Star of My Own Horror Movie
Growing up when school teachers felt strongly supported in their beatings of children was a perfect opportunity to sample the beating styles of various schools, so I would beg my parents to move me from school to school, which they did, many times, often just long enough for me to experience a beating then move on. The approach was surprisingly uniform but waiting with hands out to be struck across the palms with thick leather never got boring and continued right up until the last moment it was still legal. Which was the International Year of the Child, a delicious detail that tastes like my own boiling blood. Beating kids with leather, talk about hot sex!
They say a society is measured by how it treats Sean Bedlam and I tend to agree and to suggest I will kill you all one glorious day is to comically understate the depth of my sense of betrayal by a system of education designed by Hitler's missing testicle and supported by the just and kind everywhere.
My father's indoctrination in the ways of self torment was even less relaxing and so he found himself one day pinning my child self to a wall by the neck as my feet wondered where the floor was and he inquired indelicately as to the whereabouts of his cigarettes. Joke was on him, I didn't even smoke, I pointed sticks at trees and said things like, "Pew! Pew! Pew!" Fortunately my father is so horrified by his actions that he simply hid the memory somewhere deep in his skull, so I get to imagine I'm simply ungrateful and lacking in character, which is awesome for my writing.
Because home life was often tense I would disappear into reading and because I was always the new attention starved bookworm at school I was often beaten by kids thrilled to practice being cops. This happened more times than I can count because I didn't learn my times tables, I sort of shook and waited to be 'bashed up' when the bell rang. Yes, 'bashed up'. Hi modern, panicky parents. You faggots, I clap when your children get cancer. Just sayin'!
I hope you're not sensing too much anger behind my words because I don't think there's any left hidden back there. This for me is fun and I highly recommend writing down your feelings on scented paper while sipping peppermint tea.
Life is a puzzle, for instance I've been haunted by an idea for a joke that has only two pieces so far, an image of a man's hairy chest and the words, "Jack off on your tits". I'm sure this puzzle when solved will result in a worthwhile joke that unfolds an aspect of God's Creation both marvellous and energizing, but until that moment I have that puzzle and the creeping feeling something's terribly wrong and the knowledge that something's terribly wrong.
They say I sell myself short with such nonsense but I don't agree. I've never agreed to any of this.
And that's why I like death metal. And cancer in children.
They say a society is measured by how it treats Sean Bedlam and I tend to agree and to suggest I will kill you all one glorious day is to comically understate the depth of my sense of betrayal by a system of education designed by Hitler's missing testicle and supported by the just and kind everywhere.
My father's indoctrination in the ways of self torment was even less relaxing and so he found himself one day pinning my child self to a wall by the neck as my feet wondered where the floor was and he inquired indelicately as to the whereabouts of his cigarettes. Joke was on him, I didn't even smoke, I pointed sticks at trees and said things like, "Pew! Pew! Pew!" Fortunately my father is so horrified by his actions that he simply hid the memory somewhere deep in his skull, so I get to imagine I'm simply ungrateful and lacking in character, which is awesome for my writing.
Because home life was often tense I would disappear into reading and because I was always the new attention starved bookworm at school I was often beaten by kids thrilled to practice being cops. This happened more times than I can count because I didn't learn my times tables, I sort of shook and waited to be 'bashed up' when the bell rang. Yes, 'bashed up'. Hi modern, panicky parents. You faggots, I clap when your children get cancer. Just sayin'!
I hope you're not sensing too much anger behind my words because I don't think there's any left hidden back there. This for me is fun and I highly recommend writing down your feelings on scented paper while sipping peppermint tea.
Life is a puzzle, for instance I've been haunted by an idea for a joke that has only two pieces so far, an image of a man's hairy chest and the words, "Jack off on your tits". I'm sure this puzzle when solved will result in a worthwhile joke that unfolds an aspect of God's Creation both marvellous and energizing, but until that moment I have that puzzle and the creeping feeling something's terribly wrong and the knowledge that something's terribly wrong.
They say I sell myself short with such nonsense but I don't agree. I've never agreed to any of this.
And that's why I like death metal. And cancer in children.
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