You n00b will never understand. But seriously. I am Roxas. Why I am giving away my most epic alt account yet is unknown even to me, but whatever!
Every time you smile when you think of CtR, a small boy loses his bowels.
No seriously.
I think you guys should get back together but move a lot more quickly this time. Spice it up with a bit of love.
He died to add a cool plot twist to the bestselling novel of all time.
They aren't amazing because they feel rushed, but they're interesting in their own way and add a new dimension to the KH universe.
I am surrounded by monsters. Gluttonous, grotesque fiends gorging on rotten food; veins bursting from the faces of fools as they dine upon cookies and cakes, the clamoring ***** of cutlery on china bellowing in my brain. Vomit explodes into the corners of my mouth but I manage to hold it in. This is not a banquet. This is not a restaurant. Not a bar, not a dine-in, not a road stop. This is a classroom. I watch my classmates dine on the twisted knowledge of our teachers. This is conformity at its best, Listener. They scramble for notebooks, gargling on the liquid poison of education as Daedalus's "F" sword hangs above them. The true serenity of the situation is the remedial quality of my own peaceful state. I am the eye of the storm. This is conformity at its best, Listener. I'm reaching into my pocket, feeling the cold metal grip surface fine. It's rough upon my pale, clammy fingers, but it's soothing, too. The classroom dissolves into a place that feels like home. The place - a cave. It's cold. Dark. This rush... I am alive. I pull the metal object out of my pocket and stand up, waving it wildly. "Put your ****ing hands up!" I say. What a bad ass. I like to swear in these situations. It makes me feel powerful. The others feel my power. Fellow classmates amidst of feast of language widen their eyes, screaming in terror as I heard them into the corner. Trapped against a cabinet, I move my arm like a pop-star singing to a crowd. I'm a superstar. My peers are my fans. This is beautiful. A girl begins to cry, and I laugh. These cattle are waiting to be slaughtered. These sheep deserve to be torn with instruments of madness, shaved bare and skinned, debowled into bloody pulps writhing on the carpet. This is conformity at its best, Listener. I make the one that's crying suck my ****, and then I shove the barrel down her throat. A flower of flesh and blood blooms from the back of her head. The teacher is running for her cell phone, the head chef moving in on the grill. I take her out, too. Three shots to the chest and one to the knee. It shatters, spindly fragments floating in air as she collapses to the ground. "Stop!" a boy screams. How predictable. I shoot him in the face as children scream. My children. Pets. Cattle. This is conformity at its best, Listener. Someone has called the police. They're gathering outside, guns readied. The school PA system calls for a "lockdown, take cover." My time is up. I turn the rest of my classmates into burgers and pork chops before turning the gun on myself. Police rush the door, firing wildly. My suicide is interrupted as bullets tickle my skin. I'm raining blood. My knees are crumbling, and I'm swimming. Swimming in my own juice, flopping like a fish out of water. My pale white skin, my bleeding pores - I'm a strawberry sundae. The dessert to this great feast. I am the final meal. I am the head shepherd enacting final judgment on all his cattle. I am the savior, and this is my rapture. I am your savior. I am your judgment. I am the eye of the storm, and I have passed over.
We should collaborate.
I'm going to give my true, honest, unbiased opinion on the LOTR trilogy; the books are horrendous. By page 435 of 1,119 you're gasping for a breath of fresh air. It's like Tolkien took the same 5,000 words and repeated them over and over again, trading pronouns and selling adjectives for new, more melancholy ones. I wasn't able to finish book 3 due to the slow drag of what some consider "glorious side story" but I consider an absolute waste of time. The world Tolkien creates is vivid and lush, but he doesn't do it with his writing, he does it with his ability to ram it into your skull every chance he gets. Boring. Repetitive. Long. Good movies, though. And I never say that.
I may be late, but I'd love to join; Name: Peter Crumb Username: Peter Crumb Gender: Male Dream Catcher Age: 16 Weapon: The morning newspaper. Biography: My name is Peter Crumb. I enjoy doing my taxes and watching reruns of childrens' programs. Appearance: http://www.yard-work.org/wp-content/uploads/2007/04/trent.jpg
Let's turn the ordinary into the extraordinary. Take a spoon and add the surface of the sun. Brandish it with comets and a pinch of star dust. Now snort it up your nose. Feel the cosmic rays rush into your brain - the world spins away from you as you fly into the heavens. The solar beams flush out your sins as you spiral into the clouds, floating on spindles of foam as you rush towards the black abyss. Come back down to Earth. Your best friend is on the floor bleeding. Shroom tips are sprawled next to him. His eyes are closed. His pulse is not the norm. But, he's smiling. A soft, extraordinary smile. You open his eyelids and see white. Shocked, you stumble back, knocking a plate covered in coke lines off the table. The knife clatters to the floor, the reverb of the *****ing metal screeching through your pounding membrane. Your ears recoil in horror as the blade slams onto the tile floor. The desperation of the moment tears your lips apart and you throw up your head, screaming with madness. Take me to the heavens! Take me back to the sky! You raise your hands up before collapsing backwards in a fit of coughs. Tired, exhausted, and torn, tears dribble from your dazed and blurred eyes. The radio spits out weather reports. It's stormy, tonight. A small thud, and you're on the ground. Your friend is still smiling at you, his white eyes piercing the static space between you. A trail of blood runs across the floor. It begins somewhere underneath his head. The cosmic rays dissipate into brandishing irons, tickling your skin before moving in and staining your body with scars. We'll never recover from this. You manage to get in some Vicodin before the sunlight seeps away. It's a fickle treat, to test the waters of the extraordinary. Your night ends with the soft snap of your eyelids. A fitting end for the ordinary.
I pondered my self ambitions, heating the blade with a dented Zippo. It's best to stay sanitary, especially when indulging in the insanity-plagued act of self injury. I guess it's obsession, but I'm baking up blood as I plunge the knife into my arm. Red goo erupts from cracked skin, and I take the knife and scrape it down my forearm like jelly on toast. The cars of Bellevue Avenue speed by, the headlights a neon blur. It's not the speed, a timid 35 miles per hour, but the Uppers I purchased from Anna at the street corner. Underneath the green street sign; West Lake Road and Elaine Boulevard. Nothing gets better than this. Purple Cush stains my shirt, a white collar everyday, a purchase I'll forget as quickly as the hash brownies smudged underneath the pen pocket. Don't feed me lies. I'm feeding them to myself as I take a needle and push it through my cheek. It's like poking a pencil through a piece of paper. Why don't you try it now, in fact! Grab the paper, and center the pencil. Stab. Push. Feel the force of the paper on the pencil, Fpape, and the force of the pencil on the paper, Fpepa! Push! Go! The pin rips through my skin and plunges into my tongue. You were my best friend. I remember the day; "besties!" And here I am, rotting myself into a **** hole because of your ignorance. I called on you and you pushed me away. I worked for you, but you turned me down. And now I'm snapping Holga's of my bleeding thighs. Now my stomach, your name etched into my skin, my belly button dotting the "i" in your name. And here's a picture of my wrists, open wide like the top of the envelope that I'm sealing my final letter to you in. Signed with blood, Your Best Friend; The gun's locked and loaded, and I'm ready to go. Let's dance together in hell, my friend.
Beautiful. I'm thinking desktop background!
That was me... *sob*
Requiem for a Dream? A shockingly depressing ending, but one of the greatest films of all time. Happy endings are usually so sappy and fake.
Sarah Palin's husband.
