The thing that arrests me is how we are composed

     December has been unusually warm this year, aided by smog caused from burning American dollar bills coated in oil, radioactive fallout from Iranian and North Korean nuclear tests, and the Chinese air force’s drills in the air over Tibet. And even half way through it every tree is full of leaves. Though only a few have reported it, there is a distinct smell of sulphur to be detected in the air given proper conditions, particularly near military bases, golf courses, and churches. It appears that the Day has arrived, clacking its gavel and calling us into line like so many petty offenders in the foul-smelling, crusty blue municipal court. But, in true deference to the other methods by which He has toyed with the cosmos (natural selection and volcanoes come to mind right off the bat), The Big One has made the process a gradual one. Most people these days don’t really believe that God and Jesus are quite so high and mighty as the Bible paints them to be, despite the fervent worship so many offer them. In any case, it is clear, as we watch Judgement creep slowly over our eyes, that the fundamental question is not how to please God, but how to escape.
    It is a very promising possibility, for so far, the Revelation has remained a strictly human phenomenon, striking only the Earth and leaving its moon, along with just about everywhere else in the Universe, quite untouched. Getting off of the planet just may be a fix-all solution to the inevitable pitfalls of having your moral aptitude determined by a distinctly nonhuman entity. It is not, however, entirely realistic, or plausible even.
    Perhaps we can just wait all this out in the ocean, but such a plan is highly questionable on both logistical and theological grounds. Environmentalists think that cleaning up pollution will get us out of the defendant’s chair, but this is naive thinking. It will buy us twenty years at most, and while a noble and for the most part harmless cause, it misses the big picture. Some, such as Reverend Ted Haggard, take the seeming hopelessness and inevitability of our Judgement day to mean that we should submit to the Lord, and while his sentiment is fairly popular, it will no doubt be bemoaned by not only every non-Christian, but the great number of Christians who, like the Reverend, have engaged in meth-addled sex frenzies with male prostitutes under the noses of their families for years.
    Eager to please, the Dutch are working on a more refined solution which, while workable, seems somewhat extreme. If it comes down to teeth and nails, though, it may be all we have. Leave it to mushroom-gobbling physicists to construct, presumably with materials stolen from British and U.S. secret factories and smuggled into Holland duct-taped to thighs (since no one in their right mind would provide the Dutch with such materials except the Dutch), a particle accelerator capable of creating a literal black hole, right here on Earth, contained within a small box. They aren’t sure what it will do, but even if it doesn’t immediately turn everything in a twelve hundred million mile radius to black spaghetti, with some tweaking there should be no problem in achieving such results. By rupturing our niche of spacetime and bringing us into a self-contained dimension, we could certainly be saved from whatever (living) Hell is cooked up for us, but the prospects are disconcertingly uncertain.
    What’s really necessary, I think, given the weak foundations of all the other plans, is to just wait it out, like cockroaches and scorpions swimming coolly in an avalanche of nuclear fallout. When there is an explosion, sit under a chair until the noise stops and don’t look back.

I try to be honorable, at least. I think I'm honorable. I'm very afraid of not being honorable.

Wham bam thank you ma'am.
Fuck your kids,
I'm moving to Siam.

For a Naturalist Dead at Sea
by Adrienne Rich

We'll not deplore you, though we know what's gone
The sea in no laborious swell can haul
Back on our beaches; such a freight as yours
Will never deck our tideline. Out of love
You gathered learning, and your human kin
If loved no more than conches, than the race
Of crayfish or the childish porpoises,
Were yet well loved by you. We mourn to hear
Of bridegrooms gathered nightward by the gales,
Of boon companions chug-a-lugging brine,
Lost to the red interior, the benign
Circle of beer-lit faces. You, our friend
Were still the friend of all that crept or swam:
We cannot think you lonely where you end.

Why should we call you shoreward? You will speak
With the drowned captain drifting by the shoal
On which his ship was broken; you will hear
The lonely scuffle of the hermit crab
Seeking an empty tenement. The trail
Of nets and anchors off the human coast
Will not detain you, nor the squeak of rudders
Far overhead. Oh, you will loaf and drowse
By fans of seaweed nodding in the stir
Of ocean currents. You will drink the cream
Of the great wetnurse whale, and hear from her
The lullabies that make leviathan dream.

I had not expected fear, but terror came with her
and tho I sought a dying moment, she showed me a dying eternity
and tho I sought to bring wisdom into the real, she tore the real from me
and I was no more, and in unbeing, I lost my fear
- Lizard

I just had a dream where my dad walked naked across a road in a rainforest I was navigating by raft. And his dick was HUGE. Thank you, Dr. Freud.

Salvia, man.

Fuck you, nigger.

1. I want to learn to wok cook.
2. Everything else about me is perfectly normal.

Fuck all you niggers.

Happy smoking, niggers.