Journal TiggertheMad's Journal: HST
Recently, I was looking over my profile, and sweet Jeesus, there are a bunch of poor, twisted bastards who have decided to mark themselves as 'fans'. It takes a total speed freak strung out on gin and mescaline to do something that sick. 'What the hell', I though, 'With that emotionally stunted man-child that is rocketing the country into the ground with gleeful abandon, why not just grab tight, and enjoy the ride?' The pigfuckers are going to blow out everything in a single, mad two term orgy, so why not just acid up your brain, and watch the dementation? Why not mark yourself as a fan of some twisted geek who calls himself 'TiggertheMad'? Damn the torpedos, and fire away, Gridly. Give me another bag of blow, call some hookers, and put it all on my credit card.
Eventually I sobered up, and just decided to ditch town before the grease weasles realized that there was no way I could pay my rapidly growing Internet bill. It had been swelling, like some sort of mold festering on the corpse of Nixon. (Pure hyperboyle of course, mold knows it's to good for the corpse of Nixon.)
To many nights of EQ, mob grinding, spawn camping, and PKing. Jesus, it felt like I was covering the Republican convention again. I had to blow out, to hit the road in a fast car. I needed a 3000 pound detroit bullet to put somemiles between me and this fucked up scene. But I'd come back, I always did.
Something felt different, though. The desert air was ripe with the same thick, rancid scent of diesel and there was the familiar crazed laughter in my ear as my roommate cybered on his AOL account and popped more of those strange brain bending little red pills. But this time, the air was a little thinner, the sky was a bit more pale, like a faded photograph. It felt like something was missing from the American dream. Perhaps not any tangable element, but some background noise that you only miss once it is taken away. I could almost imagine hearing the furious scratching of a mad pen fading into the roar of the wind.
RIP HST, you crazy bastard.
Eventually I sobered up, and just decided to ditch town before the grease weasles realized that there was no way I could pay my rapidly growing Internet bill. It had been swelling, like some sort of mold festering on the corpse of Nixon. (Pure hyperboyle of course, mold knows it's to good for the corpse of Nixon.)
To many nights of EQ, mob grinding, spawn camping, and PKing. Jesus, it felt like I was covering the Republican convention again. I had to blow out, to hit the road in a fast car. I needed a 3000 pound detroit bullet to put somemiles between me and this fucked up scene. But I'd come back, I always did.
Something felt different, though. The desert air was ripe with the same thick, rancid scent of diesel and there was the familiar crazed laughter in my ear as my roommate cybered on his AOL account and popped more of those strange brain bending little red pills. But this time, the air was a little thinner, the sky was a bit more pale, like a faded photograph. It felt like something was missing from the American dream. Perhaps not any tangable element, but some background noise that you only miss once it is taken away. I could almost imagine hearing the furious scratching of a mad pen fading into the roar of the wind.
RIP HST, you crazy bastard.
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