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Near as I can figure, the Republican field looks like this: Romney has no platform, Gingrich has no sanity, Santorum has no brain, and Paul has no following. Is that about right?
A little something something I wrote for the school paper. Tell me what you think (or don’t, no pressure).
I brush my teeth. A menthol-laced foam accumulates amongst masses of soft tissue and hard enamel. Plastic bristles shuffle to and fro, sweeping aside particles, chemicals, and organisms, among other things. I brush a sensitive patch of gum too hard, and my spit comes out tinged with pink. Someone dies from exposure to industrial wastes. I look out the bathroom window. It feels like something is coming.
I sit in early morning traffic. The heater hums quietly, sapping heat from the cooling system to keep me comfortable. A cheerful stream of inoffensive music pours forth from the speakers. Somewhere far ahead, the flow of electricity changes, and the light turns green. My compatriots and I inch forward. An ancient mass of ice larger than an office building slides into the ocean. I gaze through the windshield. It feels like something is coming.
I take my seat in class. Markers in numerous colors glide over a white plastic plane, articulating the finer points of some obscure subject. A cell phone buzzes, heralding the arrival of a message from some far-off place. Lengths of carbon and ink-soaked spheres of metal sweep across sheets of wood pulp, duplicating the characters projected onto the screen. There is nothing left to keep the medicine cool—many will perish today. I tug the blinds aside for a moment. It feels like something is coming.
I fill my tray up with products of grass and tree, mammal and reptile. Delicate arms of steam beckon from under the heating lamps like the pale, experienced fingers of an exotic courtesan. Speech without cessation shoves the molecules of air in every direction; slight changes in atmospheric gas concentrations will be the only long-term effect rendered by the dialogue. I lift a forkful of some plant I have never seen alive. An organ whose name and function he will never know fails; he won’t survive the night. I glance through the large panes of glass. It feels like something is coming.
I slip under the sheets, sinking into the cushioned surface with a sigh. Switching off the light, I am immersed in darkness, that primordial force which came before and shall return after. Thoughts of oblivion and purpose, meaning and hope, weakness and failure flit through my head like fish in a pond. Beneath me, the world turns ever onward, taking me further and further from the nuclear fusion furnace that makes it all possible. They plot the downfall of their government—they know not what they will do after it happens, only that it must happen. I stare between the flimsy blinds. It feels like something is coming.
I have a simple question, Tumblrites: are most people really put-off by expressions of sociopathy and misanthropy? I ask because I’m occasionally consumed by a deep sense of anger and disappointment towards humanity as a whole, and myself in particular. I assumed everyone feels this way, but every time I express these feelings, people around me act troubled and disturbed. What’s the deal?
Also, is it true that most people can’t understand the motivation behind suicide? I’ve contemplated the possibility once or twice, but most people seem utterly mystified by the notion of self-harm and -destruction.
With the rising religious fervor, increased presence of the police and military, contempt towards politicians, and mistrust of those who are different, the United States is starting to look an awful lot like the image of Iran painted by the movie Persepolis. We have seen the enemy and he is us?
At home, on the couch, when I’m comfy and cozy-2%
At home, at 2 AM on a school night-18%
At home, when I have to be at work in like half an hour-30%
At work, in class, visiting family, or literally any other time when I don’t have access to my laptop-50%
DAMMIT MUSE, YOU FICKLE BITCH.
No explanation. Just gonna post it.
Harold flipped the sizzling patty, and most of the Netherlands slid into the sea. “How’s the headache?”
Nigel massaged his forehead. “Better. The cognitive interference isn’t nearly as bad now.”
“That’s good.” The ground beef settled out a little as the ice caps turned to slush. “How’re the wife and kids?”
“Gone by now, probably. But they were doing well, last I checked. Cheryl had just gotten a new dress.”
“Ah. Well, they might still be around:North America doesn’t go until I get the pickle.” Harold slid the hissing meat off the range and onto a lightly toasted wheat bun; no sooner had cow met grain than every nuclear missile and power plant on Earth suffered catastrophic meltdowns.
“Ah,” Nigel sighed, easing back into his chair and taking a sip of cola. “That’s much better.” He could feel originality and honesty flowing through every neuron.
Harold mutely laid hand-sliced cheese, lettuce, and tomatoes on the steaming patty, and the lakes, rivers, and oceans evaporated in an instant, coating the planet in a dense layer of scalding steam. Nigel glanced out the window as Harold poured out some ketchup and mustard, smiling himself as the cars rapidly piled up, their owners stumbling out into a hazy white oblivion; he hadn’t felt this good in years.
The top half of the bun plopped into place just as the first volley of meteors fell.
A serrated knife slid smoothly through the expertly crafted burger, touching the plate a few milliseconds before every volcano and fault line on the planet tore itself apart, exposing the Earth’s hot, molten flesh.
The sun exploded and blew away the atmosphere as two toothpicks slid into place, holding the masterpiece together.
Nigel admired the sight of the ground slipping away into oblivion as Harold fished out a dill pickle spear, placed it on the plate, and slid the whole thing across the counter.
“Wait until you taste it.” Harold began putting away his supplies, then idly remarked, “That’ll be five ninety-five, by the way.”
Nigel ran his hands over his pants, then leaned on the counter, chuckling a little. “Well, this is awkward.”
“I left my wallet out in my car.”
Harold glanced at the starry nothingness beyond the glass doors, shrugged, and picked up the burger. “Your loss.” He took a bite.
And every star in the universe exploded.
“Hey there, little lady.”
“Hey! How you been?”
“Eh, been better. You?”
“First time in my life I’ve gotten front row seats to something. This great big theater, and I got it all to my self. Well, had.”
“About that: what are you doing hanging around the zero point?”
“What’s the point in running? Everyone goes eventually. Might as well make a spectacle of it. Beats dying one cell at a time on some hospital bed like my granddad did.”
“I suppose. But didn’t the government say there were some safe houses on the far side of the planet? Might’ve been room for you.”
“You honestly believe that load of crap? That’s just politicians being politicians. Got to keep the masses compliant to their dying breaths, y’know? Hope for a better tomorrow, rebuild, repopulate, keep the torch of society burning, all that hokey jazz. Besides, if anyone does survive this, I’ll just slow them down. It’s better this way. I feel like I’m finally doing my duty to the world.”
“If you say so.”
“What about you? You could’ve gone.”
“Well, the whole thing promises to be a real spectacle, and if I’m only going to get one chance to see it, and I’m likely to die either way, well, I might as well get up-close and personal with it. Anyways, I’ve never really feared death. It’s just one more adventure.”
“Amen to that.”
“So. No regrets?”
“Just wish I’d told my mother I hate her one more time before I left. You?”
“Well, I never got the chance to try black truffles. Or foie gras, for that matter.”
“The world’s about to end—Armageddon is about to literally rain down on us from on high—and you’re thinking about food?”
“What can I say? I’m a guy, right down to the bitter end.”
“Yeah. Yeah! Quick, got any last words?”
“Here’s a few: hey! You! If you’re gonna leave some alive, at least kill all the dumb ones!”
“And make it quick, I told Saint Peter to save me a seat on the next bus!”
“Heh. Oh…oh wow. It’s beautiful.”
“Yeah. It really is.”
“Think it’ll hurt?”
“Maybe. But not for long.”
“It’s so hot, and bright. Feels…kinda like home.”
“Yeah. It really do—”
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