(no subject)

god there is this fucking hipster i know. all she does is tell me about how her highschool life was so bad, well actually so great. well i can't tell the fucking differnece in what she is saying. she can't do anything but live in the past or in her magical world that isn't even that great. i always lied to her about liking her writing. i mean, she's not a bad WRITEr, she just writes about the dumbest shit ever, and hates journaling because she says it doesn't work for her. i know that's a lie and she says it wouldn't do anything but hurt her. yeah whatever. i used to wonder about why she was so reclusive, why she always talked about her friends and thier stupid drama that i never cared to hear about. mainly because it wasn't even interesting enough to steal and put into stories. i think she knew that, and just wanted to bore me because she's such a stupid fucking girl sometimes. i'm still having sex with her, and we're not boyfriend and girlfriend, but she still says that i am the only guiy she's ever fallen in love with. she's like three years older than me nd has the same birthday as my mother., she's into freud and so am i, as you can see.


cause i'm intellectual and i'm pretty sexual and baby that's just meeeeeeeee

okay so all the acoustic songs are turning into electropopblastardghettotechindustriestonightmistermistermister>


so glory hole in one is a hit song.
problems for breakfast is a hit song.
that spice girls one is good too.
um how about that freaky wolves ripping at your face one that john liked, that one would be fucked up on the piano and everything.

i've been rapping for like since we been drinkin beers
an i got a suit that's killa an forreeeeallla
and he's here to say CHEERS MOTHA FUCKA
so fly away on a thesbian bagel
and get a dick wet like your french buttkiss
tonges speakin like you're rollin your R'sss
but harmonica pirates don't know what treasure is
wear that tiki mask like it's made in china
but taiwan is angry at my north korean nuclear missle complex
and all these situations are failing like fish in math equations
here comes balls deep porn star fall leaves
changing colors like black skin like me
oh but does he "like me like me?"
first grade third grade fair trade eco friendly starbucks cup
won't take to long to fuck you up
and this is the BUS you're either on or your off
so don't cum early cuz it's too late
create yourself a shortcake and tell me to masturbate
porn stars do it right, and i like that
i like that porn stars do it right
so talk shit all you want
her pussy's still tight with me in the middle of it.

dr9t huppie

so i've been trying real hard. i promise. i've been doing so well, you know i have you know i have YOU KNOW I HAVE.

but we're still so skeptical, there really isn't much that you could say. you say lets just move to new york, come on, you are the biggest dreamer. what do you think is there that will make it better than here?


you're not allowed to say that, 'anywhere is better than here'... because you've been saying that since you were thirteen. you haven't said anything to back it up besides getting stoned in the basement and telling me to fuck off.

...i've been trying.

well trying is a lot more different than succeeding.

HAVE YOU EVER DRIVEN THROUGH A RAINBOW? HAVE YOU EVER LEFT A PLACE KNOWING YOU SHOULD STAY, AND THAT YOU WERE NEVER COMING BACK??? have you ever even tried to live life like an outlaw? have you ever thought of what things would be like if you chagned your life story every day to every person you met?

you know that you are being irrational. life isn't a fucking movie set. the closeset thing to being in the screens and in people's minds is me stealing your life and hanging it up like clothes on the line drying until i fold them all and send them to hollywood with the names changed.

YOU SHUT UP. just shut up. i can't tell you how sick of you i am. i am ready to just slap you. i don't even want to be famous.

that's just because nobody offered you a contract to be big. as soon as they did you would keep giiving it up like you already do...............a999

AAAAAnd what is that supposed to mean? that you are like the greatest thing that ever walked this fucking earth? that you are just so fucking cool that you can just move to california and do everything you ever wanted and be the greatest guy ever and everybody knows your name? huh?


Modern Literature from The Modern Age!

Helen Keller was born in June of 1880 in Tascumbia (a food from Africa served in snobby restuarants on the brown line in pmopous ass northside chicago resturants) Alabama. Her father then when she was six, brought her to Columbia college to learn sign language in the Congress building. She then majored in audio arts and acoustics, but dropped out to later pursue a career in political bus driving seaside fire dancing, and ended up getting 15 inches of Tommy Lee's penis into her vagina. Upon first hymen inspection, they found Indiana Jones AND the Raiders of the Lost Arc, all still breathing, but needing heavy therapy from Anne Frank. James Frey was assasinated for JFK's surprise birthday assasination plot twists.

In the later years of her life she settled down to have some heavy drinking induced by Bill Lewis, founder of Alcoholics Annonymous, where he then decided to go sober and crash the stock market doing coke of George Bush's Dashboard Confessional cd's.

If you have seen THIS cat, please call the milk carton police, they are looking for two teenagers who crashed a boat into the Al-Jihad-Qaeda-Checkerboard meeting during a Grateful Dead vs. Phish concert. Remember, Officer Friendly is here to get friendly with your friends and their jukebox baby makers. Seven times out of ten, a relapse occurs when silly puddy is used in place of a condom.

Remember kids, drive safe when you're drinking drunk. Think only of what your President could do to you.

(no subject)

i'm starting to see a pattern.
nobody can see things the way they are supposed to be.
nobody is honest with themselves,
nobody is honest with each other.
nobody respects anything, espcailly the things they should the most.
nobody will admit their faults
and everybody flaunts their strengths
nobody tries to be the best and win.
but none of them are willing to give in.
so if we're all in this together,
why is everybody cutting the spread so thin?

i believe in god again.

the new era of poetry is here.
and it isn't here to stay.
that's just a lie and for the dreamers.
but i'm a dreamer who woke up, and still has the power to captivate,
infiltrate, and suffocate.
so don't let me catch you alive, or you'll know why my pants are so tight.

dream 8/18 'undercover wife'

so i'm in this fancy hotel that looks and feels like something out of clue. there is a reception area where everybody is waiting for this concert. i'm there, and there is this guy with a moustache that's blonde and reddish, and he's got a collared shirt and a tie that says 'i just worked two double shifts' i can tell that he's an undercover cop, but off duty. my friend steven is there in the area, but i'm not talking to him. there are a few people that are i guess friends of steven's, and would be considered mututal aquantainces between us. nobody talks.

we go into the show hall. there are seats stuck to the ground. there are about twenty on the left and right side of the room, making a giant square in the middle for the sound guy. there is a border around the seats that goes around the room that could fit maybe two or there people walking.

steven and his people are sitting, now most of steven's family is there. he is the youngest and has an older sister who is maybe twenty two and his older brother dan who is twenty six now. i am the only one standing in the back instead of sitting down.

the band gets up to play and they look like a reagea band. they're all these black guys with dreads and shit. the singer mumbles something really fast that i can't understand before the sax and brass section start to play this 'fight song' sorta meledy. it kinda goes 'dadaDAAA-dadaDAAAAA-dadaDAAAAAAAAAAAAAA" and with each time the measure gets repeated another brass guy joins making it louder and more intimidating. they start to play and there are a few black guys in the room now. i was wondering where the hotel was, but before i know it, the chorus of the song comes and it goes "hit-hit-hit, cut-cut-cut-hit-hit-hit-cut-cut-CUT!" and once that starts to play the black guys in the crowd don't run, but sorta slide and glide over to me like a video game with bad walking graphics and physics. they start to hit me and i don't really fight back but just run. scared that they will cut me like the songs lyrics. they didn't seem to be angry at anyone but me. they didn't attack anyone after me, i could feel it.

i run out of the concert hall and into a room of the hotel. i guess i had making an appointment or arrangement earlier to get in there because it wasn't like i was tresspassing into there. i knew i had that room. it's the first room out of the concert hall, i don't even have to go upstairs or anything, and it's actually right next to the lobby. i go into the room and get into bed with the lights off after shutting the door.

the next thing i know i am in bed and i can hear someone outside the room saying, "well i know there is another person in that room, i just want to know who it is.."then another person, i assume hotel staff is telling him they don't know who i am, or just my name, but that gives him no information "yes. okay ian? well, i guess i'll just have to go in and find out."

the door opens and the light pours in from the lobby. it is the undercover cop and his wife. i am under the covers of the bed and peer my head out to see him. he flips the light switch and says, "oh it's you." i get up. i don't remember what i said, but i was just making casual conversation. i know i didn't ask how the show was or anything like that. then the cop says, "well, you know that the gang who was in there is going to raid where you live now. they got so angry at you that they plan to stay there and terrorize you kids for twenty years."
"you mean wicker park?" i say, he doesn't really answer me with a word but looks down and i can tell he means yes. i know that the gang doesn't know i acutally live in winnetka, cause i used to live in wicker park in the city.

i go into the bathroom to look at my face and see how beat up i am for the first time. i look in the mirror and my eyes are looking both different directions, and i just have a few bruises on my face. eventually the more i look at my eyes, the more they straighten out until they are okay again.

when i walk out of the bathroom steven's family is there, but without steven. i go over to the phone to call my mother to ask her if she can pick me up tonight so she doesn't have to come pick me up at 6am so i can get to work by 7. [in real life, i did have work at seven this morning and currently AM writing this here at the work computer at 10am, in my dreams i notice that i am always scared to be late for work if i actually do have work later that morning/day, just a weird bit of information. it's the closest thing to a recurring dream that i've had, is being anxious that i am late for something, which is usually either school or work.] and she says, "no that's unnneccsary. i will not pick you up. you know that the only reason you went to that show was to try and have sex with steven's sister nina!" and hangs up.

i didn't even know nina was there when i got there and when i was going. i mean yes, nina is pretty good looking, but it wasn't my intention to ever have sex with her. she's older than me and totally not my type and out of my leauge. she called me 'little dude' for the greater part of my life, and still does.

the dream ends and i wake up at 5am by my phone ringing, not my alarm set for 6:30, but telling me 'hey i'm running out of batteries, so you better just bank on your dad waking you up because the charger is upstairs dude" and my dad wakes me up and i go to work

New Story I whipped up on the spot.

Sometimes I just like to fuck. I just like to pull a guy right from what they are doing and get them hot in ten seconds or less. I've got it timed like that. I can count in my head. I mean, well, I've gotten so used to having sex now that a lot of things go through my mind when I am getting shitty that it's my best time to think. I usually come up with my best ideas then. I mean, when I was making out with this last guy Jake, man, he wasn't that good looking. I swear, he wore like a fucking Steve Irwin Crocodile Hunter hat or something. Like it had slits for you to put something in there like teeth or bullets, but he didn't have either. He hardly had any spine to really give it to me. I mean, honestly the guy never had sex probably in his life. He was playing video games with his door open and I walked right in.

"Hey Jake.. watcha doin?" I had my cherry lipstick on. I love that stuff. I know it looks slutty but that's the kinda thing I like. I mean, if I found a guy who looked like a slut I'd love it. I don't even know what a boy who looked like a slut would look like. Maybe he'd have really tight pants that you could AC-tually see his cock through.

"Uh, playing this game. I'm shooting people right now." He was wearing cargo pants. God. And some baggy hoodie that I he must have gotten with his mother from WalMart. God, no style at all. And when guys were playing video games, they never talked to you in the eye, or looked at you really. They would still be mesmerized in their little game and not even turn their head. Giving you an answer like you were their mother asking if they took the laundry out of the wash. So just to be funny I closed his door slow. He turned back and once he was looking at me I flipped the little half circle of the lock to get it shut. He kinda still had the Xbox Controller in his right hand. Sitting in that stupid chair inbetween the two beds in that small double dorm room. Cookie cutter of every other guy who lives there and had lived there before him.

He didn't ask what I was doing, more just like observing, so then I walked over to the back of the chair and he was looking straight up at me and I had my head looking straight down.

I put my left hand on his forehead and kept it there as I walked around the chair before I strattled him. I started to kiss him and he kissed back after a few times. Sorta like someone getting onto a bike and then gliding a little bit then starting to really pedal.

The game was still going on behind us. I could feel his little prick get hard in an instant, I was probably better looking that the girls in his porno's he watched. I mean, cuz I know guys dont' actually pay for that stuff unless they're really batty. So they have to get that trailer shit, or go to sketchy websites that only offer bad quality chubbier women or something where the overdub of the moaning is so off, but sounds of sex are the best part. Doesn't even matter about the visuals really for most guys.

So I have to make the moves and he isn't doing anything, I move his hands up my chest and he grabs my boobs and leaves his hands there like he's got orders or something. He doesn't understand that this is a game of call and response. That's what humanity is, but god this kid doesn't get it. I'm sure he does inside his little game world but not here, not right now. God I love feeling his little dick get so warm and slide down the left side of his pants leg. I always wondered that, in the morning to guys choose a side for their dick to go on? Probably not except for those guys with huge honkers that you wouldn't even know how to fit all inside you anyway. See, I'm doing that again, I'm making out with this little dork and he's probably speechless and has lost track of time and has no idea what's going on. He isn't thinking at all, so I've gotta do this all. God, his hands are still on my boobs. There was a huge explosion on that goddamn tv and the Xbox Controller bounced off the arm of the chair. I was a litle bit started, so since I locked the door comes out the first word we've heard in a little bit.

"What was that?"

"You mean, the uh. The thing falling off of here?"

"Yeah yea. Why did it do that? Neither of us were touching it."

"Well in the game if you shoot or blow something up it vibrates at the same time."

"Does it feel good?"
"What do you mean?"
I was shocked that he didn't catch on. So I hopped back off the chair and was standing in front of him still sitting in the same position since I had come in. I grabbed the controller and handed it to him. He had it right there still looking at me. Then I slipped off my panties really quick under my mini-skirt.
"I'm going to straddle the chair on the arms of it, and I want you to shove the part that vibrates up near my clit. Then make it do whatever it did to fall off the chair." He looked a bit confused and was holding the controller like he was still going to play it until I got above him on the chair. My crotch was in his face pretty much. 
He shoved the left side right next to my pussy. "I might touch you a little bit." 
"That's the point." And I closed my eyes and tilted my head back. He pulled down the right trigger and it started rumbling. It was really nice. It went on a rythm but not. So it wasn't predictable, but reliable. Every six seconds or so you could hear the bullets stop shooting on the TV and it would stop because I guess the guy had to re-load in the game. 
It felt so nice. I might just have to get one of these Xbox things for myself. I'd be the best shooter of them all. I wondered what other guns felt like, but didn't even want to ask him because I'm sure he'd stop and try to find it in the game and start playing it again or something. It started shooting again. I wondered what this guy's roommate thought of him, always in here with the door open playing games. But this time the door was closed. The whole dorm was probably talking about what he was doing, they probably thought he was jacking off, which you could so tell when he did as well. Why the hell did this kid keep the door open all the time? It really was bothering me now, I mean he never left except for classes and probably to go buy weed from some retarded dealer kid who lived on campus. If he was even ballsy enough to smoke weed that is. The rumbling stopped and I was expecting it to go again, but it didn't after a few seconds more than normal. I opened my eyes and looked back toward Jake.
"What happened?"
"I ran out of bullets."
"Ran out of bullets? God. You are so pathetic. Can't you get another gun or something? That actually felt better than anything I've gotten in a while, and definetly a lot better than you ever could use that boner popping out of your pants right there." He was speechless and didn't say anything. He kept the controler there even thought it wasn't rumbling anymore. It felt awkward when it wans't rumbling there. Very out of place.

The sound of bullets going off in the background were pretty awesome to break the awkward silence we were having right then. But then unexpectedly the controller let out the biggest burst and vibrated really hard, harder and faster than it ever did before. I let out a quick high pitched yelp and before I was even finished with my scream the vibration was over. It was the biggest rush my clit had felt in a while. Maybe even of all time. I think I dripped a little juice onto him. If I did he would have loved it anyway, best day of his life so far I was sure of it.

"What was that?" I asked when I caught my breath.
"A rocket hit my guy. I died."

i'm not supposed to be doing this

so i had this dream before rachel came over today that her, brett (this girl i went to highschool with) and her boyfriend (some dude who lives with junkies in boulder) were all at brett's stoner den and watching looney toones or fantsasia like we always do at her house because those are the only two VHS's she has/left on earth.

we are all lying on the ground and it goes rachel, me, brett, then her boyfriend.

for soem reason brett keeps asking me to fuck her, or at least finger her right there, which is out of character for brett, not because she's a classy girl, but because she ONLY likes it up the ass. so i keep saiyng no, and then finally she talks me into it, and i start to take her panties off up her dress and then there's a loud cartoony sitcom WHOOOOOWOOWOHW sound that goes off.

i don't finger her and my dick ends up bloody for some reason. i had to sneak to say all of this. rachel is up stairs and we just had sex.

weird how life works out huh?

i found out i need to stop being malicious and evil, and today's the day.
i always kiss her on the forehead when we're done.
lucas will get some of my rice-krispys (from another dream) but not in the way he thinks so, i've got to eat some of his narsty ass ones first.

tell me how horribly you think of me please.

so it started out with 'hey lets go to madison's show, d la rochelle is going to be playing at this library i think?' sam told me.i knew that it couln't be at a lirbary, turns out it was just the warming house, this local little place that can't say no as long as you're good enough. usually it's supposed to be free, but it was five bucks. the band never gets a cut, the money goes to pizza or something.

i have jammed with madison for a while now, but i don't think he'd ever consider me a real bandmate, it makes me kinda sad. i was the subject of one of his songs, i was there when he wrote it. it's nothing that powerful, but he isn't about talking too much in his songs, just having someone with a real voice (kelsey, who does have a really good voice) belt it out and then his song becomes something more than he could ever create on his own.

so i'm sitting there, filming the first song. and it's "friend or foe" that was the song i was there he wrote about me. it was new years, this girl christine, who was fucking with our heads and trying to fuck me again (after the summer when she xanax bar mini-keg, smoke some of this salvia and trip until i can get a boner and rape you)-again. madison and christine dated for a few years before. kinda hardcore for highschool kids. i never should have done it, but i only hung out with her so she would get me fucked up as all hell. basically our entire relationship was just her trying to get me fucked up enough to have sex with her to redeem the fact that she's a fat, annoying, intolerable, psychopath, who wastes her time trying to get attention in the worst way. "i know i could fall in love with you, but i won't" is what she told me once.
SO FUCKING STUPID. god, these girls and my charm. it's not even charm. it's so obvious.

the girls have started to say, 'you know you're so apparant ian. it's so obvious what you do and we've seen it all before' they tell me that. BUT they consider themselves my girlfriend when they say that. what's the deal? how does that work out. do the REALLY see through it then?

anyways, the scene where madison wrote this song he's playing right now. it's new years. we're all tripping on lsd. well, i'm JUST tripping on lsd, the most sober person in the house with just one hit of blotter and a little bit of MDMA. the rest of them took a hit or two and some mushrooms and a few capsules of pure molly. that and then we were smoking weed too. but weed is like cigarettes to this crowd. so that doesn't even matter. anyways, the ball dropped, and all the tripsters wrote inside madison's songbook their new years resolutions. he freaks out and i follow him downstairs to the living room to cool off. yeah, he's totally overracting, but we're so high on drugs that i dont' blame him. christine follows us there and tries to calm him down as well. but we both know that we dont' want christine there, but she loves to just stick around like herpes, which she is probably angry she never gave us. lucky us boys. so i tell madison, 'write over what they wrote, and make it somethign better, like just write a song RIGHT NOW" and he does. he says, 'you're right' and then months later he tells me "hey ian i wrote this song, wanna help me start to sing it?" and he sings these lines. "stuck between a friend and a foe, don't know which way to go" and we crank it out.

he never tells me he recorded it fully, but why would i expect that of him.

and right now, christine is in this youth organization, in this room with us. and i'm having another acid flashback. well, to be honest, my entire life has been an acid flash forward since i dropped too many hits that one great day.i'm freaking out, i can feel this rush of all these strange emotions and memories come back climaxing as this song peaks. "don't stop now, it's morning now, don't stop now" don't stop. don't stop don't stop don't stop! i pull out my notebook to jot down how i feel at that moment. i'm not going to break it out right now. i'll save that for later.

this town doesn't know what hit it. like fucking hits of acid kicking in ten hours too late and you thought they were bunk, and then you start to do the math and you realize that this little bit of anxiety about the bad acid taking it's toll right now is the last little piece of reality you are going to have left for a long, LONG time.

christine fucked with my head. and i told her 'thanks for the graphite' i love writing about her and her fucked up family. it's great. i LOVE THE FACT that she was raped when she was six. and that she told me the clothes she was wearing, and how he took her into the closet, and how i said, 'well those guys who rape you can get it up, but i can't!" and how we both laughed at that. THAT was fucking funny. that was great. i loved that. of course these girls love me.

how could they not?
well that's a question to be answered by the female audience we have with us today.
"mrs. mella, how can women not absolutely adore ian and his antics?"
"well, mister annoucner guy. i guess it's because all women think that they can change him. and he shows that drive that he wants to change as well. and i really think that he does want to as well. but, at the bottom of his dark carl-jung well of memories and thoughts there is this primal urge to stay like he was when he was young. he wants to keep his fire alive like he did back then. back when he was the shiteee. back when everybody laughed their asses off at him because it was high school and ian never thought about how it doesn't take that much brains to make a room full of stoners laugh."
"really mrs. mella, now how would you describe your experience with ian?"
"well, he made me feel like i was the most special girl in the world. he's really good with words, especially when you're vulnerable, i think it was all the television shows he watched when he was little. and all the video game romances he played through as a child. that's the way that he looks at things, you know like the sims, points off here, points gained there. and i guess life is sorta like that a little bit, but ian takes it too far. like he tallys up how many points he just lost for what he did to you, and then finds ways to gain it back and ruin it again. like a treadmill."

we're done with me being a retard right now.

i want to ask the world something, and i want the world to tear me apart. but it won't, cuz it already did, and nobody has the balls.

this was a school assignment i didn't get published cause they like hipsters (like me) not enough

this is a parody of gogol's "the nose". the origional story was a comment on hierarchy and how much beurocracy sucked. um. i guess you can look at mine now.

oh and it sounds 100000x better if i read it out loud to you because i'm the finest piece of tightpants wearing ass grab anydayodiswekkeekekekekekekek.

herpes, this is for you!!!!!!

Final Parody
The Leg
Part I
So I gatta tell you guys some crazy shit, man. This shoddy ass tattoo artist named Madison No-Last-Name lived up in fuckin’ Wicker Park back when the Fixed Gear Bike Gang wars were still kickin’ n’ bitchin’. He was making a killing doing the initiation tattoos for these hood rats. They all got the tats on the spot of their right ankle where they peel up their skinny jeans like another layer of skin so it doesn’t get caught in the chain. They did that so when they were riding you could tell who they rolled with. Maddy’s parlor was really just his pad, and there was some sharpie graffiti on the door that looked like some hipster haiku or something, it read: “Also Lets Blood”. I think I also forgot to tell you he only used metal needles, great selling gimmick, it’s more vintage, duh man. It’s what got these hipsters in and out of this guys shop—I mean—pad—I mean kitchen.
    So one day he wakes up from his last night knock out because like all people who suck at life, he’s a junkie. He’s woken up by the smell of his lady Claire’s pits man; total geek bitch that never sleeps so she’s sweating this sick drip of ham & cheese hot pockets; the only thing she ever ate.
    “Get your soggy ass up dicks lips!” she shouted up from the kitchen. And that place was a fucking mess. It had like a table, one fuckin’ foldy chair they stole from a dollar store, and then the big parlor chair right up next to the kitchen table; Maddy sat there. So he’s walking down the stairs holding onto the walls like a toddler, still all fucked up from the night before. Then he army crawls through the kitchen and like, slurps up into his torn ass chair; grabbing the rips like he’s rock-climbing man. He pulls himself up and then lets a big breath out and asks, “Hey is there like, any food babe?” and opens his eyes to see Claire with her back to him making some coffee right? Get this man, she’s always pissed; total cunt snatch. So she turns her head around like that exorcist bitch, and locks her eyes with Madison. The she demon walks, without breaking her gaze, over to this piece of old moldy as fuck bread and throws the baguette on the table. When it landed, I’ve heard some say that a tree fell in the woods miles away, creepy shit right? I believe it. Whatever.
So Maddy knows not to let her smell the fear this early in the morning, so he looks at the bread, and the bread only. He tries to stab it down the center with this knife, and it almost fuckin broke his wrist. He pulls the knife out like some sword in the stone bullshit, and it looks just like a broken guitar string. Claire heard this, and shot some fire out of her eyes and some steam out her ears. So Maddy, all nervous now, tries to take it by the ends and crack it in half over his knee. But when he does this, the thing just bends into this right angle and is sorta dangling like a loose tooth, or like the Titanic before it broke.  So he puts it on the table and starts poking away the mold and bread with his needle and the crumbs start to fall like those people you see painting dust away from Dinosaur bones with barbeque brushes, and then there’s just this leg left.
    Fuckin’ creepy right? I promise it’s not too scary, so Maddy and Claire don’t know it yet, but those mold spores started messing with their heads the second that bread was broken, and  they’re getting this contact buzz sorta goin’. Madison touches the leg and it doesn’t disappear, so he knows he’s not really trippin’ out. In the back of his head he remembers this feeling though, like when he got sold those shitty moldy mushrooms outside of some art school downtown from those two smelly guys; the real polite white one with a poncho, then the black guy who claims to be the only brother to trip since Jimi Hendrix. You know who I’m talkin’ ‘bout right? Anyways. Claire sees this and does a little number that looks like she was a character in the Mortal Kombat game who just got selected to fight. She does a Chuck Norris kick spin, and whips her arms around with the coffee cups like numchucks, and lands like a Ninja ready to pounce. About half ways through the spin, she started yelling something like those Mastodon mating calls I got on tape a few years back, still lookin’ for the vinyl though. So Madison just grabs the leg and cheeses it out the door with no time to even close it. Claire took care of that for him by having thrown the coffee cups in his direction but hitting the door so hard it just closed itself.
    So you guys don’t know who I’m even talking about. I’ll lay it down right quick. Madison lives off Division Street, and I don’t know how, but never got caught by the cops running this tat business out of his house. Using metal needles, pickin’ kids out & prickin’ 'em. All his shit came off as outsider art, and well, it also came off your skin sometimes… If you were lucky. Y’know depending on how badly he did it to begin with? He wasn’t really mentally disabled or anything. He did sorta, I mean like kinda, toke up with his customers sometimes… Well shit, kay, so what I really mean is that this guy would do your shit for free if you smoked him down for it… Fuckin a, like I’ll admit it man, I did that once real wasted and it totally says, “I got this when I was drunk” across the side of my ribcage now. You woulda too man alright! Shut up…
    So his girl Claire, right? Total fucking succubus, she would steal souls from Sunday school dude. She would dig up shit on ex-boyfriends from like years back, just to terrorize them some more. She was just a mooch tease, that had a smelly hot pocket cunt, and that’s just that. Anyways,
    Madison is outside trying to ditch this leg right, and he can’t do it. He’s trying to slip it down a manhole, but the leg isn’t that skinny. He tried throwing it into a bush in the park, but someone’s dog like fucking fetched it for him and brought it back dude. When this doggy gave it back to him, he noticed on the right ankle that there was this tat he recognized. It was of this crappy Pirate Ship with the sail peeled and scabbing off. It was a gang tattoo he did for this Fixed Gear Bike Gang, the Pirates. The leg totally belonged to their leader Sasha, this American Apparel model about to release his own brand of jeans called Sash’s. They came off the press in his size, but then the first person to put them on had to wear ‘em for like a week straight so they’d fit to your frame for life. This was done so that you couldn’t steal them from your girlfriend or little sister or something, and that you couldn’t be accused of wearing little girl pants when you actually weren’t. If you did trade, they’d like cut your circulation from the waist down man, you know I’m wearing mine right now!

Part II

I’ll be straight, Sasha just up and rolls out of bed. He tried to put one foot, then the other, and stand on the floor, but he just like fuckin’ fell. “What man, what? Weak shit!!” he’s yelling to himself, before he notices his leg is straight up gone dude. He whines a little bit and has a tantrum flapping his hands up and down, shrieking like a Banshee that just got dumped by her  Vampire boyfriend, or whatever, and is hopping around on his one leg like a little girl.
Now, I’m not jokin' man. All hipsters are like this, I swear. And I gatta say that they’re all cookie cutter, cut yourself kids. If you say something about one hipster in Wicker Park, I promise you say something about all the hipsters in Wicker Park. They’re all just trying to get the most invisible hipster points. Like some awesome Jesus on the cross tight pants McGee came to them in a dream every night, updating them on their scores.
    I shit you not, Sasha’s gang actually called themselves the Pirates. They were like American Apparel purists man. They didn’t water down their fashion with thrift store bullshit, or blasphemous Urban Outfitters. The Pirates main rival are the Ninjas. They are the same thing as the Pirates but wear Urban instead of American, hardcore right? There used to be three gangs though. They were the Al Capone’s. They were straight from the streets dude, like self-actualized hipsters that only wore thrift store clothes. They had the most vicious women, with their flapper gowns and sequin head bands man. Vicious right? So the Pirate’s and the Ninja’s called in a secret weapon, they came together and gathered the worst scum of them all. New York Hipsters. They actually put a hit on every single Caponey to be taken out by the Dinosaur Tape Cassette Killing Machines. Ruthless. There were like three kids in the torn jeans infirmary for like a month man. Once the Caponies were broken up the rest of the gangs decided that thrift store clothes were too cool, and too powerful for their own good, and that you can totally tell when someone mixes old clothes with current day fashion, and they totally look stupid… Right?
    Enough of the hipster history now though. So Sasha’s still wakin’ up without his leg, we totally forgot dude. And he’s like flippin’ shits with spatulas and crazy crap and can’t find anything he can wear to hide his leg being gone. So he fumbles around and finds this pair of old non-elastic skinny jeans from when he thought he was a punk rocker. He hops to the top of his bed, standing up there on one leg, with the pants in his hands, and he jumps off to slip right in. Not the cleanest way to put ‘em on, but we all know how hard it is putting on pants that don’t fit right? You’ve gotta MacGyver your way into them sometimes… And MacGyver your way out too, shit. So he grabs his favorite leather jacket and this tiny little girl Christian summer Camp t-shirt from who knows where and gets dressed. So the jeans are tight enough to keep the illusion of his gimpy, well more like missing leg, being there, but stiff or something. He can’t really walk with his right leg being gone because he can’t bend the knee he doesn’t have. So he wobbles by taking his arms and swinging his right leg, while trying to use his left one as a spring to bounce closer and closer to his bike. Once he gets right near his bike at the door, he tries to hop right onto the seat but falls over and starts wiggling around like a maggot until he can get in place, y’know with his ass on the seat, but the bike is sideways on the ground and so is he. So then he just, like pushed with all of his might and actually got upright. Once he did that, he used the stiff leg as a kick stand when still, and pedaled with his able left leg, riding with his stiff right leg dangling near the ground.
    So he starts his search around Damen. There isn’t much he notices is different, but people lookin’ at him all funky cuz of his leg. He’s pausing for a cigarette and this guy on a fixed gear chariot with pink and black plaid running all over the frame stops next to him. “Hey man, you gotta light?” this guy says to Sasha. So Sasha, all blushing like a school girl crush, lights it without saying a word. Then he looks him up and down, and his bromance ends real quick he realizes that this jackass is his motha fuckin’ leg! “Hey man, you’ve gotta come back to me, I can’t wear the right jeans without you! Who the fuck do you think you are, me?” Sasha didn’t know, but that was the wrong move, his leg barks back, “Man you’ve got a faux leather jacket and you didn’t even know it was fake till now! You pretend noise rock doesn’t hurt your ears to be cool, and you need to go change your outfit like six times before leaving the house again, you look like you’re trying to be a trendy skin head in those jeans you fuckin, fuckin, BIMBO!” and his leg darts off, tattoo skin flapping in the wind.
    Sasha is totally broken hearted by this and pushes his way, half leg, half with his new personal kickstand, back towards home when he remembers he can make some flyers for this shit at Kinko’s! People can do that right? People have seen his tat, right? It’s totally unforgettable! So he bolts into Kinko’s, still on his bike blurting out, “I need 100 flyers that say, “My Missing Leg, uh Please?” and the jerk off with the name tag Dave behind the counter must not have gotten his fix of speed for the day and was a bit pissed off. “That’s ridiculous sir, um. You totally have your leg, and you’re using it as a kickstand like all those kids do now. Look, some are passing right now!” and he points out the window as three guys riding their bikes like Sasha, with totally able legs just standing limp as the ride. “Now move over for the next customer please.” Sash moves a bit out of the way and cries a little bit, and almost called his mom, but over heard the guys in front of him talking about what they needed printed. They were having a show next week for their band, ‘Abominable Elephantitus Fetus Convention’ and then the fixed gear in Sasha’s head starts turning. Once the other guys leave Sasha rolls back up to the counter, “Hey you know ‘My Missing Leg, uh Please?’ is my band dude?” and Dave looks a bit confused by says, “Oh, well alright bro.”
    Sasha starts putting up these flyers around town and asking people if they’ve seen his leg or his tat flailing in the wind anywhere, and nobody, like always, knows shit. Before he finished his stack of flyers these kids roll up to him and all thank him. When Sasha looks up he sees that they’re all wearing ‘My Missing Leg, uh Please?” shirts in this ungodly highlighter yellow color. “Thanks for what?” Sasha says all confused. “For supporting our band man, we really appreciate it.” Sasha gets really pissed at this, “This isn’t a band. I’m actually missing my leg!” the three look all stunned after he yelled at them and ride away crying, sorta screaming, “You didn’t have to be so insensitive, we’ve just started man!” Sash is left screaming in the middle of the street, “YOU’RE NOT A BAND, I’M MISSING MY LEG, YOU GUYS ARE NOT A FUCKING BAND!” and gets a tap on the shoulder. It’s the same police officer that arrested our buddy Maddy from way back when, and says, “So you’re the guy missing his leg?” and Sash rolls up his pant leg to show there’s nothing there. Then the officer raises his eyebrow saying, “We never thought shit like that was cool when I was younger” and hands it over.
    Excited like a dick fresh & wet with pussy, Sasha waddles back home to try and do some reverse surgery. He whips out the Krazy Glue, and Gorilla Glue, at the same time. Like some chemistry class shit dude, and it totally doesn’t work. Knowing that those two combined is a Law of Physics for sure, and way too cool to see a doctor, ever, he takes a Tylenol PM; kids dose; and goes to bed.
    Part III
    So don’t tell me you don’t believe this cuz whatever, like I swear to my facebook status this shit is true. I heard Sasha just woke up a week later and walks to his bathroom before realizing he’s on his own two feet, and his leg is totally fuckin’ fine. He starts to shave a little cuz his gang started to call him Cheese Beard in this pirate voice when they saw him. So, as much as his American Apparel contract will allow him, he shaves—more like trims—like basically nothing.
    He runs like a pony and tries on all his pants to make sure they fit, and they all do, phew right? And puts on so many clothes that his colors make him look like a poisonous tree from the Amazon. He rides his bike with his tattoo showing until dark, and he knows he’s too close to Logan Square to not get his ass kicked and goes back home.
    Alright, like some monkey funk shit happens dude, especially with all these weird hipster fuck heads. Don’t ask me where I got this story, it’s been handed down from dude to dude, and I’m just dude enough to get it.
And um, do you guys think I could get a hit of that shit now?