NOTES OF NOTE: Okay. I've wanted to do one of these and I've not wanted to do one of these. I've pretty much wavered on that. I like the idea, but part of me was all, "you'll never be able to do it!" and part of me was all, "do it! Do it!" and part of me was all, "why are you talking to yourself?" But I decided I would do it! Because I am a sneaky sneaky copier of people so I will steal this all sneakily and twirl my fake curly mustache. Sorry about copying everybody… but that's the point of this thing, right? Yeah. Anyway, and I would write about Murderface. Because I love the hell out of that bastard.

I guess you're supposed to put the instructions. So you put on your music thingy on shuffle and then you write little ones for the songs and you can only write as long as the song goes on and you can't cheat or anything. Except when you do. But I didn't. Anyways, because all my music died with my hard drive, I used what's on my iPod. So let's do this thing. I'm sure they will be mediocre at best. That's okay. I don't give a flying candiru.

Pet Shop Boys—Did You See Me Coming?

"Jeez! Shorry!" Murderface said when the woman slapped him. It wasn't his fault. Her boobs were out. What the hell was he supposed to do? It was pretty obvious. If your boobs are sticking out of your shirt like that, you get groped. Obviously. He shrugged. Oh well. He was Murderface; he did what he want.

She should have saw that one coming. He folded his arms and walked away. Stupid women. Never let him do anything.

He'd like one who actually appreciated him. Who wouldn't mind the groping and the sex jokes and everything. Someone who understood. Someone who'd, well, see the obvious.

Yeah, like that was going to happen.

Information Society—A Knife And A Fork

"Kidsh!" Murderface yelled. "There'sh a bunch of kidsh around here! What the fuck?" He pushed past a group of children to get to Charles. "Robot! What'sh with the kidsh?" he asked.

"Seems to have been a mix-up," Charles said. "Field trip. They were going to the museum and ended up here."

A bunch of kids started running around Murderface, chanting some inane rhyme about New York that didn't even make any sense. It was really pissing him off.

"Well, get rid of 'em, robot!" he said.

"Uh… we can't," Charles said. "The teacher's… uh… dead."

"Shit," Murderface said.

And One—Blue Monday (Live)

Nobody liked Murderface. That much was painfully obvious.

Sometimes it even got to him. Sometimes. He tried not to let shit get to him. He was Murderface, after all. He was a dick. When you were a dick, you couldn't be sad. Shit didn't work like that.

Sometimes, though, he wished that everyone else knew what it was like to be him. To have everyone out to get you. To have people hate you, just because you weren't a pretty boy like everyone else. Just because you had an awesome 'stache. After all, that had to be one of the reasons, right? His facial hair? Sure.

But it wasn't right for everyone to hate him. He wasn't that bad, was he? No, he wasn't. Everybody else did shit, too. It wasn't just him. It was everyone. Everyone.

He wondered what it felt like, to torture him like that.

It was probably brutal.

Hype—Given

Life was like a big roller coaster, practically. Whenever something good happened to him (which was rather rare) something bad was waiting (which was practically all the time).

So he'd take it as it happened. It was given. The good, the shit. The mostly shit.

Why did it have to be mostly shit?

He should have had some good stuff happen.

Maybe he'd get a girlfriend. That'd be nice.

Yeah, and then she'd end up going off with Skwisgaar and having his kids or something. Of course.

Zeromancer— Something For The Pain

Pain needed more pain. He wasn't sure why that was, but that was how things seemed to work for him. If shit was going, well, shitty, he'd end up stabbing himself or something and it somehow helped. That wasn't right.

It wouldn't ever completely go away, no matter what he'd tried. It wasn't physical pain, so there wasn't anything he could do on that front. Psychological pain was much worse. It couldn't be fixed in a usual way.

That was probably why he'd turned to his… well, "alternative" methods of painkilling. If the physical pain was greater than the psychological pain, it would cancel out and he'd feel better. Because there was no way it was going away on its own.

Oh, who was he kidding. He was messed up.

Polysics—Baby BIAS (okay, this is silly, but it's a fun dancey tune and I have no idea what they're saying so yeah!)

It was dark; nobody was around. He looked around and saw nobody, so he decided he was safe.

As quietly as possible, he turned on the machine, hoping nobody would hear it.

He grinned as the lights turned on and the music started playing. He was sure he'd never hear the end of it if the guys knew, but at times like these he didn't care.

It was time to dance.