aBIGsheep
12-13-2008, 12:39 AM
I feel like spilling my guts. I hope you understand, dear friend, but I want to wipe something off the face of the earth. Do you know why? To know that I did it, that's why. I want to do something so violent, so ****ing unbelievable that people will take the time to stop in the street and say:
"Holy ****, did you hear about that guy who . . .?"
No, not that one. I want to be remembered. I'll make headlines! I'll be the hot topic of day time talk shows! News channels will sing my exploits! I want people to look back and question themselves that maybe, just maybe, they could understand. They'd say to themselves:
"Holy ****, why would he . . ."
Yup, that's me. So I raise the gun and I point it at their head. I smile to myself, knowing that I'll dent some hapless sap's life -- to make an imprint that won't go away. I smile to myself, happy to know that someone will say:
"How on earth could someone . . ."
Haha! Isn't that hilarious? They think could understand but they'll never know. They won't get to know because I pull the trigger too fast. Everyone stops on the street and says:
". . ."
Do you know what the gun says?
"BANG!"
Haha! I think that's the funniest part of all but everyone's too dense to understand. Stupidity is a disease my friend. But stupidity is what makes my smile only wilder. It's like a little inside joke between me, my finger, and his best friend the trigger. Maybe everyone else will understand if I paint them a picture across the pavement.
My Finger tickles the Trigger. Do you know how he squeals?
"BANG!"
HAHA! I wish My Gun could laugh with me, but he only says:
"BANG!"
My Gun blasts his guts into someone's virgin flesh. Someone else is blasting their guts all over the street. He's bawling like a little *****, begging anyone to help him pick up his bowels. Do I give a ****? No. Does anyone else give a ****? No. They're too busy running -- too busy caring only about themselves. My friend, My Gun, thinks that's pitiful.
"BANG!"
My Gun is my friend. What would I do if I didn't have My Gun in my hand? I might be running away myself. I might be another person screaming for my life, praying for some God to save me. But what does my gun do? He makes me a God! They should be praying to me!
What am I without My Gun? Not a God I'll tell you that!
HAHAHAHAHA!
"BANG!"
Maybe they'll understand. Maybe they'll think that this is for a good cause. Maybe they'll think that I'm some kind of unabashed freedom fighter, trying to make a statement. Maybe, just maybe, they'll understand. Do you know what makes a God? My Gun? You're close, but that's not it.
Isn't a God a little bit of each of us? A little bit of something special deep down in everyone? Maybe if I dig hard enough into their memories, maybe if I squirm into their conscious, maybe if I sink a bullet deep enough down into their brain, I might make them remember. I'll try my best to make them remember. I'll try my best to make them understand.
"BANG!"
"Holy ****, did you hear about that guy who . . .?"
No, not that one. I want to be remembered. I'll make headlines! I'll be the hot topic of day time talk shows! News channels will sing my exploits! I want people to look back and question themselves that maybe, just maybe, they could understand. They'd say to themselves:
"Holy ****, why would he . . ."
Yup, that's me. So I raise the gun and I point it at their head. I smile to myself, knowing that I'll dent some hapless sap's life -- to make an imprint that won't go away. I smile to myself, happy to know that someone will say:
"How on earth could someone . . ."
Haha! Isn't that hilarious? They think could understand but they'll never know. They won't get to know because I pull the trigger too fast. Everyone stops on the street and says:
". . ."
Do you know what the gun says?
"BANG!"
Haha! I think that's the funniest part of all but everyone's too dense to understand. Stupidity is a disease my friend. But stupidity is what makes my smile only wilder. It's like a little inside joke between me, my finger, and his best friend the trigger. Maybe everyone else will understand if I paint them a picture across the pavement.
My Finger tickles the Trigger. Do you know how he squeals?
"BANG!"
HAHA! I wish My Gun could laugh with me, but he only says:
"BANG!"
My Gun blasts his guts into someone's virgin flesh. Someone else is blasting their guts all over the street. He's bawling like a little *****, begging anyone to help him pick up his bowels. Do I give a ****? No. Does anyone else give a ****? No. They're too busy running -- too busy caring only about themselves. My friend, My Gun, thinks that's pitiful.
"BANG!"
My Gun is my friend. What would I do if I didn't have My Gun in my hand? I might be running away myself. I might be another person screaming for my life, praying for some God to save me. But what does my gun do? He makes me a God! They should be praying to me!
What am I without My Gun? Not a God I'll tell you that!
HAHAHAHAHA!
"BANG!"
Maybe they'll understand. Maybe they'll think that this is for a good cause. Maybe they'll think that I'm some kind of unabashed freedom fighter, trying to make a statement. Maybe, just maybe, they'll understand. Do you know what makes a God? My Gun? You're close, but that's not it.
Isn't a God a little bit of each of us? A little bit of something special deep down in everyone? Maybe if I dig hard enough into their memories, maybe if I squirm into their conscious, maybe if I sink a bullet deep enough down into their brain, I might make them remember. I'll try my best to make them remember. I'll try my best to make them understand.
"BANG!"