amusingprimate

Robert Andrews was dead. Blue lipped, staring up at the ceiling with bulging eyes, his hands frozen in claws at his throat, without a doubt, he was dead. Dead on my living room floor. Poor bastard. Poor fucking Bob. He was indeed a bastard, but I never truly wanted him dead, at least, not more than in passing. Staring into the reflective dome that was the top of his head, however, I felt no guilt at having left him on his own, during a brief sojourn  to the bathroom. I trusted that in the time he was gone, he would somehow manage to avoid suffocating on his own garish, obvious wig. Perhaps, I muse, the burger jockeys at McDonald's placed an a

The X   3.28.05 You stood there so haughtily, your hands haphazardly draped on your thighs. The dirt under your fingernails longs to break free of your odious stench. The stain on your shirt is the sort that could only come from yourself, tinged with that smell you posess. The stain writhes with the power of its master. Your neck, it has more salt than the ocean, Soaked with many days' work but still no bathing. Your chest and face littered with red bumps, the war of acne attacking your face. Hair like that of a mangy dog, Matted, greasy, and seemingly wet. Nay, this hair hasn't been washed in a month. Just thinking of you r