How Bob and I save Christmas, finale.

There are few experiences as terrifying as being hunted by a mob. Reading a lot of medieval horror stories about witch-hunting while possessing prevalent knowledge of the mob-lynchings during the civil rights era was enough to educate most people on how mobs like to hunt down particular groups of people who probably had it coming. Despite being white and in possession of a penis, I was used to this. Pissing off a large group of people and having them seek to beat my ass into bloody submission wasn't a foreign concept to me. But this particular incident can become slightly unnerving when what would end up beating my ass into bloody submission would be a bunch of erect penises from a substantial group of extremely horny and extremely desperate young men looking to satisfy their rage-driven libidos on whatever conscious biomass that they happen to come across.

And I'm serious; it could be anything. I saw the sex-crazed bastards start grabbing raccoons and tackling wild deer as they overwhelmed the poor animals with a bunch of testosterone-soaked man-flesh as some of them actively pursued me into the forest.

I honestly had no clue as to what my course of action would be. As vast as my expertise was when it came to fighting off large groups of horny sociopaths, I was only one man. And retreating into the woods to evade them wasn't exactly the smartest idea; if one intended to do something then any reasonable man would've assumed to stay in town where he had access to whatever tools of destruction he would need. I would have to go back there eventually. But there were too many to fight, even if I had help. I needed to plan an escape. Unfortunately for me that meant going back into town those lust-driven heathens were no doubt destroying.

My method of escape was simple; the town is in a very isolated region in Washington. And I mean fucking isolated. Not even satellite providers will give people service out here. To the north of the small town were expansive networks of forest; venturing through here was a surefire way to get lost, and being the smart bastard I was I went charging in headfirst with my only thought being to keep all these perverts off of my ass. The town was sandwiched between two rivers. To the south was the only viable means to get to the little town; a lone bridge that I had to get across to make it out with my dignity and orifices intact.

I knew how the little rabbit being hunted by a pack of wolves felt. Whereas that particular Discovery special ended with the little rabbit being disemboweled, it didn't have the access to liquor-driven rage and murderous intent. Working my way through the waning blizzards of the northern front, I found two of the pantless patrolmen taking a piss near a river that was freezing over. This was vital, as the warm urine passing through their dick kept frostbite at bay, although the throbbing erections certainly threw off their aim. I no longer had any alcohol on me, so I had to make do with my bare hands to incapacitate these two disgusting men that were on the route to the town.

I slowly sneaked up on one that started taking a piss and I shoved him into the river. The other man was getting ready to take a piss before he immediately spotted me drowning his friend, and what ensued was a fistfight/wrestling match that bordered on getting laid. Eventually I got frustrated and had to finish him off. I looked for the nearest blunt object I could find, which happened to be his frostbiten dick that was large enough to hunt with. I snapped the thing clean off of him and while he screamed in agony, then I hammered his own icy cock into his eye socket and jammed it in there until I crushed his brain. I worked my way through the woods and what unfolded was a stealth massacre that involved more dicks, skullfucking and homoeroticism than a slasher film with a gay BDSM director. The only people who had their hands on more dicks than I did that night were either prostitutes pulling extra shafts shifts or secretaries fishing for promotions.

The town was in shambles. When I arrived, it was completely overrun by the sex-crazed maniacs of the donkey show. Being the tiny isolated village that it was, the townspeople were woefully prepared for a bunch of rambunctious sexual deviants that fucked for something other than the act of procreation. The trail of blood, semen and violated orifices left in the wake of the mob passing through the town was like a malicious plague infecting what was once a delightful community in the secluded area of the woods.

But fuck if I cared, I just wanted to get back to my grandmother's and get wasted on nog for Christmas.

The one person I didn't expect to see alive was Bob. That greasy, drugged-out hippie was hiding out with the rest of the fleeing townspeople in the last standing house that wasn't on fire or had a bunch of pantless men with erections passed out on the patio.
"Bob, we need to get the fuck out of here."
"But Conrad, we need to fight off the scourge before it spreads to the rest of our glorious nation." It was a bunch of drugged-up fratboys at a donkey show, and it was a state, but I saw his point. Although there was nothing we could do; there were literally hundreds of these freaks breaking and sucking and humping and blowing and grinding and fucking the town into the ground. So the only course of action was to quarantine the place and keep it from spreading. Thankfully, also being a bunch of hics in the woods, these poor people had firearms. Bob and I grabbed what we could, and went out to start kicking ass while attempting to make our getaway.

The men were still seeking to violate any sentient creature that moved, and each one that did was greeted with a shotgun blast to the face. This in retrospect was a bad idea, as it gave them death erections, and every mob we managed to hold off had not only blood but disgusting jizz flying everywhere. We could've bankrupted a competing sperm bank with the amount of semen these heathens expelled. All it needed to do was rain heroin needles and then the holy triad of getting STDs would be bearing down on this terrible little town.

Eventually we found a jeep and loaded it up with as much gasoline barrels as we could. We occasionally grabbed a woman and threw her out into an opening to distract the crowd; better her than us. I even had to give up my charred corpse girlfriend, which was actually a fantastic idea since they must've spent several minutes finding where to actually stick it into. The jeep was ready to go, and all we needed was some badass escape music like Ride of the Valkyries.

We turned on the radio and "Grandma Got Ran Over By A Reindeer" was playing. Fucking Christmas music.

We were racing down the bridge while the hordes of sexy men raced at us with their frozen hard-ons, like a charging army with fleshy javelins giving chase. The barrels of gasoline were rolling off the jeep as Bob attempted to steady his aim and shoot them to set the bridge on fire. Of course it didn't help that I was stupidly drunk yet was the one stuck with driving. There was almost something ethereal about racing down a collapsing bridge with a bunch of pantless rapists chasing you down while "Grandma Got Ran Over By A Reindeer" was blaring over the radio. The car eventually broke down, though. We were screwed. So close to reaching the end of the bridge.
"CONRAD, I WILL HOLD THEM OFF! MAKE HASTE, FOR THE WINTER SOLSTICE'S SPIRIT NEEDS TO BE DELIVERED BY YOUR GOOD WILL FOR GRANDMOTHER!" I didn't know what the fuck that meant, but I assumed that it meant that I should haul ass while he stayed behind. I saluted the man, and ran. I finally reached the end of the bridge, and I looked back. There Bob was, standing majestically and then shooting the last gasoline barrel beneath his feet, creating an impassable wall of fire. The bridge eventually collapsed from all the stress, and the terrible sex-driven plague was halted. After all that, I sighed, drank the last of the cheap liquor and only had one valid point to say.

"This is why I hate Christmas." And then the march to my grandmother's began as the sun rose.

Nobody's a critic anymore.

A repost from a long-ass time ago, made painfully relevant yet again by recent events.

A moment on the Nsider2 forums has made me angry, and it's reminded me why I don't really choose to come to this place very often. Someone who frequents this place got pissy and left after some genuine, HONEST criticism about her artwork. While you could find out who it is if you did enough research, for the sake of that person I won't state her name. I can understand disregarding blatantly rude criticism due to the proliferation of internet trolls, but why the hell does that mean people immediately have to write off any kind of criticism or comments about their artwork as such?

What does "art style" mean to you? To a place like DeviantArt, a place pretty much devoid of any criticism, I'll tell you exactly what it is. It's a cop-out to cover up any flaws or issues somebody has in their artistic "skill". Misshapen proportions? It's their art style. Hardlined shadows that don't blend at all? It's their art style. Um yeah, contrary to popular belief, just because art is a subjective medium doesn't mean it can't be shit. You can hear somebody just mash the living hell out of a guitar like it's singing its death song, but you bet your ass you can't get away with saying "Oh, that's just their style of playing music." People can still sing off-key, and people here still churn out shit.

The issue? Nobody's a critic anymore. The line has been tightly drawn and nobody can cross it. Everyone is high-fiving each other so much that as soon as anyone offers the slightest hint of constructive criticism, you're branded the insensitive asshole. Just because your opinion on a SUBJECTIVE medium is negative. It's good to have people constantly patting you on the back, but if no one offers criticism then you won't learn what your weak points are and you won't ever get better. As an artist myself, you're going to have to accept that there are going to be critics. In fact you should embrace the people telling you everything wrong with your work; it's how you better yourself as an artist and improve. Granted you're going to have your trolls, you should never disregard what they have to say anyway. Judge the statement being made, not the person making it.

While we shouldn't be pessimists, we should never think we've reached the ceiling for our level of skill. We should always believe we can improve, and therefore embrace criticism. A truly good artist can walk the tightrope of appreciating the work they make and having pride in what they do while at the same time being able to see what they lack in so they can improve. Upholding this egocentric view on your own art is the reason there's so much shit out there now. Your "skills" will grow stagnant and never evolve. Why the hell be in a medium that's meant to be ever-changing if nobody is telling you what you're doing wrong so you can fucking fix it and let it grow?

Art isn't genetic. Artistic talent isn't something you're born with. It's a learning process, and for some it comes easier than others. Granted this person's art was completely appalling and absolutely mortifying to look at, there's clearly potential there. There's work to be done. You have no right to call yourself an artist if you can't take criticism and better yourself. It's something you need. You need to hear what you're doing right so you can keep doing it, and hear what you're doing wrong so you can stop or make it better. That's how it works. And yet hardly anyone has the balls to actually point out and go "HEY, THAT LOOKS LIKE SHIT! MAKE IT BETTER!"

You hear me out there? If you see something wrong, FUCKING SAY IT. HELP THE PERSON OUT. Pointing out what they're doing wrong is just as helpful as pointing out what they're doing right, even moreso perhaps.

Mr. Death among other things.

More story concepts to launch at you people, but first, some updates on my current stories.

-Next chapter of Beautiful World is in fact being written, just a big-ass writers block halted that. Now I know how to go about it and decided against writing it as a full-fledged novel and am keeping it to a series of short chapters.

-My Dear Little Remi won't be seen by anybody until it's done, or unless people want to volunteer to read and edit it. It's about 50 pages along and the actual story's maybe a third of the way done. Which means it's going to become the DNF of my stories, but this is a novel I intend to get self-published at some point. More details when I know what they are.

-Finale to the infamous Christmas story is coming, shut the hell up. I actually have to find it.

-My exploits with a gay man and a limbless woman in my basement will eventually come to fruition, I'm just sitting on some ideas right now.

-Two short pieces are in the works right now, you'll see them eventually.

Now for the two story concepts. The first centers around a very basic, very cliched story set-up that's probably been done before, but big fucking whoop, I'm doing it anyway. Simply going under the handle of Mr. Death for now, the story is about a classy gentleman who always visits a dingy diner in the earliest times of the morning and makes conversation with the young waitress working the graveyard shift there. He tells her stories of his exploits and adventures. The catch? He's Mr. Death, the grim reaper of sorts. A first attempt at a rather serious tale, these will be a series of short stories dealing with... well, the concepts of mortality. He's meant to be a detached man who offers no judgment on his victims or his job, but the waitress he tells his stories to brings a human outlook to them, which over time might serve to change his view on how to do his job. Yes, it's going to be depressing. IT'S DEALING WITH DEATH, WHY THE FUCK WOULDN'T IT?

The second is an expansion on an early story. Some of you may recall a love letter, a story about two idiots who learn to fall in love. Well, I'm going to flesh it out more. In fact, I'm rewriting and making the original longer and more wordy or some shit. It'll follow Dan and Eve's tropes through High School, through college, and beyond. Two irrational morons juggling their feelings around for a funny yet occasionally touching love story. WHAT? I CAN WRITE LOVE STORIES TOO, DAMMIT. EVEN I GET TIRED OF WRITING ABOUT RAPE AND DRUG TRIPS AND GRATUITOUS MURDER EVERY ONCE IN A WHILE.

But right, there's an announcement for you idiots, and I hope you have a miserable Christmas like I certainly will.

Clearly not overcompensating.

I remember when I tried to kill myself recently. And I made sure to get the job done. IT WAS FUCKING MANLY, BECAUSE IF YOU'RE GOING TO BE A DICKLESS LITTLE PILE OF SHIT AND COMMIT SUICIDE, THEN YOU SHOULD AT LEAST HAVE THE DECENCY TO COMPENSATE BY MAKING IT THE MANLIEST SUICIDE POSSIBLE.

You know what I did? You know what I did? YOU KNOW WHAT THE FUCK I DID? I picked fights with bears. Big, scary-ass bears. Have you ever fought a bear? The correct answer is no, because no one survived a round of fisticuffs with bears before. I FIGURED IT WOULD BE A FANTASTIC WAY TO DIE. But it failed. It turned out that I was so fucking manly, I just ended up fighting the bears off one by one. I grabbed one and crushed its ribcage. Did you hear that shit? I BEAR-HUGGED A BEAR TO DEATH. FUCK YOUR SHIT, BEAR. I JUST TOOK YOUR MANEUVER OF DEATH AND TURNED IT THE FUCK AGAINST YOU.

Eventually I realized that I couldn't commit suicide by fighting off bears. I figured the only manly thing I could kill myself fighting were dinosaurs. So I grabbed a bear, and I shoryukened it a million fucking years into the past. That's right; I uppercutted that motherfucker so hard that I punctured the space-time continuum and ended up creating some wormhole or some shit. So I used my manly calves and jumped off into the sky into the wormhole into the dinosaur ages before the wormhole closed. The shock of my legs decompressing on the ground made Yellowstone finally erupt and destroy humanity as we know it. FUCKING ACE.

So I was in the past, and I found them big-ass dinosaurs. I thought those motherfuckers were going to be scary, but no. THEY WERE PINK. ALL OF THE DINOSAURS WERE PURPLE AND PINK AND RED AND A BUNCH OF ALL FAGGOT-ASSED VAGINA COLORS. It was terrifying that dinosaurs weren't in fact manly. It crushed me. Oh wait, that was the meteor that came and wiped out all life on Earth at that point; the big-ass rock fell directly on me and hit me with enough force to send me down to Hell.

I was finally dead and burning in Hell, but shit sucked. This was before people and Christianity was invented, so Satan was the only guy down there at the time. He was wondering where the fuck I came from since people didn't exist. But then he decided to keep me there since I was the first person to show up. I wasn't haven't any of that shit; Hell was still under construction and was no way the pleasant resort hotel I remembered from the first time I was there back in the future. He didn't care, though; he was going to keep me in there.

So then I ended up fighting Satan and beating the fuck out of him. I beat the living shit out of that red-tailed baboon-assed pussy like my mother beats the shit out of Ligers. My mom is the reason Ligers are infertile; she beat them into sterility. Fuck yeah. But it was difficult, because I upset the foundation of Hell, so I spent literally eons digging and crawling my way up through the granite and dirt, fighting off demons and servants of Satan while I feasted on ore deposits and freshly-made oil reserves.

By the time I crawled out, I was back in my yard and it was 2010 again. Fuck, if killing myself was that much trouble and it didn't even fucking work, I'll just wait until God or Mother Nature kills me, then I'll kick their asses too when I'm pulled up into the great beyond. Satan banned me from Hell already, so I can't commit suicide and go there anymore.

BITCHES AND WHORES.

It's a public service taking refuge in audacity.

I don't believe we've had a good discussion about rape recently, so let's change that. The idea for this discussion stemmed from a recent article that we'll discuss shortly, but let's get to the good bits. In this lecture, we'll be talking about many myths and implications surrounding the act of rape.

So kids, what exactly is rape? Well, rape is a lot like being forced to do something you just don't want to. Except in this case, it involves any sort of unwanted sexual contact. This isn't to be confused with molestation, which usually involves children, stepfathers or catholic priests. But if we were to bring up the Catholic religion in general regarding sex, we would talk about how the prudish behavior is a faux to hide the fact that they're all sex-crazed maniacs, especially catholic schoolchildren.

The sex was so good that it made me believe in Jesus.

But this involves unwanted sexual stimulation when you've hit puberty. Now it's rape. Wonderful, delicious and fantastic rape. But, there are some major misconceptions about rape and what defines it. The myths surrounding this horrific and strangely arousing act are abudant, so let's take a look.

#1 - It's Not Rape If They Enjoyed It

Not as uncommon as you'd think.

This is a perplexing definition that people seem to follow. Apparently the act of rape is no longer considered rape the moment the victim starts enjoying it, the filthy slut. Apparently rape is supposed to be a brutal, agonizing and horrific experience and somebody is incapable of depriving joy from it. Well, it largely is. BUT APPARENTLY IF THE VICTIM STARTS HAVING FUN AND JOINING ALONG, IT'S NO LONGER RAPE. This clearly isn't true.

Mostly.

We have something called Stockholm Syndrome to describe people who become attached to kidnappers because well, let's be honest; if they got kidnapped in the first place, they must've had pretty shitty parents. But see, notice in this context we're still calling the perpetrator a kidnapper. If the victim starts to enjoy the sex forced upon them, it might not make them a victim any longer, BUT THE PERPETRATOR IS STILL A RAPIST. Unless they ask first and the victim agrees, then it's just mindless sex with a kinky overtone to slut up the mood.

This reminds me of a similar incident in High School. I got the living hell beaten out of me in High School a lot. Now, when I start enjoying it and egging the antagonist on and tell him to hit me harder than my mother for once, he's still clearly an assailant even though I'm taking pleasure in it. IT MAKES SENSE, DOESN'T IT? You can be bumping uglies with somebody and they can be against it, so at that point in time, IT'S RAPE. RAPE RAPE RAPE RAPE RAPE RAPE RAPE RAPE, YOU FILTHY RAPING RAPIST OF RAPING PEOPLE WHO DON'T WANT RAPE BUT THEY GET RAPED ANYWAY BECAUSE YOU RAPED THEM YOU DISGUSTING RAPIST. THEY MIGHT ENJOY IT LATER BUT RIGHT NOW IN THAT MOMENT IT'S RAPE.

But that brings us to our next point...


#2 - Men Are Incapable Of Being Raped By Women

But viagra and a boot up the ass will.

A frequent myth is that since most rapists seem to be men and the victims tend to be women, that they themselves are incapable of being raped by women. First off, straight up bullshit. Men are capable of raping other men. Not going to use the Catholic Priest argument because that's straying into molestation and delicious little boys with their petite litt--wait what? Oh right, men being raped. In a dick-waving contest between men, it's only natural that one of those dicks are going to stray off eventually, and a dicking is going to occur like the Hawaiians intended. It doesn't make us gay, though; sometimes the only thing that will hurt more than a swift kick in the ass is a swift dick in the ass. IT'S REVENGE. WE AREN'T ENJOYING IT, IT'S JUST A WAY OF CAUSING IMMENSE PAIN. PUNCHING SOMEBODY IN THE FACE HURTS YOUR HAND, SO DICKING THEM IN THE ASS IS CAPABLE OF BEING EQUALLY UNPLEASANT.

But the crux of this myth is that women are incapable of raping men. This stems from the reaction that you can generally only rape a man with an erection, which clearly means he wants it. Right? RIGHT? Heh heh, NO. First off, we can discuss the implementation of tools. But tools are unpleasant to think about. And the man has an orifice that can be raped just like a woman does. And either way, there are things like aphrodisiacs, drugs, ropes, and a manner of other things to get a man's soldier to stand at attacking for the impending air invasion. And places like Russia would like to have a word with you.

And either way, it's a NATURAL REACTION. Granted wood could be scared off in a terrifying situation, under proper stimulation, men will get an erection whether they want to or not. Like morning wood, or those awkward puberty erections they get in the middle of Spanish class. Just because the body gets prepared for sex doesn't mean it isn't rape. Men probably can't bother to remember, but how many of them would probably end up getting a woman wet before going in? Probably more than we would expect, because nobody likes friction. BUT IT'S STILL RAPE, EVEN IF THE BODY IS READY FOR IT. YOUR MOUTH SAYS NO, BUT YOUR BODY SAYS YES? YOUR BODY IS CAUSE/REACT, IT CAN'T FUCKING THINK. FUCK YOUR BODY. NOT LITERALLY BUT FIGURATIVELY.


#3 - Get Date Raped? It's The Rapist's Fault/Not Saying No Means Yes

With people like this at the party, you're SURPRISED you got raped?

Camille Paglia wrote an article about date rape. This was a feminist who essentially told other women that if they got raped at a party... IT WAS THEIR OWN DAMN FAULT. WELL FUCK, ISN'T THAT A BREAK-THROUGH DISCOVERY? AND I'VE BEEN PREACHING THIS SHIT FOR YEARS, WHERE'S MY FANCY ARTICLE IN THE SAN FRANCISCO EXAMINER? So sex is a risk, and if you manage to get drunk and stupid and incoherent enough to pass out and have somebody defile you while you're dead to the world, it was YOUR FAULT. Nope, not the rapist, YOURS.

Well, she's right.

If you're going out to do something stupid and reckless and it bites you in the ass, you deserve it. Even if it's something as bad as date rape. Which I like to believe technically isn't rape. Granted you're not awake to say no, it's the same as falling asleep in the park and waking up not expecting to be mugged. Granted we have a felon at fault here, you've brought it upon yourself. No rational person would surround themselves with strangers expecting GOOD things to happen if they pass out drunk. Or your friends, if they're dicks. After the bag of marbles and the carrot in the ass, I began to realize "You know what? Maybe it's my problem."


#4 - Rape Is A Tool For Converting Sexuality

I don't call it rape; I call it problem-solving.

...Wait what. This stems from this article I read about keeping them gay boys out of the army, but allowing the dykes in because, who knows, maybe they'll go straight. How the hell would "straight male GIs get a fair shot at converting lesbians and bringing them into the mainstream?" Pamphlets? Tutoring? Asking what would Jesus do? Who knows, maybe it would make Lesbians second-guess their sexuality when they start hearing "Man, you know, those dicks are actually pretty awesome." Then they'd hear Francis agreeing, and he'd be promptly hauled off to be stoned to death.

Or, maybe, just maybe, IF THEY GET ENOUGH OF THEM UNWILLINGLY THROWN IN THEIR FACE AND FORCED INTO EVERY ORIFICE OF THEIRS LONG ENOUGH, MAYBE THEY'LL REALIZE HOW FUCKING GREAT COCKS ARE AND REALIZE THE FALLACY OF BEING MUFF-DRIVERS IN THE FIRST PLACE.

Did we seriously just have a judge imply that being around these manly men often enough would lead them down the road to being straight? WHO JUST IMPLIED THAT BEING RAPED WOULD BE A GOOD THING? IT DOESN'T WORK LIKE THAT. Fuck, I wonder how many people actually believe this bullshit. This makes me wonder what goes on at those Christian Camps that turn men straight. What the fuck, it almost makes me want to sign up and tell them to turn me straight. Good lord, it would be an endless supply of pussy at my disposal. "HELLO? MINISTER, I DON'T BELIEVE I'M STRAIGHT ENOUGH YET. I THINK I MIGHT HAVE TO STAY AT CAMP FOR A FEW EXTRA WEEKS OR MONTHS. YES, MY INSURANCE COVERS IT." Damn, this is like legalized prostitution in bulk. It's as if Costco owned a Brothel. Fuck, I would pay for that.

Wait, where were we? Oh right, rape. REMEMBER KIDS, RAPE IS BAD. NOW IF YOU EXCUSE ME, I HAVE TO GO DO SOME RESEARCH ON GAY CAMP.

Like a strike of chocolate thunder.

"This is how it's supposed to go, right?"
"No, not quite."
"Was it like this?"
"Uh, no."
"How about this?"
"Nope."
"Well fuck me, THIS has to be it."
"Yep, that's it."
"Really?"
"Nope."
"SON OF A BITCH."

Rigging the wiring in cars is tough. Rigging the wiring so your mother's car won't start is pressuring work. Rigging the wiring because she's going to make another beer run in a ten or fifteen minutes is nervewracking. Stopping her from doing it while she is drunk is a service to the local public. I'm serious, my mother would drink, and when there's nothing left to drink, she would get in her car and get more to drink. No downtime to let that sobriety come creeping back in, oh no. She grabs the keys, she stumbles out the door, and she's gone. Not for good, because that would save me a lot of trouble. But long enough to make me concerned how many pedestrians she might've ran over in the process.
Back then, I didn't know shit about cars. Hell, I don't know anything about them now. When people start talking about cars, my mind tends to start trailing off and I start thinking about breasts and sex and meat and fucking and other manly things to compensate for my ignorance in the fields of automobility. The short blonde next to me, on the other hand, knew enough about them to get by. All of this despite her family not owning a car. At least not anymore. I hear cars sell pretty well to them young teenagers looking for that first beat-up jalopy to take for a few spins around town to the local malt shop an--fuck, wrong time period. But yeah they sold their car, but whenever her father drank too much, her mother showed her how to wire the ignition so it wouldn't start, meaning the crazed man couldn't go out and get his drunken-manslaughter on. She was attempting to teach me that art and was failing miserably.

"Damn, we aren't going to make it." I said.
"Nope, probably not."
"Hurry and go hide in the yard, she'll be coming down the stairs soon."
"Always with this, huh?"
"You're not seeing that woman and she's not seeing you. God-forbid what kind of shit would ensue if she knew of your existence, and really... you don't want to meet her."
"Still..."
"So, when are you going to introduce me to your dad?"
"...Fair enough, I'm going."

My lady friend scampered out of the garage down the apartment complex's streets out of sight. She would never meet my mother. Or my brother for that matter. I was a bit secretive about the relationship. I wasn't ashamed or anything, God no. If anything, I was proud that a (then) ugly bastard like me got a girl, but she didn't need to be pulled into my disgruntled family, at least not until things calmed down and subsided. They never did, but so it goes. She had her own reasons why I never met her family, either. It was like Romeo and Juliet, except that there was no family feud, everybody was drunk and abusive, and there's no suicide at the end, only a few attempts.

Well fine, it's nothing like Romeo and Juliet, but you get the idea.

So if a third wheel showed up, who the hell would they be considered? Roseline or what? I guess I didn't think this simile out clearly enough. But there are those occasional moments where you're with your girl and she just impresses you. Some of you people might know what I mean. I don't mean one of those "D'AWWWW ISN'T SHE PWECIOUS, SHE'S SO SWEET AND ENDEARING AND LOVABLE I JUST WANT TO RAPE AND CORRUPT HER INNOCENCE" kind of impressed moments. I mean one of those moments where you're literally speechless of what you just witnessed, and there's a newfound respect of that person there. And no, it's also not one of those kinds of moments where "She arranged this entire party for me? That must've been hard, and I love her hurr durr" either. What I'm talking about are those kinds of moments where you witness her do something that is both impressive, endearing, but malicious enough to instill unadulterated fear into your spine. You will love and worship this woman. Or else.
And these kinds of moments usually come when you're with the kind of girl that's submissive and quiet and soft-spoken and a little boring. Why? Because they're always the ones you least-expected. You might say "Okay, she's tougher than she looks",but you know you've spotted this particular moment I'm describing when what you say is along the lines of "Okay, so there's a dark side here that I've clearly glossed over." It's almost like sucker-punching a masochist. It's shocking, horrifying, and just smacks you across the face out of nowhere and yet it hurts so good that you might just need to change your pants.

***

"So she's really your girlfriend?"
"Is it surprising?" I asked.
"Eh, I guess you would say that..."
"I find it surprising, too. But it's not like I'm going to question it."
"Why?"
"......Is there a reason I should?"

The unfolding conversation was with a girl in one of my classes. I can't particularly recall, but it was during the second semester of my freshman year. In fact I can't really recall what ANY of my classes were during that time period save English with a woman I held at great contempt. Usually I can just make some shit up and make a safe or accurate assumption, but nothing comes up. But yes, I was talking with a particularly attractive girl during lunch who approached me at the lunch table. I was immediately on the defensive because... well, WHAT WOMAN IN HER RIGHT MIND WOULD TALK TO AN UGLY MOTHERFUCKER LIKE ME JUST TO SHOOT UP FRIENDLY CONVERSATION? Well that's the hitch; the girl I was going out was for a lack of better term completely out of my league. Seriously, she could've gotten anybody given her looks but chose a disgusting little grease monkey like me. It didn't make any fucking sense to me, either.

"Well... it's just..."
"Out with it, sweetheart." I was getting a bit irked. She had something to say that probably wasn't kosher, but I was getting impatient and I wanted to eat my shitty pizza that tasted like a locker room laundry bin.
"Just wondering... why she would go out with somebody like..."
"Like...?" Then came that thing that every young adolescent hates. That sound that will do a mix of terrible things to a young man. It will infuriate them, it will humiliate them, it will irritate them.

The bubbly High School giggle. That little giggle they seem to fight to keep in. That conniving little snicker that punctures every man's pride like a stray nail on the ground. They cover the smiles on their mouths and frantically look around almost like they're getting ready to shoplift something. It was the laugh where they were going to torture whatever poor bastard they were locking their sights on. And god-dammit, the kinky bitch will enjoy every moment of agony and let every excruciating syllable shoot out of her mouth and burn like drops of acid.

"I mean... look at you." she had a slightly coy smile.
"Piss off and rot, you cunt."
"What? I didn't even say anything." She was stifling her laughter. Bitch, I knew what you were implying, don't pull that shit. She knew that, that's why she left. And when she left, I heard more of those cackles from that pack of hyenas she retreated to. That's the second kind of laughter you hear. Where you hear uproarious guffaws behind you, and you can practically feel the fingers pointing at you in the process. It almost makes a man want to pull a box cutter on a girl's throat and make that laughter immediately evaporate into life-threatening terror.

"Hey."
"..."
"HEY, LUCAS."
"Huh what?" It was Amelia.
"You're bothered."
"Eh?"
"What has you flustered?"
"Huh? I'm fine."
"You're clearly bothered."
"No, not really."
"Your hand." My hand was covered in milk. My grip tensed up around my milk carton and crushed it. Okay, so maybe I was a little upset. But it wasn't her business. WHAT KIND OF MAN DOES IT MAKE ME IF I CAN'T HANDLE THIS ON MY OWN? I didn't say much of anything. I nonchalantly continued to drink my milk despite making a complete mess of myself.
"I have no clue what you're talking about. You're acting hysterical."
"...Hmm." But I think she noticed. She glared over in the direction of the laughing pack of girls and immediately saw the one who was mocking me earlier. Ami knew it was her because as soon as he made eye contact, her laughter immediately stopped, and the smile was quickly pulled off her face. I personally didn't think much of it. I mean, what was I was supposed to think? Ami wass a malnourished, four-foot ten-inch girl compared to a large buxom brunette who ran track. If something broke out between the two, who do YOU think would've won?

Well, that was a stupid question to ask.

Everything was kind of sort of fine the following day. It was burger day at the school, and let me tell you those burgers KICKED FUCKING ASS. Remember when eating Gas Station food wasn't considered a felony in most states? Neither do I, but if there's one thing I have fond memories of, it was the hamburgers at AM/PM. Those things were fucking delicious. Then one day they changed the meat they were made of or lost the secret formula rights to McDonalds or something and one day they became disgusting and selling them should've been classified as assisting customers in attempted suicide. But one theory I like to support is that my school stole all of them, and now serve them at our School every Wednesday. The same ones AM/PM had. They couldn't make new ones, so they're selling all the backstock AM/PM had. Don't worry; they're fine to eat. If there would be any organic matter still intact after a nuclear war, it would be cockroaches and these burgers.
It was business as usual. We were eating outside near the overhang in the yard. My lady brought up the Dreamcast, which to be fair, sounded like a kick-ass system when it came out nearly 6 years ago, but it wasn't God's gift to humanity. Discussing Phantasy Star Online was always interesting, though. She even managed to get my brother and I some sweet weapons she had no use for. But that conversation halted when she noticed that girl from yesterday go into the bathroom.

"I'll be right back." she said as she stood up.
"Hmm?"
"Bathroom."
"Oh, alright."

I knew she wasn't going to use the bathroom. Although I didn't really know what to expect, nor did I care. If she was going to aggravate a situation and possibly make it worse, all the better for me to have something to lord over her head after the whole incident with the fire and the mormons at the Hollywood Video. It was a bit unnerving, though; she was in there for a long time. A very long time. The brief 30-minute lunch period was almost over. She eventually came out and sat back down, a bit disgusted that her food was cold.

"You were in there long enough, weren't you?"
"Don't ask."
"I don't think most people would ask what a woman does in the bathroom."

But I didn't have much time to talk, as the warning bell rung and henceforth told me to get ready to get my ass to class. We talked about meeting up after school at the Rite Aid, but I had to get home quickly so that was out of question. Oh well. She left and I made my way to class. Before I did though, I saw that girl from yesterday leave the bathroom. She looked different. I couldn't quite describe it. It might've been the pale skin, the lifeless eyes with no hope left in them, or the look on her face that seemed to project the message that she just watched a loved one get raped. I didn't much care, so I headed to class. She stopped me.

"Oh, Lucas, about yesterday..."
"Hmm?"
"Sorry about that, I shouldn't had said something like that."
"Oh." It caught me off guard. "Uh, err, thank you?" Her solemn expression didn't change. She just left, and that was it. It was actually pretty fucking creepy; I wasn't aware if I was even talking to somebody alive just a moment ago. What the Hell did that short little woman do?

* * *

It got even more unnerving the next day. That girl was in my second period class. It was hard to not notice the girl was in clear distress for the entire class. Almost like she had a fever. She was breathing heavily, sweating a bit and having a bit of trouble speaking. Even the teacher asked her if she was sick. She said she was, but she didn't want to miss class. Oh, it was almost admirable. At some points she almost seemed like she was going to break out into tears.

"Alice, are you sure you're feeling alright?"
"I-I'll manage..." she weakly uttered.
"You should consider going to the nurse."
"No, I'm f-fine..." Her voice cracked a bit. As soon as the class was over, though, she was out of there. She fucking bolted to the bathroom at the speed of a lightning strike. I saw Ami sitting at the lunch table eating today's disgusting meal, salad with lard and vinegar vaguely disguised as dressing.

"......"
"Hmm?"
"....You."
"Hmm?"
"......What did you do?"
"Hmm?
"WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?"
"Nothing of importance."
"......Really." I said. She stood up.
"I need to go use the the bathroom." She said. I sighed.
"Alright." And so she walked off into the bathroom. It was for about ten minutes before she walked out. She sat back down and started eating again without saying a word. Minutes later, the girl walked out, in tears and made her way straight for the school office.

"I guess she's going home early." I said.
"I guess."
"She's been acting odd for the past day or so."
"You don't say." There was a long pause. Then something rare to cross my girlfriend's face showed up. It was a smirk. A slight remnant of a smile. A vaguely smug look. If she had a mustache, she would be twisting it in some Machiavellian or sinister manner.

"......You're a sexy bitch, you know that?" I smiled.
"I know." She said it in a monotone voice, but that look was still on her face.
And that girl never talked to me ever again. It was like a funny game because whenever she was being spunky and loud and obnoxious, it would be like somebody unexpectedly knifed her in the back whenever Amelia walked by her from that point on. She was like a diabolical shadow always hovering nearby.
And as much of a turn-on as it was to know my girlfriend got revenge on my behalf and did it with cold and psychotic precision, it did one very important thing. And I believe is that it made me more afraid of Amelia than that girl was. She put the fear of God into me, because I had no clue what this woman was capable of.

And I never figured out what she exactly did, either. I asked, she wouldn't respond. It was something that didn't happen in her book. And honestly, I think that was best. I think some things are just best left unknown.

I prefer the term "self-aggravated mercy-killing."

There's a funny story at my High School that I always found ironic. There's a football stadium outside of it; it's nothing fancy, but it's certainly nice and it's something a lot of schools around there didn't necessarily have. It had a track, a football field, big bleachers, lights and everything. Considering the dirty little town it was in, it was pretty snazzy. What always upset me though, was that it was named after somebody who died. Now now, hold your horses. I don't have anything against honoring the dead, so keep your silly conclusions to yourself. If I was against honoring the dead, I wouldn't be here writing; I would be out in the local cemetery knocking over tombstones and shitting on coffins.

Actually, that sounds like a pretty interesting pastime. I should go out and do that later. But right, my point.

He was a football player. Completely appropriate, right? Tragic how he died, though. His parents said he got into a car accident when he hit a coyote in the middle of a mildly suburbanized town in the California Central Valley. ......Read that again. Read it again. READ IT THE FUCK AGAIN. THERE'S NO FUCKING COYOTES IN THE MIDDLE OF A GROWING TOWN IN THE CENTRAL VALLEY, WHO THE FUCK DO THE PARENTS THINK THEY'RE FOOLING WITH THAT CROCK OF SHIT? NOBODY, THAT'S WHO. IT'S A LIE. A LIE. A FUCKING LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE.

He was known to be a jock and a partygoer according to some people who knew him, like my brother. And he drank a lot. It was apparently a Friday or Saturday night when the accident took place. You do the fucking math. That black woman with the enormous fro he was racing towards in his car to make love with turned out to be a tree that was closer to him than he expected. Of course I'm adlibbing here because like all interesting car accidents I'm going to assume he was killed on impact and we couldn't get that exact quote from him. Although that would be awkward if we did; the paramedics are using the jaws of life to pry his bleeding, dismembered body from the vehicle, but they're going to be too late. The paramedic puts his face close to his, listening to his last trickling breathes... "Damn... I thought that chocolate woman's hips looked to be a little to wide too be human..." Then his eyes close, and the paramedic caresses his face, and tears start rolling down his cheek. It starts to rain, he looks up, and dramatically screams into the air, "DAMN YOU, MARTIN LUTHER KING JR, DAMN YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOU!"

Okay, it was sad that he died and all. Really, it was. But are we honestly going to honor somebody's death when a good lot of people know the real circumstances that led up to it? The man essentially killed himself. You do something that's entirely within your control, you induce these circumstances upon yourself for no reason other than stupidity, and FUCKING DIE. This isn't a choice like "Well I could've avoided going to war, but instead I'm fighting for my country!" or a GOOD reason. The reason is more along the lines of somebody whoring themselves out for money or pleasure or boredom, and yet when they finally have an STD or AIDS that they're eventually going to succumb to, it's now a tragedy. When that festering pit taints the rest of the well, it's not a surprise.

"I can't believe I have AIDS..."
"I can."
"THAT'S INSENSITIVE!"
"I didn't say it wasn't sad, but come on..."
"THAT'S HEARTLESS!"
"YOU'VE TAKEN IN ENOUGH FLUIDS TO RID YOURSELF OF NEUTRAL BOUYANCY. I COULD THROW YOU IN A LAKE AND YOU'D SINK."
"JUST SHUT UP!"
"BITCH THAT'S NOT A RUNNY NOSE, YOUR BODY'S JUST RUN OUT OF PLACES TO STORE IT."

It's essentially suicide. It's just a indirect commitment to the ritual induced by one's own stupidity. Granted it's not immediate, although it's an entirely different beast if you do it on purpose, then shit gets serious. You don't do things in honor of somebody's suicide. Unless it's the backwards realm of Nippon and committing suicide is considered to be honorable because apparently it's a glorious display of self-control to drive a knife into your squishy interiors and disembowel yourself. It just doesn't make sense when people openly go out of their way, looking everybody they ever loved in the eye, and then mutter "This emotional burden is too much for me to bear. SO LONG, SUCKERS! NOW THIS SHIT'S YOUR PROBLEM, HAR HAR HAR! SEE YOU IN HELL!"

And seriously, they're all in Hell. They aren't around long enough to see how badly they really fuck up things when they commit suicide. They have the arrogance and ignorance to actually think "Well, Hell can't be as bad as this. FUCK IT!" and pull the trigger. I guess they're expecting when they get there, they'll be in a line, Interlude With Ludes playing over the intercom, and Satan will be there in a smock at a barbeque, waving people in. "Ooh, what's for lunch?" the recently deceased ask. Then they act surprised when he responds with "Oh, well, you." and shanks them so they become a delicious meal for the rabid monsters of Hell to feast upon, then they're turned to shit and flushed down to Super Hell, and I don't even want to begin to explain what goes on down there. All I can tell you is that it involves reliving a farmer's life somewhere in a infertile dirt patch in Wyoming with The Grateful Dead's greatest hits constantly playing on loop.

I get into arguments over this a lot, and it upsets me that they think it's somehow disrespectful. It's like I'm disrespecting a prison inmate for raping a child, despite it being his own damn fault that he's in there. He's depriving his family of himself while he's in there. He's tainted his family's reputation with a terrible stigma that will stay with them for a good long while. He's committed something AWFUL (unless the child had it coming), yet it's okay to judge him for it because he's still alive. I explained this to people when I was at school, and they got all upset. Then I told them, "If I die tomorrow by putting a gun to my head and blowing my own brains out, I want a shooting range built for JROTC and I demand that it be named in my honor." Ha, how's that for irony?

Unfortunately that never particularly happened. My own attempt at ending the game was far less exciting. It was Christmas time, which makes it alright. Because that's when Jesus died for our sins and was resurrected a week later on Christmas day or some shit I don't know, I don't read the bible. My life was in the shitter, I was considering dropping out of High School due to my tanking GPA and my inability to care, my father left us screwed, my mother was binge-drinking and destroying the house, my birthday ended with me wandering the streets in a fever-induced delirium after buying myself something nice because I was the only one who bothered to remember, and the only person that managed to keep me sane during those Hellish times walked out of my life for good. So being an ignorant little shit, I figured that now was a good time to call it game, set, and match on life at the ripe old age of 16. But not in a manly way, no. I didn't have the balls to do it in a manly way. I also wasn't a pussy who was slitting my wrists, hoping I would slowly bleed out, either. If I was going to cut myself, at least I would cut myself in a way that I know would assure death. Like across the jugular. But choking on my own blood sounded unpleasant, so I opted against it.

Instead I had a nice idea. Where I would lull myself into a nice sleep and never wake up from it. It'll be like how my grandparents died. Or two of them, at least; one of them died of an agonizing heart attack because God hated him and he hated God. Piled upon this horrific depression and total lack of caring was a 103 fever, an empty stomach from not eating for two days, and the strength to barely stand. Nobody was home and I was supposed to be at school, but I didn't go. I was feeling pretty shitty in both the emotional and physical sense of the word, so in my delusions I figured, "Fuck this, I'm done." I went to my medicine cabinet, and got my vicodin prescribed to me by my doctor for pain. Using smart thinking, I figured I would need to take a lot to make all the pain go away. So I took about 12. It was like swallowing a bag of chalk. Not being one to half-ass things, I washed it down with some delicious beer sitting out on the counter. About two or three cans.

Being the underweight, malnourished shlop I was, I figured "This should be more than enough to kill me. Otherwise Google's LYING TO ME." And I would say it certainly was. I never figured out though, because after a few minutes, upon retrospect downing over 6000mg of vicodin with a bunch of liquor on an empty stomach that hasn't digested anything for a few days while I'm sweating bullets and nauseous from a fever wasn't a smart idea. I slumped lifelessly in the bathroom, and realized about 5 minutes in "Actually, maybe this might not have been a good idea," which is an epiphany that seems to contradict the intentions of suicide in the first place. It makes me wonder how many people who killed themselves jumping off a high place realized it was a bad idea about halfway down.

Well despite being in agonizing pain and praying for death, God decided to deny me that privilege, and punched me in the gut and called me a pussy. I'm serious; It might've been the delusional agony, but I almost visibly heard the man say "Oh suck it up, you bitch. Satan said he's not ready for you yet, he's renovating the apartments in Hell right now. Try again later, if you're so eager to get there." I threw up all the liquor and all the half-dissolved pills into the toilet, but still suffered some serious shakes and twitching and other creepy shit I don't want to recall as I laid there on the floor for a couple hours. I didn't sleep, I didn't cry, I didn't do anything. There was just nothing there for a while. Nothing more than complete emptiness.

My brother brought home a pizza that day after he got off of work. It was real food for the first time in three days. And as greasy and bad on my stomach as it was, it was pretty damn tasty. And it helped get the taste of pills and beer out of my mouth. Of course he didn't know a damn thing about what happened; the only sign was my mom wondering where the Hell all the vicodin went. Unfortunately it didn't kill her, either. And she drank more than I ever could. I went to school the following day, considering it was the final day before Christmas break and I felt a vague obligation to be there. And when I did, I looked out at the field near my JROTC class, muttering "I'll get you eventually. Just to prove my point." Of course it never happened. Like they would care enough if an ugly little nerd offed himself in the first place. Ha, what a bloated sense of self-importance. It's completely ironic since most people who off themselves don't give two shits about themselves, BUT MAYBE IN DEATH, SOMEBODY WILL.

Well it certainly won't be you. Because you'll be dead. The worms might care, it just means free food for a while. And the environmentalists might care because apparently it would be bad to have my ashes put into a plane and spread over the city to rain down upon everybody. Or maybe the publicists would care, because somebody doing a reverse crucifixion on the top of Half Dome might make a good story.

But you won't know or care. BECAUSE YOU'RE FUCKING DEAD. SO DON'T THINK YOU'RE IMPORTANT IF YOU BRING YOUR OWN DEATH UPON YOURSELF.