I'm going to hell.

There is a fear inside of me.

I live in a world, where magnetic ribbons cling to metallic car surfaces. At night, you can hear the wails of babies being born half-retarded, and it will never know of the slow creatures that couldn’t get away hours before it was pushed out of a beast it’ll only fear, or have an unhealthy addiction to 20 years later.

The men and women that put these ribbons on their cars are the most twisted of the bunch. They drink virgin tears, and stomp on all of the roses in the wild. They have abortions at the dinner table. They are beautiful werewolves, with woolen turtlenecks, and five thumbs.

I slept on a rock last night; I was so drunk I tried to hatch it.

I smoke many cigarettes, but I do not inhale, for I am the pastor of second-hand cancer.

I am closing in on my twentieth year on this mud ball, and my greatest fear is dying and being bored.