Unsorted Shit 3

Type B/C/E post.

_______________________

"INSANITY! INSANITY! YOU HEAR THAT? INSANITY!"

"Boooo. Get him the fuck out of here.
He's useless."

"SOMETHING, THE MONKEY! THE SOMETHING! THE MONKEY!
SOMETHING, THE MONKEY!
OoooooooooooooooooooooooHA!"

"Nya."

"Something of other is making me sick.
Please help me.
Maybe sometime I might add.
I dunno.
Sad, really.
'Cause I don't care.
No I don't care.
Oh no I don't care.
No no I don't
Caaaaaaaaaaaare."

"Monkey, I have something to tell you.
I'm sick.
Please help me get laid.
Now.
Oh, and get me another sammich. You make good sammiches, you know that?
That's a good monkey."

"Maybe I don't know.
But I'm much better off not knowing.
Helps bring the pain easier.
Or maybe I'm just jealous.
Of something.
Like a light bulb.
Shining ever so brightly.
Oh god I'm being corny again.
Gotta stop that.
Wait, "cliche" or "corny"?
What was the right word I wonder."

"Maybe I'm a sea lion.
Maybe I dunno.
Something like that."

"'Course I always know.
You're a maneater.
Maneaters know.
And I'm insane.
Insane people know.
We all know.
We just deny knowing.
It's our job.'
'To be assholes?'
'Of course.'"

"Mama don't know bout me no mo.
It waddun 'er fault.
She nice.
Mama always nice.
She just don't know.
Sad, too.
Would like to tell 'er.
Course I'm too fraid dat she don't be nice no mo.
Happened a couple of times.
Waddun pretty.
Dought she might kill me.
Never said so of course.
She a nice person.
She always a nice person.
She don't know bout me dough.
Don't know bout me at all.
...
Poor thing.
Wanna help her.
Too busy fallin apart though.
Myself I mean.
But I wanna help.
Mama even tells me to help, and asks me why I don't.
Mama don't know bout me dough.
Not no mo at least."

"Whatcha doin there, bro?
Gettin high?
Got the eyes of a stoner.
Got the attitude of a stoner.
Hell, you got the overall look and feel of a stoner.
You even talk like one.
Whazzat? You're not high?
Don't lie to me bro.
Of course you're high.
You're in your house all day, doin' nuthin.
You don't aspire to nuthin. (see? I'm educated)
You just sit there with that look on your face and those red eyes.
Whazzat? ... DEPRESSION?
Ho boy, where to start with that bullshit.
That's right, it's bullshit.
No self-respectin' man ever gets depressed.
That's why they're men.
So take it like a REAL man for one.
You're not some kind of woman who just sits there and complains all day, are you?
...WHAT?! 'SEXIST BULLCRAP'?!
Don't you fucking DARE talk to me like that again boy, do you hear me?!
Now get off that fuckin chair and be a man.
Work your ass off.
That's what real men do.
They WORK.
Of course, you're just some stoner slacker.
You know what? I'm leavin'.
I'll leave you and your stoner computer to yourselves.
See if you two make out or somethin'.
That computer of yours'll probably be the closest thing to a girlfriend you'll ever have anyway."

"Look, sometimes I think.
Other times I think too much.
Then there are times where if I think too much,
I'll just explode.
That's when I start to write blog posts.
Worst-case scenario, the flood of thought is too much.
Even for a regular blog post.
Hence, Unsorted Shit was born."