:: Empty dead babies; searchlights on. ::

:: Tuesday, April 23, 2002 ::

Don't expect me to ask for your number. I'm playing some higher level games that I have to negotiate by myself, and I realize the future implications of that action. This war between the sexes is killing us all.
:: OwenF 6:42 PM [+] ::
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It seems that I've managed to piss the freemasons off again. Someone spray-painted an illuminati pyramid on my land rover, and the other day I found a square and compasis tatooed on my cat's ass. And someone burned my aunt's house down, but we think she might have done it for the insurance money.
:: OwenF 7:22 PM [+] ::
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I was languishing in cental park, baking my brains by staring at the sun, when a call came through on the CB radio. It was someone identifying himself as "Gabriel the Wonder Chicken," and he was imploring me to throw myself in the east river. I tried to, but bounced off. Apparently some joker had blown up a horse-hoof rendering plant somewhere upstream of me, and the whole river had been neer-plasticized.
:: OwenF 7:18 PM [+] ::
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I was standing outside the vivisection cafe. Nameless assholes glided by on teflon coated alabaster wings. Across the street, a homeless man played go with an othadox jew. I watched for a while, my lymph nodes tingling with sweet anticipation of the impending cholesterol injection.

I kicked the door of the cafe at waist height, running foreward, and tucked myself into a fetal ball, rolling in the air. Landing with a thump on the linoleum flooring, I reached through a momentary temporal distortion into my living room and grabbed the one of the various handguns strewn about the coffee table. "Eggs!" I screamed, haphazardly blasting blistering lead projectiles into the slightly astonished noonday crowd. "Bacon! Hash Browns! Black Coffee!" The magazine spent, I grabbed a whimpering bus boy and bloodied his nose with a quck pistolwhip. "Coffee, you faggot!" Disgusted with his incompetence I hurled him over the cheap formica countertop into the shelves of half-empty liquor bottles.

Just then, my cell phone went off.

Giving the crowd a 360-degree evil eye to keep them placated, I answered the phone. It was my campaign advisor. Aparently we'd taken the Hatsfield's Landing primary by a factor of two. It seemed my ploy of murdering the electorate then buying all their houses and giving them as tax-free residences to members of my campaign team had paid off. I had already won the media election. How hard could the real one be?

:: OwenF 7:13 PM [+] ::
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This is a test message. Harbringer of change in the digital world. Welcome to a new, empty millenium. Remember that the only fruit of existance is death.

:: OwenF 6:55 PM [+] ::
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Test
:: OwenF 6:51 PM [+] ::
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