We lay on the turf in the cold and the dark. We lay bundled up with hats and scarves and gloves, we lay close but not touching. It was a meteor shower and we lay there together, in the dark, in the cold.
Elisabeth, I said.
Yes, she said.
The sky was falling.
I have been thinking about this a lot lately, I said, about the idea of being dead. Like I'm not worried that I'll die tomorrow, but I just think about that one day I won't be alive, you know. And like what that will be like, because it will be forever. Infinity years of my being dead, and that'll be it. Life will go on but I just. I won't. I won't go on. I'll be gone. I have been up late and very anxious.
She took a deep breath and then let it out and her breath was tiny icicles in the air.
We saw that dead raccoon on the way over here, she said.
I turned my head to look at her.
I'm just saying it could be worse, she said, still staring at the sky, and then she took my glove in her glove and I looked back up as well. I don't think what she offered was much in the way of comfort, but it was something to think about, at least.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Thursday, November 29, 2012
NOTES
Notes found on the yellow tiled wall of the rest stop bathroom read as messages from beyond, as warnings to humanity. THIS IS THE END, written in green sharpie, WE WERE WITNESSES TO OUR OWN LIVES. WE LISTENED TO OUR SPORTS EQUIPMENT, WE HELD OUR OWN AGAINST THE GLOWING ASH. IF YOU FIND MY BODY, BURY IT WITH A TUBE OF CHAPSTICK AND A CRAYON THE COLOR OF THE MOON. I COULD HAVE LEARNED TO PLAY THE BANJO AND INSTEAD I FOUGHT WITH DOGS AND TOSSED EMPTY FORTIES OFF OF THE OVERPASS. I ATE GRAY STEAK. I SAT WITH MY HEAD DOWN IN THE DARK LIBRARY AND LISTENED TO THE HOT RAIN SIZZLE ON THE CEMENT, THINKING OF MY FATHER AND HIS ACCIDENT WITH THE FAX MACHINE.
Thursday, November 08, 2012
TOO MUCH TOO OFTEN
Once in a great while, a track that samples Adele's "Rumour Has It" and The Dub Pistol's "Cyclone" comes to the internet. Such a track is "TOO MUCH TOO OFTEN".
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
New Weather Stories
Dark clouds were rolling in, we could feel it on campus. The wind was picking up, and while professors made up excuses to cancel classes and went to be with their families, the student body was less than hunkered down. Frantic administrative emergency emails were sent out and then sort of just stopped coming, but we did not concern ourselves with what this might mean. The air smelled sweetly of inevitability, and the buzz about the student center was faint but pulsing.
"I think this might be the real end," Jesse said to me as we shared a cigarette in his car with the windows up. We regarded the horizon, which was gloomy and approaching fast.
"Yep," I said, and then, because we were young, "should we hit up the liquor store?"
Jesse smiled, resigned. A storm was coming, and when it hit we would all dance close to the windows.
"I think this might be the real end," Jesse said to me as we shared a cigarette in his car with the windows up. We regarded the horizon, which was gloomy and approaching fast.
"Yep," I said, and then, because we were young, "should we hit up the liquor store?"
Jesse smiled, resigned. A storm was coming, and when it hit we would all dance close to the windows.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
New Love Stories
We had just moved into a small apartment at the bottom of the ocean.
"I'd just like to go over some household expectations," you announced. "For instance, I expect you to clean the jellyfish out of the pipes. Also if we spring a leak I expect you to let me die first as I don't think I could handle drowning down here alone."
I nodded, this all sounded pretty reasonable.
"In return," you said, "I'll cook fish you catch. Healthy-looking ones at least. And I won't complain about how long the commute is by submarine."
That night we made love by the light of the anglerfish. It was a hassle that I'd need to pick up oxygen tanks every day until the algae farm started working, but the moon sure looked pretty nice reflected in the water's surface.
"I'd just like to go over some household expectations," you announced. "For instance, I expect you to clean the jellyfish out of the pipes. Also if we spring a leak I expect you to let me die first as I don't think I could handle drowning down here alone."
I nodded, this all sounded pretty reasonable.
"In return," you said, "I'll cook fish you catch. Healthy-looking ones at least. And I won't complain about how long the commute is by submarine."
That night we made love by the light of the anglerfish. It was a hassle that I'd need to pick up oxygen tanks every day until the algae farm started working, but the moon sure looked pretty nice reflected in the water's surface.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Wade's Dad's Basement
Alex Bauer comes up with the idea in Wade’s dad’s basement, which is dim and dank and thick with the smell of spilled beer and packed bodies. He’s heavily buzzed but the thought is clear: he must lose his virginity tonight, and, maybe and troublingly more than that, the whole thing must be a story worth telling.
And though he’s enjoying this metaphor that the idea was created in this basement like so many single-cell organisms from the primordial ooze, the fact is that it is not from thin air. It was prompted by a photograph hung on one of the brown paneled walls - a portrait of Wade and his father sitting together, on Wade’s knee a football and on his shoulder one of his father’s meaty hands, both of them looking off into the distance past the camera, as if the photographer had just happened to catch them in the park holding a football and wearing matching sweaters and watching the sunset together. Alex might have called it pretty gay if he were a little less taken by it.
Because somehow from the portrait it is only a small step in Alex’s memories to the day in second grade when, for show and tell, Wade came in with a shark tooth and announced proudly to the class that it belonged to his father, who, while surfing once, had been attacked by a Great White. “It bit him in the shin!” Wade explained, trying to mimic the action by randomly grabbing at and thrashing around his own leg, “but my dad fought it off and when he got to the hospital the doctor found this stuck in his bone. He walks with a limp now but he gave me this when I was little to keep.”
Alex realizes he has been staring at this photograph for longer than he can remember and goes to grab another beer.
****
In middle school his class did a report about an interesting story told by their family. His peers told stories about rings made of melted down gold coins from old villages in Eastern Europe and about escape from concentration camps and about international chess championships. Alex’s story went like this - my dad grew up in Troy, New York, on a farm. His family used to breed golden retrievers until there was a fire one day when my dad was at school. The door to the kennel was held open by a rope, and, see, the rope burned first and so the door shut and the dogs couldn’t get out. My dad says he heard the sirens at school and wondered what they could be for, and then when he got home his family was out in the backyard, his mom crying and his dad sort of just staring at the burnt ground, and when he ran back to see them he looked around and said, “where are the dogs?” and his brother said, “they’re dead, stupid.”
The story wraps up to a horrified silence broken only by the quiet sobbing of a girl in the back row. After class one of Alex’s friends come up to him, grinning. “Jesus, Alex, that was brutal. I expected it to be like, ‘oh, but my grampa saved them all,’ or like, ‘my dad ran straight home and into the fire,’ or something, but, yeah, seriously.”
Alex doesn’t know what to say except for, “yeah, that would have been a good story.”
****
He feels at least some confidence that he could make a move on Sarah. He knows her through marching band - he plays trombone, she is in the colorguard - and he likes to think they have always been kind of flirty in a classic marching band way. He also maybe thinks those stereotypes about the colorguard must exist for a reason.
She is standing by the punch.
“Hey Sarah,” he says.
“Hey Alex,” she replies.
This was roughly as far as he planned in the conversation.
“How are you liking the party so far?” he asks.
She looks around a little. “It’s pretty fun. I came here with Mariah but I don’t know where she’s got to, I think I saw her dancing with someone upstairs earlier, I’m not sure.”
“Hmm, yeah,” Alex replies thoughtfully.
They stand there for a little bit and sip from their drinks and nod. Someone yells something about shotgunning. Alex is glad for this. “You want to come shotgun, Sarah?”
She wrinkles her nose. “I’ve never done it before,” she says, “plus I kind of hate beer.”
“You should at least come spectate.”
“Yeah, I guess I could do that.” She finishes her drink and holds her empty cup down in her right hand as he grabs a beer and leads her out the back door.
****
Alex has this recurring dream.
In it he is a proper adult – in his thirties or forties maybe – and he gets home from his job to see his own teenage son working on homework or something and the looking up to ask Alex to tell a story about his youthful excapades – except Alex can’t think of anything, until, suddenly desperate, he launches into Wade’s dad’s surfing story. His son is totally impressed.
****
He is the dark horse candidate to win the shotgun and so he comes in fourth or so, but it was cold out and he got Sarah to put on his coat so that in itself is a small victory, at least. They are the only ones left standing outside as he picks up the empty cans and tries fruitlessly to throw at least one into the recycling bin a few yards away.
“That shotgunning was a good effort,” she offers vaguely as he picks up all the missed cans. “A lot of those guys still had beer left in their cans when they dropped them.”
“Hey, hey, it’s not a competition. We all won because we all drank a beer.” This is a joke Alex made at a party about a year ago – people thought it was pretty funny and so he has made it shamelessly at every opportunity since then. Sarah laughs.
****
In Wade’s dad’s living room they dance facing each other and close together in a way that Alex takes as a good sign. She hangs onto his neck and closes her eyes to the music; he holds her around the waist and smells her hair. He is pretty drunk.
“I turn eighteen tomorrow,” he shouts.
She leans a back a little and he can see her say, “what?”
“Yep, it’s true.”
“No,” she says, “I mean, I didn’t hear you. What did you say?”
“Oh, sorry, I said I turn eighteen tomorrow.”
She smiles, “Wow! Happy early birthday!”
He is worried they might just start standing there.
“So, yeah,” he offers.
They just stand there.
He clears his throat. “You want to, um, you want to go check out upstairs? It might be a little quieter.”
She glances around and nods.
****
They sit on Wade’s sister’s bed for a little and talk about marching band. Alex says some funny stuff and Sarah laughs, and then they start kissing and he takes off her shirt and she takes off his shirt and they lie down and kiss except when he reaches for her belt she pulls away and puts her hand on his chest.
“Hey, I don’t think- like, maybe not,” she says in an embarrassed way.
“Oh, I’m really sorry,” he says quickly, moving off her. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s no problem. I mean I’m sorry, I just don’t really feel like, you know.”
“Yeah, sure. It’s totally fine.” He goes to sit up but in moving he put his head under part of the headboard and so he accidentally smashes his face into it. Sarah lets out a little shriek.
“Whoa, fuck,” Alex says, succeeding in sitting up. He puts his hand up to his eyebrow and feels blood. Sarah sits up. “Holy shit, Alex, are you okay?” “I think so, yeah,” he says. He goes to stand up but moves too quickly; his face throbs and he reels, knocking into a bookshelf. A lamp falls and breaks. He swears again, steadies the furniture, surveys the damage of the lamp, and then looks to Sarah.
She has her hands over her nose and she’s laughing helplessly. He says, “what.”
She just keeps laughing. He swears and gets back in bed.
****
At eight thirteen Alex’s phone beeps loud because it is out of batteries. He sits up and squints his eyes for the bright. His lips are cracked and his head is pounding. Sarah is lying face down next to him, snoring a little.
She rolls over and sniffs as he stands up to pick up the broken glass on the floor.
“‘Morning,” she says, smiling.
“Hey,” he says.
****
Outside her house in his car, Sarah puts back on her scarf. “Thanks for the ride, Alex,” she says, and then, reaching out to brush the cut on his forehead, adds, “you should put something on this, too.”
“Is it noticeable?” He asks, pulling down the mirror.
“Uh, sort of,” she confesses, “but at least it makes kind of a good story.”
****
Over his morning coffee, John Bauer notes his son pulling up to their house in his car and throwing up in the snow next to the mailbox. He stands up when Alex comes in the house and tries to greet him without grinning. “Hey, happy birthday bud! How was your Friday?”
“It was fun I guess, you know, pretty chill.” Alex manages weakly. After his dad just looks at him Alex adds, “I guess I drank a little too much.”
John smiles. “You know, I think the first time I ever threw up because of drinking too much was on my eighteenth birthday too.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Any other excitement?”
“You know this girl from school and I were talking and we sort of hit it off, I don't know. I think we might go on a real date maybe.”
“Hey, that’s great!” his dad says. “Tell you what, why don’t you go take a shower and I’ll make you a nice greasy omelet as an appropriate congratulations. They’re perfect for soaking up that excess ethanol.
“Mom says when you were in school that’s all you would eat,” Alex says.
John grabs a pan from the cupboard. “Oh, please, what does she know? I won a thousand bucks in a baking contest one time in grad school.”
“What?”
“Yeah, you didn’t know this? My sophomore year a frat on campus had a baking contest for a holiday party and I brought Apple-Eggnog pie. The recipe was my own invention. It won out over, among other things, straight weed brownies,” he says, chuckling, “I imagine it helped that the judges ate the weed brownies first and my pie a little later, probably.”
Alex has not heard this story before. “Wow, dad, that’s sick.”
“Yeah, it was sort of silly.”
“What’d you spend the money on?” Alex asks.
“I think I just put it in the bank,” his dad says, “I know, not that exciting.”
Alex gets up. “No, that’s kind of cool actually.”
****
When Alex gets upstairs he goes to take off his pants and feels something in the pocket. He pulls it out and turns it over in his hands and one of the small memories he lost last night comes flooding back.
He had woken up in the middle of the night needing to go to the bathroom in that sort of still drunk way. He wandered down the hall and accidentally opened the door to Wade’s room, where Wade was passed out naked and alone and snoring loudly. Alex was about to close the door when he saw the shark tooth.
And there it was, just as he remembered from the night before: the tiny seam of plastic that went around the whole tooth – the type of seam formed when something is mass-produced by means of a mold.
The tooth was fake.
****
Alex has the dream again that night except this time he doesn’t panic. He tells the story about his son’s grandfather’s baking contest, and how he found out about it on the day he got that weird scar above his eyebrow.
Because somehow from the portrait it is only a small step in Alex’s memories to the day in second grade when, for show and tell, Wade came in with a shark tooth and announced proudly to the class that it belonged to his father, who, while surfing once, had been attacked by a Great White. “It bit him in the shin!” Wade explained, trying to mimic the action by randomly grabbing at and thrashing around his own leg, “but my dad fought it off and when he got to the hospital the doctor found this stuck in his bone. He walks with a limp now but he gave me this when I was little to keep.”
Alex realizes he has been staring at this photograph for longer than he can remember and goes to grab another beer.
****
In middle school his class did a report about an interesting story told by their family. His peers told stories about rings made of melted down gold coins from old villages in Eastern Europe and about escape from concentration camps and about international chess championships. Alex’s story went like this - my dad grew up in Troy, New York, on a farm. His family used to breed golden retrievers until there was a fire one day when my dad was at school. The door to the kennel was held open by a rope, and, see, the rope burned first and so the door shut and the dogs couldn’t get out. My dad says he heard the sirens at school and wondered what they could be for, and then when he got home his family was out in the backyard, his mom crying and his dad sort of just staring at the burnt ground, and when he ran back to see them he looked around and said, “where are the dogs?” and his brother said, “they’re dead, stupid.”
The story wraps up to a horrified silence broken only by the quiet sobbing of a girl in the back row. After class one of Alex’s friends come up to him, grinning. “Jesus, Alex, that was brutal. I expected it to be like, ‘oh, but my grampa saved them all,’ or like, ‘my dad ran straight home and into the fire,’ or something, but, yeah, seriously.”
Alex doesn’t know what to say except for, “yeah, that would have been a good story.”
****
He feels at least some confidence that he could make a move on Sarah. He knows her through marching band - he plays trombone, she is in the colorguard - and he likes to think they have always been kind of flirty in a classic marching band way. He also maybe thinks those stereotypes about the colorguard must exist for a reason.
She is standing by the punch.
“Hey Sarah,” he says.
“Hey Alex,” she replies.
This was roughly as far as he planned in the conversation.
“How are you liking the party so far?” he asks.
She looks around a little. “It’s pretty fun. I came here with Mariah but I don’t know where she’s got to, I think I saw her dancing with someone upstairs earlier, I’m not sure.”
“Hmm, yeah,” Alex replies thoughtfully.
They stand there for a little bit and sip from their drinks and nod. Someone yells something about shotgunning. Alex is glad for this. “You want to come shotgun, Sarah?”
She wrinkles her nose. “I’ve never done it before,” she says, “plus I kind of hate beer.”
“You should at least come spectate.”
“Yeah, I guess I could do that.” She finishes her drink and holds her empty cup down in her right hand as he grabs a beer and leads her out the back door.
****
Alex has this recurring dream.
In it he is a proper adult – in his thirties or forties maybe – and he gets home from his job to see his own teenage son working on homework or something and the looking up to ask Alex to tell a story about his youthful excapades – except Alex can’t think of anything, until, suddenly desperate, he launches into Wade’s dad’s surfing story. His son is totally impressed.
****
He is the dark horse candidate to win the shotgun and so he comes in fourth or so, but it was cold out and he got Sarah to put on his coat so that in itself is a small victory, at least. They are the only ones left standing outside as he picks up the empty cans and tries fruitlessly to throw at least one into the recycling bin a few yards away.
“That shotgunning was a good effort,” she offers vaguely as he picks up all the missed cans. “A lot of those guys still had beer left in their cans when they dropped them.”
“Hey, hey, it’s not a competition. We all won because we all drank a beer.” This is a joke Alex made at a party about a year ago – people thought it was pretty funny and so he has made it shamelessly at every opportunity since then. Sarah laughs.
****
In Wade’s dad’s living room they dance facing each other and close together in a way that Alex takes as a good sign. She hangs onto his neck and closes her eyes to the music; he holds her around the waist and smells her hair. He is pretty drunk.
“I turn eighteen tomorrow,” he shouts.
She leans a back a little and he can see her say, “what?”
“Yep, it’s true.”
“No,” she says, “I mean, I didn’t hear you. What did you say?”
“Oh, sorry, I said I turn eighteen tomorrow.”
She smiles, “Wow! Happy early birthday!”
He is worried they might just start standing there.
“So, yeah,” he offers.
They just stand there.
He clears his throat. “You want to, um, you want to go check out upstairs? It might be a little quieter.”
She glances around and nods.
****
They sit on Wade’s sister’s bed for a little and talk about marching band. Alex says some funny stuff and Sarah laughs, and then they start kissing and he takes off her shirt and she takes off his shirt and they lie down and kiss except when he reaches for her belt she pulls away and puts her hand on his chest.
“Hey, I don’t think- like, maybe not,” she says in an embarrassed way.
“Oh, I’m really sorry,” he says quickly, moving off her. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s no problem. I mean I’m sorry, I just don’t really feel like, you know.”
“Yeah, sure. It’s totally fine.” He goes to sit up but in moving he put his head under part of the headboard and so he accidentally smashes his face into it. Sarah lets out a little shriek.
“Whoa, fuck,” Alex says, succeeding in sitting up. He puts his hand up to his eyebrow and feels blood. Sarah sits up. “Holy shit, Alex, are you okay?” “I think so, yeah,” he says. He goes to stand up but moves too quickly; his face throbs and he reels, knocking into a bookshelf. A lamp falls and breaks. He swears again, steadies the furniture, surveys the damage of the lamp, and then looks to Sarah.
She has her hands over her nose and she’s laughing helplessly. He says, “what.”
She just keeps laughing. He swears and gets back in bed.
****
At eight thirteen Alex’s phone beeps loud because it is out of batteries. He sits up and squints his eyes for the bright. His lips are cracked and his head is pounding. Sarah is lying face down next to him, snoring a little.
She rolls over and sniffs as he stands up to pick up the broken glass on the floor.
“‘Morning,” she says, smiling.
“Hey,” he says.
****
Outside her house in his car, Sarah puts back on her scarf. “Thanks for the ride, Alex,” she says, and then, reaching out to brush the cut on his forehead, adds, “you should put something on this, too.”
“Is it noticeable?” He asks, pulling down the mirror.
“Uh, sort of,” she confesses, “but at least it makes kind of a good story.”
****
Over his morning coffee, John Bauer notes his son pulling up to their house in his car and throwing up in the snow next to the mailbox. He stands up when Alex comes in the house and tries to greet him without grinning. “Hey, happy birthday bud! How was your Friday?”
“It was fun I guess, you know, pretty chill.” Alex manages weakly. After his dad just looks at him Alex adds, “I guess I drank a little too much.”
John smiles. “You know, I think the first time I ever threw up because of drinking too much was on my eighteenth birthday too.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Any other excitement?”
“You know this girl from school and I were talking and we sort of hit it off, I don't know. I think we might go on a real date maybe.”
“Hey, that’s great!” his dad says. “Tell you what, why don’t you go take a shower and I’ll make you a nice greasy omelet as an appropriate congratulations. They’re perfect for soaking up that excess ethanol.
“Mom says when you were in school that’s all you would eat,” Alex says.
John grabs a pan from the cupboard. “Oh, please, what does she know? I won a thousand bucks in a baking contest one time in grad school.”
“What?”
“Yeah, you didn’t know this? My sophomore year a frat on campus had a baking contest for a holiday party and I brought Apple-Eggnog pie. The recipe was my own invention. It won out over, among other things, straight weed brownies,” he says, chuckling, “I imagine it helped that the judges ate the weed brownies first and my pie a little later, probably.”
Alex has not heard this story before. “Wow, dad, that’s sick.”
“Yeah, it was sort of silly.”
“What’d you spend the money on?” Alex asks.
“I think I just put it in the bank,” his dad says, “I know, not that exciting.”
Alex gets up. “No, that’s kind of cool actually.”
****
When Alex gets upstairs he goes to take off his pants and feels something in the pocket. He pulls it out and turns it over in his hands and one of the small memories he lost last night comes flooding back.
He had woken up in the middle of the night needing to go to the bathroom in that sort of still drunk way. He wandered down the hall and accidentally opened the door to Wade’s room, where Wade was passed out naked and alone and snoring loudly. Alex was about to close the door when he saw the shark tooth.
And there it was, just as he remembered from the night before: the tiny seam of plastic that went around the whole tooth – the type of seam formed when something is mass-produced by means of a mold.
The tooth was fake.
****
Alex has the dream again that night except this time he doesn’t panic. He tells the story about his son’s grandfather’s baking contest, and how he found out about it on the day he got that weird scar above his eyebrow.
Monday, September 03, 2012
Break-Up Bootleg
Sampling vocals from Cher Lloyd's "Want U Back" and The Beastie Boys' "Hey Ladies", "Break-Up Bootleg" is PAPERCUT MIXMASTER's fifth single released so far and a pretty clear indication he's running out of good ideas.
Saturday, September 01, 2012
Final Thoughts
As camp ends, things tend toward their natural extremes and the counselors begin adopting the surreal rather heavily. Temperatures during the day reach three digits and at night drop to below freezing. The best campers pass final levels at their activities. The worse ones break drinking glasses during meals and teach the director's children to swear.
On the last night a storm hits around one-thirty and the two of us jump in the lake and learn to breathe underwater. Above us sailboats break from their moorings and the water's surface becomes choppy and loud, but, here on the lake's floor, things are still. We squelch our toes into the muck and hold hands. A fish swims by.
I thought the songleaders this year were pretty okay, I say.
Yes, you say.
A bolt of lightning strikes the tall pine behind bunk four, and we can make out the screams of terrified children.
I say, would it make you uncomfortable if I said I am going to miss you considerably?
You say, no, I guess not.
I say, well.
On the last night a storm hits around one-thirty and the two of us jump in the lake and learn to breathe underwater. Above us sailboats break from their moorings and the water's surface becomes choppy and loud, but, here on the lake's floor, things are still. We squelch our toes into the muck and hold hands. A fish swims by.
I thought the songleaders this year were pretty okay, I say.
Yes, you say.
A bolt of lightning strikes the tall pine behind bunk four, and we can make out the screams of terrified children.
I say, would it make you uncomfortable if I said I am going to miss you considerably?
You say, no, I guess not.
I say, well.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
More Camp Stories
Elisabeth can feel it - in the heat that won't break, in the way the other campers are looking a bit desperate at flag-raising, in the lake, unreasonably still and murky. And she knows the administration can feel it too, for the camp director’s grin has turned toothy and dark, and the early bedtimes come frantically, like a terrible precaution. The infirmary is over-capacity. Sleep-walking is at an all time high. All of the eight-year-olds besides Elisabeth have been up late, sobbing and tossing in their bunk beds, their haggard counselors unable to offer them any comfort. Elisabeth lies by quietly, listening to the restless horses and the shrieking bats. Something tragic and wonderful is coming to camp Matoaka, she writes in her journal, and we will all be its witnesses.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
She
She was the bride at the wedding, and you busted in and convinced her fiance to run away with you, because maybe you and him were high school sweethearts or co-workers who hadn't gotten a chance to say I love you until now, when you traveled across the country to get the man of your dreams and perhaps push her and her expensive dress into a pond. It's worth mentioning, though, that, while the story followed you and your finally found love out to your quirky beat-up sedan, the tears she cried in her canopy bed were as real as the ones you would have cried in your hip Manhattan loft, and, despite her short stature and mean face, the love poems she wrote for him were real and better than yours.
Sunday, July 08, 2012
Further Dispatches from the Zombie Apocolypse
By the light of your headlamp you pick off another zombie that was hammering at the barricade, and I hand you the second rifle, already loaded. With only a handful of .22s at our disposal, this was the system we came up with. The world is ending at summer camp, and you are good at shooting guns and making fires and I am good at arts and crafts.
“We are going to die,” I say.
“Yes,” you say, “we are.”
There is a momentarily lull in the conversation during which you kill more of the walking dead. Thunder rumbles.
“I never had the heart to tell you this, but I feel it is worth mentioning now,” I say, “I am in love with you. I think you are beautiful and funny and you have wonderful aim.”
You say, “pass me another rifle.”
I say, “there is no one else with whom I would rather be spending my last moments.”
You say, “I wish I was with my family.”
I say, “yes, I’m sorry, I know,” and I hand you another gun and you shoot another zombie, and I think about all the colors I could have used for your friendship bracelet.
“We are going to die,” I say.
“Yes,” you say, “we are.”
There is a momentarily lull in the conversation during which you kill more of the walking dead. Thunder rumbles.
“I never had the heart to tell you this, but I feel it is worth mentioning now,” I say, “I am in love with you. I think you are beautiful and funny and you have wonderful aim.”
You say, “pass me another rifle.”
I say, “there is no one else with whom I would rather be spending my last moments.”
You say, “I wish I was with my family.”
I say, “yes, I’m sorry, I know,” and I hand you another gun and you shoot another zombie, and I think about all the colors I could have used for your friendship bracelet.
Sunday, July 01, 2012
the best
They said, you're the best, and Jesse said, don't worry about it, it's alright, it was nice to get off-campus for a bit and I didn't have much else to do anyway.
They said, you're the best, and Jesse said, I'm really not because I've actually been preparing for this day for two years, spending hours daily building up an immunity to the gas with which I filled my car during the drive, and you will all be dead shortly and the life insurance policies will pay handsomely and this time next month I'll be getting a massage on the beach in the Caribbean and you'll all be dead.
They said, you're the best, and Jesse said, I know I am.
They said, you're the best, and Jesse said, I'm really not because I've actually been preparing for this day for two years, spending hours daily building up an immunity to the gas with which I filled my car during the drive, and you will all be dead shortly and the life insurance policies will pay handsomely and this time next month I'll be getting a massage on the beach in the Caribbean and you'll all be dead.
They said, you're the best, and Jesse said, I know I am.
Tuesday, June 05, 2012
Feels So Empty
Called PAPERCUT MIXMASTER's "most blatantly formulaic track so far," "Feels So Empty" features vocals from "Without Me" by rap artist Eminem and samples from Bitter:Sweet's "Dirty Laundry". Sources close to the artist indicate he might not have discovered these songs by watching Team Fortress 2 frag videos. NSFW lyrics.
Look for another track to drop before I leave for camp! Otherwise I have a new post below this.
Look for another track to drop before I leave for camp! Otherwise I have a new post below this.
Yup
Having some writer's block; I'm going to start updating weekly to try to get myself working. I'm also thinking of changing the blog's address to papercutmixmaster.blogspot.com, let me know what you think. My new post is below this.
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