I fail at life so much and I would like to die.

Perfection. This fixation we’ve got can’t be ignored, this fascination. We were created in the image of God. Perfection is just an acknowledgement away. So we sing and we dance, like puppets on a stage, performing another useless play in the eyes of Him. We become His pets, His toys, in this never-ending quest for that which we cannot achieve. Perfection. The sandman comes every night, sprinkling sleep upon our eyes, gluing them shut. The person next to us becomes faceless and mindless in this coma of unknown bliss. We dream of heaven, the golden gates, but never have we seen the other side. So close we have come, but it’s always an arms length away. Perfection. How far will we go? The fire in our eyes burns those things that do not conform to the one, central idea. We drown all that stand up with buckets of inconsequence so that everyone may stay seated. We run through the cities smashing things that threaten, until there is nothing to hold us back. Perfection. We forget the destruction as we hold hands and pray. “We have done what you have asked! Can you not grant us what we seek?!” But there is no booming voice of congratulations, instead there is nothing. And everything goes dark until all we can see is the shine of anger in each others’ eyes. Perfection. “We have danced for you for the last time!!” we tell Him. The stage is torn down and the curtains ripped. The lights are smashed and the ropes cut. We go home and cry with our friends. And tonight when the sandman comes we will dream of nothing, because now we know that there is not anything more than what we see everyday. The white canvas is painted black, for we know, now, that nothing other than what has already been done can be achieved. Perfection. Apathy is practiced to the fullest extent. The inevitable is undeniable. Our eyes have been opened to the ominous solace that lies ahead. Death will take us nowhere. We are trapped in jails of our cynical ways. And we no longer care. ------ About time for an update, eh? Hahaha. All of my stuff is the same. I need some new ideas. Hopefully not so long of a wait next time. (Not that any of you were waiting to begin with, but oh well. I'd like to think so.) Emmmm... Au revoir!

“The A-mer-i-can Dreeeeam”. He says it as he writes it on the board. Then, in neat little bullets underneath he writes: Upper Middle Class 2.5 Children Big House Sandbox in Backyard Red Sports Car And you’re just copying it down, word for word, not thinking, just doing. Plasma TV Black Suit Brown Briefcase Black Tie And you’re just copying it down, this list of achievements, these “American Dreams”. Pawn Insignificant Foolish Brainless And you’re just copying it down, every letter. P-A-W-N. Pawn. That can’t be right. You look up to the board. Yes, it is. It’s what he’s written up there. The rest of the class is just writing away. Copy-Cat Clone Unoriginal Useless He keeps writing, writing things like this. The list goes on and on. And the rest of the class is just copying, not thinking, just doing. You walk up to his desk. “Those last things aren’t ‘American Dreams’,” you tell him. “Yes they are.” His voice is tired and heavy. “No… they aren’t. I don’t want to be a clone or unoriginal.” “Yes you do, along with everyone else in this class, along with all of the other Americans out there. These are the American dreams. Now go sit down and finish taking your notes, Mr. Johnson.” He waves you away, but you’re not going to sit down. “NONE OF US WANT TO BE USELESS OR INSIGNIFICANT.” You’re screaming. “THIS IS WRONG. THAT’S NOT WHAT I WANT TO BE.” The rest of the class is still sitting there, writing away. “I’m afraid, Mr. Johnson, that everything listed on the board is indeed what you want to be. Now, take your seat.” His voice is stern now. And you’re just standing there, mouth open. “… That’s not what any of us want to be…” you whisper. And he moves his hand to press the intercom button on his desk. “Dr. Wellington, I think we’ve got a problem.” “Should I send someone?” “I think so” “Right, they’ll be there shortly.” He takes his finger off of the button. And the rest of the class is still writing, just writing. You turn to face the class. “DON’T YOU CARE?! WHY AREN’T YOU SAYING ANYTHING?! THIS ISN’T WHAT YOU WANT. THESE THINGS AREN’T ‘AMERICAN DREAMS’.” They’re still just sitting, not even looking at you, copying what’s on the board. The door opens and a big man in a black suit walks in. You’re still screaming things like “WHY AREN’T YOU DOING ANYTHING?! DON’T YOU SEE?!” and he’s dragging you away. “Mr. Johnson, what exactly did you mean to accomplish by yelling at my class?” You’re in the dean’s office. “… Those weren’t the ‘American Dreams’… We’re original. We’re smart...” “But, Mr. Johnson, you aren’t. You’re all going to graduate and go to work those silly little desk jobs, working nine to five. You’re all going to become mindless drones, waking up everyday to do the same thing over and over again. You’ll all have kids and waste eighteen years of your life raising them. You’re all going to do this, meaning you’re all stupid and unoriginal. And it’s what we want you to do, Mr. Johnson, so these things are what we call ‘American Dreams’.” He gets up and starts to pace. “My job is to make sure that nobody steps out of line... That everyone follow the guidelines to achieving these ‘American Dreams’. Everyone has to be the same. This is simply to insure that we don’t have to deal with ‘different’ people. People with new ideas are a threat to society. Things could change, you know. And that would be bad.” He’s telling you all of this, but you don’t believe a word. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! THIS IS INSANE!!” You’re screaming again and it’s making your voice go hoarse. “You can’t stop people from being what you call ‘different’. People are who they are. I'm not him," you say, pointing to the man in the suit who had brought you here, "and I'm not anyone else. YOU CAN'T STOP PEOPLE FROM BEING THEMSELVES." “Mr. Johnson, I think you’d be surprised by what I can stop.” The man in the suit gets up as he says this, and walks over to you. You feel cold metal pressing against your temple. And the rest of the class is still writing away.

Winnie the Pooh's been shot. Big Bird's dealing drugs. Blues Clues got to drinking And Barney’s friends are thugs So the world’s a bit upside down, But since when has that been news? Your little kid’s grown up now. It’s time to set them loose

Ok. So this is me, posting crap I write. It's mostly for me, but whatever. You can read it too. Yeahhhhh. I am... out?