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.* O . . .. ..O .. 344 24 Apr 2001 ) ( ')
.* O O* o o o o o o o ( / )
* ***O O O O O O O O O \( _)|
* O o o.*..o.*..o.*..o. .net "INFERNAL'S GREATEST *
* O HITS!!!!!!" *
*. o |\ _,,,---,,_ *
* /,`.-'`' -. ;-;;,_ *
* |,4- ) )-,_..;\ ( `'-' by Infernal *
* '---''(_/--' `-'\_) *mE0w* o
*. .......................................*
'Anada is cat-friendly..o*`
By unpopular demand, K-hell(tm) presents a collection of rare,
unreleased outtakes from the Infernal Files! That's right, your least
favorite text-file tosser has a vault full of bits and pieces, scrawled
on napkins at Denny's and typed painstakingly in the grip of all-night
benders, and now you, the fans, can partake of this treasure trove of
miserable delights! Thrill to the sounds of 1999's angst-ridden:
There is no one. There is no one. I have acquaintances, people who
will smile and wave as I drift down the river toward the falls. No one
who will reach out a hand to stop me, to reel me in and hold me, to pull
me close as I shiver from the cold and wet. There is no one. I have
always been this alone; only now am I this aware. I prefer delusion,
but since it is gone, I will take the loneliness. What choice do I
have? It is up to me to build this hateful situation into something,
into anything. It is up to me to shape eternal nothingness into
shelter, and there dwell, bitter and freezing, until I die. I might as
well start today, with the first brick. It has to be done. It is so
grim and painful, but it is all there is. Accepting it is not noble or
good, it is simply my only choice.
And what fan could stand to be without this gem???
She's the kind of girl I always construct in my head when I think of
The Girl For Me. She's pretty, smart, funny and she looks to be hell in
bed. She's not suited for him at all. She knows it, he knows it, and I
do too. She's told me. But protocol stops me. Or at least I hope it
will. It's not the sort of thing I ought to be doing, mucking around
with some girl I met as my friend's girl. But the temptation is strong,
and I can't answer honestly whether it's genuine attraction or the kid
in the sandbox syndrome once again -- wanting what isn't mine, coveting
my friend's old girl, or just not being happy with what I have. Because
I do have something, and that gives me a really creeped out feeling
these days. I don't know why, I can't put my finger on it.
And going all the way back to his “lyrics period” of good ol' 1996:
Stress fractures appear
As a matter of course
Lines with dabs of paste
Squeezing out, then dried
How many times can it be put back together?
How many shards of what size can you glue?
Taken from its box
Dropped upon the floor
Precious heirloom wrecked
Glib apology
It took me six months last time to put back together
What took you fifteen seconds to smash
And take a rare, reflective, tolerant-of-the-human-race look back at:
The guy's drunk, and his girl's probably drunk too. They collapse
into the Denny's booth directly in front of me, both on one side of course,
and begin noisily making out. He's boisterous, making stupid jokes to
the hostess (“with the mostest”) and demanding steak and eggs, steak and
eggs, and by God medium rare. I can't even get bent out of shape about
this clown, though in the proper mood I'd wanna see him choking on his
teeth. I remember, though, tipsy nights slipping home after a
wine-soaked, rosy-cheeked dinner, another bottle or two of the cheap
stuff under one arm, a soft and warm and perfect girl in the other, her
hand in my pocket, brain slicked and gently anesthetized to where all
the dumb doubts and nit-picky stuff just fades, and all that's left is
the certainty that, no matter how repugnant and oafish and idiotic I am,
this stunning thing at my side wants me (me!), to be with me, and that
nothing all night will penetrate this soft-focus, languidly whirring
cocoon of blissful chattering and kissing and feeling up and tongues and
limbs and sighs. It's a fine feeling, finer indeed than sex as far as
I'm concerned, blanketed in sleepy, numb, laconic bliss. If this guy
and his girl have anything even close to that going on, then as far as
I'm concerned, he can be as loud and stupid as he wants. Who am I to
bitch, with my farmer's omelet and my scalding coffee? I'm going home
to four more hours of work and a little bit of fitful sleep ñ my
parade's good and pissed-on. I have no business pissing on anyone
else's.
We've even got a few postcards from You-Had-To-Be-There Land:
Too many one-armed bandits, too many winsome lovers with low-slung
hips and licking promises of delicious abandon. Too many piercing sunbeams
announcing sullen afternoons spent extricating self from pockmarked
skeletons who looked much better in the heady, gaudy lights of the
intoxicating midnight. Too many sunrises met with snarls and burning
eyes and a cauldron of hatred and want coiling and squirming like a
newborn furnace in your belly, in your loins, in your head. Too much
smoke and wine, too much coffee and too many buttery stories from
silver-tongued conquistadors shaking desperate to pillage you. Fuck it
all. Fuck it all. Fuck it all. Give yourself wholly unto licorice and
twilight and sleeping in, holding yourself at night and waking up with
yourself intact. Surrender to nothing external, or hang yourself from
the telephone cord and drown yourself in drinks bought by charlatans and
assholes. Fuck it all. Don't jump from the plane, or scream
motherfuckingfucker the whole way down and hope you shatter and splatter
for miles. Time to choose, little one.
That's right, Infernal's Greatest Hits will not be sold in stores,
online, through the mails, on Napster, or by any other known means of
commerce! To order, place yourself underneath Infernal's old 486 and
bash yourself in the head repeatedly with his pretentious-prose-filled
hard drive until you suffer a concussion. Obfuscators are standing by.
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( o.o ) (c) Anada e'zine anada344 by Infernal o
> ^ < o
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