Don’t be lookin up at no sky for help. Look down here, at us twisted dreamers.

Boy you really missed the boat. I’ll make it simple, so’s even fuckin you can understand. Papa God growed us up till we could wear long pants; then he licensed his name to dollar bills, left some car keys on the table, and got the fuck outta town”. Water rushes to his eye-holes. “Don’t be lookin up at no sky for help. Look down here, at us twisted dreamers”. He takes hold of my shoulders, spins me around, and punches me towards the mirror on the wall. “You’re the God. Take responsibility. Exercise your power

We will all be destroyed whether we like it or not. I say let's like it.

I sense a learning: that much dumber people than you end up in charge.

There isn’t a name for my situation. Firstly because I decided to kill myself. And then because of this idea:I don’t have to do it immediately.Whoosh, through a little door. It’s a limbo.I need never answer the phone again or pay a bill. My credit score no longer matters. Fears and compulsions don’t matter. Socks don’t matter. Because I’ll be dead. And who am I to die? A microwave chef. A writer of pamphlets. A product of our time. A failed student. A faulty man. A bad poet. An activist in two minds. A drinker of chocolate milk, and when there’s no chocolate, of strawberry and sometimes banana.

For all the sirens, game-show buzzers, and drum-rolls of life, it is the nature of men to die quietly.

School never teaches you about this mangled human slime, it slays me. You spend all your time learning the capital of Surinam while these retards carve their initials in your back.

What I'am learning is the world laughs through its ass every day, then just lies double-time when shit goes down. It's like we're on a Pritikin diet of fucken lies. I mean - what kind of fucken life is this?

God knows I tried my best to learn the ways of this world, even had inklings we could be glorious; but after all that's happened, the inkles ain't easy anymore. I mean - what kind of fucken life is this?

If I was president of the Slime Committee, I'd make it easier to come clean about shit. If coming clean is what you're supposed to do, then it should be made more fucken accessible, I say.