“the future of bug skulls”
by brass war-insect
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).
saw a squirrel in the house once. dad beat it to death with a broom handle, left a mark on the wall above the bathroom door that remained there for years. was the paint just scratched or was it squirrel blood? i dont know but it was there for ages. also had a friend once 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, “skrrting” she’d call it. he’d skip back and forth for hours sometimes, launching himself in these quick turnarounds, hopping up and down her arms and around the back of her neck. for the longest time that thing seemed to hate me. 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, or in her arm pit, no matter how many books or paper weights she stacked on the lid he was destined for jailbreak and human warmth. 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 a semi-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.
ergo, rule #4: this world in its infinite trauma has had me cut my teeth on squirrel death thus i am ready to kill squirrels for all time. squirrel-poasters will not be tolerated.
ALL squirrelshit will be purged. you have been warned.