(by Hailey)

You know I think? I think…Death. I think Im a little on the left-of-center side of life. You may have not noticed this, but I stabbed a guy with a pencil. Or pen. What was it again? Something. I also witnessed some pretty damn things over the past two years. Violence, and cold ramen soup and waaaay too much blood.

But you know what? It was really fun. It was a learning experience. Never fear death, for it is but another step of the universe. Johnny said that once with a mouthful of banana, covered in various bodily fluids. I wanted to inform him that his viewpoint on life is bullshit, and everything he does is bullshit, and that he is, in fact, a big ole steamin' pile of…you guessed it. Crap.

But you know you do stupid things when you're…like…when you know people who can kill you for calling them names. Like little babies with machine guns, almost.

But really…how would you react to that type of stuff? What would you say to placate a hyped up maniac with a ichy trigger finger (or stabby hand)? What would you do when you know he's thisclose to gutting you just for the sake of making his own pitiful life seem as though he was doing something productive? How would you tell him he's crap?

You don't. Not unless you are suicidal and a masochist at the same time. Not unless you had nothing to lose. Not unless he were Johnny and you were Hailey and damnit, you just don't know how to act anymore!

Jeeze people.


(By Johnny)

I bet she thought is sooo easy living like this. Like its perfectly fine to know that you were some hideous monster from a Tim Burton movie, except the blood is real and the acting is good. That you just got up every morning and said to yourself, "hey, Im fucked up and I love it! Whoo hoo lets go kill something!"

Nope. Not how it works at all.

Im not justifying myself anymore. Im not going to tell you I do it because I hurt on the inside (boofuckinhoo) and I wanna kill the bad people. Bullshit.

I do it because it familiar. Because why paint angsty crap on canvas when I can do it with a sharp object and your filthy, stinking, putrid skin and bones and blood and sinews and eyes, and vitreous humors, and tendons and ligaments, your lungs, heart, pancreas, liver, and spleen? You think that compares?

I'm like Ed Gien. He made a belt out of nipples, you know. He made a chair, a fuckin armchair, out of skin. I don't do that, do I, though? I don't get all trilled and go jerk off into my pile of dead bodies. Not my bag, baby.

I do it because I don't remember shit before all this. Because I know, at some fuckin point in time 20 years back, that I was a little kid. That I built things out of legos. That I thought girls were icky and had cooties.

I do it because I can. I do it because you can't fuckin stop me. I do it because I know that you would never care about the scrawny little freak unless he was the last thing you saw before he pulled out your eyes balls and fed you them. One. By. One.


Hi guys. I wrote this one night while bored. I was listening to "Dairy of Jane" by breaking benjamin, btw, if you care.

Its short and bleh, but i want to write Johnny, and try to make it more or less, believable. Leave me feed back on if I accomplished that.