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The Egg
Inside the Egg

All people added who add me.
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I let it go.
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I write in here because my mind overfills and it gets tired of recycling idea after idea. This is not a place to assume. Or maybe it is. You look at me, my writing--it's all there is of me, and say it's you. Ego ego ego. Ergo, ego. And it is you. All of this is. It's not me. I only write when I'm too tired for it. And what comes out is the world's energy. I've no inhibitions. I wish you'd tell me who I am. I lose my body in the quicksand. I think it's yours. It has your name on it.

No, this isn't about anyone. This isn't your pen. You didn't drop this anywhere. This is me. It's like taking the bible pointing out ways to make people feel guilty for being themselves. I've no right to write about you. I don't know you. You don't know me.

I like to be overly poetic and metaphorical and make people feel dumb.

Disclaimer: You aren't dumb--I'm just bloated with symbolism. You aren't not getting it, I'm just not transmitting it.

I want to be unique.
I want to be superior.
I want to be someone who gave it all.
I want to be someone who made it seem effortless.
I want to be thought of with a smile.
I want to be powerful by being powerless.
I want to go to North Carolina to be with my friends.
I want to skip graduation to do so.
I want to ask if I can take the finals early to do so.
I want to ask for the black marked day off of work on sunday to do so.

I don't have the money to buy a hotel room for a week.
I won't be able to stay with Jessica.
I could sleep in my car.
It's not that uncomfortable.
It might even be exciting
To park it
Outside of an abandoned store
And lock my doors
And cover my body with blankets
And go to sleep.

Mom would never go for it.
Neither would Jess.
Neither would Jem.
And I would be a third wheel.

I would be a horrid third wheel.

I would just be there. Sometimes.

And then I would be in my car wrapped up in blankets.

I love pity.
I love telling people they have to love me.
I throw around my weight.
I throw around my cute.
I'm a fake, sometimes.

I think I just got a papercut in my heart.
Eat a Hershey bar.
Don't mind her, she's just passing through.

Passing thought.

Yes, she still exists.

Breathing in and out quite regularly.

Her O and J are awol, sitting in a plastic baggy while the rest of the letters, numerals, and gramatical symbols glare at them from their spaces.

She scratched her keyboard and OJ fell off. They refuse to reunite.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

It's what you do when something/one itches and you can't find relief.

They told her no, you cannot go. NC no. You have a life.

So much importance doesn't belong in sets of two


She thinks too much.

She doesn't drink that much.

She listens to that song too much.

Too much.

Band. Plays. Now.

Chor. Us. Ends.

It's too hard to press the o

When it's nonexistant.

Sleeping is f0r th0se wh0 live.

Eat a Hershey bar.
You Are a Chocolate Martini

You're an elegant drunk, who only likes the best bars and the most expensive drinks.
A bit of a cheapskate, you're likely to mooch ten dollar drinks off both friends and strangers.

You should never: Drink and dash. You're gonna get caught leaving someone with the tab!

Your ideal party: A posh celebrity party you crash, with an open bar.

Your drinking soulmates: those with a Classic Martini personality

Your drinking rivals: those with a Blueberry Martini personality
Eat a Hershey bar.
Today my arm rebelled against me with gusto. A few days ago I was lifted a box of, of all things, paperclips. Yeah, those bent pieces of wire that keeps your precious paper comodaties together. It was pride, really. I hefted those boxes like I was friggin' Hulk. And yesterday the hulk didn't have nothin' on my pain. And now? With icy hot smeared on my upper arm, I'm in more pain than yesterday.

I refuse refuse to take pain pills. Until my arm falls off.

I can't even eat fucking cereal.



Stretching didn't help. Stretching really didn't help.



Next friend.

Emotional Forcast: uncomfortable uncomfortable

2 product placements or Eat a Hershey bar.
Icy Hot did nothing for my arm but make it smell like cough drops and make it really cold.


I should have gotten the tiger balm.
1 product placement or Eat a Hershey bar.
Today I got annoyed with the abundance of wallowing fools in my life.

I wish I could just give everyone a hit of ecstacy and be done with it.

Get high with a little help from my friends.

Get by with a little help from my friends.




p.s. Ben, you rock.

Next friend.

Emotional Forcast: blah blah

Eat a Hershey bar.
Let's Kiss: an invitation for a kiss. Perhaps the candy more than the actual physical act especially if you recieve this in third grade. In the case that you're speaking of the candy then, most probably, they mean to say that the two of you should both temporarily transmutate into a Hershey (tm) Kiss. Unsure wether foil is needed or not.

Marry Me: Don't. It's just a fucking candy. For the love of God. Unless there's an expensive ring surrounding it. And even then, second guess. Especially if the print is off-center.

Get Real: Stop being imaginary. Become more coporal. Work on actuality in existence instead of just pretending you exist. Or, slang-I'm totally not into you so much so that I'm using a lame piece of shit candy to tell you.

Go Girl: Move foreward, female person. Resume, vagina-ed individual. Or, slang-I'm not hip, but my candy is.

Cutie Pie: Beware of this one, you might get eaten. Or pinched.

Only you: You are the only one who had recieved this candy along with a dozen more people who recieved it from the same box. Or, don't worry, I'll kill everyone else.

Love me: Not the candy, the person who gave it to you.

You & Me: We should totally get an ampersand and stand around it one day.

Dream: It's the first one I pulled out of the box. And it was peptol bismal pink. Or, a secret message telling you that you've been asleep your entire life and when you wake up you'll find that you're an overweight forty year old man in a coma--unless you're already an overweight forty year old man (sans coma). Then you'll find out that you're a supermodel in a coma.

Got Love: Lame attempt to be hip using a previously famous catch phrase. e.g. Got Milk? Except in this case it's a statement. The candy heart is stating that it has finally found love. Don't eat it, you meanie.

Page me: Ditch attempt in updating. No one has a pager now. Get with the fucking times. Also, if you recieve this you are not loved, especially if it's white. You just asked for a heart or looked pitiful enough to get one. Hush up and chew, ya bum.

Dream team: Variation on "Dream." This, in fact, is a call to all the other dream related hearts to beat your small intestines to a pulp. What this has to do with dreams, I don't know. If you get this heart they were trying to find one that fit you but, really, there isn't a "Douchebag" heart. It started with a D...

I (heart) you: Careful with this one. The person giving this is lible to tear their own heart out of their chest and pelt you with it. And/or, the rest of their little, hard, chalky candy hearts. Whichever is more achievable at the moment.

Be mine: An invitation to slavery.

--Me: It's either misprinted or your friend has turned into a small pink candy heart.

So fine: As apposed to "so moderate" or "so acceptable." Fine is passable. But being so fine might mean that you are "good" status.

Some: They are disappointed that you only give them some...

For you: But if you give it to someone else it will be for them, but the words won't change. This heart is a skank.

(heart) of gold: It's not. Pawn shops won't accept it as gold. Trust me.

Be true: Or, a unpopular alternative-"Don't be not true."

Be my hero: That's a little demanding, don't you think? Was it Zoe on Serenity who said, "You know who a hero is? Someone who gets people killed." Now, "be my geek" I could do.

Fax me: I've tried it. Faxing a candy heart is almost as impossible as pawning one off for gold.

Love her: Who? Her. Who? HER! Oh.

IM me: Either a call to instant message you or stating that the heart is actually sentient, "I'm me"

Magic: It's not.

All star: A heart with an identity crisis.

One kiss: Low expectations.

Wise up: Another cheap way to say "I hate you."

Whiz kid: Bladder control issues.

Sweet talk: Stupid pun.

Be Good: But not great.

Love you: Please masturbate regularly.

Ask me: It's four.

Ura Star: I don't know who she is either.
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Am I supposed to read it?
Or read it and pretend I didn't?
Or not read it and pretend I did?



p.s. I don't laugh. Am I supposed to?

p.p.s. I don't chortle either.

p.p.p.s. I do sometimes cock my head. Is that okay?
1 product placement or Eat a Hershey bar.