THE DAY OF ANNIHILATION FOR ALL THE WHOREHOUSE NATIONS
Annihilation Annie loves her cigarettes.
Most paranoid schizophrenics do. There is a disproportionately high incident of cigarette smoking amongst their ranks.
In her more lucid moments she will ask kindly for one. She will then inform you how hard it is for her to hold on to them, because THEY always come and steal them from her whenever she gets a pack. They apparently love the smooth, refreshing taste of tobacco. I wonder if They can get cancer? Emphysema?
Can the faceless, malevolent collective actually suffer the insular effects of the individual? Does it give Their offspring birth defects? Or is that what their denizens always so cranky?
She will then begin to ramble, in a speech well rehearsed, until her voice begins to trail off into an indistinct whisper, as if the audio track was wearing out from constant use.
This is when she isnt screaming about the end of the world.
She told my friend Ian that I was from the future.
And very methodical.
Which could certainly explain my reticence and precision of movement. You try going through your day haphazard knowing that your every action could alter the space time continuum in ways you could never dream possible.
That I was also a "bottle prop" baby.
Which I thought was mere fancy until another friend told me that this was something real, that in the fifties they had a device, for the housewife on the go, too whacked out on benzedrine and legalized speed to remember all the little details, babies being quite tiny, so that the mother could put milk in a bottle, attach it to the side of the crib, so junior could just roll over and satiate the demands of their oral fixation without all the tricky and time consuming task of human interaction.
Which would lower the amount, and subsequently the ability to produce, serotonin in the brain.
Breeds sociopathic behaviors, lack of empathy for others. Trouble with social etiquette.
Thrill seeking as a form of comfort.
When the mood strikes her Annie becomes the righteous fist of god, knocking loudly on the window pane of the unsuspecting populace. Her voice becomes gravel, a shade away from Linda Blair in full possession.
"OTTO, THE GOD OF WAR" hangs just around the horizon. He is an angry Roman god.
They are always Romans. They are always angry.
I wonder if she has heard of Philip K. Dick's delusions about the Black Iron Prison.
Today is the last day.
"IT IS THE DAY OF ANNIHILATION FOR ALL THE WHOREHOUSE NATIONS!!!"
As far as raving eschatologists go, Annie waxes on the shores of the poetic.
When she takes her meds she sometimes talks to the regular patrons downtown.
"Its not so easy with all these voices in your head" she explains.
They take her over and make her scream at random strangers about the war machine and impending doom. She also seems to like to sit right next to my car. Perhaps it is my time machine.
About time Honda got on the ball.
One has to wonder about the correlation between isolation and repression in mental illness. Why are all the voices always angry? Why they beseech the chosen to yell and scream? To hurt themselves and others?
Why dont they ever tell people to go feed kittens, plant daisies? Why don't they tell them to clean up their act, to shape up, ship out, and fly right?
Maybe the gods are inefficient puppet masters. Their marionettes can only pitch about and ramble, their ventriloquism only audible in the range of loud and angry.
If only you could watch and see if their mouths really moved, or could make their vessels speak while drinking a glass of water.
To show if they at least had gotten something right.
Most paranoid schizophrenics do. There is a disproportionately high incident of cigarette smoking amongst their ranks.
In her more lucid moments she will ask kindly for one. She will then inform you how hard it is for her to hold on to them, because THEY always come and steal them from her whenever she gets a pack. They apparently love the smooth, refreshing taste of tobacco. I wonder if They can get cancer? Emphysema?
Can the faceless, malevolent collective actually suffer the insular effects of the individual? Does it give Their offspring birth defects? Or is that what their denizens always so cranky?
She will then begin to ramble, in a speech well rehearsed, until her voice begins to trail off into an indistinct whisper, as if the audio track was wearing out from constant use.
This is when she isnt screaming about the end of the world.
She told my friend Ian that I was from the future.
And very methodical.
Which could certainly explain my reticence and precision of movement. You try going through your day haphazard knowing that your every action could alter the space time continuum in ways you could never dream possible.
That I was also a "bottle prop" baby.
Which I thought was mere fancy until another friend told me that this was something real, that in the fifties they had a device, for the housewife on the go, too whacked out on benzedrine and legalized speed to remember all the little details, babies being quite tiny, so that the mother could put milk in a bottle, attach it to the side of the crib, so junior could just roll over and satiate the demands of their oral fixation without all the tricky and time consuming task of human interaction.
Which would lower the amount, and subsequently the ability to produce, serotonin in the brain.
Breeds sociopathic behaviors, lack of empathy for others. Trouble with social etiquette.
Thrill seeking as a form of comfort.
When the mood strikes her Annie becomes the righteous fist of god, knocking loudly on the window pane of the unsuspecting populace. Her voice becomes gravel, a shade away from Linda Blair in full possession.
"OTTO, THE GOD OF WAR" hangs just around the horizon. He is an angry Roman god.
They are always Romans. They are always angry.
I wonder if she has heard of Philip K. Dick's delusions about the Black Iron Prison.
Today is the last day.
"IT IS THE DAY OF ANNIHILATION FOR ALL THE WHOREHOUSE NATIONS!!!"
As far as raving eschatologists go, Annie waxes on the shores of the poetic.
When she takes her meds she sometimes talks to the regular patrons downtown.
"Its not so easy with all these voices in your head" she explains.
They take her over and make her scream at random strangers about the war machine and impending doom. She also seems to like to sit right next to my car. Perhaps it is my time machine.
About time Honda got on the ball.
One has to wonder about the correlation between isolation and repression in mental illness. Why are all the voices always angry? Why they beseech the chosen to yell and scream? To hurt themselves and others?
Why dont they ever tell people to go feed kittens, plant daisies? Why don't they tell them to clean up their act, to shape up, ship out, and fly right?
Maybe the gods are inefficient puppet masters. Their marionettes can only pitch about and ramble, their ventriloquism only audible in the range of loud and angry.
If only you could watch and see if their mouths really moved, or could make their vessels speak while drinking a glass of water.
To show if they at least had gotten something right.