I'll do something with myself eventually.

I've hit a wall. I feel like I'm done with this for a while. A hiatus, if you will. I think a lot of you people, you readers have probably gotten the idea that the occurrences in my life haven't exactly been fortunate ones. One of those occurrences have shown up again. Not so much of an occurrence, but the onset of something has shown up. Something that I can't say I can keep under control for much longer. There isn't much I necessarily choose to hide about myself, so this is going here. This is my letter to the public, for all those who care to read to do so. This is largely a letter to myself, as well.

I don't like where my stories are going right now, so I'm stopping. And I just can't bring myself to do it anymore. I can't look at a doc file anymore and say “I like what I see.” I can't look at an incompleted work and force myself to finish it. I look at what I've written lately, and it's gotten out of control. It's going into dark places I can't really look at anymore. I know to some of you they just might strike you as melodramatic or moderately depressing stories, but when I look at them, and I see thoughts, events, idealized situations, projections of bad things I just think I should forget at this point. It's reaching a point where I feel like it's corroding my work, that I am merely a man on a soapbox in an abandoned warehouse near a pier, preaching to an imaginary crowd about—ironically enough—social ostracism and absolute indifference towards the world around one's self. Nobody has cared, and neither have I. Well, that isn't true. I care a little.

Now the big problem with the internet as I've learned to grasp, is that it enables this kind of thought. Most of you people? Probably not going to even read this. The ones that do? Most of you have never even met me, and probably never will. You do not know who I am outside of this place. I am not a person. There is not a living, breathing person on the other side of your monitor, is there? I am merely a screen name. I'm and here for you, and you are here for entertainment. My relevance is tied directly to your outlet for interactivity, nothing more. When you leave your computer, I for all intents and purposes do not exist any longer. You will not carry anything of me or anybody from this place with you. I could be dead tomorrow, and the only difference it will make is a name that is now no longer active. Find somebody else to talk to and IM. Forget inactive name. Continue operation. And I've slowly began to reach the age where I can look at this and go “Is this really okay?”

For people who have always felt small, transparent, or alone most of their lives, the internet seems like an odd play to alleviate those feelings, but we do it out of convenience. I like it, though. Because I want nothing more to just disappear. I want to be irrelevant and not have to worry about being obligated to people. And the internet does a fantastic job of doing that for me. As noted, I can just sign out and disappear, and people would be none the wiser nor would they really honestly care. They never met me or the person outside this place, why would they? But note that this isn't exclusive to the internet. I can go to school, and people talk. But they never think about what that person goes home to. What kind of life they live. How unhappy they are. We simply can't be bothered with that. I think I've made it abundantly clear that I'm just not a very happy person. I don't fundamentally like who I am. So I can come to a place where I don't have to be that. And if I feel like occasionally showing who I am, people don't notice, or they merely look away. I suppose that's what I get for expecting better from people, but I can hardly expect anything from myself so I suppose it's probably karma.

Now I sit here in my room at the crack of dawn, sitting in this chair by myself in complete and utter silence. Well fine, the typing makes noises, at least. Now, the ultimate irony behind all this is that the only people who will read this, already know. And you people are the only ones who are helping me keep my sanity in this midlife crisis of mine. And that's what I'm calling it because I can't realistically see life past 40, so there you go for another morbid thought. The people who should read this, probably won't. It's just a blog on the internet that people hardly read, which functions largely as my archive. The people that should read it for themselves, and the people who I want to read it—for my sake—won't even notice. This entire confession was pointless. Nothing will change. There will be no lifeline or alleviation or counterpoint presented to me. As I sit here creatively bankrupt of any more stories to tell, I'm probably the only person who will notice. And I won't do anything about it.

One of these days I'm going to do something productive with myself, I promise.

Everything will be okay.

Out on the college campus there was a park for students commuting to their next class to walk through and enjoy, or during their break to lounge about and take in the pristine greenery amidst a jungle of concrete and masonry buildings. There were a few benches located there, some of them under trees. And there sitting on one of the benches was a woman, a girl one would say. She didn't look that old; most likely a freshman at the university. She dressed in a rather conservative classy manner, but it did nothing to hide her youthful features. Her face hid any expression that could've escaped out.
“Okay, I'm here.” It was a young man's voice that caught her attention. When she looked up, she saw a worn, slightly bitter young man.
“Oh, so you are.” she responded. “I didn't know if you'd show up or not.” He stiffly settled onto the other end of the bench, almost careful to keep his distance.
“I considered it.”
“You seem upset.” she said. He glanced over, a blank expression exuding an exhausted hostility.
“Nah, you think?”
“Just making an observation.”
“And?”
“Just... noticing it.”
“Good God you're something, you know that?” He attempted to stand up and leave, but there was a tug at his sleeve where she grabbed it.
“You're not leaving yet.” He got flustered and pulled his arm loose.
“Like Hell I'm not.” As he turned to storm off, he heard her call out to him.
“You know I'm worried, right?” The words stopped him in his tracks. His eyebrow twitched a bit.
“It sure doesn't seem like it.” He started to walk again, but then he sighed and went back to the bench and sat down, if not a little closer to her.
“You are not good at these kinds of things.” he muttered.
“I know. I... I know.”
“You've never been. It's fucking irritating, is what it is.”
“I know.”
“It's like you're always fucking there, yet all you can do is stare blankly. Or act like nothing is wrong.”
“...I know.” He began to grow irritated by her meek responses.
“If you fucking know, then why can you say you're worried? ACT. FUCKING. WORRIED. If you fucking know, then why don't you do anything to change it if you know it upsets me, that it makes you look like a fucking awful friend?” His yelling began to draw attention in the serene park. He looked around a bit, blushed slightly and the let silence settle back in as the few glancing passerbys began to thin out again.
“...it's hard.” she said.
“No it fucking isn't. No. It. Fucking isn't. It's not hard at all." Her detached and innocent voice began to assert itself a bit more.
“What do you want me to do? I don't know what you expect me to do.”
“CARE.”
“But I do.”
“ACT LIKE IT.”
“How? What do you expect from me? What do you want me to say?” He seemed exasperated by her naive responses, but he honestly didn't know the answer himself. It was an abstract question that he never really thought about.
“I just...” his voice began to crack. She looked down a bit, then looked straight up.
“Why somebody like me?” she asked. “I thought it's been established that you probably wouldn't want somebody like me to help with that, anyway.”
“I probably shouldn't.” It slightly bothered her that he was so quick to agree. “But I suppose I can't help it.”
“Why?”
“You're always there, anyway.”
“I suppose. But still, I'm not the kind of perso--”
“Stop assuming things about yourself. What are you afraid of? Do you think you'll upset me more?”
“Yes.”
“That I won't want to be friends with you anymore?”
“Yes.”
“That you'll send the wrong message trying to help?”
“Yes.”
“That you're the kind of person who finds it hard to express themselves to people?”
“Yes.”
“...Well okay then.” He should've expected such upfront and poignant answers from her, but it still surprised him with how quick she was. He sighed and looked up at the trees swaying above his head.
“I just... I'm just tired of pretending that everything's fine. That everything's peachy. Even as we talk, I just can't bring myself to just say anything without completely detaching myself from it.”
“Mmm.”
“...fuck, my folks, they have so much faith in me. I don't know what the Hell I'm doing here. I don't want to be here right now. I'm just. Not. Happy. Is that a sin?” He turned towards her. “Why is it wrong to admit that I'm unhappy? Am I not entitled to it? Why can't I be entitled to that?”
“...well, why can't you?”
“NOBODY CARES. I know what the problem is, but it's just sitting there. I don't know what the Hell I can do, if I can do anything. It's not like I can bring it up to my folks, they think that it's all bullshit anyway. They'll think that it's all in my head, that there's something biting at my conscience or that I'm just stressed over school. Why am I not allowed to just say that I'm miserable and that would be fine?”
“Well, I can say I understand that... but why me? I don't know how to help either.”
“Because you're unjudging.” he conceded. “At least you act like it.”
“...No, even I can judge people, even if I don't openly express it.”
“That's fine with me,” he said. “Well, okay, it isn't. If you judged me, that would be nice.”
“...How?”
“Because it shows you care.”
“Hmm?”
“Why would you judge how I act if you didn't care?” he paused. “I... I just want somebody to at least PRETEND like they care, even if they don't. That would be alright. But it's.... it's nice, you know?”
“I suppose.”
“It's nice. I want to look at somebody and tell him that I'm unhappy. That I'm miserable. That I feel like I'm a defective, broken person who's going nowhere in his life. That I don't have to keep this facade up.” He began trembling a bit while his voice started to turn hoarse. “I know I'm not a very stable or good person. I know that I'm angry, that I'm quick to judge and lash out, that I can be remarkably cruel in how I act. Or that I'm weak and exhausted with everything and that I just want to give up. Why can't somebody come along and see all of that, and just tell me that it's fine? That everything will be okay?” Tears began to stream down his face a bit. “But who the fuck would want to do that? Who would dedicate themselves to doing that? Why would somebody even waste their time with it? I mean, if I found somebody like that, I certainly couldn't do it. I'd give up on them. I think they wouldn't be worth my time. It would be—” he paused and collected himself. “It would be too much for me to deal with. Which is why I understand, I guess, why nobody else probably would, either.” There was no talking after that. No words, the cease in discussion only occasionally punctuated by a few hiccups and sobs as he tried to calm himself down a bit.
“...I wouldn't mind it.” she said, breaking the silence. He glanced over at her, then quickly turned away realizing how he must've looked. “I know that I can't say much to help or do much of anything. I'm simply not very good at that.”
“You really aren't. You're pretty much an idiot.”
“I know I am.” She inched closer to him and paused, cautiously mulling over the words she was going to use. “But I suppose even I can do that. I've known you long enough that there really isn't anything you can do to upset me at this point.”
“...you have been a pain in my ass for a very long time, haven't you?”
“Yes, I have. And I will continue to be, probably for a while.” He chuckled a bit. A genuine smile crossed his face for the first time in a few weeks. He composed himself before standing up, he didn't really feel like saying much of anything. She got up and followed. They began walking to the subway station.
“...I still don't know what the Hell I'm going to do.” he muttered.
“Neither do I.” Her response made him grimace a bit. “But it will work out.”
“...I hope.” She opened, then closed her mouth while she thought. She finally came up with something.
“It might get worse at first, but in the end, everything will probably be okay.” He nodded as he heard her answer. They both paid and boarded the subway. They sat down, he closed his eyes and dozed off. She leaned against him.

Just a word, if you will.

Now if I can put my serious pants on for a second, I'll provide some sort of update as to what's been going on lately and why you've seen a trickling decline of posts over the past few months.

I am creatively bankrupt.

No really, I am. One might attribute it to random spikes of crippling depression and self-loathing incapacitating my work ethic, an exhaustion of ideas that I could enjoy working with, or judging from my recent pieces over the past year, a pursuit of something more significant. You can check the box in for all three.

As school has come barreling in and the time to sit back inside the hole in my wall is slowly disappearing in favor if big scary grown-up problems compounded by agonizing moodswings, I can't fucking keep up anymore. It has put a halt on what I want to write, what I want to do with these little fables of mine. Funny stories are good. Funny stories stick with people and put a smile on their face when they think about it. And I'm grateful that the small niche of the internet I sit in still remembers some of those stories about random murderous rampages, drug-induced deliriums, and frankly fucked-up bullshit most people care to turn a blind eye to. But to me, they've become like one-night stands. They're fun, I'll remember them, but I won't really remember them for anything significant other than the experience I've gained in pleasuring an audience with more than one kind of wooden utensil. They're cheap fun thrills is what they are. But they aren't really anything significant or important. And frankly, I feel like I've exhausted that spectrum of writing that relies PURELY on shock humor and horror to amuse people. Note the word “purely”, as I could never stop writing stories without having elements of that style of humor with them. It's just what I do.

But bear in mind that a lot of these horrific stories as noted in the heading of the blog if any of you have read it, are power trips. A lot of these stories are written due to a power struggle, to self-insert oneself into a situation where one is no longer completely powerless in a terrible situation, but in the irony of humor becomes one of the most despicable human beings alive. It's to show how people are miserable but even given the strength to overcome a situation often abuse it and just go fucking nuts, or something. I'm not sure myself. But while still there, there really isn't much of a power struggle in my life anymore to constitute writing those kinds of stories as often. I don't feel like going on random tangents where I fight my way out of Hell to arm-wrestle with Zeus on the moon while a herd of goats are fucking in a crater. Although that actually sounds like an awesome story, so I might capitalize on that idea further some other time.

So I've been trying to write a lot of things. Psychological horror. Mystery. Fantasy. Tragedy. Drama. A lot of them feel something close to comfortable, but aren't there just yet. So yes, there will be a tonal shift in some of the stories I'm going to write. Not all of them are going to be funny. Not all of them are going to be morbid and corrosive. In fact while a lot of these feel right to do, I'm exiting my comfort zone. I've never had to portray serious drama before. I never tried to write a tragedy to evoke sorrow out of somebody. I never tried to paint abject terror without attempting to be ironic. Or oddly enough, I've never really written anything really, well, happy. Maybe happy in that “oh that cynical motherfucker got his revenge and satisfaction” sort of way, but nothing really heartwarming.

So I'm trying to take that narrative voice of mine and I'm trying something different. Not all of it will be what you people are used to, and you might not certainly enjoy the change in pace. And it will probably take a lot more time because now I'm writing a lot more for myself here. And instead of winging a story and finishing one in a sitting at the spur of a moment, I'm taking weeks, if not months figuring out what the Hell I'm trying to convey, or what the Hell I'm feeling while I write some of this tripe. Note that this isn't going to be completely different than what I write; from what I'm told I have a fairly distinct narrative voice that I probably couldn't change even if I wanted to. I'll still have the dry sarcasm, the bluntness, the language I typically use. Just expect some stories that are a bit different, and I'm just going to need a little more time than usual.

With that said, I have some shit in the pipeline. NaNoWriMo gave me a new novel idea that despite not finishing is still in the works. My Dear Remi is actually going fairly well and I'm fleshing out the purpose of that novel a bit more extensively, and I've been dancing around the possibility of kicking Beautiful World back up some time. Again, a lot of ideas being started, but none really being completed. Much like life, there are some pieces where I actually want to revisit, to continue whatever storyline that might be in there. But that's up to the discretion of whether or not it's appropriate. Sometimes something deserves to be carried on, to be continued. But as much as you want it, some of it also needs to be let go and you just got to leave it as it is. So I'm sorting that out as well. But last thing I have to say is that expect SOMETHING in the coming week or so. I got some wind behind my sails so there should be a new piece coming.

I hope.

Alice Williams and her unhappy life.

This story is about a girl named Alice Williams.

Alice Williams was what one would call "needy." She was also what one would call a whore. She slept around a lot. A lot. One cannot emphasize enough how much she slept around. There was a news story recently about a grandmother who had sex with 200 men in only two years. Now there are two things that need to be said about that. First off, it says a lot about how the standards of men have fallen far enough to be grinding against the pavement to stick their penises into a woman for a sexual experience that also lends itself to the previous metaphor. Secondly, that was the kind of grandmother Alice Williams would be if she lived to be 62 if the myriad of STDs she would've accumulated over the years hadn't killed her at that point. But that was the beauty of three-stooges syndrome on the immune system, so with all those corruptors laying siege on her body all at once, they might somehow kill each other or cancel one another out and avoid striking her with death.
But we wasn't always like this. She used to be such a sweet girl, honestly. It really is a pity. See, Alice Williams was what one would call "a mistake". Her family never had much money, and they already had a son by the time she was born. There wasn't a place for her in the family. She was an outsider to them, and they concentrated their efforts on their intended offspring, Peter. But as time went on, it became more and more apparent to her parents that Peter was a candy-ass and for a lack of a more elegant word, a failure. Oh boy howdy was Peter a failure. Of course so were the parents, as the father was a drop-out who drunkenly knocked his kids from room to room, and the mother was stuck in neurotic blissful wonderland from a staggering amount of antidepressants. But little Alice never stopped trying so hard to please the family that was hardly even aware of her existence. She kept her grades up, was a model student, and despite all the agony she was enduring, a smile hid all of it and people hardly knew. At least they didn't, at first.

"Oy."
"..."
"Hey."
"..."
"Fucking Christ, I'm talking to you." The boy started snapping his fingers.
"...Oh, whoopsie."
"What the Hell are you staring at? The crosswalk's been blinking for a few seconds already, move your ass."
"...Right, thank you."
'What an odd girl,' he thought. Alice had a blank stare on her face as she just looked ahead. She was the kind of girl that while talking to somebody, she'd nod and respond and smile, but simply put, she was not there. It was the kind of blank and empty stare where the gears inside her head were moving and thinking too much to bother reflecting anything on the surface. When the stared at her, he was about 13 or 14 from how she looked. Of course the boy didn't stare long, as it was 110 degrees out and he simply wanted to speed home as quickly as possible. This changed because before he could continue back on his way, he heard a horn blaring behind him. Alice didn't move, she simply stood in the middle of the crosswalk in a daze.
"Oh for the love of..." He ran out into the street, grabbed her hand, and pulled the girl with him onto the street. "Jesus, what the fuck's wrong with you?" She didn't snap from her daze. She just sort of stared at the gangly boy blankly. Alice's complexion was like a mannequin; pale, sterile, but chiseled perfectly. There was almost a falseness about her face that the boy couldn't quite put his finger on. The only real part of her appeared to be a bruise on her temple, one of origin the boy cared not to inquiry. Also like a mannequin, he wouldn't mind seeing her with her clothes being removed like most of us saw in our youths while standing around in the women's department at Sears.
"HEY." he yelled.
"......I dozed off again, didn't I?" Alice snapped back to reality.
"You sure did." The boy pointed at a red car going through the intersection while the driver gave the two children the finger. She trembled a bit while she continued to stand there on the other side of the crosswalk, slowly coming back to herself. The late August heat wasn't being kind to either of them, blowing a stale, hot wind while the dust in the air stuck to their sweat-soaked skin.
"...I don't want to go home." she said, her lifeless glare steadfast.
"Hmm." he grunted. The boy didn't care. His dad just recently abandoned his family while he himself recently took up alcoholic consumption as a pastime. One could assume that patience for somebody else's problems let alone his own wasn't expansive. Maybe his significant other at that point in time, but otherwise nothing.
"Let's go get something to eat." he muttered. Okay, so maybe the boy cared a little. Somebody just zoned out in the middle of the crosswalk and almost got pegged by a car, and as shamelessly apathetic as the boy was, he couldn't simply do nothing. He probably should've, but he didn't because he was a dumb bastard. And so they went to Carl's Junior because it was either that or the Weinerschnizel, and if the boy wanted Alice dead, it would've been a swifter more painless death getting hit by a car than to eat at the Weinerschnizel.
"So your brother's that loser kid Peter, right?" he asked. She nodded while she slowly picked at her fries and ate them individually. "Fuck man, that kid makes me look like a socialite. He's awkward to be around, even for me. And I'm a drunk." She didn't really say anything. She was clearly preoccupied, but appeared to be listening. "Where'd you get that bruise on your head, anyway?" She didn't say anything. She clenched the side of her face and ran them up her forehead through her hair. A throbbing headache persisted in her skull. The boy reached into his pocket and pulled out a prescription bottle and rolled it across the table to her. "Those will probably help." Painkillers, they were. She was getting ready to say something but was stricken with anxiety. A panicked look darted across her face, and she started to silently sob to herself a bit.
"I... I can't stop myself anymore." she whimpered. the boy sighed.
"With...?"
"Some kid at school wouldn't stop leaving me alone. He was kind of hyper and quick and pushy, but everyone thought he was nice. When I went to tell the teachers and the other students about it, they thought I was lying."
"Hmm."
"So he kept harassing me, and he eventually figured out what I did, and..." she paused a bit. It was like something just strangled her throat to cut her off.
"Did you just have a stroke or what?"
"...It's nothing." She was lying. She paused a bit and recollected her bearings. "Do... do you know what it's like to go through your entire life only to feel like nobody's ever noticed that you're even alive?"
"Nope, my life sort of kicks ass." he was lying, too.
"Oh..." her voice grew weak as her breathing got heavier. "I don't know what to do. I don't know how much longer I can keep this up."
"I don't see why you would keep anything up." he said.
"What do you mean?"
"If people don't care about you, why try to keep a facade up and attempt to please them if it's killing you? Seems kind of stupid." She didn't have anything to say to that, because as embittered and poorly-intentioned and exhausted and clearly drunk as the boy might've been, he brought a valid point forth. Maybe he was just trying to shut her up and didn't care about her problems, or maybe he was half-assedly attempting to make an effort. But either way it felt nice for her. It wasn't some teacher's generic pat on the back for good grades or somebody complimenting her on a job well done. It was somebody sitting down with her, talking to her, listening to her, engaging her in conversation. Granted it was a drunken High-Schooler phasing in and out of consciousness due to heatstroke, it was a start.
"...You're a better person than people paint you." Alice said with a slight smile on her face.
"I don't pay attention to how people paint me."
"You come across as sort of an asshole according to some people."
"You don't say."
"There are also rumors where people thought you had something to do with a kid named Charles Finnigan getting set on fire."
"......You don't say." He clearly wasn't coherent any longer. Which was a good time to end the conversation, as the time was getting close to 4pm. If she couldn't beat her father home from work as a part-time manager at the local Rite-Aid, he would beat her in the more violent meaning of the word for getting home late.
"Well, thanks a lot...?" she paused, waiting for him to speak.
"You don't need to know my name." he muttered under his breath.
"Oh..." After all that, she felt honestly a bit hurt. He might've sensed it in her voice, so he slightly changed his answer and he sulkingly pulled himself to his feet.
"You'll probably see me around." After that, he left the shabby fast-food restaurant while Alice just stood there, pondering to herself. Of course she didn't ponder long because she had to make haste back home. She gave her salutations to her mother as she came into the door. Her mother didn't say anything, she simply sat at the dinner table resting her chin on her palm. Alice scampered off into her room and fell on her bed, her head still pounding. She opened up the bottle the boy gave her and saw the white capsules in there. It was like swallowing a piece of chalk when she took it. The pounding in her head started to subside, and she slumped on her bed as her mind began to race. She felt a strange kind of joy in her bleak surroundings after her conversation with the boy. She lied there in her humid room, her body tensing up as her head started to pound again. She began to sweat, and her thoughts began to get more abstract as time went on, as if reacting to the pills she took. She was in a delusional ecstasy before her mind went blank and she seized up, then suddenly became winded and passed out on her bed, the rapid pulsing of her chest acting as a rhythm to listen and fall asleep to.
The following days were not pleasant to her. At school, that creepy freshman boy continued to persist and bother her, and being the unassertive and quivering girl she was, she did nothing to stop him. He kept pushing himself on her and as he got closer and closer, it was something she frequently grew used to. She didn't like it, but having that unnerving student obsess over her was gratifying to her in an odd way. She existed to somebody, regardless of the intentions behind it. Her weak constitution didn't have the heart to bear with the negative intentions behind it, so she simply took it at face value. Of course that didn't matter, there was something else that she was talking to, somebody that seemed to help her despite the incessant, unsettling torture and stalking this creepy freshman boy put her through.

"That's... sad."
"It stinks, it what it is." the boy commented. It was a dead cat on the side of the road Alice and the young man were looking at as they walked home from school.
"...It probably was a cute cat. Just stretched outlying on the side of the road as if it was a sunny porch in the middle of the day."
"I think the stretching is probably rigor mortise." Which was besides the point, of course.
"It probably belonged to somebody. I wonder how the family must feel losing it."
"No idea, but it's just going to be a decomposing pile of nothing in a few weeks anyway."
"...probably. But at least the family will probably remember it."
"Hmm."
"I guess it's insignificant in the grand scheme of things, right? Most people will just see it as roadkill, anyway. Just something to walk by."
"Hmm." As they walked, the girl stopped briefly.
"You know, it's been a while since I've seen that creepy kid..." she said. "Not that I care, but I found it odd that he left me alone."
"He's dead, that's why." the young man said.
"...What?"
"It was on the news a few days ago in the evening. Poor kid burned alive in a pizzeria oven at Frank's."
"Oh good Christ that sounds horrifying."
"He probably had it coming. I didn't like him." he said. Yes, after informing somebody of a heinous murder, the best the young man could come up with was that he deserved it. Alice oddly agreed with him, a perplexedly hateful thing to agree to for her.
"...he wasn't a good person." she nodded. "Although..."
"Although...?"
"It's nothing." She couldn't say it. If she could keep one thing about that, was that as creepy as the boy who died in the tragic pizzeria accident was, she did feel special, in a twisted sort of way. And despite being a very pretty girl, she never felt particularly attractive; she felt as if she was just a piece of scenery that blended itself into the background of the school. But with the dead boy and the infrequent bouts of randomly finding her new friend, she started to feel empty again. She began warming up to the idea of people pining over her. Over time she started to assert herself more in what she wore, as if to tempt fate more than she already had at that point. Her jeans went to shorts that could mistakenly get shorter whenever you looked at them, and dress shirts went to looser-fitting tops. Her hair went from tied up and out of the way to being let down. And people started to take notice. It put a smile on her face. And with this, she decided to do something the next time she got an opportunity. That one person that was sitting on her mind frequently that reminded her of the void in her that kept growing. Perhaps he could stop it from growing any further. Which luck eventually had it in for her, and in her pounding empty head she recognized somebody on her way home after school one day.

"Um... hi." she squeaked out.
"Oh, it's you." the young man said. "It's been a while. A couple of weeks, I think?"
"Do you have a minute?" she asked, her knees swaying back and forth as they stood waiting at the crosswalk.
"Uh sort of I guess, why?" She tried to talk, but nothing came out of her mouth. She felt as if she was sweating and her face was heating up.
"Do you think we can go get something to eat?"
"Uh sure."
"Um..." she was recollecting herself. "At somewhere nicer, perhaps?" She angled a sunhat she was wearing downward a bit to avoid making eye contact. The young man was dense. And drunk. Predominantly drunk, as it took him a while to actually catch on to what she was getting at.
"...Oh. OH. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh dear." He was flustered. Not angry, but flustered in an uncomfortable bashful sense. Alice was caught off guard by this. She unnerved a drunkard with a usually flat disposition and had him shuffling about awkwardly like a child who needed to use the bathroom.
"W-w-what...?" she stammered out, equally uncomfortable.
"Fucking Hell, I don't like where this is going..." he muttered to himself.
"What?"
"I err uhh well I uh..." He turned around. He sighed. "Sorry."
"What?" She couldn't hear him.
"I said I'm sorry." he muttered. Alice's chest seized up. "There's som--"
"NO!" she grabbed him and turned him around. He was looking away from her as she began to cry. "I DON'T WANT TO HEAR NO AS AN ANSWER!"
"But I'm i--"
"YOU'RE THE ONLY ONE IN THIS AWFUL PLACE THAT TREATS ME LIKE A PERSON! YOU'RE THE ONLY ONE WHO IS ACTUALLY AWARE THAT I EXIST! YOU'RE ONE OF THE ONLY REASONS HERE THAT I HAVEN'T LOST MY MIND YET!" She was in hysterics. She felt like the one line she had tied to reality was starting to disappear.
"Fuck, can't I just be a friend?"
"I DON'T NEED A FRIEND, I NEED SOMEBODY TELL ME THAT I MEAN SOMETHING, THAT THEY'RE COMMITTED TO ME! I WANT TO BE NEEDED, DAMMIT! I WANT TO COMPLETE SOMEBODY!"
"Jesus fucking Christ." The young man was exasperated. "If you honestly want a relationship, you could probably do a Hell of a lot better than somebody like me, anyway." Of course this only infuriated her more.
"WHAT DOES THAT SAY ABOUT MY STANDARDS, THEN? THAT THEY'RE LO--" She paused and stumbled a bit. She clenched her head and fell to her knees. Her migraines were coming back again. The boy walked over and started digging through his backpack. He pulled out another bag of pills and set it in front of her.
"There isn't much in there, but they should help for a bit." Her face grew red with anger.
"YOU FUCKING BASTARD!" And she stormed off. Then she awkwardly walked back, muttered "Thank you..." and grabbed the pills and stormed back off again. The young man let out a sigh and slumped against a fence on the street. Somebody approached him and he looked up at a blonde girl staring at him on the ground.
"...You saw the whole thing, didn't you?" he painfully asked.
"Yes."
"I think I upset her a lot."
"Probably."
"...You don't want me to do a damn thing about it, do you?"
"Seems dangerous to involve yourself any further."
"Noted." he muttered.
And the short blonde girl was right. Alice's psychosis wasn't particularly stable after that. "Loose" would be a good word to use if one were to include the vulgar context of the word at that point. She felt she wasn't good enough for the young man. The blithering drunk with a sad grip on life, she wasn't even good enough for him. The one person she managed to connect to didn't want to take her, and this played tricks on her mind. Her head never felt so bloated and painful yet so vastly empty. When she got home, in tears and stumbling to keep her composure, her family didn't notice. Her father was too busy beating the shit out of Peter for failing so much in his first trimester report card. She got straight As, on that note. She went up into her room and lied back down on her bed as she stared at the ceiling.
"I want to be good enough for somebody." were all the words that left her mouth before she passed out and went to sleep.

And now it was the start of the third trimester. It was mid February, and to Alice, nothing of note occurred between then and now. Her head still felt empty, and she couldn't remember a single thing or memorable person in the past five or six months. That was probably for the best. As the bell rang, she stood up and made her way out of fourth period and began the walk home from school. She waited at the crosswalk, and there beside her without her noticing, was the young man that she hadn't really talked to in a very long time. At least not since that last incident. He was taller. And still sort of ugly. And he still had that malaised look in his eye.
"...You're a bastard." she said.
"I thought I was a fucking bastard."
"Hmm."
"Speaking of fucking..." he continued to look forward. "There've been a lot of unsavory rumors about you going around the school, you know."
"I know."
"...You should probably fix that."
"I don't see the point."
"That's concerning."
"I. Just. Really. Don't. Care." Each pause punctuated her words.
"Hmm." He paused and waited for the crosswalk to change. "I care. If that means anything."
"...It doesn't." She was lying. That time he knew it. He noticed her looking away the moment she said it. His abuse of alcohol at this point allowed him to maintain some level of self-awareness. There was more awkward silence between the two. Until one of them made an attempt to speak up.
"So uh what have you been up to?" she inquired.
"I tried killing myself recently." the boy said.
"...Oh."
"If you asked me how it went, I might have to hit you." She didn't. Not just because she was certain that he'd follow through with a threat like that, either. For a brief moment, it gave her a glance into herself. She just assumed that the boy didn't lead a particularly happy life but she never legitimately inquired about it. It filled her with anxiety. Her mind immediately went into denial. She looked away the entire time the two crossed the street. Something her head went off while she walked. Did she snap? Did she go crazy? Did she have an epiphany. She wasn't entirely sure herself. The only thing she thought of was what to do. Alice grabbed the young man's hand.
"Follow me."
"Wait what?"
"Shut up, just follow me." She led him back to her house. It was empty save her mother, which meant it was empty. The young man felt the same way he felt back home, which was rather unpleasant for him. He didn't have time to think though, he was shoved into Alice Williams' tiny little room as she closed the door behind them. Her room was small. Almost cozy, even.
"Isn't your mother here?" the young man asked while Alice began to undress him on the bed.
"She won't even notice." she responded.
"Isn't your father a fucking nutcase?"
"He got kicked out and is staying at my uncle's across town."
"What about your brother?"
"I think he's probably going to kill himself pretty soon, he's been mumbling about Richard Tory again."
"Shouldn't you stop that? I mean I know him as a sniveling little shit, but he IS your brother."
"That's what he is. I can't do anything to stop him, he doesn't listen to anybody anymore."
"Hmm. Well, you cou--" he was cut off when Alice pressed her mouth against his. Alice didn't know why he wasn't stopping her this time. This was the first time she actually took note of this. But she frankly didn't care, because here he was. And he stayed with her for the rest of the night. Frankly it was exhausting, but for the only night in her brief life she did not listen to the vacuous woman thoughts in her head. In the back of her head,she knew this wasn't going to last, but she frankly didn't care. When she awoke the following morning, the young man was sitting at the foot of the bed. It was about 5am.
"I heard somebody pacing around a lot out the door."
"Hmm?"
"I don't sleep well with people moving about." he said.
"It's probably Peter. He probably shouldn't be up this early."
"I've heard him muttering bad things. Then he went back to bed." He stopped speaking for a bit. "You know if your dad has any guns?"
"Uh... yeah. In his closet he has a hunting rifle and a pistol."
"...Mind if I borrow one just in case he snaps? He was saying some pretty crazy shit when he was pacing around."
"Alright." The boy got up and left Alice's room briefly and came back with the hunting rifle.
"Your mother sleeps like a sedated wildebeest. I don't even think she noticed me walking into the bedroom."
"One more time." she said.
"...We have school in a few hours, we should really go back to sleep."
"Aren't you late almost every single day?"
"...Touche."
"So......"
"I can't feel my legs already as it is."
"Please?" she asked. This felt like a dagger in the young man's heart, and he sighed.
"I'm going to be too tired to move after all of this." She smirked a bit.
They stopped briefly. They heard the clicking of a gun from the hallway. There was a bit of silence, but then they heard the front door slam.
"...That's not good." he muttered.
"My head hurts again." Alice clutched her face and pulled her covers over herself.
"You have nobody to blame but yourself." He dug into his backpack and pulled out more pills. "That's the last I can give you. My doctor's probably wondering where the Hell they're all going." He got dressed, stumbled a bit, a picked up the small hunting rifle.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"...to keep an eye on your brother. I can't guarantee that I'll be back later." With that, he nodded and left while she just sat in her bed. She didn't take the pills. She shoved them into her drawer for later and went back to sleep. When she awoke, there were police officers and such in her house, talking to her mother. She overheard what had happened at the school. Her brother was no longer alive. They said a single shot to the chest killed him while he was shooting up the school. They don't know who shot him or where he disappeared off to. They said the streets and roads were barren that morning, so there were no witnesses to the possible attacker who stopped Peter. Alice sat in bed and then proceeded to not hear a thing. When she finally got up, she knew that she probably wouldn't see him for a while.

A while turned to about 8 months. It was the end of October now. She didn't pay attention or notice anything anymore. That big empty void became larger since then. Her father finally left, and her mother simply sits at home all die while living off of money that Alice's father sends her. Nothing changed in the absence of her brother. She was still nothing more than a phantom or an object to people. She one day went into the Carls Junior and ordered something to eat. She looked in the corner of the dingy fast-food joint there he was. Nothing about his appearance had changed. Except that he was taller. Again. When he looked up, there she was, sitting down in front of him.
"Hello." she said. There was a vague bit of enthusiasm that permeated the flatness of her voice.
"You realize that this is probably the last time you'll see me again, right?" He said while eating. She paused a bit.
"...Yeah I sort of got that feeling."
"I'm moving."
"Where to?"
"Don't know, honestly."
"Why?"
"Getting evicted."
"...Oh."
"Yeah." She had nothing to say. She wanted to feel something. She couldn't, though. He then pulled out an envelope and handed it to her.
"But I still have the ones you gave me from before." she said.
"This is different." he stated. "Open it later when you need it." She took it and placed it in her coat pocket.
"...You're a good friend and a good person." Alice said.
"I'm really not." the young man muttered. "I'm really... really not."
"Maybe objectively you aren't," she began, "But I guess my standards are just low then, aren't they?" He laughed a bit.
"Alright fine, I'll settle for that." He stood up and shook his tray off into the garbage, and walked back over to her booth. She stood up to meet him. He hugged her.
"Good luck." he said. "You're going to need it." As he began to walk away, he heard her tiny voice say something.
"Don't leave." Her pitch was flat. "Who's going to help me now?"
"Learn to stand on your own. I sure as Hell know it's not easy, but it has to be done."
"...if I can't?"
"Well, that's it then, isn't it?" He laughed, and walked out. That really was the last time she saw him. Her face was cold, and like a drone she went on for the rest of the week in a lifeless daze. Her head started pounding again. She lied on her bed and she couldn't think. She eventually went into her drawer and saw the pills that the young man left her several months ago. Alice grabbed all of them and with a bottle of water washed them all down. She stumbled through her room to her door, and went outside to help clear her head. The pills weren't enough. Her head felt as if it was being lifted from her body, and her coordination faltered. She went rummaging through her coat and got out the small envelope hoping there was more. When she opened it, there wasn't anything in there except a note. She opened it and only a single word was on it.
"......Did I honestly never get his name?" she spit out, her speech starting to slur. She started to laugh a bit. Or at least she tried to, her mouth decided to stop working. Then her legs decided to stop working. When she fell over, her head smacked the side of street curb and she hit the ground. Her mind began to go blank again. The great big void inside of it seemed to have finally won. She thought for a bit about where she was and what she was doing and why, but what was left of her mind succumbed and was finally enveloped, and that was it for Alice.

I highly doubt discussing Japanese cartoons will get me laid.

Human beings are sexual creatures. Most normal people probably wouldn't want to imagine a life without any kind of sexuality involved. Unless you're Catholic, where then sex is done strictly for the purpose of pumping out 15 children who you want to raise to be either religious zealots or rebellious atheists that you extradited from your family. But the fact of the matter is, human sexuality is often a very important facet of the human condition, and one can only benefit from seeking to explore and indulge in it.

That being said, one can delve too much into it and uncover... off-kilter things. I for one would like to think of myself as a very sexual person despite being a rape victim. YES ALL THOSE STORIES WERE TRUE. ...ISH. I HAVE BEEN SODOMIZED SO MANY TIMES THAT I NEED AN ANAL PLUG TO KEEP MYSELF FROM SHITTING WHERE I STAND WITHOUT DISCRETION LIKE CATTLE. But yes given all the traumatizing sodomy, I see no problems with exploring the deepest and darkest depth of sex, self-pleasure, pornography, and fetishes. One can even say that it's a hobby of mine. Makes for great discussions at parties. Man, I can tell you that I've worked my crank to a lot of things. And as I grew bored with more standard things, my interests eventually drifted into more... questionable territories.

One of them happened to be hentai. WHAT? You're surprised that the weeaboo obsessed with anime and manga would be fingering his prostate to cartoons? ......You aren't? WELL FUCK YOU ANYWAY. Now as a desperate attempt to halt my raging libido, I've tried to get it down to more and more disturbing things. Eventually I grew interested in hentai and H-manga because, well, they're fucking hilarious. Or hilariously, if you want to be grammatically correct and clever. I'm serious. You want a laugh? Read h-manga and doujins. I get a good laugh off and I get something else off. The only unfortunate side-effect is comedy now gets me erect, which makes for awkward situations at school if somebody says a funny joke.

Now with that out of the way... hilarious in what way, you ask? What, you didn't ask? Shut the fuck up, that's besides the point. There are some odd tropes and hilarious lessons one can take from all of these, not just about perceptions of sexuality from a bunch of virgin cartoonists drawing pornography for a living, but about humanity over ideas of sexuality in general. So it's time to let the glorious nippon edumacate us in the ways of fucking women until their canals prolapse. SPEAKING OF THAT, OUR FIRST BULLETPOINT.

#1 - Advancing The Art of Dirty Talk

Read all of it. ALL OF IT UNTIL IT HURTS.

I don't know if the scanlators just have a sense of humor or if they're translating these things verbatim, but man they manage to get pretty creative when they're writing the uh err um "dialogue" to some of the more compelling scenes of interest.

Now let's get something straight here: I have not had sex in a very long time. I had sex once, and it was terrible and awkward and I was drunk and ugly and she was desperate and lonely, and because of how naive I was I freaked out and went "OH MY GOD DID I STAB YOU OR STICK IN THE WRONG HOLE, WHY IS THERE SO MUCH BLOOD?", so needless to say it wasn't a pristine experience to have for your first time. But even I as a prudish and modest individual who's watched a lot of smut can know how contrived some of the "writing" can be in scripted pornography.

Yet nothing can touch what these bottomless wells of vulgar vocabulary knowledge come up with. It gets so ridiculous what words they manage to work into these disgusting comic books, when they manage to take their pristine and undirtied arms, and with their hands in the shape of a cone gently push into the sphincter and enter the ass of the human language, and work themselves far up the rectum to grasp the dirtiest and foulest of words that not even the most shameless writers would touch, and then take the shit in their hands and smear the prose onto paper, as if to titillate and arouse the reader while taking in the visual spectacle of a woman reaching into her ass to give her loved one a handjob while he plows her relentlessly, because that's what true love is.

Maybe I'm just a prude or something. I'm an English major, I could probably come up with some pretty clever things to say while I fuck a woman, but whether or not that it's actually arousing is up to question. I can appreciate some dirty talk, but if a woman asked me to flood her birth tunnels with my primordial man-ooze, I'd probably pull out, get dressed, leave the room, burn her house down, and wear 20 condoms the next time I ever have sex with another woman. If I ever decided to have sex with another woman after being verbally raped into impotence with a single sentence like that.

#2 - Japanese Fetishes: Not As Questionable If You Think About It

OH GOD WHY DOES THIS EXIST AND WHERE CAN I GET IT?

Speaking of rectal handjobs and such, Japan has some weird fetishes, doesn't it? I mean, fetishes are normal. Having a special kind of kink isn't a problem. Well, it's a problem if it's morally reprehensible or it ends with you in jail on the business end of Bubba the prison sodomizer, who coincidentally shares the name with every other rapist in prison that sodomizes you in your sleep.

Now with Japan, it explores every dark and sinister corner of sexuality that you could possibly imagine, and then it explores dark and sinister corners of sexuality that were originally beyond your capacity to imagine until Japan introduced you to it and shifted your outlook human sexuality for the worse forever. And why is this, exactly? Because if Japan can imagine it, then you damn well better expect that it's a fetish and that somebody's creaming their jeans over it. As great and wonderful and amazing and beautiful and hairy as Japanese porn may be, the industry for hentai and h-manga is fucking enormous. And it's entirely fictional, meaning that the basic concept of human anatomy and reactionary psychology has been removed from the setting and now people can jerk off to whatever the Hell their minds desire. Massive orgies? Absolutely, there's a fetish for that. Sex in public without any precautions while most people are blatantly unaware? Sure. Rape? Lots of it for some disturbing reason, because I guess being emotionally broken and robbed of your dignity is supposed to be arousing, but it isn't. It might be funny, but it isn't arousing. Incest? Gross, but it's there if you need it. People being eaten? Uh, that's kind of strange but okay. Tentacles? Sweet Jesus how anybody can enjoy that is beyond me, but what the hell why not? Uh inanimate objects? If you watched the video above this, then you already know the answer to that. Eldritch Abominations comprised purely out of breasts and orifices that looked like a pornography editor was bored with photoshop? Merciful Christ it should be illegal, but go for it, sure. Well, rape is illegal but you can see it drawn, but surely they can't allow things li--

This is the most worksafe image I felt like posting that drove my point across the best.

Ah, lolicon. How I'm publicly appalled but privately enjoying the disgusting things you unleash on this world. Yes folks, while it's completely illegal to depict minors in any sort of sexual relations in media because of the irreparable damage to a pedophile's psychology from being interested in children, it's entirely fine if they're fictional because the children don't exist and can't be harmed. I mean, I just want to think about what the artists are actually thinking when they draw this. Psychologically, it would be interesting yet terribly disturbing to see the uh err creative process taking place while they concoct these horrors to release upon the world.

So given all that, why is it "Not As Questionable If You Think About It"? Because in America for comparison, it isn't fictional. A lot of people don't get off to cartoons or imaginary things. Unless they're furries; furries are more prevalent than I'm comfortable knowing about. Just had to give a nod to them, but you get my point. They get off to real people doing these things. And a lot of these disgusting things I've described, yeah they exist. And there are poor souls out there who are desperate and sick enough to do them, as long as they're within the realms of physical probability. Want to see somebody mutilated or eat shit, drink piss, or bang a fat person? There are a lot of videos of terrible awful people doing it. Legality isn't an issue here; if it gets people off, they'll find a way to do it without being caught, which is the disturbing reality of it all. Much like Bubba the prison sodomizer, somebody who takes his fetish very seriously, as long as he sedates his pleasures he doesn't really care who he gave an anal fissure to after he's done pleasing himself.

I wish I could be as nonchalant about accepting something like that.

That much is true about the above; when it's fictional, at the very least they aren't hurting anybody or forcing somebody to be the victim of some depraved sexual act just so you can get your rocks off. Things like this really hit home when you ask whether lolicon or actual vanning material is worse, and realize that some redneck in the darkest murkiest swamps of Virginia is banging his daughter/grandaughter that he fathered with his daughter and suddenly the herpderpincest becomes slightly less funny. But still a bit funny, because people like laughing at rednecks being pathetic disgusting imbreds. HA HA, REDNECKS.

#3 - Lessons in sexual anatomy, as taught by class-act illustrators.

"I... I didn't know the body could do that."

Because it can't.

I think one of the most hilarious tropes that hentai and h-manga tends to fall under are the inhumane capabilities the body apparently has involving sex. I know people like to fantasize about improbable things, but sex should not be one of them. Because frankly anything you try to imagine or fantasize about is disgusting. Seriously, stop it you sick bastards. You can have fantasies, and despite the moniker you should keep them in the realm of slim possibility. That threeway with two Asian twins? Unlikely, but possible. Making a woman orgasm 5 times during sex? Unlikely, but possible. Fucking a woman with your 15-inch penis and ejaculating so hard that she flies off like a bottlerocket? No, cease immediately.

Now much like sex, writing an article becomes more difficult to put the effort into the longer it goes on, and eventually I just sort of stop paying attention until I'm finished. There's far too much to cover regarding this particular lesson, mainly because anybody who's ever been written into a doujin or h-manga is a superhero whose illogical sex drive is only matched by the "arousing" dialogue and "plot" that's customary to these stories. In fact, I wouldn't be at all surprised if there was some kind of comic book-esque hero associated with something li--

He's like my personal idol.

...Huh, fascinating. Now as interesting as a man writing wrongs through penetration is, it gets more ridiculous. If you didn't gauge from the whole "rectal handjob while fucking" comment, Japan... doesn't seem to understand anatomy or human psychology particularly well. I think one of the most common tropes here is that the smaller and meeker and more feminine of a boy one is, the larger his penis must be. When some assertive woman (read: NOT A RAPIST, RIGHT?) manages to force herself upon this defenseless child to steal his virginity, apparently he's hiding what looks like a horse's amputated leg in his pants. He is in actuality Thor, God of Thunder. And his penis is Mjollnir, hammer of righteous fury. And the woman's vagina is a frost giant that needs to be stricken down with swift vengeance. Again, riddled with irony and obvious projections, not just because Japan wishes that its Gods were as cool as the Norse. But also probably because Japan's filled to the brim with afeminine manboys and overweight lonely manchildren while the country is ranked down with some of the smallest national average penis sizes. It's true, because fucking science tells us.

We can also liken this to Asian women, who generally tend to be somewhat on the petite side generally. But regardless of how large breasts can be on a woman, every character in these stories either amounts to having two volleyballs being supported by a frame with less structural integrity than a book spine, or they have no chest at all while being three feet tall, and if you even pull your penis out or adjust yourself while looking at this, you're now officially a pedophile. I mean, I like big titties as much as the next guy, but they can only be so large on a woman because you have that terrible realization that you're infatuated with bags of fat on somebody's chest and then you go for number two and then you end up with 15 gigs of loli on your computer and dismantling your harddrive before the police arrive.

Now when a regular man orgasms, a little bit of sticky fluid comes out, he coughs, he rolls over, and then he passes out. That's the way it works. It's called a refractory period. Unless you're in one of these stories, in which case your stones despite being as large as anybody else's actually breaks into some pocket in space-time to store semen, your ejaculate is large and powerful enough to end the drought in California, and sex is only a quarter of the way done because UNLESS YOU ORGASM FOUR TIMES, YOU'RE A GOD-DAMN LOSER. Maybe their scrotums are just there to fool predators, and they've actually evolved so that their asses are actually giant testicles. That would explain it perfectly. Although they're probably firing blanks because there's a suspicious absence of condoms in most sexual encounters in these stories. Despite the fact that a woman's cup often runneth over in these things, hardly any pregnancies or children at all. Which is odd considering that in these h-mangas they'll fuck anything that moves, including but not limited to children. I guess it's alright because women in these stories are apparently barren. But oddly enough if we were to look at the data, I suppose that's the only thing h-manga gets right, isn't it?

#4 - Talented People Work In This Industry And Occasionally Get Out

Making it big, right?

The illustrator if this is Noizi Ito. She's the illustrator for the Haruhi light novels, and she's the artist for Shakugan no Shana. If you don't know, those are franchises in Japan that are fucking titanic. And not tragic "IT'S SINKING" titanic, but monster franchises with millions of fans not just Japan, but even in places like America. And her art style is very easily recognizable among the weeaboo nerd audience. I even considered buying an artbook of hers at a convention. She also draws things like this.

Captain Falcon: protecting the delicate minds of children like a true hero.

One of the more famous anime illustrators in Japan got her start working on h-manga and adult VNs, who would've guessed? Now this is a lot more common than you think, actually. Yuna Kagesaki is actually moderately well-known for her manga series Karen (or Chibi Vampire for you American slobs), and a personal favorite of mine, AiON. ...Yeah she drew smut for living, too. He Is My Master is a trashy harem manga and the original artist left, so now the writer might possibly recruit a renowned doujin/h-manga artist who coincidentally enough has drawn adult doujin works of said manga. That just seems like a lucky break.

I mean the simple fact is, plot in the anime/manga industry doesn't always sell. Pornography always sells. No matter what, no matter where. Granted it's the equivalent of a porn actor or actress trying to break into serious film or stage-performing, it does happen. And it's a genuine pity to see a lot of genuinely talented artists forced to peddle smut to get out in the spotlight and make a living. It's frustrating, even.

Or maybe it isn't, and they enjoy drawing people fucking because heaven knows that they probably aren't. I'd just occasionally prefer if they weren't fucking in space while using nuclear jizz to power their rockets with dicks the size of I-beams and zero-gravity chests resembling two Volkswagen Beetles. All while reciting lines that sounded like William Shakespeare dropped the double entendres and finally wrote an Aristocrats joke.

A questionable lesson in sexual anatomy.

Have I ever told you folks about the time I became a woman? What? You mean pretending to be a woman on the internet? Silly boys, that doesn't count at all. I mean an actual woman, with a vagina and breasts and large areolas and everything. I was once a woman, and I have to tell you, I'm glad I'm not anymore. That shit was horrifying, and I never want it to happen again. At least well, if I change back to a woman, I don't want to regain my virginity. That would be painful and awkward. But right, I was once a woman and it sucked ass.

I woke up one morning and I found it awkward trying to roll over. I thought I was crushing Puff Puff, our cat, again. And I averted from using another word for "cat" that I could possibly twist into a sexual play on words, but fuck you I'm not clever enough to work that into a joke. But right, I randomly wake up and a pair of funbags made it hurt to sleep on my stomach like I'm usually accustomed to. Of course it was 6am and I was hungover and got four hours of sleep, so a question like "Where did these titties come from?" didn't immediately pop into my head. I ate breakfast and got into the shower, where after my brother stole all the hot water, the freezing water woke me up to realize the situation that I was in. To realize that my, a man's most treasured and defining possession, was not with me in the shower. But then I remembered that I left lemon-scented bodywash in the other bathroom and noticed that my penis was missing.

"SHIT, WHERE THE FUCK DID MY PENIS GO?" I shouted in a screeching high voice. "SHIT, WHERE THE FUCK DID MY MANLY VOICE GO?" That wasn't a good idea either, since I might've called it to attention of my torturous relatives that I was living with. But indeed, my penis was missing and my chainsmoking manly voice left along with it. Apparently my privates crawled into my body and my testicles climbed up into my chest cavity and grew into breasts. What? That's not how anatomy works? Well shut the fuck up, I don't need you telling me that. I was freaking the hell out over becoming a woman, I was panicked. During that shower, I looked at myself for a while. My long, ugly-ass hair now actually worked, I was no longer a hairy gorilla, and my scrawny, short stature now seemed somewhat normal and no longer out of place. This was before my growth spurt, mind you; I was probably no taller than five-and-a-half feet and probably weighed no more than 110 pounds when I was a sophomore in High School. This was a great time to turn into a woman considering my stature. That can't happen now, since being a six-foot-three-inch woman would've been creepy as shit.

Now a lot of men often have the same question for this situation; if you became a woman, what would be the first thing you would do? So I played with my breasts and got off with the shower nozzle enough times that I had trouble standing, then I decided to get ready for school. Getting dressed was made exceptionally difficult when you can't feel your legs. And when you don't have woman's clothing, like frilly panties and bras and what have you. Thankfully that wasn't the case, as I kept some of those things around for when I'm bored and feel like crossdressing, but now this time they're being used for normal purposes, which is strange because now I felt sexy but without that niggling sense of shame.

Since I was an asocial faggot who never talked to anybody and didn't have friends, only one person noticed my change in sexuality at school that day, and that was my girlfriend. And frankly she was confused by the development.

"...How did this happen?" she asked.
"I don't know, I just woke up and I was like that."
"...You didn't piss anybody off, did you?"
"What, me? Of course not."

Actually I might've pissed off a wizard, but that's beyond the point.

"How do you go back to normal?" she asked.
"I don't fucking know."
"Go back to normal."
"No, I like being a woman."
"I'm not a lesbian, go back to normal."
"What, did you love me only for my body? WHY SHOULD IT MATTER?"

What a bitch. I think she was jealous that my breasts were larger than hers, but perhaps she was right. I haven't fully grasped how a woman's body functions, and I'll certainly start missing my penis eventually.

"I think the only drawback here is that I miss my penis." I said.
"I could imagine."
"It was such a magnificent penis."
"Ehhhhhhhhhhh."
"WELL FUCK YOU, TOO."

Not literally since I couldn't, but metaphorically. I would metaphorically fuck her with my mouth penis and ejaculate words of malice in her general direction. But frankly it was more insulting to go the entire day without people so much as noticing that there was a new girl in class, but I guess I'm just that transparent.

The only other event worth noticing occurred on my way home. I typically cut through a street and a baseball field on my way home if I choose not to go through the shopping district, which was a lot, and which was also today by happenstance. Also by happenstance there was a sleazy boy named Dave from my school walking home down this road. I apparently caught his eye. He asked me how my day was going, I ignored him to the best of my ability. It was 110 out, I was too hot to hold conversation. Literally in three senses. The weather was unbearable, I was drop-dead sexy and out of his league, and I think I was having a hot flash. I wanted to get home, sweat some more, flick the bean more, then go to sleep and contemplate what to do. He was being a creeper. As he walked behind me, he made a grab for my ass. I let out a yelp like a dog, pulled out my boxcutter, and turned around to jam it into his throat. a massive horizontal flap spraying blood out got my face dirty and diluded the sweat. I put the knife in further, got my hand in there and proceeded to dig out his throat while he gasped and wailed for dear life. I'm sorry Dave, I can't hear you particularly well over all the, well, blood. While he stumbled back, head barely hanging on by pieces of string and a spine, I grabbed his arm that he groped me with and snapped it on my knee. I heard his exasperated breathing get worse, then I kicked him into a bush and walked home, rather pleased to know that my capabilities for manslaughter weren't diminished by a lack of testosterone.

When I got home, I peeled my clothes off and showered again to get all the disgusting sweat to leave my body, then I penetrated myself with a bottle of hairspray since it was the only penis-shaped object in the house, but it hurt like Hell because of a lack of lubrication and I unknowingly took my own virginity. Knowing this pain would not at all play out in sympathy when I eventually take my girlfriend's virginity months later.

I don't know if I was irritable from the heat or lack of sleep or because I'm bleeding internally due to my period or taking my own virginity, but I really just wanted to go to sleep. I was also drinking, and my alcohol tolerance seemed to improve since I was essentially my mother at this point. Maybe the reason my breasts were so large was because I had a pair of extra livers growing in them, I don't know. While I drank, I got to eat a delicious TV dinner filled with asbestos and cancer, which was akin to eating at Carls Jr. during a Health Inspector strike. When I got into bed, I had trouble going to sleep because having two gelatinous masses suddenly growing out of your chest ends up being a peculiar issue to adjust your sleeping habits to. After I passed out, I woke up the following morning, and lo and behold, everything was back to normal. I didn't know if anything of yesterday's events had actually occurred or if I was just seriously tripping for an entire day.

"So you're back to normal." My girlfriend greeted me in the morning on our way to school.
"...Wait, all that actually happened?" I inquired.
"All what happened? You were sick yesterday."
"Oh. Well yeah, I guess I'm fine now. I think."
"Good."
"Wait what were doing yesterday?"
"Walked home, somebody found Dave Hueley murdered in the bushes."
"...You don't say."
"A pity."
"Anything else of significance?" I asked. She paused and looked at me.

"Oh, I also beat up a wizard."

I'm just a little misguided, but my intentions are good.

Before I was a pussy who couldn't talk to women. Then I started watching Johnny Bravo. I learned everything I could from Johnny Bravo about how to court a woman. The following day I walked into class, and I caught the eyes of all the women in there. I got those tarts so damp that the humidity in the room increased. Fuck year. I was dressed in skin-tight leather so whenever I made sudden movements, you could hear whiplashes. I had a pompadour so large and phallic that it would get caught on the doorway if I didn't duck. It was gelled to be hard enough to be used as a weapon. I could literally headbutt a woman into orgasming with my hair. I was injected with enough steroids to buff up that I'm surprised my penis and testicles still legally existed.

I sit down, and all the women want to sit next to me. "Hang on, ladies, there's enough of me to go around," I say. That didn't stop them. Even the teacher couldn't keep her eyes off of me. She ordered all of the boys except me out of the classroom. I smiled. I knew what was going to happen. Except I didn't, and they all tied me down and force-fed me viagra and had sex marathons with me for 10 hours without stopping. Woman after woman after woman treated me like nothing more than an object, a plaything. I was exhausted, dehydrated, and my manhood was worked raw as I cried pitifully, covered in all manner of fluids and materials as they left me over night. My psychosis began to slowly slip into oblivion as I contemplated life. About how I wondered where everything went wrong. About how I was just mercilessly tortured for hours on end by those vile succubi. I eventually worked my wrists raw and bloody to get myself untied and escaped the classroom. The only thought that crossed my blank mind was "Shit, I feel sorry for the janitor when he comes in tomorrow morning."

I go home and sleep as if nothing had happened. I stood by my teaching of Johnny Bravo, but now this time for vengeance. When I left, I would drive by lone women on the streets. They would swoon over me. I would offer them a ride, and they willingly accepted. What happened I will not describe. You do not deserve to have that brought up on you. But those women, I learned they all couldn't be trusted. I would humiliate them, torture them, and eventually my psychosis slipped into murder. The first victim was a young brunette on the 28th. She had a nice smile. I cut her a nicer one.

Eventually I was having intercourse with a woman I picked up in my car. Eventually I started getting rougher, then I started crying profusely shouting why Mama doesn't see me as an adult, so I started strangling her there. I choked the life out of that bitch. I crushed her dainty throat with my pulsating muscles, my sunglasses showing no inflection. That girl only saw herself looking back in horror as I squeezed the last breathes of life from her. I stopped and started crying at what I had become. Then I realized, I realized that all my indignant fury was misplaced. The real man who was responsible for the monster that had been created... was Johnny Bravo. And by extension, Seth MacFarlane. I realized what I had to do. I was to kill Seth Macfarlane for what he's done. This went beyond what he did with the fourth season of Family Guy. This was personal.

Of course being lost in rage, I didn't know what Seth MacFarlane looked like, so when I flew to Connecticut, I started killing indiscriminately, hoping one of them would be him. Now I'm a convicted sex offender and serial killer who's murdered 23 people.

This is why cartoons are bad influences on children.