog) wrote,
write me, my dog
writememydog

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Reality hates me. Reality fuckin' hates me. I suppose it wouldn't seem that way if I believed in coincedences, but all these warped twists on the fabric of everything going on around me--seemingly based on things that I think of--is leading me to the conclusion that reality fucking HATES me and wants me to kill a monkey in my insane stupor.
Fuckin monkeys. All I need is a handgun, some gas money, an Atlas, and Pringles and I'm set.
Note to self: Next time, kill the 21 year old monkey who tends to fall for minors BEFORE he develops something for the girl you've still got a major feeling or two for.
Fuckin Pringles and an Atlas. Screw the gun. I'll run him over where he lives (in front of the monitor). No gas money? Fuck, I'll just set him on fire with this not-so-spankin-new "Crow" Zippo and a can of spray paint. I'll walk. trek across the face of mother earth with a bag full of spray paint and Pringles. Like Kane in "Kung Fu." only less peaceful and with Pringles and an Atlas.
Fucking monkeys. Fucking self-promoting, self-absorbed, John Hughes watchin' mother fuckin monkeys.
Reality hates me.

For some reason, I have a fascination with James Dean. Not an obsession--I wouldn't fuck him--just a fascination--I might pay money to watch someone fuck him.

I need to buy me some goddamned Pringles. I'll go to Kroger and make Mr. Evil bag it for me (and pass him some cyanide pills on the way out the door. or maybe get him to push the cart full of nothing but Pringles out to my car and then throw him in the trunk and kidnap him. He can watch my back while I'm setting that goddamned monkey on fire and then kicking Reality in the balls and then bashing Irony's head in with a bat. I think this expands beyond the point allowed in parenthesis).

Maybe my skewed sense of reality has something to do with my sleep scedule. As in, I don't have a fucking sleep scedule. I never fucking sleep. And when I do, its at weird times in eird increment at weird moments. Often, I forget if what I'm remembering really happened or if its a dream. Each day merges into the next and I have no sense of time. Nothing is real. Nothing matters. Its either like a heightened sense of awareness or LSD. Things all melt into your vision and stuff happens just because you thought about it.
It has its high points.
But all in all, insomnia is a desease. You lay awake in your bed with a pillow, pretending its the girl you like and fantisizing that she's come back to you after all that bullshit she put you through, and thinking of how you're going to kill that goddamned monkey on your back and you CANNOT SHUT YOUR EYES. It hurts. It hurts worse the next day when you have to work.
I really do want to sleep. you'd never think so, considering how I'm almost always on the computer, but the way I see it, if I'm not fighting to keep my eyes open, why bother trying to close them? Waiting is wasteful, anyway. I got things I could be doing instead of waiting for the sleep that won't come for three or four days, anyway.
Things like typing this.
Someone kill me.
But hey. That's okay. That's life; It bites off your balls, spits them in your eyes, and then tells you about the millions of pirahnas that raped your mother AND your father and then ate them both.

Am I the only person on Earth that thinks anime girls are really really sexy?
That might have something to do, tho, with the anime girl I actually dated, tho. The one before the girl I dated that only looked like an anime girl.

If I ever got a tumor in the brain, I think I would name it Malthy.

JEsus CHRIST. REALITY IS TWISTING AGAIN. I was JUST thinking about typing the letter "y" when all of a sudden, I USED IT IN "MALTHY!"
AAAAAAAIIIIIIIIEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Fuck you, Reality! Fuck you in your big swollen asshole!!!

Always yours,
Mr. Danger
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