Amygdalatropolis is a difficult read yet impossible to put down. It’s a fucking car crash, man. […] Everyone is fascinated with the morbid possibilities presented by the deep infiltration of computer technology into our lives and this book is a nauseous meditation on the same. […] Does the anonymity and availability provided by the internet encourage the worst in our natures, or is it just a very clean window?
My eyes, teeth, and genitals are all infected.
I went searching for hauntings in an asshole-breeding town. I sat on a patch of dead grass and drank, watching a section 8 party through the bushes. I walked to a warehouse offering a show for $15 a head.
They gave a choice of box cutter, garrote or hunting knife. I don’t remember putting on the mask.
The others were surprised when I started swinging. They boxed me into a corner with metal and plastic cafeteria chairs. I pushed through and ran up the escalator, bloodied slightly. At the top, they asked me what my OS was but said I could fill it out later, and fed us with a salad bar. No one sat with me but plenty of them stared.
I don’t remember getting home.
Fruit flies lay eggs in my trash, and one will hatch as a wasp. When it’s old enough, it will crawl down my throat as I sleep, burrowing in whatever soft and wet it finds to rest.
Brawler. Make men scream and weep. It’s all you can ever do. 1-4 players.
I keep getting calls from people I can’t recognize. I guess it’s the same for everyone. Someday they’ll be inside my house, and I won’t be able to stop whatever they do.
There is always another staircase; another void-drenched catwalk. The monsters with your friends’ faces and bodies turned inside out. You have all the guns you’d ever want, but you’ll never see home again.
Some believe the future is a single infinite scroll recording all who aren’t dead or will be. A merciless but perfect sort of sense, because they’ve only known others’ wraiths and little of what’s already occurred. But the truth is even they aren’t there, nor the scroll, though it still makes a perfect sort of sense, when the Earth becomes just the same as any other planet.
Rotoscoped lightgun thriller. Purge the slums of watery, small-eyed Dough Faces. The sun forever in hazy orange and purple twilight. A blue gun and a pink gun. Player 1 is a bargain bin Robert Deniro; Player 2, a Robert Downey Jr.
I’m beginning to reek. Not beginning–I’ve reeked the past several months. I barely leave the house anymore, so I only shower once a week or less. I speak so infrequently that when I do, it comes out as a raw, scraping croak.
If I go out to a show or movie, I need to wash my crewneck and hoodie and jeans two or three times, the reek has permeated them so completely.
I think it’s because of the Adderall but my buddy doesn’t believe so. He says we reek because of the mite-shit in our pubes, and Adderall wouldn’t create more mite-shit. He uses a special soap that kills the mites so that he won’t reek anymore. He offers me some, but I reject it. I’ve reeked so long I worry I might miss it.