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Description
Take a swig and look around, make sure it all looks like it did a second ago. If it changed, good. If not, better. Change is constant, but if nothing is changing, you're rebelling more than a thousand Che Guevera flags. Sit on your chair in your room- your room, the room with the chair and the wall and the wall and the wall and the wall and the door and you don't know whether its day or night now, but you locked yourself in at 2:30 and it's 2:30 now and you said you'd come out at quarter to three but quarter to three still hasn't come- sit on your chair and stare at the door. The hallway light is on, and someone is moving. Yeah, maybe they're talking about you. That's what the demons are telling you, but you know they're not real. That doesn't stop them from jabbering. A memory floats up, because maybe they're discussing it- last year, you used a human being as a sex toy. Scribble it out and tell yourself that you've changed. Hope they'll never remember. Maybe it seemed so insignificant that they didn't even notice. The demon laughs and tells you you're lying to yourself, and you are. But you remember the lie as you remember the truth. Another memory comes, of a girl who loved you. You did not love her. Undesired hours on the phone listening to her plights and pleas, all the while fully aware of her affections and acting completely oblivious. She talked to cows and fucked her dad and cut herself and caught falling leaves and cried on your shoulder and made you ready for things. Then you dated her briefly just to try and work out how you felt about things, and it all ended awkward and confused with that love from a far off land. She said if things had been fine before, nothing would've happened, and you never bothered to work out exactly whether it was true. For years, everything's been fine. Life has been a curiosity, something to be observed and picked at. Like your consciousness has given your daily workings over to someone else and is just watching how everything works from day to day with no small amount of interest. You're kinda okay with how things worked, but then the last time you had contact you finally told her, in nice terms, that you basically didn't care and now it's all gone and you're on the way to optomizing your past and preparing for a future of bones in a walk-in. Why couldn't Jesus have stopped you? He'd forgotten about you long before then. You can always talk to God or Jesus, and they'll always listen, but they're not obliged to do anything about it. You'll do something that will force their attention, their praise or condemnation. All before were superficial martyrs compared to what you're about to do.

You'll be their renegade angel, the one who never got wings and doesn't deserve them, but that doesn't mean you can't be carry an inner light- stained as it may be. Thousands have 'carried out the work of God' before you, but you don't claim to have spoken to him. You're not so presumptuous, are you? MY, we're a haughty prick, aren't we? But you think you know what's going on celestially. See, God wants a world of peace and happiness. Satan wants a world of anarchy, death, and chaos. You're bringing about the latter to advance the coming of the former. Perhaps you represent the exact middle ground between Heaven and Hell, but that's not so important looking through the scope of a rifle.

See, we all have a dark side. One person's dark side may be looking to tell someone exactly what they think. Someone else's dark side might desire to see someone's face covered in acid. Your dark side, it wants to find out just what comes out of it when you kill two, three dozen of the country's most powerful individuals. Just kidding, CIA man who reads what I type. Just kidding, Mom and Dad who read what I write. Kidding, people who think I'm not serious. Wait, I meant serious.

The memories go away, and you forget where you were coming from or where you were going to. Then you remember that you're on your chair. Oh yeah, they're talking about you. But now they're moving away, and the momentary hope that they'd open the door and acknowledge your physical existance fades. You check your watch. It's stopped, but maybe you knew that. Chinese Dentist time. Tooth hurty, that was always a good one. Anyway, it's Russian Roulette time. A magnum. Every day at 2:30 you spin the barrel and fire into your temple. There's a bullet in there. You don't want to commit suicide- after all, if it every came down to that, an unwanted life could be better utitilzed trying to bring some change. Russian Roulette has become a daily routine, something you've done every day for... Oh, who knows. See, the way you figure it, every day you don't die, you still have a purpose to serve. God wouldn't let a useful person die, and the way you're leaving it entirely up to fate (Forget the fact that the force you put into it and the friction and weight of everything, plus the heat and therefore expansion of the metal, all can be plugged into an equation to tell you just how many times it'll spin and just where it'll line up) sets your life in God's hands every single day. It's a way of proving your usefulness.

Anyone who calls you a typical depressed gothical angst child should know that reasoning, you think. They'd see that you're justifying your existance every day. You're not out there looking to die, you're just looking for proof that you still belong alive. You'll tell them all that, as soon as 2:45 comes and you leave. You'll tell them that you've justified your existance through danger; you'd tell them that God would not let you die if you were still needed, and that the knowledge that your life is not in your hands and that if you were to die you could not prevent it brings an incredible peace. Kinda like being the passenger in a speedboat going 90 mph on the ocean, and you can't swim. If you die, it's because the guy driving fucked up. Not your fault. You can't effect it. Accept that if you die, you die, and a peace unlike any you're likely to find otherwise sets over you almost instantly. You'd inform the whole world how to find peace, and that you've figured out in what's been a very long 2:30 how to fix the world, how only through the flames of chaos can the people rebuild in peace. You'd be a leader. You have your purpose. You will not die.

Then you pull the trigger.

Bang.

Description
Take a swig and look around, make sure it all looks like it did a second ago. If it changed, good. If not, better. Change is constant, but if nothing is changing, you're rebelling more than a thousand Che Guevera flags. Sit on your chair in your room- your room, the room with the chair and the wall and the wall and the wall and the wall and the door and you don't know whether its day or night now, but you locked yourself in at 2:30 and it's 2:30 now and you said you'd come out at quarter to three but quarter to three still hasn't come- sit on your chair and stare at the door. The hallway light is on, and someone is moving. Yeah, maybe they're talking about you. That's what the demons are telling you, but you know they're not real. That doesn't stop them from jabbering. A memory floats up, because maybe they're discussing it- last year, you used a human being as a sex toy. Scribble it out and tell yourself that you've changed. Hope they'll never remember. Maybe it seemed so insignificant that they didn't even notice. The demon laughs and tells you you're lying to yourself, and you are. But you remember the lie as you remember the truth. Another memory comes, of a girl who loved you. You did not love her. Undesired hours on the phone listening to her plights and pleas, all the while fully aware of her affections and acting completely oblivious. She talked to cows and fucked her dad and cut herself and caught falling leaves and cried on your shoulder and made you ready for things. Then you dated her briefly just to try and work out how you felt about things, and it all ended awkward and confused with that love from a far off land. She said if things had been fine before, nothing would've happened, and you never bothered to work out exactly whether it was true. For years, everything's been fine. Life has been a curiosity, something to be observed and picked at. Like your consciousness has given your daily workings over to someone else and is just watching how everything works from day to day with no small amount of interest. You're kinda okay with how things worked, but then the last time you had contact you finally told her, in nice terms, that you basically didn't care and now it's all gone and you're on the way to optomizing your past and preparing for a future of bones in a walk-in. Why couldn't Jesus have stopped you? He'd forgotten about you long before then. You can always talk to God or Jesus, and they'll always listen, but they're not obliged to do anything about it. You'll do something that will force their attention, their praise or condemnation. All before were superficial martyrs compared to what you're about to do.

You'll be their renegade angel, the one who never got wings and doesn't deserve them, but that doesn't mean you can't be carry an inner light- stained as it may be. Thousands have 'carried out the work of God' before you, but you don't claim to have spoken to him. You're not so presumptuous, are you? MY, we're a haughty prick, aren't we? But you think you know what's going on celestially. See, God wants a world of peace and happiness. Satan wants a world of anarchy, death, and chaos. You're bringing about the latter to advance the coming of the former. Perhaps you represent the exact middle ground between Heaven and Hell, but that's not so important looking through the scope of a rifle.

See, we all have a dark side. One person's dark side may be looking to tell someone exactly what they think. Someone else's dark side might desire to see someone's face covered in acid. Your dark side, it wants to find out just what comes out of it when you kill two, three dozen of the country's most powerful individuals. Just kidding, CIA man who reads what I type. Just kidding, Mom and Dad who read what I write. Kidding, people who think I'm not serious. Wait, I meant serious.

The memories go away, and you forget where you were coming from or where you were going to. Then you remember that you're on your chair. Oh yeah, they're talking about you. But now they're moving away, and the momentary hope that they'd open the door and acknowledge your physical existance fades. You check your watch. It's stopped, but maybe you knew that. Chinese Dentist time. Tooth hurty, that was always a good one. Anyway, it's Russian Roulette time. A magnum. Every day at 2:30 you spin the barrel and fire into your temple. There's a bullet in there. You don't want to commit suicide- after all, if it every came down to that, an unwanted life could be better utitilzed trying to bring some change. Russian Roulette has become a daily routine, something you've done every day for... Oh, who knows. See, the way you figure it, every day you don't die, you still have a purpose to serve. God wouldn't let a useful person die, and the way you're leaving it entirely up to fate (Forget the fact that the force you put into it and the friction and weight of everything, plus the heat and therefore expansion of the metal, all can be plugged into an equation to tell you just how many times it'll spin and just where it'll line up) sets your life in God's hands every single day. It's a way of proving your usefulness.

Anyone who calls you a typical depressed gothical angst child should know that reasoning, you think. They'd see that you're justifying your existance every day. You're not out there looking to die, you're just looking for proof that you still belong alive. You'll tell them all that, as soon as 2:45 comes and you leave. You'll tell them that you've justified your existance through danger; you'd tell them that God would not let you die if you were still needed, and that the knowledge that your life is not in your hands and that if you were to die you could not prevent it brings an incredible peace. Kinda like being the passenger in a speedboat going 90 mph on the ocean, and you can't swim. If you die, it's because the guy driving fucked up. Not your fault. You can't effect it. Accept that if you die, you die, and a peace unlike any you're likely to find otherwise sets over you almost instantly. You'd inform the whole world how to find peace, and that you've figured out in what's been a very long 2:30 how to fix the world, how only through the flames of chaos can the people rebuild in peace. You'd be a leader. You have your purpose. You will not die.

Then you pull the trigger.

Bang.