Run-on sentence
THE ENTRY
My life is just one big run-on sentence in the essay of life.
THE ANARCH
Don't ask me what came before, before, before--I mean, I imagine my parents fucked at one point, and that their respective origins were their own parents who must have fucked at least once no matter how strictly religious they were, and back and back and back with everyone fucking at a certain point and producing offspring who fucked with other offspring forward and forward and forward until you got to my parents, who fucked, which I don't remember (despite being a part of both of them, one egg and one of a million racing sperm all vying for the prize), nor can I recall anything up until what I imagine was a few weeks before birth--why yes, I DO remember the womb, mostly the warm floating of it all, plus Mother's steady heartbeat, but most of all the LOVE, who can forget the LOVE of her?--and then sometime after it, for as hard as I try, I cannot remember being born, which is probably a good thing all things considered, because I hear it was wet, wet and messy, and gross, and I still refuse to watch that video which Father made when (well, during) I was born, even though my parents play it every year on my birthday; I hide in my room because I don't want to know what my birth looked like, but I can't help listening, hearing the screams and Mother's sailor-curses and Dad's feeble words of encouragements, because somewhere, deep deep down, I feel like I can remember those sounds, the first sounds I heard upon entering the world, Mother swearing hurricanes and Dad too excited to shut her up, but it never goes beyond that faint feeling of deja-vu, which is more the pity, because sometimes, deep down inside, I really WISH I remembered being born, because it would certainly connect those later months floating in the womb to the years and years that followed, from sitting like a king in the high chairs at din-din when Mother slaved to feed me, to those first great Neil Armstrong steps, to being mauled a thousand times by my first and second bicycles, and the girl in first grade who finally taught me, between games of Doctor, how to ride without training wheels, and all the years that followed, the ones where I hated girls and the ones where I didn't--indeed, the ones where girls hated ME, but I tried to convince them to love me, oh God did I try, but here I am, nineteen and still in love but unloved, and what have I to show for it, tell me that, oh won't you tell me that?
My life is just one big run-on sentence in the essay of life.
THE ANARCH
Don't ask me what came before, before, before--I mean, I imagine my parents fucked at one point, and that their respective origins were their own parents who must have fucked at least once no matter how strictly religious they were, and back and back and back with everyone fucking at a certain point and producing offspring who fucked with other offspring forward and forward and forward until you got to my parents, who fucked, which I don't remember (despite being a part of both of them, one egg and one of a million racing sperm all vying for the prize), nor can I recall anything up until what I imagine was a few weeks before birth--why yes, I DO remember the womb, mostly the warm floating of it all, plus Mother's steady heartbeat, but most of all the LOVE, who can forget the LOVE of her?--and then sometime after it, for as hard as I try, I cannot remember being born, which is probably a good thing all things considered, because I hear it was wet, wet and messy, and gross, and I still refuse to watch that video which Father made when (well, during) I was born, even though my parents play it every year on my birthday; I hide in my room because I don't want to know what my birth looked like, but I can't help listening, hearing the screams and Mother's sailor-curses and Dad's feeble words of encouragements, because somewhere, deep deep down, I feel like I can remember those sounds, the first sounds I heard upon entering the world, Mother swearing hurricanes and Dad too excited to shut her up, but it never goes beyond that faint feeling of deja-vu, which is more the pity, because sometimes, deep down inside, I really WISH I remembered being born, because it would certainly connect those later months floating in the womb to the years and years that followed, from sitting like a king in the high chairs at din-din when Mother slaved to feed me, to those first great Neil Armstrong steps, to being mauled a thousand times by my first and second bicycles, and the girl in first grade who finally taught me, between games of Doctor, how to ride without training wheels, and all the years that followed, the ones where I hated girls and the ones where I didn't--indeed, the ones where girls hated ME, but I tried to convince them to love me, oh God did I try, but here I am, nineteen and still in love but unloved, and what have I to show for it, tell me that, oh won't you tell me that?