You're the truth, Not I.
DescriptionSomething I wrote a little while ago, some random insanity for you to sample.
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I have a friend named Jim. He's the truest kind of friend. Jim is a tiny green bug that sits by my bed every evening as I think myself to sleep. He'll often frolic in the air, his wings conducting the music of my mind. When I am feeling affectionate I will call him "Jim-Jam-Alabamastan". If my patience is fading our relationship becomes more professional, and he becomes simply "Mr. Jim". When it's cold out we cuddle close, and he recites sweet poetry into my ear: I knew a fat lass named Nicole When she ran it would jiggle her rolls Now barrin' the worst case She'll be takin' the first place And swallowin' my sweet children whole On those hot summer nights we lay sprawled together in a sweaty heap. The twinkle in his eye is a beautiful sunrise. His smile is a warm feeling. It's deep satisfaction. Jim likes to talk to my sock, the dirty one in the corner. You know, the sock that hasn't made it to the laundry basket. It sits there, filthy and crumpled, the progeny of laziness. Jim will often argue with the sock all day. I call his insults "Little Boy". I call the sock "Hiroshima". Every once in a while the sock will argue back, but you have to pay attention to catch it. It's troubling to watch someone you deeply care about slip farther and farther away from reality. I often plead with Jim, but it has no use. I tell him to come back to me, to embrace rationality, but he'll just mutter that it's "patty time" and that "those hamburger bastards better watch out". Jim died yesterday. It was a freak accident. My shoe slowly lowered itself onto his fragile body and began to turn him into a fine paste. Jim tasted like a mixture between a peanut and an oyster. Sometimes you hurt the ones you love, sometimes you eat them. Things have only gotten worse. That sock is a mouthy son-of-a-bitch. I am starting to understand why Jim had such problems with it. I tell it that we can get along, that things don't have to be this way, but it is a cold-hearted sock. I fear that it has some sinister plan, some great evil planned for me. I often wake in the night to find it silently contemplating me, a dark lust in it's fibres. My fear is palpable. I live in dread, and from my dread comes a single question. The question is desperation. The question--my question-- is this: What does cotton taste like?