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| I am, I will. So no longer will I lay down, lay dead, play this.
Miranda Nicole Richer
June 30, 1992-June 14, 2006
We will  miss her
Love to you all.
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| As the unfortunate target of a serial killer, your face is skinned using steel wool and subsequently doused with bleach. While you're still alive, your face is then doused with ammonia. The bleach and ammonia chemically react and melt the remaining flesh from your skull. ~This is how I die.
How will YOU die? http://www.thedeathpsychic.com
Here are some of my favorites:
A disgruntled sandwich shop employee puts a razor blade onto your sandwich. The razor deeply cuts your mouth and tongue numerous times, and you nervously choke to death on your own blood.
An improperly hung ceiling fan falls from above you while it's running. The fast-moving blades slice through your neck with ease, launching your head across the room.
A gang of midgets wraps you in plastic wrap and proceeds to cook you with a hair dryer. You are slowly squeezed to death as the plastic wrap shrinks around your body.
You are blown to smithereens when your fun loving co-worker fills a whoopee cushion with nitroglycerin.
While walking up an escalator, your shoelace gets caught in the moving stairs, and you are dragged all the way to the top. You die from internal injuries.
After swallowing several capsules which you thought were pain relievers, you're told that you were given "foam animal in a capsule" capsules as a joke. The foam animals expand to twenty times their original size, causing a major intestinal obstruction. Unable to pass solid waste, you die from self-toxification.
A fat woman overhears you as you snicker and make fun of her with your friends. Intending only to embarrass you, she walks over and puts you into a headlock. She unwittingly breaks your neck, however, killing you instantly.
A large icicle falls from above your head, impaling you.
While taking a leisurely stroll down a country road, a distracted farmer runs you over with his combine, shredding your body into ribbons.
As the unfortunate target of a serial killer, you are thrown into a vat of sulfuric acid. Your body is turned into a thick sludge.
After an altercation with a resident of a retirement community, you are beaten with an oxygen tank and dragged through the complex by a convoy of personal mobility vehicles.
While attempting to remove a slice of burnt toast from your toaster using a metal fork, you're electrocuted.
While you're leaning forward to smell a pot of cooking soup, a disgruntled relative shoves your head into the pot and holds it there. Your face is quickly cooked as you choke to death on boiling hot soup.
While visiting your favorite bookstore, you get caught in the middle of a violent melee between rival book clubs. Unable to escape the madness, you are beaten to death with a hardcover unabridged dictionary.
JP | | |
| Every generation wants to be the last. Every generation hates the next trend in music they can't understand. We hate to give up those reins of our culture. To find our own music playing in elevators. The ballad for our revolution, turned into background music for a television commercial. T find our generation's clothes and hair suddenly retro.
-Chuck Palahniuk. Lullaby.
JP | | |
| Rose
Don’t disturb the beast, the temperamental goat, the snail, while he’s feeding on the rose. Stay frozen, compromise. What I will I am. Bend around the wind-the silently blown about. Again, I’m treading so soft. And lightly compromising my will, I am. I am I will so no longer will I lay down, lay dead, play your doe in the headlights-locked down and terrified. Your deer in the headlights-shut down and horrified-when push comes to pull, comes to shove, comes to step around this self-destructive dance that never would’ve ended till I rose. I roared aloud. Here, I will I am. I am I will, so no longer will I lay down, play dead, play this beat down, gun-shy martyr-pitiful. I rose. I roared. I will. I will.
-A Perfect Circle
(That took the better of 45 min to translate music to text. But you're worth it.)
JP
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| One picture puzzle piece
Lyin' ont the sidewalk,
One picture puzzle piece
Soakin' in the rain.
It might be a button of blue
On the coat of the woman
Who lived in a shoe.
It might be a magical bean,
Or a fold in the red
Velvet robe of a queen.
It might be the one little bite
Of the apple her stepmother
Gave to Snow White.
It might be the veil of a bride
Or a bottle with some evil genie inside.
It might be a small tuft of hair
On the big, bouncy belly
of Bobo the Bear.
It might be a bit of the cloak
Of the Witch of the West
As she melted to smoke.
It might be a shadowy trace
Of a tear that runs down an angel's face.
Nothing has more possibilities
Than one old wet picture puzzle piece.
-Shel Silverstein
JP | | |
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