Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Cyber and Punk are Dead?

I came to a realization today.  We, as people, are losing our fight to stay free, because of lolcats.  Its not a funny piece like some of my other ones, nad its political without being "political".  Give it a shot, if you don't like it I've got more fun things coming... but I felt like I needed to get this out because the world's driving me crazy.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

This is a test post.

Exciting, I know. But I just set up a whole bunch of If This then that recipies, or tasks, or whatever they're called, and want to test them since god knows I likely fucked 'em up.

Friday, December 16, 2011

At An Angle

Been sleeping really fucked up hours. Hit bed at 11 tonight, slept around 4 hours, woke back up... read /x/ and rolled to write creepypasta OC. First two I didn't like despite other people really enjoying one of them ut this one... this one was fun.  Its my own little insomniac crap attempt at an homage to Fritz Lieber's story of a family's curse.

Dad was always tinkering in the basement when I was growing up.  I'd be in the basement family room playing some nintendo game and he'd walk through with his toolbox.  He'd stop, maybe sit with me and ask why Mario was squashing those turtles.  I'd respond like the kid I was, chattering away about the pixels on the screen.  He'd listen like a dutiful father, then with a sigh he'd stand up.
"Back to work," his tone was always so odd. Sad, almost.  He'd go into the laundry room, the door would close, and I'd hear the radio turn on.

WLS, or a Cubs game, would fill the room, and under Steve Stone's insightful commentary, I'd hear a metal on stone sound. Scraping.  Harry Carry's drunken jovialness would blend with a metallic hammering.  Steve and Gary would war with wet splashing sounds I could never really figure out.

Sometimes hours would pass, and I'd invariably press my ear against the locked door, desperate to figure out what he was doing in there, but I never could.  I'd hear power tools, hand tools, voices that must have been bleedover from other radio stations.

Finally he'd open the door again, give me a playful shove with his foot, and go upstairs.  I'd always go into the laundry room after, and I never saw anything change.

It turned into one of those odd childhood events that others would have found strange but to me was just part of life in my household.  My mom made stir-fry every sunday, and my dad went into the laundry room twice a week.  Life went on.

I was 15 when dad finally shot himself.  I was chatting on IRC with some friends (One of whom I'd eventually move across the country to live with for a time) and there was dad.  He was weaving a little... drunk again.  Its funny that what you ignore as a kid, you see as an alcoholic father when you grow older.  He came up behind me, and patted me on the shoulder.

"Remember, hit at an angle." The fuck? I just sort of half nodded. The asshole was in my space.  He walked into the laundry room, the door closed, and there was a sound like a firecracker going off inside a melon.  A sharp "bang" with a bursting sound and splatter.  I hit the door, finally unlocked, and fell immediately as my heel hit a patch of dadbrain.  That's how I thought of it, and still do... its funny what your brain makes light of. Dadbrain, sounds like a cartoon character.  I landed with my head next to what was left of his... mostly just a lower jaw, teeth, a flopping tongue that hadn't stopped.  I remember thinking it looked like a beached carp.  Then I remember throwing up and blacking out.  Well, I don't remember blacking out, but I did.

Fuck it, you get the point.

When I came to, I was still covered in vomit, but Dad, and the Dadbrain, was all gone. The blood, the body, and in its place was dad's red toolbox, a couple PB+J sandwiches, and a note in my mom's handwriting.

"You'll be good at this.  Stirfry when you're done, baby. <3 Mom."

I could see it now.  The concrete floor wasn't smooth anymore... it was etched with words I never could have read until now.  Spiraling patterns that defied comprehension underlayed the words, and inbetween the designs danced a creature I couldn't describe correctly if I wanted to.  Tentacled, feathered... worms. Fanged things, like live at the bottom of the sea, only worse, more alien... because I in them I saw... Dad. Uncle Alan. Uncle John.  Grandpa. I felt... kinship.  And now I could feel more... leathery, feathery things sliding across my skin, under my clothes, brushing my face... and the same feeling inside, trying to claw its way out... the only way to keep it down, to keep -them- where only I could see them clear.

I splashed the paint in the right places, I marked the designs, and I made sure to hit it at an angle.  The spiral would continue until I couldn't fight it anymore, and I'd pass it to my own sons.  I'd play the radio, I'd lock the door, and I'd be sure stir-fry was always on Sunday.

Monday, August 29, 2011

All's Fair in Love and Genocide

This one got strange.  Love, loss, massacre, and bin Laden.

          I've been thinking a lot about love, lust, and need recently due to an abortive and confusing little tango with an ex-girlfriend. I'm not talking the sort of thinking that makes me cry into my beer and wonder what went wrong or that makes me want to stand outside her window like John Cusack with a boombox playing “Closer”. The sort of thinking about what I want and by extension what others want, no-emo. I swear.

"I want to fuck you like an animal!"

          She wanted something slow, I wanted to hit her over the head and drag her off to my castle. This is a flaw I run into a great deal, where most people want to have something normal and decent that their parents and God would approve of, and me wishing it was still acceptable to claim a girl and nail her on the bar just so everyone knows whats what. Was that ever acceptable? Fuck it, lets pretend it was. I grew up in a Jewish suburb so the thought of a life more violent and full of blood and bare breasts is attractive to my somewhat screwed up brain, like a Heavy Metal magazine found by a fourteen year old.

The most simple of thoughts.

There is something unnatural about plastic ketchup bottles.

Twitter Delicious Facebook Digg Stumbleupon Favorites More