Hello lamb, has your blood circulation stopped yet? Might as well let rigor mortis in already, it has its eyes on you, you know. You can not wait until your battle for the promised feast up in shallow heavens in which you foolish narrow-minded people so naively like to believe in will be over, am I not right? Go on, touch the skies, you miserable fiend fodder. Do not dare even to think about setting your foot on our insanity-driven wonderland. Our home is not for the likes of you. Gates to the damned city where the finest people of all times spend their afterlives will be locked for you. They were strong, strong enough to try and live their lives as one mortal life is supposed to be lived, joyously and with pleasures satiating their days. Foul kings and bishops, brothel owners and princes of opium trade, from sun worshipers to pedophiles our sweet home has not once spat out a soul worthy of sharing our delights with us.
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It was the season of badapples. Ripe sanguine fruits, all rotten to the core, covered the poisonous grounds in the forest of dusk and despair. Badappletrees sighed and moaned soundly as great weights kept falling from their decayed vestments. Two Pluckers were walking around in that gloomy grove carrying large Baskets which screamed with pleasure when lustrous badapples smitten with sin and sorrow filled their bottomless mouths. The Baskets’s jaws were lined with razor-like teeth which were carefully sharpened by the Pluckers. Those morbid humanoids sure knew how to take care of their ’pets’.
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It was another one of those evenings. You lay on the sofa, gulping ice-cream and bawling your eyes out because another young lad with incredibly handsome face had been incredibly mean to you. Or turned out to be gay. Or not smiled on you. Or not shared your obscure tastes in something. I don't know, one of those was always the reason. I didn't even try to cheer you up or anything, it would have been a foolishly futile of an effort. Instead I made myself a cup of coffee. Didn't make any for you since when you're broken down, even the slighest kind act makes you cry even more. I still don't know why you always lusted after the most ridiculously beautiful ones. I had told you many times how it doesn't really matter how they look, peel off their skin and they're all the same - big bloody lumps of meat, savagely butchered and ready to be disposed of. You laughed me off and searched for a new prey. Well, you never really hit your target.
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It was a typical Friday night in a seedy little bar+club abomination, the kind of place, which on weekends becomes inhabited by local art school fuck-ups and drama students, you know, the 'alternative' youth that can handle their drinks better than Irish dockworkers and think, that it's preposterous when someone actually understands you. Anyway, it was the kind of place that the likes of you and me would normally not even look at. But that night we were there. We sat on a trashy sofa and tried to look social. No, not really. That was an obvious lie. I just pretended to be extremely interested in my drink, which in fact was my fourth on that night. No matter how good my company is or how much I drink, I can't wipe the pompous don't-you-bloody-dare-to-talk-to-me impression off my face. There I sat, managing somehow and eying you while you fixedly stared at that tall and dusky handsome guy, who was casually lounging around and kissing anyone who appealed to him. Just like that. He simply hung around and kissed people, stole their drinks and cigarettes, just like that. And you were so into him but there wasn't even a slim chance that he would notice you, because you literally came from different worlds. Oh how sad. I could've introduced you, but I didn't. Instead I walked you home, in silence, knowing how you'd cry for hours and down at least 2 bottles of cheap red wine. Cheap red wine, because even though you could afford better, you chose the worst ones since those made you feel even more pathetic and you really got a kick out of self-pity. I really should've told you about that guy, how he was mildly disturbed and desperately yearned for consolation, whoring himself out only to feel like he belonged somewhere, how he actually got bored of any event before midnight, went home and masturbated to low quality Asian porn; how he was sooooo confused and lost in this world that he probably tried offing himself twice a month. I know I should've told you, but no, I didn't. You crashed your system - this was your crisis.
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Who is your best friend? Introduce us please. - Why do you care? It has nothing to do with you. - Oh please, just a name. - Fine. John Smith. - Very nice. What's he like? How does he look? - Do you judge people by their looks? - Come on, just tell me. - I don't know the damn color of his eyes and he doesn't have any scars or over-sized moles on his face. - Yes, but, about his figure and such? - He's tall. Relatively tall. Not the tallest one I know, but still. Taller than me. And thin. Rail thin. Happy now? - Now, that wasn't so hard, was it? - It was fucking hard. - Okay, let's continue. For how long have you known each other? - Since the end of last July or the beginning of last August, I don't know the difference. - That's nice, what do you do together? - Time traveling, witch-hunting, drakeriding... The important stuff. - Whoa, some impressive friend you have. - I wouldn't care for less. - Heh. You have a lot in common, am I right? - No. We don't have anything in common. - But you're still good friends? That's rare but cool. - Really? - Oh, I think so. Why is he your best friend? - I don't know. Maybe I don't have anybody else.
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The day your last exit to paradise closes, you will slowly start to descend into madness. Lips move but you can't hear them. What has happened, are they tongueless or have your senses fallen over the edge? They seem to be talking about something, slowly mouthing words one after another, faces as expressionless and blank as ever. Since your paranoid nature tells you to think so, first thing that comes to your tainted mind is that they must be telling you about your flaws. They simply must be blaming you for your futile attempts to live as you're supposed to. So, what will you do? Can you fight the robot army or are you just going to give up, go along with them, turn into one of them? This far, you've shown no signs of uprising whatsoever. All you do is sit curled up in the corner of your room watching the greywhite noise screen of your TV. There are hundreds of channels providing broadcasts about everything from babysitting to haute couture and dealing with zombie apocalypse, yet none of those has managed to make it to your antediluvian TV. I know you haven't gone out for weeks, you're rail thin and pale as a porcelain doll. Do something about it.
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About my alcoholic brother.
He used to constantly get talks about how much he drinks. However, those lectures pissed him off and in return made him drink even more. Our parents thought that threatening to kick him out would set the things straight but my brother left that very evening before they even had a chance. Mom called him next day begging him to come home. He indeed came back... and got drunk.
I think I had really strong bonding with him when we were kids. Then I suddenly stopped caring. If you're not fond of anything or anyone, it doesn't hurt so much when things go horribly wrong.
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I don't give a damn and nor do you but I heard from somewhere that boys and girls should sleep together so we could just do it. We could also hold hands in public, though I don't fancy the idea of sweaty palms. I do think you look fabulous in my skinny jeans by the way. Well, whatever. Let's just get fucked up, maybe even fucked.
