Song of the moment: Nothing! by Mister nobody


I am supposed to be cleaning right now, hence there is nothing playing on my speakers because if I send out a little hint of me actually having the slightest bit of fun, my mother would come stomping up the stairs and start up another one of her lectures of me being a lazy good-for-nothing daughter.


So I suppose I shall ponder.



I remember when I was at the tender age of 8, 9, or 10, or was it 11? or 7? I was romping around my backyard when I came across a pile of muddy dog shit that some unwieldy canine left behind. Upon closer inspection, it was seemingly crawling across the pavement, moving as if it was alive. Upon even closer inspection, I saw the reflective surfaces of hundreds upon hundreds of ants, at which point I got a nasty whiff of the murky dog shit and was prompted to stumble aback.


But alas! I came back with avengeance unleashing my first genocidal act upon any living species. Needless to say, I still had my sanity intact as well as my sanitary appeal. I sniffed a lovely wad of spit, aimed, and hit it dead center of the pile of shit, scattering the future deceased. Then I had my fun. I was spinning around in little circles, arms waving wildly in the air, eyes lusting for blood, stomping anything that moved. I was in total ecstasy. The power I acquired over these simple-minded creatures, I marveled over.


But I felt a transformation coming upon me. These simple blood lusting feats was lacking the bloody ambition I should have with a coming of age… it was almost elementary. Of course I elaborated my schemes of turmoil I dispose on ants, e.g.: make them fight and place them in the little plastic dome you can purchase at those 25 cent vending machines, burning them to a crisp, chasing them around with the point-dot-foci of a magnifying glass until they start giving off the putridly foul stench of burning flesh, pouring lighter fluid over them and watching the whoosh-nuke effect, accompanied by shriveling bodies under the searing heat. I have modernized my methods of disposure, but yet to move up on the hierarchy of the evolutionary chain. Perhaps a lack of ambition and heart is my qualm.


Actually seeing the life leaving from an infinitely larger, warm blooded animal; drop by drop, spilling over on the pool of blood. Ripple effect, mind piercing tides. It makes me wonder. Do I have the heart to kill another human? Do I have what it takes to stand over my victim, sliding my knife through his throat, feeling the searing pain shivering over his body as the knife, bores deeper, deeper, harder. Can I maintain that burning desire of the lust for blood as he wails out for me to spare his life?


But wait… the knife is already in hand, the knife is already through the outer layers of flesh, of skin, of muscle, the knife is half way through, his neck just gave out - snap, his life passing away in my hands, heart came to a studdering stop - its done, finished. His head rolls off, lifeless, decapitated. I know I can. I imagine that his outer flesh and muscle of his throat giving away easily but I will have to actually saw through his spine. Saw through flesh and bone of your own brethren? Is it justifiable in the animal kingdom to kill out of spite? Out of hate? Out of HATE FOR MANKIND?! I don’t know.


I never hated ants; they just presented me with the opportunity to get Jewed around. They taught me the basics of how short and insignificant life is. It just takes one crazed motherfucker to end a life. What has subdued this passionate hatred for my fellow man? You mother fuckers did me wrrrrrrronggggggg… haha. No, it’s just late night ranting.



Chalk it up to perfectionist. An urge, almost the need to be creative, innovative and original. It's the desire to not repeat ones self, but to cultivate your thoughts into an ever-lasting creative renaissance.

I have slayed the ultimate enemy… myself.


My mother would be so proud if she could read this.


Pfft. As if she will ever find out about my deleterious thoughts and secretive dark intentions nor would she ever care. She has no idea what I do when I lock myself up in her room with a computer in hand, as I pierce together letters, creating a word, and building up those words to create a sentence, and those sentences to voice my thoughts out to the world. It seems like an eternity since that lapse of creative talent was tapped. I am never satisfied with whatever I write, especially if I read through it a dozen times and a billion more after that, being ever so fastidious over every single detail on my work as I always somehow find a reason to change something, to fix a grammar mistake, to replace a word for another meaning the same exact thing, yet making it sound a lot more aesthetic.


I am starting to get delirious. Maybe it's time for me to go to sleep, don't you agree?


*In my best Apu impersination*

"Thank you, come again."