An ode to Hope
In the recently released (for Americans) Final Fantasy 13, there is a unique character by the name of Hope. Hope is a lovely little girl with a curiously deep voice.
The following piece does not contain any spoilers, unless knowing what an insufferable load Hope is counts as a spoiler, which it's not because you find that out within about six seconds of meeting Hope. For such a pretty girl, she sure is a whiny waste of space.
Now, without further ado, I present this masterpiece:
HOPE, I HOPE
A poem by Maya Angelou, as told to M. McGregor
Hope, I hope your eyes spontaneously transmogrify into sulfuric acid and melt out of your skull, and that the flesh of your face bubbles and pops like bacon on a hot plate as the oozing liquid seeps down your porcelain-like visage.
Hope, I hope your horrified screams as you claw at the bubbling chasms that used to be your eyes causes you to come to the attention of an ornery hive of killer bees.
Hope, I hope they nest inside the hollow sockets of blood and pus that were once your eyes, and
that they fly down your throat and sting your esophagus from the inside so that it swells up, ceasing your cries once and for all.
Hope, I hope you run, panicked, mute, blind, and chased by bees, into a dark jungle, where you step into a sinkhole and snap your femur in two.
Hope, I hope you are forced to attempt to claw through the flesh and muscle of your own calf in an effort to free yourself, but that your fingernails (despite your overall girlish appearance) are not long or sharp enough to adequately do the deed.
Hope, I hope you almost starve to death in that jungle as you try to cry through eyeless sockets and try to blubber through an almost completely closed throat.
Hope, I hope someone finds you and tries to help you, but then realize what a useless fucking twit you are and instead erects a vast coliseum around you.
Hope, I hope that this person films the last days of your life, and that the sound of laughing spectactors fills your cursed ears as you wither away to nothing.
Hope, I hope that this person sells the film and it becomes an international hit, shattering all records and redifining cinema as we know it.
Hope, I hope that this person becomes a multi-billionaire and creates a huge corporation based solely around the concept of producing material concerning your torturous death.
Hope, I hope this person is me.
Hope, I hope I get to be there when you die.
Hope, I hope.
Oh, Hope. I so fucking hope.
Hope, you suck.
FIN
The following piece does not contain any spoilers, unless knowing what an insufferable load Hope is counts as a spoiler, which it's not because you find that out within about six seconds of meeting Hope. For such a pretty girl, she sure is a whiny waste of space.
Now, without further ado, I present this masterpiece:
HOPE, I HOPE
A poem by Maya Angelou, as told to M. McGregor
Hope, I hope your eyes spontaneously transmogrify into sulfuric acid and melt out of your skull, and that the flesh of your face bubbles and pops like bacon on a hot plate as the oozing liquid seeps down your porcelain-like visage.
Hope, I hope your horrified screams as you claw at the bubbling chasms that used to be your eyes causes you to come to the attention of an ornery hive of killer bees.
Hope, I hope they nest inside the hollow sockets of blood and pus that were once your eyes, and
that they fly down your throat and sting your esophagus from the inside so that it swells up, ceasing your cries once and for all.
Hope, I hope you run, panicked, mute, blind, and chased by bees, into a dark jungle, where you step into a sinkhole and snap your femur in two.
Hope, I hope you are forced to attempt to claw through the flesh and muscle of your own calf in an effort to free yourself, but that your fingernails (despite your overall girlish appearance) are not long or sharp enough to adequately do the deed.
Hope, I hope you almost starve to death in that jungle as you try to cry through eyeless sockets and try to blubber through an almost completely closed throat.
Hope, I hope someone finds you and tries to help you, but then realize what a useless fucking twit you are and instead erects a vast coliseum around you.
Hope, I hope that this person films the last days of your life, and that the sound of laughing spectactors fills your cursed ears as you wither away to nothing.
Hope, I hope that this person sells the film and it becomes an international hit, shattering all records and redifining cinema as we know it.
Hope, I hope that this person becomes a multi-billionaire and creates a huge corporation based solely around the concept of producing material concerning your torturous death.
Hope, I hope this person is me.
Hope, I hope I get to be there when you die.
Hope, I hope.
Oh, Hope. I so fucking hope.
Hope, you suck.
FIN