September 23, 2003

(no subject)

My voices are saying some odd things this morning. They usually aren't this coherent in the morning. Heh.

...They didn't have time to be crazy cruising down the freeway at 85,000 miles per hour eating yellow stripes splashed by dolphins and trailed by flashing butterflies of helicopters with two bucket seats manned by an interstitial breed of historian bent on turning on their headlights so that they would turn into a chicken themselves by sword. Going AAaah! Aaahh! Right, Eddie? What happens then? Whatever you say, but where's your mop? Ahahahaha! They were speeding down the freeway in a 1999 silver hatchback so that they'd have cheaper insurance but screaming all the same eyes bugging out to dogs on the side of the road screaming "don't know tuesday never!" Viking death march to their names. I don't want to turn into a zombie, myself. But years ago they didn't have time insipid freaks with tails for eyes eating paper 'till they die with words and can't stop hiding the chains worry snakes running rivulets down their 18 gauge 12 times more than on TV! You know what happened when they caught them, Nicole? Do you know what air was all? They didn't place in them a spine made of ice or a spine made of iron to chase away their elves they put in them a piece of that hatchback and you know what piece? Not the engine, Nicole, not a new heart or a floppy disk or any of that bull-shit you want but a spark plug! Placed in their breast just above their heart, like yours, Nicole. And it's recording everything it's recording your movements and your breathing and your heart and your soul and your brain until they want to and when they want to they push a button and electricity pumps through you searing pain in three-second-bursts and when they are done branding you for them they will eat you with another electrical shock they can kill you at will and they will kill Nicole. And every shine on your hair. That charges it. And every beat of your heart is a ticking time bomb of sharp death. Lub-dub lub-dub lub-dub to the 18-12 overture and that's how they will know...

And it goes on like that. Well, it makes more sense when you know that I had a piece of metal implanted in me that looks like a spark plug after I had an operation to remove a tumor in my breast. They put it there to mark the location in case stuff grew back. They were pretty secretive about that portion of the surgery, and didn't explain at all what they were doing, until I demanded to see what they were putting in me. They had to run and get a sample of one in a jar. But, people at breast cancer places are rude and mean because they can't afford to care. If you're there, chances are that you'll probably be dead soon.

Posted by alex at September 23, 2003 06:02 AM


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