Insanity @ MindSay 
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Ok, so a few people have asked me why I saw 'Gawd' instead of 'God'. Well, I'm athiest, one thing. Second thing is that he's one of the few voices in my head. They want me to introduce them, well.. three of them do as they are the main three.
Gawd- An insane little bugger. He's the one who tells me mostly how I should act, my personality, if you will. He never actually tells me what I should and should not do, just suggests things and puts together my lifestyle. If you look at my personality and stuff, that's what he's like. Confusin and Amuzin. lol
Jeezus- This one is like my little shoulder angel. He can never agree with the third voice on anything, it's rare when they stop fighting. He's the one I tend to listen to a TINY little bit. Telling me not to do this, or go help this person [ok, that I usually listen to], or that's kinda dangerous. He's also a weeeeeee bit paranoid and kinda shy around other people. When I can't make up my mind about something, it means he's made a good point against it.
Chryst- This is my shoulder devil. And she's out there. She likes to take risks and get in TONS of trouble. And I listen to her a lot [she makes things sound worth it!]. She's very outgoing and loud and sometimes annoying towards other people. If someone dares me to do something, she ussually beeeegs me not to back down.
So those are the voices, of course there's the one that I'll talk to aloud, but I don't know her name. She sneaks away when people ask who I'm talking to.. lol
Have you ever been so happy that you decided to spread that happiness by going on a random killing spree? Well, that's exactly what Mike, our protagonist is feeling right now. It's a weird feeling, he thought, it does not come and go like a wave, but it's continuous, like it's been this way ever since I was born and I grew up with this feeling that there's something lodged inside my ribcage just around the vicinity of my heart. Mike writes this thought in his journal which he then closes. He rises up from his chair and floats into the washroom, where he gazes upon his face, all twenty years old of him, staring back from inside the magic opposite mirror land and the face attempts a smile. Almost, almost. No, the attempt was a failure. He washes his face and floats back into his room, changes clothes, goes out.
It's windy and he breathes the cold air, holds it inside his lungs for several seconds then exhales. It's almost noon and the street is bustling with activity. The usual: beggars, office workers, cars, small mounds of garbage, stray dogs and cats. He digs inside his pocket. He forgot something.
Now all packed and ready to go, he goes where exactly we do not know. For this story is not about Mike but about the man he's about to kill that afternoon and that man is currently sitting inside a fastfood restaurant called the joyousbee or happywasp or something like that, munching like a pig on his supermegadoubledeluxe burger. He's a simple man with simple needs: such as a mansion, women and expensive cars. He has just been from a rather strenous meeting and all day he's been looking forward to this meal. Wrapped around his right wrist is a rolex which reflects the light coming from the outside and fills the whole restaurant with its radiant wonderful health-giving golden glow.
He awaits the jeepney and Mike whistles a happy tune and every single time, the happiness of the tune convinces him that he's not afraid.
Ah what's the point of all this, what's the point of life, what's the point of suffering, what's the point of breathing at all, all these thoughts raced across his mind while looking at the blur of sceneries outside: the usual working people on the streets walking going to their offices and work and jobs and him, where am I going, nowhere, I'm going nowhere. Nowhere.
He's a man of purpose and importance and the last thing that he wants right now is to be late for his next important appointment, so he wipes his mouth and rises up. You could hear the trumpets and drums rolling on the background, proof of how important this fat, ugly sonofabitch really is. Thank you, come again sir, the guard who opens the door, says to him.
Mike thinks about something, what we do not know, and why the hell would we want to know. We don't even know the guy, we only know that he's going to kill that fat bastard, and that's the only reason we've come this far in this narrative anyway. Anyway, Mike actually thinks that someone is watching him and he does not like the feeling. He digs inside his pocket just to feel the security offered by his new and shiny butterfly knife aka balisong. Fellow passengers look at him with that funny look people give you when they think you're about to shoot them in the head.
Someone shouts HOLDAP, Mike looks at him. The guy is maybe sixty years old, frail-looking and wearing old man clothes, the rusty knife he's holding is wriggling and jiggling as if having an epileptic seizure. The people smile at the old man, and they all say at the same time: AW Grampa, you're so funny. And that's when the old man stabs Mike on the knee.
The end
No not really, Mike beats the crap out of the old man. The other passengers joining him.
Now, if you think this story is going nowhere, you are probably right for the author only made this all up to pass the time and he apologizes if you do not like it. Meanwhile, he has to close this journal now so he can go out, breathe the cold air and go kill some fat, rich politician in some fastfood restaurant called the happywasp or joyousbee, you know, just to spread the joy.
Twenty-seven cups of rhubarb later, and I am tired. I spent today washing clothes and drying them on the line outside. Then I picked an entire plant of rhubarb to chop and freeze. It took all day, but it was worth it. It kept me occupied. I’ve noticed now that summer is here how much I enjoy being occupied. I need something to do constantly or I start to feel a little lost and detached. Writing everyday helps sustain a slightly more tethered feeling in my life, but at the same time I feel the desire to write all of my flighty emotions and thoughts here; another unstable foundation in my swaying acrobatic performance.
So I will cave to my desire to free write. Here is a flow that has been festering in my mind, begging to be written down since my bike ride this morning:
The face held the same fallen expression that had been given to it this morning. Around her stood the attendants, her quick footed fleet of servants waiting for her to command. Yet no words sprung forth from her bruised mouth. Her usual authority of the atmosphere was not present, and without that it seemed nothing to fill the air in the room. Only footsteps padded and patted quickly past the door of the room where she had sequestered herself. In that room it seemed even breathing was too loud a sound for the fragile air to hold. Each being in that room could count the breaths that he or she took in a minute on one hand. Still, the grand woman stood at the window without notice of the strange presence she had created.
The number isn't exactly specific -- but I'm getting money again. Disability because I'm "extremely ill." I don't know why I doubt it, looking over this journal.
My grandmother made me soup in celebration. This feels particularly bizarre.
A: A child who's just been tossed into the bath to get Genetian violet off of him.
I had no idea what she was talking about so I left the computer at a fast clip and went tearing down the hall. And what I saw....purple all over. On the floor. On the walls. In a puddle on the linoleum of the kids' bathroom. Little hand prints on the side of the door posts. On the doors under the bathroom sink. And of course the little footprints of the Paul Revere who came with the tidings, all the way up the hall.
Yes. Purple. Purple everywhere and no way to make it stop.
So I tossed the 18 month old criminal who did it into the tub, grabbed the 3 year old Revere and put her in too. And then I yelled for their mom to let her know we were in DEFCON 5. Do you know how fast Genetian Violet dries? Well I do now. It dries fast. Damn fast.
There is now a small child with purple hands, feet, and nose. Another with purple feet. And a third who is still in shock from seeing mommies tearing around the house screaming for paper towels, carpet cleaner, and a couple of shots of vodka.
Happily, after enough research on the glorious net fantastic we discovered a way to get it out of the carpet. This of course after calling professional cleaners. True to form, the professionals had no idea what Genetian Violet was.
Apparently, alcohol, dish soap, and luke warm water takes this stuff out. And now you know.
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