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    submitted 17 August 2006 @ 01:59


Written by Jack Morris
Rating: Excellent (4.5) (4.5 rating, 2 ratings)

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If I were to meet an angel, I'd tell the freeloader to get lost.

If I were to meet a dark lord, I'd offer the gal a seat and ask about their day.

If I were to see a woman unhappy... I'd pretend she was smiling, that within the moment she left my presence her life would turn up-sigh down, into some mo-mint of joy and beauty that offered for the rest of her life something to smile about in the darkest of times.

Or maybe I'd kiss her, with a thought upon the forehead, a wet tsunami of a kiss that would dribble down her forehead, into her eyes and cause the poor girl to go blind, so that whatever horrors that caused her unhappiness would vanish away into a malled throng of oblivious consumers.

I'm not exactly fond of consumers, If I met a consumer, I'd tell them that they've broken my heart, strangled hopes and passions in their breast, lost to distraction and broadway productions of more, more, more... stuff. Stuff is what you put inside turkeys. And conumers are turkeys, filling grocery stores on thanksgiving.

I'm thankfull for those whom have patience with me, though I plot their demise, their downfall and eventuall complete happiness, wrought from cruel and ever-demanding hands. Ga-dam it, be happy Becky, life is full of surprises and rainbows, and cotton candy, and if you want it, heart ache, dispair, rage and genocide.

Thank whatever builder decided to add genocide, rape, murder and destruction to this reality. I can't say I understand it. Nor like in any fashion these words you've added to the vocabulary. Yet truly nothing has made me more sad and devasted, hungry to change those lines of code, and reverse it.

I'm not so dum though to think a builder created those words and actions. Folks don't normally create art so ugly, mostly they create beautiful things. Girls like becky with eyes you can so completely use cheap metaphors on. I've drowned in those eyes, withered and shrank down to nothing more then grape nuts out of a cold pool. My penis is afraid of those eyes. It shuts up and tells my brain to look everywhere else but those eyes.

Cause Beckys curves are waves, transcendental, scented hyperbole woah's, sponsoring blood flow bursts, straight though slightly curved to a full erection that makes the balls go so blue that they start playing harmonica and sing "baby, turned me on, and on, and on, and never off, bluer then blue, blewing blues" that can't keep a rhythm, cause they're just that blue, blues.

And those curves are all over her body, even where her nose meets her forehead, the gumline of her teeth, and the sweep of her hairline. Curves ta' make a man go wi'uld, as long as one doesn't look into those eyes.

Ga'damn those eyes, those infernal, peircing, theiving, burning, queasing eyes. Becky's eyes. Ya' just know that behind them, their's Becky, not a becky of flesh and blood, not a becky object, but a becky becky quo pro all that is and ever was becky, true becky. And becky loves me.

Becky knows nothing else she can point to as truth in all of existence, cept that, she's becky... and she loves me. And one can't hide shit or tap-water from Becky, cause with her eyes... she looks deep. All that is becky concentrates on your poor object of a body, slips past that to whatevers beyond... and that girl is studying you like a book, with a magnifying glass, a thesaurus, dictionairy and encyclopedia on one side, and google, your my space, and blogs all up and ready to go, on that chicks laptop.

Realizing you are screwed, takes only one glance with Becky, but you ought to try and save your penis if you can, run away from becky, visit sally, try and pretend becky doesn't exist and mary who's all up to hang out with you're pecker is what it's all about. Cause Becky, though she is becky, and all that is becky is becky, just happens to be human and not perfect either.

Sometimes, becky will vanish, only to reappear years later with a whole new body, whole new personality and background. LIKE AN Uh=SASS-IN. But you know Rita is really Becky... and Becky still has your number.

I'm pretty sure I've met Becky at least once in my life, and the bitch cheated on me, behind the coffee house, just around the corner from where I first fucking kissed her. Since then my penis, my penis is pretty sure Becky's curves are all downhill. That giving Becky anything but a firm middle finger is a waste of time.

Becky and Reality are cruel, and Becky isn't fond of just one finger, she wants the whole hand, she wants to hold hands and touch, and all this other shit, plus all that shit, and she just thought up some more shit she wanted. But you better stick around cause she might just come up with some more stuff, and tommrow, well tommrow there's all that shit, plus this shit, and this weekend, next month, and then theres anniverseries, birthdays, reunions, holidays, and...

I want to kill Becky. Damn becky to hell. Becky, no becky, I can't say no to Becky. Cause I love Becky too.

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