Fake Link One
Fake Link Two
Fake Link Three

Greymatter | Memebot

December 2005

Valid XHTML 1.0!

Friday, December 30th

why we can all go to Hell and I won't give a damn

music: War Nerve by Pantera
mood: whimsical (joking)

So dig, we're all a bunch of rotten bastards when you get right down to it. You can have your noble phiulosophy if you want, but I'll follow the first power-mad motherfucker who comes along and says,
"Let's all go out and kick some ass just for the hell of it." Fuck believing anything.
Most of these philosophies are just there to make us fall in line, and be good little cogs in the grim machinery of progress. Better to rely on enlightened self-interest than some hazy dogma full of sunshine and gumdrops. Too bad the chances of that happening are slim to none. Makes you want to ask the Intelligent Designer to send a big fireball to wipe this whole planet clean.
tommygun on 12.30.05 @ 09:27 AM CST [link] [No Comments]

Wednesday, December 21st

Mulholland Drive (a return)

music: 'Gloria' by The Doors
mood: confused

We were talking about movies, David Lynch, the Frenchman, and I. The topic turned soon to Mr. Lynch's film, "Mulholland Drive".
"You were upset because my picture did not resolve certain plot elements, but much more important was the emotional effect. The images are burned into your brain, and because nothing was resolved, your brain is constantly thinking about what it saw, in order to solve this mystery," was how the Frenchman desribed it.
"Though you now know it was only a TV pilot edited for a motion picture release, your subconscious finds it to be a mystery that must be solved, so you play the movie over in your mind over and over again." That was how Mister Lynch explained it.
"That is why I usurped your will, because your mind has been destoyed by David's masterpiece."
I thought the two made sense, and any arguments I may have made vanished when the Frenchman told me to rip off my shirt, and I savagely did. Then I howled upon his orders, and stood up, visibly excited.
Have I made myself clear?" the Frenchman asked.
"Perfectly clear," I said. There was something strange about the Frenchman, I thought, but I couldn't put my finger on it.
"This llittle queer is such an ass," David Lynch said. I resented that, but impulses to squirm across the floor and rub my genitals overwhelmed any sense I had left.
Just then, Alanidondra walked in.
"I'm too late," she said sadly.
"Hi, Ally," I said, sliding out of my pants as I slithered across the floor, my hand on my cock squeezing tightly. She was ready to cry, but I was more affected by something else. I saw what was different about the Frenchman: his head was on a stick.
"That's strange," I said, but I still obeyed my compulsion.
The Frenchman asked Alanidondra, "Do you still have feelings for this warped, twisted shadow of the man he never dared be?"
"I do," she said. "Tom, stop. He's dead, and you're free."
I didn't stop, and the Frenchman laughed.
"His mind has been destoyed by my movie," David's head boasted. "Such is the power of cinema."
I ejaculated, and rolled in my semen, until it had been equally absorbed by my skin and rubbed into the carpet. She knelt down next to me, and held me close.
"You can still be who you are," she said, then she smacked me over the head with her purse. It must have had a lead weight inside, for I saw a white flash of light, and then all went dark.
tommygun on 12.21.05 @ 07:54 AM CST [more..] [No Comments]

Sunday, December 11th

a phone call in the dark

music: The Sorceror's Apprentice by Dukas
mood: mystifying

I was sitting in the dark. My notebook sat open in front of me, but the sun had set hours ago, and I had not bothered to get up and turn on the light. David Lynch's head was humming a vaguely familiar bit of music, but I couldn't recall its name.
"It's "The Sorceror's Apprentice'," the head told me. I shuddered. Had he said that to show off his taste in music, or could he read my mind? The thought of that dead thing prowling through the deepest recesses of my mind horrified me.
"There's no need to be scared, Tommy."
I pulled on my shirt and cringed. Laughter came from undead lips. Before anything else to destroy my sense of self occurred, the phone rang.
Dead David asked, "Should I get that?"
"Very funny," I said. I reached for the nearby phone.
"Is Tom there?" a female voice asked me.
"This is Tom. May I help you?"
"This is Alanidondra," she answered. I gulped.
"But you were a dream."
"Thank you," she said. "That's the nicest thing anyone ever said to me."
"Would you like to come over?"
"I'm busy tonight. I just called because of that cruel thing the Frenchman did to you. He can be such a bastard."
"He's tempermental."
"Quit being diplomatic. He's a bastard. Say it."
"He's not the worst guy ever. I respect him a great deal." I reached my hand in my shirt, and touched
a nipple. I wanted to agree with her, but I felt as if my words were not my own. "In fact, he's a very important part of my life."
She sighed. "He humiliated you. Now stand up."
I stood.
She chuckled. "Now unzip your pants, and hop around in a circle."
"No," I said. "I refuse." Meanwhile, my zipper went down.
tommygun on 12.11.05 @ 06:10 AM CST [more..] [No Comments]