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SOMETHING I WROTE A LONG TIME AGO
| This is the part where I
get to be totally self-indulgent and go on and on about myself to people who
I'm guessing don't give half a shit. Ironic, because one thing I despise is
self-indulgence. Well, now that I've become a thing I hate, I must destroy
myself. Before I get to destroying myself, I'll fill you in on the moron
that named his site some shitty-ass name like "Indigo War Machine". Before I
go on, I'll tell you that I'm currently writing this at 3 AM, and am none
too focused at the moment. I've also been informed that somewhere, somehow,
we just might make it through this alive.
Don't hold your breath, though. Mainly
because you look stupid when you do. Your cheeks get all puffed-out and your
face turns blue. You end up looking like a retarded fish or something, right
before you pass out. And through this whole breath-holding ordeal, you can't
even get your way with your mom. So just don't hold your breath, okay?
Anyway, where to begin? To the best of my knowledge, I was born in
Minnesota, to two parents, one a man, and the other a woman. I grew up on
the outskirts of several podunk towns, and eventually got bored. So I
started to draw. After I got done with that, I decided it was time to go to
school. For twelve long years I strived my hardest to succeed in not
learning, and after graduating, I think I may have accomplished my goals.
That being said, I've pretty much caught you up on my life. To your left is
a self-portrait... of myself [editor's note: no more image, so this is a
lie]. I think it's pretty accurate, right down to the emblazoned "1" on
the fire-hat.Sometimes that fire-hat gets me in trouble. People will come up
to me and scream for me to rescue their babies from burning buildings or
some shit, to which I reply, "Lady, I ain't got no time for no
babies. I got my own problems. You see this cell-phone? It ain't even real!
It's one of those fake cell-phones you can buy at the grocery store that
makes all those little random noises when you press the buttons. Sometimes
it sounds like some half-coherent Japanese person or maybe some static, or
even some weird clicky-whirry sounds. Ain't that fucked up? Who'd buy a
fake cell phone, anyway? It's not like you can call anyone. Man, I'm
glad I didn't buy no fake cell-phone. I'm smarter than that. I know it
looks like I bought this, but I didn't. I stole this one, and
even though I stole it, I still feel like I've been ripped-off." By
that time, the baby-crazed bitch had stopped listening to me, and she was
yelling for someone to save her damn kid. I was getting pretty tired of her
voice, so I cell-phone-whipped her as hard as I could to get her to shut up,
and you know what? She wouldn't even shut up! I reamed that lady good, and
all that happened was my cell-phone breaking and me having to go to court
for some reason. Maybe I can sue the cell-phone company for making faulty
equipment while I'm there. I can't even call my own house with this
piece-of-crap cell-phone. Well, that pretty much wraps up the details of my
life. Oh, and before I go, KISS (which stands for Knights In Satan's
Service) want to tell you that "God Gave Rock'n'Roll to You". This is
Scoopfoot, signing off.
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