This story includes homicide, suicide, and if you are lucky, a side of fries. Crying is blackmail. The King of Stupors walks in and belches the Star-Spangled Banner, stroking his cock, and staring at all the pretty girls with a hungry look.
"The problem is you're a perfectionist. You don't always have to be totally evil. Sometimes. it is okay to just be annoying."
He choked on his own loin cloth, our Tarzan, and forgot the name of his Jane. Back in high school, it was easier to be a bitch, even as a guy. So Tarzan took on a lover named Captain Suicide, who had big bubbles of air for breasts and lied through her teeth to keep them clean. Tomorrow, it becomes autumn again, and no one noticed. Then, the magazine was published. Nursing salty wounds galore, our antihero was distracted. There is not much chance of not hearing the door slam, a few times. Cheetah is a monkey. We laugh, as the confusion begins. Left alone in the woods with nothing to do but antagonize Tarzan, we had not tried to change anything for twenty years. If old age does not kick your ass, New Age certainly will.
"It is healthy, I suppose. Dragging our testicles through the underbrush and trying to teach our mothers to drum. We found ourselves in Toxic City, and we made our firstborn the Mayor."
"Please decide for me. Who is the enemy? Two years later, I was so drunk that I forgot my crimes. I was heading to Santa Fe, anyway."
"Give up needing the weapons of privilege, and I will stop making them."
"Yeah, happily ever is today," she says with a mischievous smile taking over tomorrow and yesterday. "Turn off the heartache because I am not looking for an earthquake named after you."
You are my trial and my child. Did I mention that we were running for president? Insert giggles now. Happily ever after lasts until today. I want to hide behind a wall of fog and name it after you.
A little more to the left, and we won't look back. We are a promise left unkept. Dark and sticky, our explanations are going small and difficult to discern from the buzz of the chainsaw. I feel the tickle for you in my toes, Electronic Quiver. Tomorrow, we will say what yesterday was about. A pretty picture stands up from the desert. We will see you around the playfrown, princess.
"Can't you hear me beyond the cloaking and croaking." "You have a frog caught in your throat?" She looks up from the kitchen floor, a pool of blood rolling pretty pictures along the tiles underneath her. She begins to smile.
"It is so cold that I can't feel my fingers touching your face," she says as she drifts away. This is the prison that we call our home.