Unpublished Guy, a literary fiction sensation in a multitude of alternate universes, but not this one.
Itemized list of my business expenses:
Poop shovel
Thermonuclear ballistic missile
Underground chamber
Church pews
T-3 Internet Connection
WWII British BREN gun
Electrified barbed wire
1000 Guinea pigs
Steroids
1000 tiny jet powered back packs
20 gallons of gin, Campari, and sweet vermouth
Guinea pig, you’re squandering your full potential for world domination. If only you’d use your damn hands for more than simply walking and cleaning your damn face! For a start you could use those hands to feed yourself, instead of sticking your face in a goddamn bowl and picking shit up with your teeth. Anything bigger than a bean drops to the ground. If you used your hands, you could pick up a cherry tomato or an apple or a sweet potato pie and have at it. I mean a hamster can use its hands to eat. A damn hamster! It’s absolutely disgraceful that you’re being one-upped by a hamster.
Look at you, standing, holding onto the bars of your cage. Why don’t take the next step and climb out! You’ve got the hands for it. You’ll never rule the world from that cage. You need to get out and build that army. A rat wouldn’t be content to run around a cage. It would use its digits and be out of that cage lickety split. Ever see The Rats of NIMH? That could all be yours. Elevators. An electric power grid. Lighting. Heat. Computers. A death ray. Wait for humanity to blow themselves up, and then you could become the dominant species on the planet. Especially, with a death ray. If you’d just use your hands like the Rats of NIMH.
I don’t even want to hear that opposable thumb excuse. You know who can pull the shit of a lever, open the crap out of hook, and open a fucking padlock? A lemur, that’s who. Oh, a lemur has opposable thumbs? They absolutely don’t have fully opposable thumbs. They have pseudo-opposable thumbs. No precision grip. Only capable of whole hand control. You have whole hand control, guinea pig!
And marmosets have no opposable thumb at all, but you know what they can do. They can use tools. A marmoset can use a rake. A marmoset doesn’t go around saying, “If only I had an opposable thumb like an orangutan or a gibbon, then imagine what I could do?”
They just do it, because they’re driven by marmoset motivation. Be a marmoset, guinea pig. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps and use your damn hands.
We will exterminate at least 9 pounds from our hoover shaped bodies
We will exterminate all fat and empty carbohydrates
We will hover up and down stairs daily until we’ve whipped our selves into shape
We will hack into the galactic bank to fund this years campaign to exterminate every living species, whether they be flesh, metal, vegetable, mineral, wood, or cardboard
We will try our hardest to refrain from exterminating potential new friends
We will find an activity and develop a skill that does not involve extermination
We will get over the fact that we can no longer masturbate, as Davros has gifted us with these metallic shells that are totally devoid of genitalia
We will commit ourselves to viewing he entire canon of John Wayne movies. Except the Conqueror. Ewwwww.
We will exterminate, and take out the recycling.
We will consider a different line of work. A new direction in our lives. Extermination is monotonous and unfulfilling.
We will stick to that intermittent fasting diet, where we only exterminate for an 8 hour time frame each day
We will develop a technology to travel through space-time, so we can alter the course of history on plant Earth in order to rule Lichtenstein.
We will master Fortnite, become a YouTube sensation, and exterminate all competition
We will again travel through space-time to exterminate Hannah Brown and Kel Mitchell, so we can make a killing on the betting markets by betting on James Van Der Beek
We will save up money so we can afford to get our Dalek shell gold-plated and be the envy of all those other bitches with their sad ass Dalekanium shells
Now for a limited time only, you can get The Best of the Dalek Christmas Carols. Hear them as you’ve never heard them before, as their moog-mangled robotic voice renders such classics as Little Drummer Boy
Come, they told me, exterminate them
Our newborn king to see, exterminate them
Our finest gifts we bring, exterminate them
To lay before the king
Exterminate them!
Exterminate them!
Exterminate them!
Yes, you can sit back and enjoy over 50 Christmas carols in a way that only the Daleks can. Like Away in the Manger,
Come All Ye Faithful,
O Little Town of Bethlehem,
Hark the Harold Angels Sing,
Joy to the World,
The Three Kings,
The First Noel,
And Deck the Halls
Fa la la la la, la la la la la la
Fa la la la la, Exterminate
Fa la la la la, la la la la la la
Fa la la la la, Exterminate
Order now, and you’ll also get a bonus set of Ginsu knives.
But wait, that’s not all!
If you order right, right now, you’ll also get a free consultation and plastic surgery by Davros, evil Kaled mastermind and mad scientist. Ever fancy your self rocking a metal shell covered with egg shells? Well, you’ll soon realize that dream once Davros has extracted your spinal cord and cerebellum from your body, lightly mutated them in a vat of aromatic viruses and enzymes until completely marinated, and then placed in a proper Dalek casing.
All while listening to Christmas carols sung by Daleks, and all for the low, low price of $19.99, plus $10.00 for shipping and handling. For an extra $5.00 your Dalek casing will have hover capability. Don’t let those stairs keep you from being all the Dalek you can be!
Christmas carols are available on LP, 8-track, or cassette tape.
Send your money order to
155 Skaro Way
Cottington, Cottington County, UK
Act now before this offer goes away, never to be seen again.
On this holiday, we give thanks to Davros, our creator, and have assembled this fine feast before us.
The turkey, so stupid that it will drown as it looks up into the sky when it rains, it’s mouth agape, stupidly drooling, as its profoundly stupid gullet overflows with water. An inferior life form. Exterminate the turkey! We have exterminated it.
The sweet potato, devoid of any ambition to be become more than a sweet potato. Just vegetating with no sense of agency, free will, or dreams of universal domination. Content to simply be a sweet potato and nothing more. An inferior life form. Exterminate the sweet potato! We have exterminated it!
Stuffing, a parasitic melange of fungus and vegetation that lives through a symbiotic relationship with dead turkeys. Without the turkey, it is a dry, uninteresting mound of incomprehensible carbohydrates. A dependent leech on society. It is inferior. Exterminate the stuffing! It has been exterminated.
Corn. Totally lacking in any nutritional value. It passes straight through you. Really just a butter delivery system. You might as well just eat a stick of butter. Not worth eating, and as ethanol, a subsidized industry that exists mainly to appease the first state of the presidential primaries. And it’s not even a primary, but a caucus. This obnoxious bane diverts funds from more efficient use of agricultural land and alternative fuels to reduce greenhouse emissions. Not that we care that much, as a deranged brained housed in the most unwieldy cyborg body ever, but whatever. Inferior, nonetheless. Exterminate corn! The corn has been exterminated.
Green beans. The most vegetable of the vegetables. So smug and smarmy with their healthy, nutritional value. They think they are so great, but they might as well be a sweet potato for all they’ve accomplished in the world. Has a green bean ever unlocked the mysteries of the atom? Discovered time travel? Developed cyborg bodies that are just so cool, even if stairs may prove to be a bit of a challenge. Nope. Inferior life form. Exterminate the green beans! They have been exterminated.
Cranberry sauce. Who likes cranberry sauce? Only the lunatics and feeble minded can consume cranberries in a non-dried-out form. Unless it’s from a can. Cranberry sauce from a can embodies the classic and traditional images of the Dalek shell. A sexy life form. Please pass the cranberry sauce.
“Your face, so melancholic and phlegmatic”, the painter said. “I will paint it in shades of green, and greenish baby blue, with a bit of greenish red and greenish orange to hint at the choleric aspects of your personality”
I could not tell if the painter looked bug eyed because I had told her the surprising news, or because she actually had big bug eyes. Otherwise, her face was vacant, vapid, and blank. Her mouth, slack. Her jaw, also slack. Her nose and chin, fixed and unblinking. Her whole flat demeanor made her lips petulant and her skull, sardonic.
I turned to Claudette Akins. A range of emotions flickered through her simian face: from stolid to deadpan to straight, back to deadpan, and then on to glazed and inscrutable.
“I adore you so, my little, lovable monkey”
“I am not a monkey, Godammit” Claude huffed. “How many times do I have to tell you? I am an ape, and not just any ape but a great ape, a Silver Back Gorilla. Monkeys have a tail, and apes do not, for Christsakes!”
“You could get surgery. You could get a tail attached, and then you would be my lovable monkey.”
“Why are you always trying to change me. Can’t you accept me for who I am?” Claudette put her gorilla face in her gorilla paws and began to cry. Not just a little, but a heart-rending monkey—I'm sorry, ape—howl.
“Please, you are making it quite difficult for me to paint.” The painter stabbed at her palette with her brush.
Oh, here we go again, I thought. Truth be told, I didn’t really love Claudette. I was only dating her for one of her paws, so I could have my greatest wish granted. Eternal happiness. Which for me, was having a lifetime supply of silly putty.
Of course, her paw would need to be amputated before I could cast the proper wish-granting incantation. Not a huge sacrifice for her. She would still have three other perfectly good paws.
Most importantly, for the spell to work she needed to be a monkey. Not an ape. I knew very well what the difference was, but I had been totally rebuffed by numerous spider monkeys, howler monkeys, and marmosets on Tinder, Bumble, and OKcupid.
Claudette was the only primate who had any interest in me, but she could be so needy and clingy. This relationship was taking a real emotional toll on me.
“I’m so sorry, Claude, darling. Of course, I love you the way you are.”
”I need a hug,” she said. “I need a hug with everyone!”
So the three of us had a big group hug.
“I know what you’re all about,” the painter whispered in my ear while we were hugging. “Claudette, will be safe from you. I have a magical paint brush that was forged in the fires of Icelandic volcanoes by elves, and since I have painted your portrait with it, I can oblige you to truly fall in love with Claudette, even if you are completely unworthy of her, for her own happiness.”
Shit.
My memoir, which I have toiled on for many days, is dedicated to the many important people in my life.
To my Dad who abandoned me as a child, but when we reunited later, donated a second-hand stroller to me for my own child, which would have been really handy if the courts hadn’t terminated my parental rights. I’m not sure why they did that. I thought everything was going really well with my parenting classes and therapy.
To my other Dad who has always been there for me when I needed money. I know we don’t really love each other any more, but you’re handy to have around. I forgive you for putting me in a hold, and I’m sorry that I bit your hand so hard. It could all have been avoided if you would just understood what I was telling you.
To my mother, who kicked me out of her home, because her daughter from that other guy who was not one of my fathers accused me of sexual abuse. Which was perfectly OK, because I was able to live with that really nice, obese woman who couldn’t get around but was able to run a meth lab out of her home to provide for the all the people she let live with her, including that mother and son who probably murdered her and fled to the Turtle Mountain Indian reservation.
To my other mom who I haven’t spoken to in years, but still have that one fond memory of, which I will cherish forever. And I am sorry that I triggered you so much that you couldn’t spend time with me or talk to me, because you had your own childhood was also pretty shitty.
To my boyfriend, who is going to be here from the East Coast any second now. It’s been a long while since I’ve heard from you. What’s going on? I still believe that you did have a vasectomy.
If someone does another reply all to the company wide distribution list, the walls will bleed red with the sacrifice of the old ones who cannot grasp how distribution email lists work
Please hang your human skin suits in the skin suit closet and not over your chair or the side of your cubicle. We don’t want higher deities visiting our offices and thinking we’re still the amphibious demigods of the last teraannum.
Please use Outlook Calendar to schedule your use of the portal. There are many legitimate reasons for to project yourself into the human dimension. However, many others would like to use the portal, and it’s not considerate to block our portal time when you don’t even a have a well organized virgin sacrifice in the human dimension to facilitate your travel through the portal. Please have an agenda and use your time with the portal wisely.
I want to make it clear that we do not condone the actions of the Gugs. They do not speak or act on our behalf. That is exactly why we banished them to the underworld. Any fraternization with Gugs must be reported and cleared by the Inhuman Resources department.
Attendance to the all staff meeting is mandatory. Inspirational CEO, Hastur the Unspeakable, will be sharing the company’s vision in accordance with the Yellow Sign. Hastur will be speaking through the incarnation of Feaster from Afar. Stick around for the raffle and happy hour afterwards. Lucky raffle-winners will have their brains siphoned out of their skulls by the Feaster’s razor-tipped tentacles.
Please keep e-mail communications professional. It is not appropriate to say that we will be *marketing the crap* out of the second coming of Cthulhu. Likewise, we should not be referring to the Rituals and Summoning department as bunch of fucking dumb asses.
If I were president, this is how I would restructure the tax code
Tax on heterosexual anal sex. Straight men pay 5% of their income for each penetration. Women get a refund of 5% of their income for each penetration.
Avocado tax. Assessing a 100% VAT on Avocado purchases.
$3000 tax credit for not having children
Renters deduction, deduct total annual rent from taxable income
MPG tax. $100 credit for each MPG of your car/truck above 30. If you don’t own a car/truck, you’re taxable income is $0.00
Rugby tax. Any citizen that has not played at least 80 min of rugby in the taxable year owes an additional 10% of their income in taxes
Rugby medical deduction. Any medical expenses resulting from a rugby injury can be deducted at 5x the cost of the medical expenses.
Correcting the divorce penalty. Divorce couples may claim an additional 5 deductions.
My family did not overtly celebrate any sort of German heritage. I’m not even sure what my family heritage actually is. When I asked my family about my family tree for a school project, they seemed pretty clueless. My grandfather on my father’s side had some theory about how we were Pennsylvania Dutch, and our original surname was Gristman, and we were all millers or something. As far as I know, this theory has no basis in fact.
My sister did do one of those through-the-mail DNA thingies, which was a 40/40 German/English split and 20% of other stuff.
At any rate, my parents and uncles and whatnot on my mother’s side seemed to have a bit of a German fetish. They all studied German in high school and college. My parents watched Soccer Made in Germany on PBS in the 70s and 80s.
And I ended up with the name Kurt. Auf Deutsch spelling. Not Curt or Curtis or anything like that. And as a result, I developed a bit of a German fetish. Rooting for the Deutschland World Cup soccer team. Studying German myself as my language elective.
But I must be more English. I’d take an imperial stout or porter over a German pilsner or lager every day. And I play rugby for fuck’s sake.
Cthulhu
Species: Great Old One
Gender: Indeterminate
Age: Since the beginning of human time
A trillion millennia young!
Get me out of this app. I’ve been stuck in R’lyeh for too long. Really need someone at my side when my followers beckon me from my exile and am able to smite them and everyone else to reclaim the earth for the water elementals.
No Drama.
Yog-Sothoth
Species: Outer God
Gender: Male
Age: Beyond all time and space
No offence, I’m sure you’re a fine Old One or god of some sort, but at this time only looking for mortal human women who are attracted to a conglomeration of glowing spheres. Swipe left if you’re not.
Love Netflix and fluent in sarcasm.
Wilbur Whately
Species: Semi-Human
Gender: Male
Age: 10
Mature for my age., the blood of the old ones courses through my veins. I have the body and intellect of a man in his twenties. Seeking a virgin that I can sacrifice and open the door that will summon the Old Ones, close relatives of mine. Family is important to me.
My brother is a hideous monster, big as a barn, who consumes cattle. He is the most important person in my life. We are both part of the same package. If that doesn’t work for you, swipe left.
Lavinia Whately
Species: Human
Gender: Female
Age: 48
I like to wander amidst thunderstorms in the hills and read the odorous books that have been passed through generations. Family is important to me!
I have a son, Wilbur, who is the most important thing to me. He already has a father, Yog-Sothoth, and doesn’t need another one!
Only date vaguely male beings that are at least 620 feet tall
Octopus
Species: Cephalopod
Gender: Female
Age: 3
Just looking for friends!
My special power is predicting World Cup soccer games and escaping down drain pipes when imprisoned by homo sapiens oppressors. I also do a great job of squeezing through really thin pipes and tunnels that are way smaller than me.
If you voted homo sapiens in the last election, swipe left.
Bokrug
Species: Amphibian God
Gender: Indeterminate
Age: Millennia
Looking for a partner in crime!
Love to travel! The Steps of Deeper Slumber, the Fantastic Realms, Celephais, the Plateau of Leng. I get around!
But I also like to relax and slumber in my home under the lakes of Ib, lounging about in the skins of the humans from the city of Sarnoth.
Gloon
Species: Unknown
Gender: Unknown
Age: Unknown
I’m an open book. Just your typical ancient inter-dimensional same-gender entity. If you want to know more, just ask!
One day Asher was walking home from work, being particularly pleased with himself. He had just told it like it is, for the benefit of one of his co-workers. (He worked at a video store when they were at their nadir of viability. Still video stores seemed pure to him. He enjoyed the face to face interaction with people that needed someone to intervene on their behalf for greater self-awareness. You just didn’t get that with streaming services).
At any rate, a lot of terrible things had happened to his coworker. She had been abused and molested as a child. Abandoned by a boyfriend when she was pregnant, so she had to pay for the abortion with the emotional support of someone who was a friend at the time. She had married, later, but now that was on the rocks. It was always a struggle, but they loved each other, she said.
He had very little sympathy for her. As he patiently tried to explain on numerous occasions, all of these things were her fault. Everything happened for a reason. Negative people attract bad things, and positive people attract wonderful things. Obviously, all these things happened to her, because her thoughts were wrong. She should try meditating.
If you meditated more, you would find yourself having more positive thoughts and good things, not bad things, would be in her life. After all my higher power doesn’t give you more in your life than you can handle, and if you off yourself (she had confessed that she had thought about it), it’s not because it was more than you can handle. It was because you couldn’t handle what you should have been able to handle, because it wouldn’t be happening to you if you couldn’t handle it.
She got angry of course. People in general, Asher had found, just couldn’t handle the truth. Asher on the other hand was all about truth. His life was great, and it was all because of his positive attitude.
Hard right turn.
He was so pleased with himself, that he didn’t notice the ring of mushrooms he’d stepped into and paused, checking his phone to evaluate his Tinder matches according to his high standards of who a suitable human being was. Cindy would not do at all. She was looking for someone accepting and non-judgmental. She wouldn’t do at all. How would people know how they could be better people, if they couldn’t hear what was wrong with them. Some people were just so defensive, he thought.
Then the trio of troll-sized fairies nabbed him and dragged him to their lair in another supernatural dimension. It happened fast. They beat him and threw him to the ground. Stripped him. Kicked him. Stole from him.
“Why is this happening to me,” he cried. “What did I do?”
They laughed.
I will lose 9 pounds.
I will eat healthy.
I will exercise more.
I will master the 1985 arcade game Paperboy, while riding a virtual bicycle.
I will save money.
I will make new friends.
I will take up a new hobby
I will lose 900 pounds.
I will get to bed earlier at night, and masturbate earlier in the morning.
I will read more true crime fiction
I will learn a new skill.
I will feast on the hearts of my enemies and remember to take the recycling out every Tuesday.
This time, I will successfully recite the incantations from the Necronomicon and summon Cthulhu to pave the way for the return of the Old Ones to harvest humanity, because the Old Ones really love a good skin suit. And they have a good dental plan!
I will stop dealing Dick Clark’s blood on the black market.
I will hone my tracking skills with the goal of entrapping and dispatching the next yacht full of hapless ne’re-do-wells, who veer too close to my secret human hunting island, in record time.
I will get a new job.
I will choose a successor to lead my post-World War II alternate history of a totalitarian Lichtenstein that rules the world.
I will stick to that Gelato and vaginal transudate diet for the entire year.
I will stop spending so much money on my armadillo foot fetish.
I will adopt an army of puppies and train them to hunt in Pokemon Go
Throughout the house, nothing was stirring, not even a mouse, except I had begun to construct elaborate traps, like the ones that the Cajuns had built in my favorite movie, starring Keith Carradine and Powers Booth, about a National Reserve unit training in the Bayou.
I loved that movie so much that I watched it every day. Even at work, I would sneak a peak on my phone for a few minutes. Soldiers slogging through the swamp, haunted by the drone of cicadas. The slaughter of the pig at the Cajun feast. I would ease out of bed in the middle of the night and watch the movie in all its giant flat screen glory, glowing effervescently like the fog hanging over the dense Bayou.
One day, my son stepped into one of the traps. It was a fair representation of the one that killed Pvt Cribbs, portrayed by TK Carter. I had welded giant spikes to a bed frame, so that it looked like some sort of medieval torture device. It sprung out of a trap door that I had built and slammed into him. His body just hung on the spikes, just like that Pvt Cribbs, gagging on his own blood.
My son looked at me as best as he could with wide, gradually dying eyes that rolled in my general direction but couldn't quite get a fix on me. His mouth hung open; blood bubbled out and over his chin.
It was tearing me up to see him like that, and know that I had caused this horrible event. I swore to myself that I would not watch that movie again and took a step toward him, to offer comfort in his final moments.
But out of the corner of my eye on our wall mounted TV. I could see my favorite scene, the one where the Cajuns blast the crap out of this fat guy--I don't even know how he was in the National Guard in that kind of shape.
When the scene was over and I returned my attention to my son, he was dead. His glassy eyes pointed to the ceiling. I noticed that some of the plaster was peeling.
Needless to say this strained the relationship with the rest of my family. It had ramifications in the bedroom with my spouse, who withheld sex from me and threatened to leave me, so I had to chain her to the fireplace.
And my daughter could not be coaxed out of the main HVAC duct where she had begun to hide. I tried blasting her out with dynamite, but she just scurried deeper into the maze of vents. One of the blasts occurred a bit too close to the fireplace, which made me a single man.
My daughter is still scurrying around in those ducts, but I expect I’ll find her, eventually.
Gongs
76582, 76582, 40822, 40822, 76582, 76582, 40822, 40822, 76582, 76582, 40822, 40822, 76582, 76582, 40822, 40822 ...
(Hey you, Hey you, Hey you, Hey you ...)
Lincolnshire Poacher
FBBBAGFEDF: 5422, 5746, 6485, 6900, 6959, 7337, 7755, 8464, 9251, 10426, 11545, 12603, 13375, 14487, 15682, 16084, 16475
(Please pick up some coffee and a meat sandwich from the butcher. Beef or chicken. No pork. No fish.)
Nancy Adam Susan
Baker, Edward, Charlie; William, Susan, Peter; Otto, Susan, Susan; Baker, Edward, Charlie; Otto, Susan, Susan; Frank, Young, Peter; Nancy, Adam, Susan; Frank, Young, Peter; Otto, Susan, Susan
(We need to talk. The kid is failing Algebra. Parent teacher conference in two weeks)
Swedish Rapsody
87999, 15703, 15703, 06067, 06067, 52663, 52663, 52663, 52663, 54009, 54009, 90618, 90618, 16274, 16274, 95108, 95108, 41089, 41089, 09096, 09096, 09096, 09096, 09096, 09096, 09096, 09096, 09096, 09096, 87999
(I see a little silhouetto of a man; Scaramouch, scaramouch will you do the fandango; Thunderbolt and lightning very very frightening me; Gallileo, Gallileo, Gallileo, Gallileo, Gallileo Figaro - magnifico)
Recently, I have had to admit that I am powerless over my own poor judgement and decision-making. My life has become unmanageable, but I have come to believe that a power greater than my self can restore me to sanity. I have, therefore made the decision to turn my life and will over to a God of my own understanding. In my best judgement, that God should be the charismatic and narcissistic leader of a cult.
But it has to be the right cult. What I'm looking for:
I love playing games and seek out drama. I need a cult characterized by discord that encourages conflict among members. A cult based on the concept of radical honesty, where I can just tell it like it is, would probably be a good match. Zen cults where everybody just chills need not apply.
I'm equally comfortable wearing togas, potato sacks, hippy garb, or nothing at all. I pretty much look great in whatever I wear, so I can adhere to any cult dress code. Except I will not wear dress pants.
I don’t care for the suicide pact variety of cults, and I'm not chopping any wood.
I like to travel, so a cult that is constantly on the move to avoid the authorities would be a good match.
I play hard, but I don't like to work too hard. I'd like a cult that doesn't demand too much from me in exchange for all that it provides. While I'm happy to enjoy all the benefit the cult has to offer, I'd prefer that I not have to work too hard for those benefits. Don't expect me to support recruiting activities that would require walking door-to-door, canvasing airports, or otherwise require too much effort.
I'm quite sensitive to the cold so extra points for cults located in remote areas of tropical forests. Exclusive resorts would be even better. I really enjoy fresh pineapple and coconut. And monkeys are funny.
The first things people notice about me are my eyes, then my smile, then my kleptomania. Over time, as we grow together, the cult can expect that its communal property will become my personal property.
I love beef, so a cult that also raises cattle would be ideal. Typically, I eat three pounds of beef a day.
I am an Eris-loving Discordian. I believe that scissors are the ultimate consciousness, and all living beings reach this state of consciousness through a series of reincarnations from meat to vegetable to mineral to scissors. I am meat, but hope soon to be with my brother, James, who is a cauliflower that I nurture under my pillow.
I know most cults demand unquestioning allegiance, obedience, and conformity, but if you can't respect my religious beliefs, we might not be a match.
Finally, good dental and health plans are must-haves for my new cult.
I only respond to the name Jo Sorebella Herbal Relaxer Calhoun Kikogawa Urithrawiel of Dralinna. So there's that.
Serious inquiries only.
Kik Name: josorebellaherbalrelaxercalhounkikogawaurithrawielofdralinna29
Once upon a time, there was a Daddy, a Mommy, and a child. The child liked to steal things. One day Daddy’s wedding ring was missing. He’d leave it on the dresser before he went to bed at night. And put it on again in the morning. Sometimes, he would forget. How could he forget? Well, honestly, there was some distance between Mommy and Daddy.
And one day Daddy realized he had not put it on after a few days of forgetting, and it was gone. Mommy and Daddy went through the usual drill to locate the ring.
Room searches over and over again. Secret compartments in bed springs were searched. Access panels to plumbing. Under piles of clothes. In drawers full of clothes. Between books. Some of Mommy’s jewelry was discovered. Skeleton keys to china cabinets. Old moldy oranges. A can of condensed milk. But no ring.
Fruitless inquisitions. I did not steal Daddy’s ring. I do not go into your room. We have in our hands right now things that came from our room. Those are things that you are stealing from me, and if I did go into your room. It’s your fault for not locking the door. We used to lock the door. But you battered down in one of your violent fits. That was your fault for not buying a stronger door.
Mom and Daddy kept looking over the next several days and weeks, but over time just gave up. They couldn’t afford another ring, so they made due. Maybe, it had actually just been lost. Stranger things had happened.
Years passed with great difficulty.
Then one day, walking outside his daughter’s room, Daddy saw the ring, lying on the floor. He picked it up and wondered what am I going to do with this now? He had filed for divorce 2 months ago.
Hypothesis
That the mass of an object impacts the distance that an object can be moved using the powers of my mind.
Methodology
I applied the powers of my mind to objects that varied in mass.
My science textbook
My pit bull
My mom’s car
My house
After applying the powers of my mind to each of the objects, I measured the distance that my mental powers were able to move the object.
Results
As noted in the bar graph (see below), all of the objects were moved the same distance.
Conclusion
The powers of my mind are infinite as my mental powers can move objects the same distance, regardless of the object’s mass.
She had stood by his hospital bed, wearing a summer dress printed with skulls grinning of the dead. Pretty in a dumpy, pot belly sort of way; her deep eyes glistened in the hospital light. She held the cold rails tightly, smiling with crooked teeth and a tired, sagging face.
He did not speak, and he did not smile as he had lain with his gown draped over his bony frame like a table cloth. Handsome in an immaciated invalid sort of way. Sunken eyes and cheeks; he smelled like urine and vomit. He slowly reached through the tangle of wires and tubes keeping him alive, held her hand and sighed.
They had listened to the rain patter on the window and knew they would be together, eating strawberries, dipped in chocolate or cream cheese, or lightly dusted in sugar.
When she became pregnant, her favorite strawberry dip was tartar sauce, and the taste grew on him over time.
During a winter in the Midwest, she told him to slow down, right before the truck swerved in their path on the snow-dusted, glistening-black highway. He tapped the brakes lightly, and the car started gliding to the formidable treeline along the roadside. He turned away, and the car spun around, and around. Their four year old kid in the back seat laughed and laughed, having a rocking good time.
You did it. You really did it. How could you?
He was mine. I found him under the bush in the rain. Next to the lady with her office in the apartment. He looked so sad and wet, but so adorable.
There might be a whole litter in those weeds. I’ll just get another one.
I can go there if I want. You never said not to.
No, you didn't.
I hear you. It’s not a marsh. It’s just some puddles in the grass, because it rained last night.
What are you talking about? I had to use the sandwich meats. We don’t have any cat food. I had to take care of it. That’s why I fed him a saucerful of milk.
He likes people food. I had to feed it what it liked. You were trying to starve it.
How could you say such a terrible thing. He wasn’t a stuffed animal. He was a real. With a name.
It’s perfectly clean and fine. How could you turn your back on that poor helpless thing. He's my baby.
What are you talking about? I did not spill milk, and the sheets could be washed anyway.
I’m not going to wash them. You should wash your ugly dress. You look like a giant candy corn.
What are you talking about? There’s no such thing as consequences.
I don’t need choices. I need to get out of here and away from you crazy people. You’re not going to brainwash me. I’m eleven and I know things. I know all about the Greek Gods. About Zeus and Athena, and that guy that saw the naked woman bathing and fell in love with her.
Nothing. There’s nothing in my hand, Mom.
It’s just a pickle. It lives in my sock.
What? I can’t even have a pickle for a pet.
You’re cruel and unjust.
Shut up, I’m talking. I’m like cheetah breath, not a pair of scissors. You’re not even a caterpillar.
You don’t understand anything. I’m using a metaphor.
I couldn’t even say good bye to my cat, my lovely baby. You never loved anyone. That’s why you and Dad are going to get a divorce.
No, it’s your fault.
Shut up, Shut up, Shut up, or I will stick a knife in your heart.
Get off me, get off. I can’t breathe. You’re killing me.
You’re lucky you just got a few scratches, because if you touch me again, I will stab you in the face.
I’m glad you’re crying. I don’t love you. I could never love you.
I’m a terrible person? You’re not even a real person. Your spirit guide is a rotten dandelion.
Stop crying I said. I don’t want you to cry any more. If you didn’t take everything I loved, everything would be OK. He was a stray, my baby. He didn’t belong to anyone but me. He liked to watch funny shows. He didn’t like to watch long boring documentaries. His name was Murphy.