brass war-insect. gee, wouldnt it be cool to drive one of those straight up the aorta of a media operative? I think it would be. so I write for the days.
rules for reading, commenting, encouragement guide
1) no self-harm, self-killing, self-sadism, gf-sadism, on/against-gf-sadism, evil thoughts, self-healing, self-selling or self-mutilation issues/problems, or struggling with sin
2) no critical or negative comments or any thoughts in your personal head whatsoever composed with fewer than 50 words/neuroblasts. i need my readers to have obscure abstraction thoughts/neurocondition, hard to express, obtuse but non-pretentious. plus i say i say let’s not allow for people to confuse you for a house-trapped squirrel (keyboard/website styled bum-warrior)
3) critique/amateur-hour criticism is allowed, welcomeed and encouraged (save that it is thoughtful, sophisticated and proves beyond the capabilities of a house-trained squirrel).
4) saw a squirrel in the house once. dad beat it with a broom handle (might have been rabid) left a mark on the wall above the bathroom door (where he was fatally struck). it was there for ages, the mark. also had a friend who had a squirrel of some sort that she kept as a pet named Mr. Pickles. it used to bounce across the length of her arm in like this sort of repetitive mechanical motion, “scurrying” she’d call it. he’d skip back and forth for hours sometimes, launching himself in these quick turnarounds. for the longest time that thing seemed to hate me, never liked scurrying up my arm. she kept him in a tank while she slept but she would wake up with him nestled between her thighs, or under her chin or across her stomach, no matter how many books she stacked on the lid he would find his way to the bed. i said he was just cold, she said he couldn’t bear the isolation but who knows. one time the little girl in the apartment next door came over to visit and insisted on holding Mr. Pickles, but my friend thought it was a bad idea. it took some convincing but the little girl and I managed to get her to hand him over, just for a second. though for whatever reason, be it the salience of its “rodentry,” the discomfort of holding an exotic creature, or the rough fur and scratchy paws on her skin, the little girl shrieked as my friend placed Mr. Pickles in her hands, and none of our numerous prior “be carefuls” kept her from immediately pitching Mr. Pickles at the wall HARD and breaking his neck and killing him. the point is that this world in its infinite trauma had me cut my teeth on squirrel death and so now I am not afraid. squirrel-poasters will be permadust. knife knowin ya
ALL squirrelshit will be purged. you have been warned.