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                  Could I Fit My Brain onto a Hard Drive?
                                 --------
                             by Fat Ugly Slob



      I've got to write something or I'll go crazy.

      It's sad when you don't have anything to say. You've got no personal
 value or merit. No one will ever have a reason or an excuse to look up to
 you. You'll never be admired, famous, heroic, beautiful.

      Wreak my brain. Or wreck my brain. I wish I could. I wish
 consciousness would leave me. This is so pathetic. Sputtering mindless
 bullshit, and where does it get me?

      I need plot, character, motive, action/drama.

      I need sleep. I don't want to be here, but once I get anywhere else,
 I stop wanting to be there, too. I've stopped feeling nauseous, but it's
 been replaced by a solemn, deadened, brain-numbed kind of inertia of
 thought. I've become vapid and worthless. If, at any time, I ever had
 value.

      I want everyone to love me, but I hate everyone. Poorly dressed,
 pedantic, gray-haired imbeciles spewing their head-stuffed bullshit at
 me, preaching about 'unskilled laborers.' I can't care and I can't leave.
 I'm stuck here. Things look grim.

      Your brain's gonna die, honey. Watch it, careful, you've got to take
 better care of that thing. Cease your incessant consumption of television
 and garbage drugs. Your head is not a dumpster; stop fueling syrofoam
 into it.

      I don't really think anyone means anything. No one matters. This is
 hard to read. This is easy to write. Thought is a disease. Oh, merciful
 ignorance, absence of friction.

      You're fucking useless. The world is such a vacant pit of piss. I'll
 never know what I want, never know it to look at once I get it.

      You want to be in a video game. So do I. I want to get drunk in a
 social setting. I want to scream and pound my fists into my skull.

      But I'm too plastic. I'm not weird. You can't make me. I could write
 forever, and I'd be no further away from this dank, reprehensible spot.
 Text is small. Words are easily compressed. Thoughts don't take up much
 disk-space. Could I fit my brain onto a hard drive?

      It boggles my mind that people are happy.

      I don't understand how this happens. How does this ridiculous state
 of delusion grip individuals across this ridiculous continent? What the
 fuck is up with them?

      I don't mean to say: "Look around you. Look at all the *bad* things
 happening to all the good people. Look at all the victims. Look at the
 rain-forest, you shithead. Look at the baby seals, encrusted in crude
 oils of resplendent hues. Look at the starving children in that hot, dry,
 ugly-looking country over there, across the sea. Just *look*, dammit."

      I'm sorry, but most days, I just don't give a shit.

      I mean, I *know* (or at least, people tell me, and I believe that I
 know) what happens to cows. I fancy that I know about the force-feeding,
 the restriction of movement, the brutal slaughter. But I just had
 Hamburger Helper tonight, too.

      So this isn't any call out for revolution. Where the fuck does
 revolution get you? Give me a worthy cause, and I won't fight for it.
 Hurrah, status quo!

      I just mean: who the fuck do people think they're trying to kid?

      People parading around, laughing, talking, looking happy. Happy
 people on billboards and on television and in department stores. Sure,
 those people are happy because of one damn good reason: they want you to
 buy their shit. But what about the rest of us, the rest of *you*?

      You can't seriously be happy, can you?

      This is such an alien concept.

      You're shitting me. I know it.

      Asshole.


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