I am what I am.
I'm not what I'm not.
I can change what I am.
But is that who I am?
I am what I am.
I will be what I will be.
I will change what I am.
To be who I will be.
Saturday, October 25, 2014
Thursday, October 16, 2014
"Empty Hand"
Every day they are walking
Talking
Loving.
Every day I am sitting
Silent
Brooding.
Together I have been before
Together I will be no more.
"Just you wait"
"Everyone has their person"
Except for me. I have no person.
"It is better to have lost and lost than to have never loved at all"
I am questioning whether this is true
Or if a teenage girl came up with that saying after being dumped at the mall.
I see them interlocking hands
And I sit, alone, thinking
"Grow up," or "Be a man."
I am told
"Be persistent."
"Keep contact."
I try to keep contact and take my turn
But how long can one hold their hand above a stove and not get burned?
I move forward and attempt to restart
But, eventually, someone always finds the hole in my heart.
The hole never closes as it needs
As she finds her way in
And my heart bleeds.
Here I sit with my empty hand
Alone
Numb
And this I cannot stand.
Together they sit with interlocking hands
Together
Laughing
And to them I wish my blessing.
Eventually I must learn to stand
The fact that I will always have an empty hand.
Talking
Loving.
Every day I am sitting
Silent
Brooding.
Together I have been before
Together I will be no more.
"Just you wait"
"Everyone has their person"
Except for me. I have no person.
"It is better to have lost and lost than to have never loved at all"
I am questioning whether this is true
Or if a teenage girl came up with that saying after being dumped at the mall.
I see them interlocking hands
And I sit, alone, thinking
"Grow up," or "Be a man."
I am told
"Be persistent."
"Keep contact."
I try to keep contact and take my turn
But how long can one hold their hand above a stove and not get burned?
I move forward and attempt to restart
But, eventually, someone always finds the hole in my heart.
The hole never closes as it needs
As she finds her way in
And my heart bleeds.
Here I sit with my empty hand
Alone
Numb
And this I cannot stand.
Together they sit with interlocking hands
Together
Laughing
And to them I wish my blessing.
Eventually I must learn to stand
The fact that I will always have an empty hand.
Friday, October 10, 2014
"267"
"Tell me."
"What?"
"Don't play dumb with me, damn it! I know you killed these people! Admit it!"
"Oh my. You seem to be delusional. Don't you see it? In this picture, this woman was clearly killed by a bullet. In this picture, this boy was killed by a rope. In this picture, the dildo, while amusing, is most likely not the--"
"ENOUGH!"
This piece of human trash was disgusting. Two-hundred sixty-seven. That is how many people this...thing had killed. And that was only an estimate. There wasn't proof. There weren't signs. Many of the deaths appeared to be suicides. But Travis knew this was the killer.
Travis and 267 stared at each other across the table. The killer shifted in its seat and made a popping sound with its lips.
"...not the source of his death. It was probably slit wrists, poor thing. I don't even know how---"
"I said ENOUGH, damn it!" Travis erupted.
Oh shit. This wasn't good. After five hours of this, Travis had gotten nowhere. And now he was getting angry. But he only had the criminal for a few more hours. Surely he would get something. Travis had only failed a couple of times in his career, and he was not about to fail now.
"You're making some of the deaths look like suicides. How did you do this one?" Travis pointed to the picture of a dead elderly woman. Her body was found drowned in a tub, but with no signs of struggle.
"I didn't do anything. It was the water. I think we've been over this before, haven't we?" 267 popped its lips again.
Travis hated this beast. At first he thought it was a man due to the way it held itself when it walked, then perhaps a masculine woman because of the high-pitched voice and lipstick and mascara. Now he didn't know what to think. This thing lacked breasts or any masculine or feminine features other than the make-up and masculine posture. It was disturbing to even be around, much less talk to.
267 popped its lips.
Every serial killer he had worked with had a pattern. But not 267. This one killed for seemingly no reason. The only thing Travis had to go on was the fact that most deaths appeared to be suicides. However, somehow, somewhere, a number was written someplace near the crime scene. It was never the same writing, never the same ink or material, but Travis knew it was this thing killing people. The number had started with a one scrawled in blood two months ago above a dead teenager's bed.
The last number was written in toothpaste above an elderly woman's bathtub in immaculate handwriting. It read 267.
"268."
"What?"
267 stared blankly, then smiled widely. It was incredibly unnerving.
"Two. Sixty. Eight."
"You killed another? How? How is that possible? I have had you in here for hours, you're not about to tell me that--"
"What on earth are you talking about? I was only telling you my favorite number. It has a ring to it, don't you agree?" 267 stared directly into Travis' eyes and smiled. And kept smiling.
"There is no time for games. I don't care about your favorite number. I care about lives being taken. By you."
"Twoooo-sixty! Two-sixty eight! Sing it with me! Twoooo hundredddd--"
"Shut up!"
267 smiled.
"...sixty eight."
Travis stared at 267 blankly. 267 popped its lips.
"Do you enjoy this, 267?" Travis asked.
"267? I just said 268. That is my favorite number. You're terrible at math."
"I asked you a question. Now answer it."
"It?"
"The question."
"Why?"
"I am asking the questions here!" Travis yelled.
"Are you?"
"Yes!"
"Those last two things were statements." 267 continued to stare at Travis.
It had been at least five minutes since he...she...it blinked.
Travis thought about tapping out to let his partner interrogate this beast. Maybe Garret could get some information out of it. Travis' wife, Elizabeth, was probably waiting for him outside the questioning room as well. It would be good to see her after looking at...whatever was in front of him for five hours.
It smiled again, this time more widely. The lipstick it wore made its crooked teeth gleam.
"Two. Seventy."
"What are you babbling about now?" Travis asked testily, not happy to be woken from his daydreams of getting out of this hellish room.
Travis heard two muffled screams outside the door. And two thumps.
"Twoooo-seventy! Sing it with me! Twoooo--"
"You bastard!" Travis jumped out of his chair and sprinted out the door.
His partner was out there. His wife was out there. He had to make sure they were okay. This killer could wait. Travis still had a couple hours left, and 267 was restrained in its chair.
Travis ran and searched frantically, finding nothing, nothing, nothing, until...
Two numbers written on the floor side by side.
269. 270.
They were written in different materials and a different style. One was written in a simple ink, but the second number...scrawled in blood. Travis didn't know how, but 267 had killed again. There was no mistake now. Garret was dead. Elizabeth was dead. Dead. Boiling with rage, Travis sprinted back to the room where the murdering beast lied in wait. Travis would have blood. There was no justice for such a creature.
He got to the door.
Elizabeth stood on the chair that 267 had been chained to. She wore a crazed smile and had a horrible, bloody gash on her head. She wore lipstick and mascara.
And she held a gun.
Garret's gun.
"Two. Seventy. One."
Bang.
"What?"
"Don't play dumb with me, damn it! I know you killed these people! Admit it!"
"Oh my. You seem to be delusional. Don't you see it? In this picture, this woman was clearly killed by a bullet. In this picture, this boy was killed by a rope. In this picture, the dildo, while amusing, is most likely not the--"
"ENOUGH!"
This piece of human trash was disgusting. Two-hundred sixty-seven. That is how many people this...thing had killed. And that was only an estimate. There wasn't proof. There weren't signs. Many of the deaths appeared to be suicides. But Travis knew this was the killer.
Travis and 267 stared at each other across the table. The killer shifted in its seat and made a popping sound with its lips.
"...not the source of his death. It was probably slit wrists, poor thing. I don't even know how---"
"I said ENOUGH, damn it!" Travis erupted.
Oh shit. This wasn't good. After five hours of this, Travis had gotten nowhere. And now he was getting angry. But he only had the criminal for a few more hours. Surely he would get something. Travis had only failed a couple of times in his career, and he was not about to fail now.
"You're making some of the deaths look like suicides. How did you do this one?" Travis pointed to the picture of a dead elderly woman. Her body was found drowned in a tub, but with no signs of struggle.
"I didn't do anything. It was the water. I think we've been over this before, haven't we?" 267 popped its lips again.
Travis hated this beast. At first he thought it was a man due to the way it held itself when it walked, then perhaps a masculine woman because of the high-pitched voice and lipstick and mascara. Now he didn't know what to think. This thing lacked breasts or any masculine or feminine features other than the make-up and masculine posture. It was disturbing to even be around, much less talk to.
267 popped its lips.
Every serial killer he had worked with had a pattern. But not 267. This one killed for seemingly no reason. The only thing Travis had to go on was the fact that most deaths appeared to be suicides. However, somehow, somewhere, a number was written someplace near the crime scene. It was never the same writing, never the same ink or material, but Travis knew it was this thing killing people. The number had started with a one scrawled in blood two months ago above a dead teenager's bed.
The last number was written in toothpaste above an elderly woman's bathtub in immaculate handwriting. It read 267.
"268."
"What?"
267 stared blankly, then smiled widely. It was incredibly unnerving.
"Two. Sixty. Eight."
"You killed another? How? How is that possible? I have had you in here for hours, you're not about to tell me that--"
"What on earth are you talking about? I was only telling you my favorite number. It has a ring to it, don't you agree?" 267 stared directly into Travis' eyes and smiled. And kept smiling.
"There is no time for games. I don't care about your favorite number. I care about lives being taken. By you."
"Twoooo-sixty! Two-sixty eight! Sing it with me! Twoooo hundredddd--"
"Shut up!"
267 smiled.
"...sixty eight."
Travis stared at 267 blankly. 267 popped its lips.
"Do you enjoy this, 267?" Travis asked.
"267? I just said 268. That is my favorite number. You're terrible at math."
"I asked you a question. Now answer it."
"It?"
"The question."
"Why?"
"I am asking the questions here!" Travis yelled.
"Are you?"
"Yes!"
"Those last two things were statements." 267 continued to stare at Travis.
It had been at least five minutes since he...she...it blinked.
Travis thought about tapping out to let his partner interrogate this beast. Maybe Garret could get some information out of it. Travis' wife, Elizabeth, was probably waiting for him outside the questioning room as well. It would be good to see her after looking at...whatever was in front of him for five hours.
It smiled again, this time more widely. The lipstick it wore made its crooked teeth gleam.
"Two. Seventy."
"What are you babbling about now?" Travis asked testily, not happy to be woken from his daydreams of getting out of this hellish room.
Travis heard two muffled screams outside the door. And two thumps.
"Twoooo-seventy! Sing it with me! Twoooo--"
"You bastard!" Travis jumped out of his chair and sprinted out the door.
His partner was out there. His wife was out there. He had to make sure they were okay. This killer could wait. Travis still had a couple hours left, and 267 was restrained in its chair.
Travis ran and searched frantically, finding nothing, nothing, nothing, until...
Two numbers written on the floor side by side.
269. 270.
They were written in different materials and a different style. One was written in a simple ink, but the second number...scrawled in blood. Travis didn't know how, but 267 had killed again. There was no mistake now. Garret was dead. Elizabeth was dead. Dead. Boiling with rage, Travis sprinted back to the room where the murdering beast lied in wait. Travis would have blood. There was no justice for such a creature.
He got to the door.
Elizabeth stood on the chair that 267 had been chained to. She wore a crazed smile and had a horrible, bloody gash on her head. She wore lipstick and mascara.
And she held a gun.
Garret's gun.
"Two. Seventy. One."
Bang.
"Drifter"
Entry #56: Drifters
Ah, yes, the Drifter.
One of the many horrors of the world.
The Drifter is believed to be a demon.
The Drifter is unique in the fact that is has no set appearance.
Drifters can appear in the form of a human being, animal, object, anything. They can even be entirely invisible. This is what makes them such terrifying predators.
Drifters can appear in the form of a human being, animal, object, anything. They can even be entirely invisible. This is what makes them such terrifying predators.
It appears everywhere and anywhere, drifting from victim to victim, retaining their genetic code, allowing the drifter to instantly return to past victims at will and sap their very life.
This genetic retention also allows The Drifter to simultaneously attack all victims at once.
Though this entity can appear anywhere and everywhere, it has a tendency to manifest in dreams and inside the human mind.
Perhaps the demon has found that tampering with the mind of men is the surest and quickest way to their fall, and in turn, the quickest and easiest way to the demon's meal.
Because of the fragility of the mind of men, Drifters tend to target those under large portions of stress or with particularly fragile minds.
The most notable and perhaps admirable feature of Drifters is persistence. Should a victim repel the demon, they will almost always drift back, seeking an opening.
They are relentless. And successful.
Man has little defense against a Drifter, except to be aware of their presence.
Be safe.
Be aware.
And beware The Drifters.
"In the Dust"
In the dust is where I reside
Always being left behind.
In the dust I where I am, really
Truly cared about by only my family.
In the dust is just how I am
A hidden, quiet, obscured man.
In the dust is where I'll remain
Never reaching glory or fame.
In the dust I spend my years
Where none but me can see my tears.
I was not in the dust to start
But I have now removed my heart.
I bleed and hurt from dawn till dusk
Hopefully one day
I will be a dusty husk.
Dusty.
Heartless.
And alone.
Always being left behind.
In the dust I where I am, really
Truly cared about by only my family.
In the dust is just how I am
A hidden, quiet, obscured man.
In the dust is where I'll remain
Never reaching glory or fame.
In the dust I spend my years
Where none but me can see my tears.
I was not in the dust to start
But I have now removed my heart.
I bleed and hurt from dawn till dusk
Hopefully one day
I will be a dusty husk.
Dusty.
Heartless.
And alone.
"Green"
We now live in a world the color of green.
What matters is money; and nothing in between.
Should a person be dying a doctor will safe their life
But only for a price.
Many would not object payment for such a skill
Until they see the bill.
Human life is not given its due
Unless that life generates revenue.
The race of man has no larger need
Than to satisfy their money greed.
Should a person have no skills
They will not be able to pay the bills.
And in this world
Not being able to pay inevitably kills.
So, what do I do with high expenses?
Medical bills, useless skills, and time fills?
There are two options to my eye, really.
Mooch off others
Or wait to die.
Thrilling.
What matters is money; and nothing in between.
Should a person be dying a doctor will safe their life
But only for a price.
Many would not object payment for such a skill
Until they see the bill.
Human life is not given its due
Unless that life generates revenue.
The race of man has no larger need
Than to satisfy their money greed.
Should a person have no skills
They will not be able to pay the bills.
And in this world
Not being able to pay inevitably kills.
So, what do I do with high expenses?
Medical bills, useless skills, and time fills?
There are two options to my eye, really.
Mooch off others
Or wait to die.
Thrilling.
Thursday, October 9, 2014
"Void"
When to feel
Or what to feel
Is it really a big deal?
Or what to feel
Is it really a big deal?
Emotions and feelings are subjective
But lately they seem to be the directive.
Am I not more than what I feel?
Am I simply a feast of which emotions can make a meal?
Every day I am faced with choices.
Where to go
When to go
Where to go
When to go
How to do
And every day I don't know which to choose.
Depending on who is looking
One is right
And one is wrong.
There is never a good answer to this discordant song.
People tell me they need me, that I matter.
As when I am not present, I am told I'm missed.
However, when I return, I usually get dissed.
It can be taken as a diss when I am not present
But even when I explain that is not the case, people can be less than pleasant.
Because of these disses I sometimes choose to avoid.
This is surely not the best option.
So, inside me exists a void.
Some tell me that I should care.
Some tell me that I should be there.
Some tell me it's no big deal.
And to not let emotion, of me, make a meal.
What is right?
What is wrong?
There is no answer to this discordant song.
"Question"
Question.
Why am I here?
What do I do?
Why do I do it?
Question.
How long will I live?
How should I spend my time?
Is this worth it?
Question.
What is the purpose?
Who cares?
Should I care?
Question.
What is real?
What is abstract?
Are they different?
Question.
...
Answer?
None.
Why am I here?
What do I do?
Why do I do it?
Question.
How long will I live?
How should I spend my time?
Is this worth it?
Question.
What is the purpose?
Who cares?
Should I care?
Question.
What is real?
What is abstract?
Are they different?
Question.
...
Answer?
None.
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
"Soundless"
Strike. The ground stained with dark liquid.
The blade was one with the shadows.
Strike. Gout. Stain. Alarms now silent.
The blade was the shadows.
Moving shadows.
Soundless.
Strike. Spray. Stain.
If shadows felt, stains would annoy, they leave trace, an evidence.
Shadows do not feel.
Glide. Glide. Pause.
Leap. Land.
Soundless.
Strike.
Spurt. Stain.
Spurt. Stain.
A gleam in the shadows. Look down. A blade stained in dark.
Remnants of the fallen.
An evidence.
Glide. Roll. Climb. Leap. Land.
Soundless.
Pause.
Ahead. Two eye sockets upon a throne. Judging. Leering.
Two extended shadows. Two blades flying.
Thunk Thunk.
Two eye sockets filled. Trickle.
From the light, a scream. A chorus.
Two eye sockets filled. Flow. No more judging.
Metal men.
Clanking.
Moving shadows.
Soundless.
Two eye sockets filled. Gush. No more leering.
Strike. Strike. Strike. Strike Strike Strike.
Metal men fall. Rain.
Two eye sockets filled. Cascade. No more judging. No more leering.
No more throne.
Sprint. Climb. Flip. Glide. Fly.
No more screams.
Soundless.
"I AM MURDER McBADASS. THIS IS HOW I WAS BORN. EXPLOSIONS!"
Dear BITCHES,
By now you know that this is Murder McBadass! Again! Deal with the beef-fed grain-fed manliness!
BEEF AND GRAIN PROVIDE VITAL NUTRIENTS FOR MANLY GROWTH!
Anyway! Here's the story of how I came into this GOD DAMN awesome world! (There's BOOBS!)
*Ahem*
It was a dark, stormy day. In the middle of the dead of winter. On mother F*CKING Jupiter! My father, Alan Rickman III, was totally making kissing sounds at my mom.
THAT MEANS THEY HAD INTERCOURSE!
When my pops-mc-gops, daddio, man-dude, BABY GRAVY DISPENSER, YOU PICK THE WORD! was done with his kissing sounds, he said the most badass thing ever in the history of ever.
IN SPACE.
"Lady friend," my pops totally said that! "From this gravy shall come a son. We will name him..."
And then! A lightning bolt tore through the air, struck a nearby martian aeroplane shark, and CAUGHT IT ON DAMN FIRE! Why was a martian aeroplane shark on Jupiter?? F*CK YOU THAT'S WHY!
"We shall name him..."
Gorillas started highfiving exploding explosions! Supernovas exploded and DOUBLE EXPLODED!
SUPERNOVADUBBASPLOSIONS!
My daddio looked at my mommy-pops. "We shall name him," he totally put on sunglasses here "Murder McBadass."
All the ladies in the entire everything showed their boobs. Even the not hot girls got hot boobs...and showed them to the unborn me.
BECAUSE I AM GOD DAMN SEXY.
Every lady showed their boobs, that is...except my mommy-pops. THAT WOULD BE FREUDIAN AND WEIRD. BUT SHE DOES HAVE A NICE RACK.
WHO SAID THAT?!
*Ahem*
Now that it is clear that my mom has nice boppabooies (F*CKING BOOBS!), let's get back to the story.
Nine months later I shot out of my mommy-pop's hoopiedoopie (LADY PENIS!) faster than a Sonic The Hedgehog, Roadrunner, and Hummingbird love-baby could fly-run!
THAT IS FASTER THAN AVERAGE!
Just kidding I was born after fifteen minutes! Maturing at an abnormally fast rate is manly! IN SPACE!
But anyway, after the Pirates beat the Cleveland Browns 150 to GOD DAMN NEGATIVE TEN!, I had matured into a legendragon adult.
That is how I was born. Deal with it or choose not to! I respect free will and the differing of opinions! And boobs!
WHALE PROTEIN!
Peace.
BITCHES.
By now you know that this is Murder McBadass! Again! Deal with the beef-fed grain-fed manliness!
BEEF AND GRAIN PROVIDE VITAL NUTRIENTS FOR MANLY GROWTH!
Anyway! Here's the story of how I came into this GOD DAMN awesome world! (There's BOOBS!)
*Ahem*
It was a dark, stormy day. In the middle of the dead of winter. On mother F*CKING Jupiter! My father, Alan Rickman III, was totally making kissing sounds at my mom.
THAT MEANS THEY HAD INTERCOURSE!
When my pops-mc-gops, daddio, man-dude, BABY GRAVY DISPENSER, YOU PICK THE WORD! was done with his kissing sounds, he said the most badass thing ever in the history of ever.
IN SPACE.
"Lady friend," my pops totally said that! "From this gravy shall come a son. We will name him..."
And then! A lightning bolt tore through the air, struck a nearby martian aeroplane shark, and CAUGHT IT ON DAMN FIRE! Why was a martian aeroplane shark on Jupiter?? F*CK YOU THAT'S WHY!
"We shall name him..."
Gorillas started highfiving exploding explosions! Supernovas exploded and DOUBLE EXPLODED!
SUPERNOVADUBBASPLOSIONS!
My daddio looked at my mommy-pops. "We shall name him," he totally put on sunglasses here "Murder McBadass."
All the ladies in the entire everything showed their boobs. Even the not hot girls got hot boobs...and showed them to the unborn me.
BECAUSE I AM GOD DAMN SEXY.
Every lady showed their boobs, that is...except my mommy-pops. THAT WOULD BE FREUDIAN AND WEIRD. BUT SHE DOES HAVE A NICE RACK.
WHO SAID THAT?!
*Ahem*
Now that it is clear that my mom has nice boppabooies (F*CKING BOOBS!), let's get back to the story.
Nine months later I shot out of my mommy-pop's hoopiedoopie (LADY PENIS!) faster than a Sonic The Hedgehog, Roadrunner, and Hummingbird love-baby could fly-run!
THAT IS FASTER THAN AVERAGE!
Just kidding I was born after fifteen minutes! Maturing at an abnormally fast rate is manly! IN SPACE!
But anyway, after the Pirates beat the Cleveland Browns 150 to GOD DAMN NEGATIVE TEN!, I had matured into a legendragon adult.
That is how I was born. Deal with it or choose not to! I respect free will and the differing of opinions! And boobs!
WHALE PROTEIN!
Peace.
BITCHES.
Thursday, October 2, 2014
"Maelstrom"
Every day I seek to find
Any meaning in the maelstrom of my mind
Understanding all
But knowing nothing
Gaining deeper knowledge
But learning little.
My brain is a trap.
Inside me is something I cannot explain
Something not right
Something as I sit and ponder keeps me up and night
I feel a separation of body and soul.
My body does not match who I am, or why I am
Even if I knew
I don't know what I'd do.
Must I live every day in fear
Wondering what lies so near
And why I am even here?
Some say it is a matter of science
Some of faith
But these answers are not answers; they are ways to feel safe.
There is something greater going on and most yet do not know it
But this is something I know, even if I can't show it.
So every day my brain yells and screams to tell
So every day I live in hell.
I know not what to do or say
As I do not know who or what I am
I only hope that some day I will learn
So I will no longer be concerned.
In this maelstrom of a mind I am trapped with no escape
This maelstrom of a mind seems to be my fate.
My body, mind, and soul are at odds
Not unlike warring gods
Sometimes the body, sometimes soul, sometimes mind, are the victors.
But in this conflict of entities, there are no true victories.
One will win, but all will lose.
This is no longer a matter of endurance or grit
Everything I do not know.
And I don't know what will become of it.
I am scared of my body, soul, and mind.
I am scared of what I will find.
I do not know who or what I am
or why I belong.
Until the long, long time on earth is done
I will never know; my answers? None.
I may appear to be fine and well
But every day I live in hell.
Any meaning in the maelstrom of my mind
Understanding all
But knowing nothing
Gaining deeper knowledge
But learning little.
My brain is a trap.
Inside me is something I cannot explain
Something not right
Something as I sit and ponder keeps me up and night
I feel a separation of body and soul.
My body does not match who I am, or why I am
Even if I knew
I don't know what I'd do.
Must I live every day in fear
Wondering what lies so near
And why I am even here?
Some say it is a matter of science
Some of faith
But these answers are not answers; they are ways to feel safe.
There is something greater going on and most yet do not know it
But this is something I know, even if I can't show it.
So every day my brain yells and screams to tell
So every day I live in hell.
I know not what to do or say
As I do not know who or what I am
I only hope that some day I will learn
So I will no longer be concerned.
In this maelstrom of a mind I am trapped with no escape
This maelstrom of a mind seems to be my fate.
My body, mind, and soul are at odds
Not unlike warring gods
Sometimes the body, sometimes soul, sometimes mind, are the victors.
But in this conflict of entities, there are no true victories.
One will win, but all will lose.
This is no longer a matter of endurance or grit
Everything I do not know.
And I don't know what will become of it.
I am scared of my body, soul, and mind.
I am scared of what I will find.
I do not know who or what I am
or why I belong.
Until the long, long time on earth is done
I will never know; my answers? None.
I may appear to be fine and well
But every day I live in hell.
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
"I and the Wall"
I and the Wall
Neither will fall
I slam and charge and beat myself bloody
But the wall stands tall and says "Back off, buddy."
Neither will fall
I slam and charge and beat myself bloody
But the wall stands tall and says "Back off, buddy."
This wall must be made of steel and strife
But it's actually just a wall called life.
Through this wall I cannot pry
And even though I bleed and cry
I will not die.
It is I and the Wall
And Neither will fall.
And even though I bleed and cry
I will not die.
It is I and the Wall
And Neither will fall.
"MURDER McBADASS HERE. WITH RELATIONSHIP SH*T!"
Sup, BITCHES??!
Murder McBadass here!
Have you ever had lady or, for ladies, BOY LADY problems?!
Well Murder McBadass is here to fix that sh*t for you!
Why the unnecessary censorship when I didn't censor the word BITCH?
Because F**K YOU that's why!
...
READER MAIL!
"Dear Murder McBadass,
My boyfriend (EDIT, FAN LADY! THIS SHOULD SAY BOY LADY!) has been acting pretty distant lately. He says that he loves me, but there is some stuff he needs to work through on his own. I don't understand why he keeps pushing me, the closest person to him, away. I am at a loss for what to do. I can't bare to see him like this, but is there nothing I can do to help?
Thanks,
A fan"
Well, fan number one, it sounds like your boy lady is a total BITCH! You should try to convince him of his bitchness by smacking him across his overy-covered bitch face! And get him a fifty-ton gallon of whale protein, sold for 50cents at NOWHERE EVER! That boy lady should be getting his own whale protein! Next reader mail!
"Dear Murder McBadass,
My lady friend has been cheating on me, and I know it, but I can't seem to break up with her. I love her and don't understand why she would cheat on me. I have followed all of your relationship advice thus far; I just can't seem to come up with a reason for her cheating. Any advice?
Sincerely,
A fan"
...
WHAT?! That lady-friend lady is BIOLOGICALLY RETARDED! If you have been following all of my previous lady-friend or boy-lady advice thus far, she should literally be falling down on you! For kissing sounds! KISSING SOUNDS ARE MANLY! My advice is to act like you're on the toilet and take a dump! On that mean lady's head!
OR BREAK UP WITH HER. NEXT READER MAIL!
"Dear Murder McBadass,
Explosions!
Sincerely,
A fan"
...
...
BEST. READER. MAIL. EVER.
This person really gets what a relationship is! Nothing to fix here! This is grain-fed beef-fed goodness! May you get married and live forever in the cosmos of eternity and sh*t!
WHALE PROTEIN!
Alright boy ladies and lady ladies, that's it for this week's edition of...
...uhhh...
RELATIONSHIP SH*T!
PEACE, BITCHES!
Murder McBadass here!
Have you ever had lady or, for ladies, BOY LADY problems?!
Well Murder McBadass is here to fix that sh*t for you!
Why the unnecessary censorship when I didn't censor the word BITCH?
Because F**K YOU that's why!
...
READER MAIL!
"Dear Murder McBadass,
My boyfriend (EDIT, FAN LADY! THIS SHOULD SAY BOY LADY!) has been acting pretty distant lately. He says that he loves me, but there is some stuff he needs to work through on his own. I don't understand why he keeps pushing me, the closest person to him, away. I am at a loss for what to do. I can't bare to see him like this, but is there nothing I can do to help?
Thanks,
A fan"
Well, fan number one, it sounds like your boy lady is a total BITCH! You should try to convince him of his bitchness by smacking him across his overy-covered bitch face! And get him a fifty-ton gallon of whale protein, sold for 50cents at NOWHERE EVER! That boy lady should be getting his own whale protein! Next reader mail!
"Dear Murder McBadass,
My lady friend has been cheating on me, and I know it, but I can't seem to break up with her. I love her and don't understand why she would cheat on me. I have followed all of your relationship advice thus far; I just can't seem to come up with a reason for her cheating. Any advice?
Sincerely,
A fan"
...
WHAT?! That lady-friend lady is BIOLOGICALLY RETARDED! If you have been following all of my previous lady-friend or boy-lady advice thus far, she should literally be falling down on you! For kissing sounds! KISSING SOUNDS ARE MANLY! My advice is to act like you're on the toilet and take a dump! On that mean lady's head!
OR BREAK UP WITH HER. NEXT READER MAIL!
"Dear Murder McBadass,
Explosions!
Sincerely,
A fan"
...
...
BEST. READER. MAIL. EVER.
This person really gets what a relationship is! Nothing to fix here! This is grain-fed beef-fed goodness! May you get married and live forever in the cosmos of eternity and sh*t!
WHALE PROTEIN!
Alright boy ladies and lady ladies, that's it for this week's edition of...
...uhhh...
RELATIONSHIP SH*T!
PEACE, BITCHES!
"Slogging on"
Every day I trudge
My tired, aching body the judge
And I am the criminal on trial
My tired, aching body the judge
And I am the criminal on trial
To say I live in freedom is a denial.
I feel as if trapped in an iron clasp
That will never shake its horrible grasp
This fatigue, this disease
That will come and go as it please.
I feel as if trapped in an iron clasp
That will never shake its horrible grasp
This fatigue, this disease
That will come and go as it please.
I see others every day, filled with vim and verve
If they weren't so frayed and dead; that would strike a nerve.
To slog on unfeeling is my daily dread
Sometimes I wonder if I am already dead.
I am told I have purpose and have meaning
But is that really true, and if so, why from this truth am I not gleaning?
To slog on unfeeling is my daily dread
Sometimes I wonder if I am already dead.
I am told I have purpose and have meaning
But is that really true, and if so, why from this truth am I not gleaning?
Until I can find some meaning, some drive
It will be difficult to be alive.
But every day I must live and keep my head held high
Even if I feel dead inside
For I will never fall again.
I made a promise to those I love
And to the greater forces above.
It will be difficult to be alive.
But every day I must live and keep my head held high
Even if I feel dead inside
For I will never fall again.
I made a promise to those I love
And to the greater forces above.
To slog on is my daily dread.
But it is my reality.
It will never be my fatality.
But it is my reality.
It will never be my fatality.
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