The Brothers Grime
2001-03-09 - 00:23:38
In one of the towns I used to live in, there were two high-school dropout brothers that lived together. Instead of doing anything productive with their lives, they spent their time finding cheap booze and raping women. They'd throw a party at their place and take one girl to a bedroom upstairs. The older brother would fuck her brains out, while the younger held the video camera. Then they'd switch. This happened on several occassions to nearly a dozen girls in town, and eventually, someone stood up. She might have told a teacher, councilor, parent or friend about it. But regardless, word got around. There were people standing in line to kill these bastards. Fortunately for them, they were apprehended by police before the students at the high school could smash their dicks into oblivion with rubber mallets. They probably got six to ten years in jail...four at the least, from good behavior. So these brothers might be freed this year; out of jail and ready to set themselves up in another town. They might be smarter this time, raping only a half-dozen girls before moving on...and the only difference is that they'll be a bit older; a bit more portly and hairy; a bit more hard-up for entertainment. This is the root of my hatred for the American system of 'Justice'. These guys should have died a long time ago.
Sorry, it's been a busy week, and I haven't posted much. The first edition of the 'Zine is expected soon...and it has a name. The Screw.
I have half of a psychology major in my head. And a substantial part of multivariable calculus to boot. But I choose to be a child. I type like a child, I think like a child, I look at butterflies and concrete roads the way a child does when first encountering them. It's a wonder, a curiosity that never seems to go away. I stood outside in the cold, looking at the nonmetaphorical moon. Just a hunk of rock, I know. But so am I, and you, and the butterfly. Just atoms, just tiny attractive forces dancing in patterns. That hunk of rock on the surface of the sky has been there since before me, and will be after me. But when I see it, it's still as beautiful as ever. And the man in the moon smiles down at me in the same Romantic manner, amused with the intricate dance of atoms called 'Jason' that seem to be looking at him.
This week of Sundays has been brought to you by the happy door-knockers who have nothing better to do with their time than convince other people in what they can't convince themselves.
Jon is having ex-girlfriend problems. Lucy's mom has cancer. Jessica (not the coat) was hit by a car. Dustin's slashing up his arm and screaming his head off. But for some reason, I'm doing alright. Maintaining a casual 6 on the 10-point 'satisfied with life' scale. It might be the fear of making one more person sad, simply by letting myself outwardly show it.
I love...my shadow. I just want to be a three-dimensional shape on the wall. Is that too much to ask?
