December 12, 2010

I eye I eye I eye I eye

      Some of this information may be disturbing to some viewers.  Viewer discretion is ill-advised, unless you desire to live a crafted life by Danielle Steele or hell, a life with your eyes half open.
      Please buy a barf bag if you must.  Real blood smells alive.  Until it sits out in the oxygen for awhile, then it's putrid.  That's the test of a well written piece.  At first it jumps off the page, it smells like print and it if read aloud it's vibrant.  Let it sit through generations, in a corner of cyberspace, with cyberdust collected all over it, and let it slowly decay in its corner, soon it's as if it never existed.  A putrid smell replaces the book, where in cyberspace, a leaky cyberpipe of acidic fluid drips on the cyberfloor. It's heartbreaking, I know.  It's like euthenasia.  Just because the piece futuristicly stinks, why must it go.  To put a living and breathing, soul bearing heart wrenching ass clenching essay on the Internet and know that the essay will age into a raisin faster than I can type the next word, it's disgusting, frustrating and extremely tiresome.  God only knows I could wear my Grandmother's
knickers if my ass were not so big. (from sitting and writing worthless boobage on the computer).
     Am I an old fuddy duddy?  I've  inappropriate crust at appropriate places, I can't complain.  If I increase the volume of output in a day isn't that medically unhealthy.  I mean if I put out what society asks me to won't I crash?  Can I say early death? Divorce?  Fucked up Kids?  Gangs? Drugs? Guns? Jails, lots of fucking Jails?  
     I'm sorry, come again?  You want to look cool with the new IPad.  "I" out of IPad asshole is the whole idea...

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