4:00pm on a typical Monday afternoon
Death tasted like a grilled cheese sandwich to Harold Benson. Not like a good one, mind you. Not as if he ordered it from greasy spoon dive off of Route Three-Oh-Three ubiquitously named “EAT.” No, this eternity-flavored grilled cheese tasted like it was made by a mentally deficient, socially inept nine-year old boy, who’s mother was in the other room crashing from a dope high, who’s father could be any of a thousand Johns living in the Naked City. You see, the death sandwich poor Harold had to endure was seeming fashioned from rancid cheese (expiration date: fuck/long/ago), slapped between blue bread (the only color it contained) and topped off with nail polish (because the boy had been a fucking crack baby). And this death-personified childhood treat was seeming grilled on a frying pan of grease older than the boy himself. Harold soon regretted ever having looked up “auto asphyxiation” on the Wikipedia. Current Music:
“What’s your fucking point,” you may ask? My answer to you is this: You cannot take a toothbrush with you to the other side.
gutter twins streamed off of myspace