Useless Ramblings

I'm clapping for you Cole. I'm clapping for you slowly.

Actually I think you made it worse...

1 am perfect time for a dubstep remix of hungry like a wolf.

Found some guy in a leisure suit passed out in a theatre yesterday as I was cleaning. Took two managers to wake him up and after he left the theatre he started zig-zagging through the hall and almost entered another movie.

My day.

Get back from with paycheck in hand.

Get on computer.

Log into steam.

See store.

STEAM SUMMER SALE shows up.

Looks at paycheck.

Paycheck vanishes in a puff of smoke.

Everybody do shots.

You are fifteen. You're walking alone in the forest you grew up near by. It was on the way to the grocery store, and your mother had sent you to get milk after a dispute about cat litter. You are sad. You are angry. But you walk to the store, even though it is dark outside. The air is cold. It helps to calm your nerves. Your anger turns to nervousness. The path through the forest has no lights, and the night makes it very dark out. You wish you had taken a flash light. Fear wells up in the bottom of your chest, and you reluctantly press on. You tell yourself there is nothing to fear. There are no monsters. The creatures of the woods are small and are scared of you. But you are fifteen years old. You remember your friends telling you about the monsters in the forest. The swamp they called it. They said Shrek lives there. Here. Elis said he loved Shrek. You and your friends teased him about it. You hurt him and called him a faggot. He called you a cunt. "Shrek is love," he said, "Shrek is life." You and your friends laugh at him. He told you Shrek will make you understand. He said it won't be pretty. He went home. Now it is night. You are brought back to reality, having followed your memories to this point in time. Such a silly story. Elis is wrong. But you are still nervous. Shrek is not real, but why are you afraid? There is nothing to fear. You make it through the forest. After reaching the store and buying the milk, you begin your trip home. The ground is hard. It always hurts your feet when you walk here. You are not used to walking for so long. Now you're in the forest again, and the fear returns. You feel vulnerable, within touch of bad things. You shun the thoughts again, still nervous, but denying the reasons to be afraid. There are no reasons. In the midst of your self-argument, you hear something. Faint music. It is hard to make out the music at first. "Hey now," it says, "you're a rockstar." The voice is still faint. Your shoes crunch the pebbles on the path, so you stop to listen. "Get the show on," it says, "Get paid." The words confuse you. You look around. All you can see is darkness. You wish the path had lights. You wish you had your flash light. "All the glitters is gold," says the voice, "only shooting stars break the mold." The siren-esque lyrics stir conflict in you. You clutch the carton of milk you had bought for some vain attempt at comfort. You start walking again. The voice is louder this time. "It's a cool place, and they say it gets colder." You walk faster. "You're bundled up now, wait 'till you get older." You start to panic, and begin to run. "But the media men beg to differ, judging by the hole in the satellite picture." You scream, and run as fast as you can. The voice is loud now. It is music. Slowed to a crawl, a haunting melody. You trip, and fall to the ground. Turning weakly onto your back, you see a large figure approach slowly. Ominously. You can't pull your eyes away. You feel frozen in place. The music floods your ears. When the figure gets close enough, you see him. His green face. It is Shrek. He is smiling. "This is my swamp," he says. The world turns fades to black, and you lose consciousness. When you awake, you are covered something. Cold. And white. You surmise that it must be the milk you dropped upon falling. But you see the milk carton is fine, still heavy with it's contents. You swallow nervously. Your rectum is sore. You know what happened. When you get up, you begin to walk home. You smile.

"It's not Ogre," you say. "it's never Ogre."

Onion, dude.

Not even dignifying that with a proper explanation.