Your definitive resource. That's all, just your definitive resource.
28 October 2013
18 October 2013
WINTER IS COMING TO CHICAGO AND WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE
...and this is why you shouldn't worry:
1. We die, no more bullshit with the Ventra card.
2. We die, it's possible we all turn into zombies, who are gonna end up winning the war of the apocalypse and we all know it so GET ON THE WINNING SIDE NOW.
3. We die, no more worrying about balancing your checkbook, which you haven't been doing anyway, have you, you've just been trusting the bank when they give you your balance, haven't you? HAVEN'T YOU?
4. We die, desperation takes its rightful place at the top of Maslow's Hierarchy.
5. We die, FUCK YOU, WINTER, WHO'S LAUGHING NOW?!
04 October 2013
BABY YOU CRY TOO MUCH I'M TIRED OF THE SOUND
Open your eyes. Standing. In front of the vending machine. Glass encased rows. Top: your future. Middle: your dreams. Bottom: your raw ass dreams you won't tell anyone about. Corporate logos. Reds are very red. Blues very blue. The perfect shade of yellow--makes ya wanna buy, buy, buy, your happy smile smashed on your lips, you don't know why. You weren't this happy earlier.
You do it, though. Crack open your radius, pull your hope out like a wet noodle, feed it into the vending machine's mouth. Gobble, gobble, nomnomnomnomnom. Wait. Lights flicker. Red. Blue. Yellow. Irises: burn. Retinas: ready. You: dream...you holding Peach, holding hands, skin sweetly touching like you're inside of each other. Tingling. Ache. Want. A beach. The sun. Waves whisper like tree leaves, clouds move only when you tell them to, breeze blowing for you and Peach only. Happy. You say it out loud. Happy, Peach says. You reach out your hand. Grab air. Reach again. Again. Again. Air, air, air. Go blind. Breeze turns to wind to gusts. Sun burns your skin. Waves rise up in a tidal wave, slap you til you fall. Stupid. You expect too much for someone who doesn't do anything.
At the vending machine, you're aware of the dark corridor behind you. The fact that the only lights anywhere in the world are coming from the reds, the blues, the yellows. Machine won't take hope. Too big to fit in its mouth. Use something else. Crack open your cheekbone, pull out fury, like a strip of corrugated steel. Feed it into the machine's mouth. Wait. You could kill a million people with all this fury. You could crush the world. Crush this machine. You could destroy everything, mop it all up into a mammoth pile, climb to the top of it, proclaim yourself the motherfucking king.
But you won't. You're just gonna stand there, staring at the flickering lights, pretending to ignore that third row, dreaming about the person you'll never have the guts to be.