1. Punch a magpie out of the sky.
2. Visit Chernobyl.
3. Visit Auschwitz.
4. Binge through the entire series of Lost without sleeping.
5. Get my writing published.
6. Get five club photos.
7. Get married.
8. Have kids.
9. Have NSLC perform a show to more than 200 people.
10. Have a threesome.
11. Own 500 CDs.
12. Conquer my fear of jungle cats.
13. Get in a fight.
14. Win a fight.
15. Meet Jesse Lacey.
16. Write and record a good song.
17. Win a hot dog eating contest.
18. Drink an entire slab in one sitting.
19. Perform stand-up comedy.
20. Do cocaine.
xx. Fall in love.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
three cheers for my morose and grieving pals.
I spent today complaining to myself and bumming myself out with Brand New and Explosions about a decision that I made only to benefit myself, only to get more bummed out when I got jealous about some shit that couldn't concern me less.
But that's it on it. I've got a fucking ridiculously killer streak in the Battle Arcade. I'm moving on and moving up, and I can only see good things happening.
But that's it on it. I've got a fucking ridiculously killer streak in the Battle Arcade. I'm moving on and moving up, and I can only see good things happening.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Thursday, September 2, 2010
bachelorette party.
It begins with a quiet air. A group of women, sitting together, drinking champagne to celebrate their friend's choice to marry her long-time boyfriend of eight years, high school sweethearts. They all knew that the two would marry, even at an early age. The two were seemingly destined to be together. Some women are envious, feeling that 'all the good men in this town are taken', others are filled with genuine happiness that their friend is in love. All of them are excited for the show.
There is a knock at the door. One woman goes to answer the door, leaving to bride-to-be asking the question with a big grin on her face, "what's going on? who is it?" The woman returns with a man in a police outfit who struts in with a powerful demeanor. The woman stands next to the CD player as the man begins to gyrate, seductively undoing the buttons on his shirt.
Thumping, pulsing techno sets the mood. The women are laughing, covering their mouths with their hands in shock and lust, unused to this show. His costume seems so realistic, not like the stripper policemen they've seen on TV. His gun, one woman remarks, seems to look so real. He gets closer to the bride, thrusting his pelvic region towards her face. She blushes, laughs, moves back slightly in her chair, demonstrating her discomfort to the situation. She has never been with another man aside from her fiancee, and the thought of another man acting so suggestively throws her. She gulps down more champagne and gets up to dance with her friends.
There is a slight noise at the door, but is more than drowned out by the blaring music and the thumping of her heart in her ears as the bride begins to dance with the stripper. His shirt is lying on the floor, his well-toned chest and muscular arms amaze her as she runs her hands over them. He rips off his pants, leaving him only wearing his gun-holster and underwear.
Another noise at the door, this one louder than the last. One woman walks away from the party to check, reluctantly glancing back at the party she must leave, if only for two seconds. The man is intoxicating, perhaps moreso than the champagne they had all ingested on an empty stomach. The man rips his underwear off, and none of the women can keep their eyes off him. There is a united sense being impressed and amazed among the women. He begins grinding up against the bride, who seemingly is giving into the man's charms.
In the doorway returns the woman who is followed by another man. A man in a clearly rented police outfit and a boombox on his shoulder. There is a sense of confusion between the partygoers and the newcomer. This is immediately changed to terror as the naked man lets out a terrifying screech before pulling his gun out of his holster and firing three shots into the roof. After the hearing returns to each of them, the sickening howl still remains. The man doesn't stop to breathe, he just continues to scream. One woman begins to cry as the new man, evidently the stripper they ordered, attempts to subdue the screaming, naked man. The confrontation is open not long before it started. A block. A throw. A leap going into a grab. A cry. Yelling. Tears. Blood.
The naked man ripped the stripper's jaw clean off, his tongue flailing around wildly. Before any of the women could realize the naked man's screaming had stopped, he flung his hands in the air, threw his head back and began again, all the while sitting on the blood-soaked body below him. He picks up his gun, aims it at one of the women. Bang. His arm rips back from the recoil, his shoulder moving in ways it is not supposed to. She drops. The next woman. Bang. His arm rips back again, as if it were going to come flying off, but she drops, too. It is as if this small gun has limitless ammunition, but before long, it is just the naked lunatic standing screeching over the huddled, blood covered mass that was once the bride. She, unlike the others, survived his gunshot. He shot her in the stomach, while the others are later easily identified by officials as clean kill shots.
What happens next is impossible to explain by the officials. He stands over her cowering, bleeding form and defecates, spreading his legs allowing it to drop cleanly onto the ground. She cries, tears mixing in with the bloodstreaks on her face, left by her deceased friends. The man reaches down, slipping one finger inside the bullet wound. She screams. Another finger, another finger, ever more screaming. It is not long before her stomach is open, and the naked figure is huddled over her. Somehow, she has not died and he knows this, lives for this. He throws his head forward and begins to chew on the contents of her stomach. She screams again, the agony is unlimited. He stands up and begins to walk back towards the pile of his things. The woman, assuming he is going for his gun, begs him to shoot her. "I cannot continue to live like this", she screams. "Just fucking end it, for the love of god, just fucking end it!"
He removes a small object from his pants. Her vision is so blurred from the loss of blood and the pain that she cannot work out what it is before lapsing into unconciousness.
She wakes in a hospital bed. The man had stitched her stomach back up, covering the wound with flesh he had ripped with his bare hands from the corpses of her friends. The wedding is obviously postponed, but her fiancee sits at her bedside until she is discharged, and vows to never leave her. However, this is proven false when he returns from running errands only to find his wife strung up to the light fixtures. She leaves no note.
There is a knock at the door. One woman goes to answer the door, leaving to bride-to-be asking the question with a big grin on her face, "what's going on? who is it?" The woman returns with a man in a police outfit who struts in with a powerful demeanor. The woman stands next to the CD player as the man begins to gyrate, seductively undoing the buttons on his shirt.
Thumping, pulsing techno sets the mood. The women are laughing, covering their mouths with their hands in shock and lust, unused to this show. His costume seems so realistic, not like the stripper policemen they've seen on TV. His gun, one woman remarks, seems to look so real. He gets closer to the bride, thrusting his pelvic region towards her face. She blushes, laughs, moves back slightly in her chair, demonstrating her discomfort to the situation. She has never been with another man aside from her fiancee, and the thought of another man acting so suggestively throws her. She gulps down more champagne and gets up to dance with her friends.
There is a slight noise at the door, but is more than drowned out by the blaring music and the thumping of her heart in her ears as the bride begins to dance with the stripper. His shirt is lying on the floor, his well-toned chest and muscular arms amaze her as she runs her hands over them. He rips off his pants, leaving him only wearing his gun-holster and underwear.
Another noise at the door, this one louder than the last. One woman walks away from the party to check, reluctantly glancing back at the party she must leave, if only for two seconds. The man is intoxicating, perhaps moreso than the champagne they had all ingested on an empty stomach. The man rips his underwear off, and none of the women can keep their eyes off him. There is a united sense being impressed and amazed among the women. He begins grinding up against the bride, who seemingly is giving into the man's charms.
In the doorway returns the woman who is followed by another man. A man in a clearly rented police outfit and a boombox on his shoulder. There is a sense of confusion between the partygoers and the newcomer. This is immediately changed to terror as the naked man lets out a terrifying screech before pulling his gun out of his holster and firing three shots into the roof. After the hearing returns to each of them, the sickening howl still remains. The man doesn't stop to breathe, he just continues to scream. One woman begins to cry as the new man, evidently the stripper they ordered, attempts to subdue the screaming, naked man. The confrontation is open not long before it started. A block. A throw. A leap going into a grab. A cry. Yelling. Tears. Blood.
The naked man ripped the stripper's jaw clean off, his tongue flailing around wildly. Before any of the women could realize the naked man's screaming had stopped, he flung his hands in the air, threw his head back and began again, all the while sitting on the blood-soaked body below him. He picks up his gun, aims it at one of the women. Bang. His arm rips back from the recoil, his shoulder moving in ways it is not supposed to. She drops. The next woman. Bang. His arm rips back again, as if it were going to come flying off, but she drops, too. It is as if this small gun has limitless ammunition, but before long, it is just the naked lunatic standing screeching over the huddled, blood covered mass that was once the bride. She, unlike the others, survived his gunshot. He shot her in the stomach, while the others are later easily identified by officials as clean kill shots.
What happens next is impossible to explain by the officials. He stands over her cowering, bleeding form and defecates, spreading his legs allowing it to drop cleanly onto the ground. She cries, tears mixing in with the bloodstreaks on her face, left by her deceased friends. The man reaches down, slipping one finger inside the bullet wound. She screams. Another finger, another finger, ever more screaming. It is not long before her stomach is open, and the naked figure is huddled over her. Somehow, she has not died and he knows this, lives for this. He throws his head forward and begins to chew on the contents of her stomach. She screams again, the agony is unlimited. He stands up and begins to walk back towards the pile of his things. The woman, assuming he is going for his gun, begs him to shoot her. "I cannot continue to live like this", she screams. "Just fucking end it, for the love of god, just fucking end it!"
He removes a small object from his pants. Her vision is so blurred from the loss of blood and the pain that she cannot work out what it is before lapsing into unconciousness.
She wakes in a hospital bed. The man had stitched her stomach back up, covering the wound with flesh he had ripped with his bare hands from the corpses of her friends. The wedding is obviously postponed, but her fiancee sits at her bedside until she is discharged, and vows to never leave her. However, this is proven false when he returns from running errands only to find his wife strung up to the light fixtures. She leaves no note.
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