My writings

[Alexxx]

Hey there. I'm aspiring comics writer/artist (you can look for my art thread in the traditional media section when I get an image scanner) and want to get a good load of practice before I actually put effort towards making my own comics. I'm going to be updating this thread with new entries very frequently, so I thought it best to create a mega-thread for them, instead clogging up the page and pushing other users threads down. I'd love some constructive criticism, and if you're an artist of any kind yourself, feel free to post a link to your stuff so I can return the favor!


Suicidalist
"A live body and a dead body contain the same number of particles. Structurally, there's no discernible difference. Life and Death are unquantifiable abstracts. Why should I be concerned?" - Doctor Manhattan

Suicidalists are the only scumbags on this planet who make any sense. We see the cycle of madness, and have turned heel on it. We don't slave to corporations, distributing the creeds of greed that help them grind the well-being of communities to their liking. We don't excuse our ignorance to this matter by basking in passing fancies: tossing ridiculous values at materalistic garbage, chasing shallow dreams to inflate our fragile egos, crafting sets of personae to gain equally artificial respect from other insecure pansies, or otherwise convincing ourselves of the ludicrous idea that affection is key to existence. This is what you disillusioned assholes have made Life, and Suicidalists have long stopped giving a **** about Life. We can see past the soluted bullshit because we do not carry the fear...The fear that drives you to file your soul inside a company's cabinet, to romanticize chains of events and the resulting interactions, to stupidly attach to the people within them...Suicidalists have long stopped giving a **** about Death.

Non-Suicidalists are convinced that life is an excellent adventure that all potential organisms should have the chance to grab by the balls and experience. A miracle, of sorts. Wrong. Upon arrival, every specimen is fed manufactured ideals and customs, some of which are rooted in the concepts of freedom, as ironic as THAT shit is. Once they've cluttered your guts with their nonsense, you're sent to hang your hopes on the line, fighting for your interpretation of what they've told you a 'lifestyle' should be, only realizing too late once you're crushed, fatigued, in-debt and half-dead that it was never about you or any sorry individual obtaining happiness, but about keeping this cycle of madness going until new cogs are ready to replace you, just as blind to the crud at the end of the rainbow as you were before you stepped in it.

But who better to aid you in this mock journey of enlightenment than your fellow man? They're just cogs in the machine too, so they're on your side, right? Yeah, ****ing right. The conveyor belt of bullshit we call society brews conflict as big as wars and as small as a girl's jealousy over her friend's new boy toy. The creatures next to you are as vile and shiesty as the one in the mirror, hungry for attention and praise, forever willing to spit on your way of life if it means shining their own, or simply disconnecting themselves from your circle once they're no longer entertained by your theatrics, your still-remaining fondness for them be damned. I'm reminded of how parents selfishly live their fantasy lives through their children, and of lovers who can't tell the difference between passion and puppet strings. Neither of these roles play out the way they're scripted to; parents silently resenting you for not transforming into an exaggerated version of themselves, only claiming to respect the 'you' that reality spat out because successful parenting is the final goal they haven't yet failed at, and they would rather die lying to themselves that they've succeeded; lovers allowing petty things such as finances and distance to come between them, running off to bathe in another person's filthy cum if the sweet-nothings sound good enough. Life isn't a bitch. It's a dead whore being gang-****ed in her icy cunt. Not that Suicidalists give a **** about Life, anyways.

And of Death? Death isn't shit. It's empty. The punchline to the joke that is Life. If anything, it is to be respected MORE than it's counterpart, because unlike Life, Death is honest. It doesn't showcase gourmet dinners while a musty bum climbs into a trash bin for scraps outside. It claims to close the curtain on this awful play, and that's exactly what the **** it does. People (non-suicidalists) who've been cocked about for so long cannot fathom this brutal honesty and opt to sink their rotten teeth into yet ANOTHER charade. They trick themselves to believe in 'legacies' and 'fate.' Helpless against Death, these terms tuck the lame ****s into the cycle of madness, for without them, the glaring facts that make Life the idiotic joint-venture it is are exposed. Once you're dead, you do not witness the fruits of the efforts media machines told you were necessary. None of the relationships you thought magical and destined to be amount to anything but a memory. The despicable pleasures and mild grievances you took part in were lost long ago. Any rippling effects you may have made while inside the cycle simply add to the hulking heap of shit this species will accumulate until extinction, and if that specific clump of dung didn't smell like you, it would smell like another being. Death isn't something to fear, or worship, or decorate with overrated achievements. It simply exists to remind you daydreaming shitheads of how much of a waste everything truly is. It's the forced, half-hearted laugh you'd give for a friend at the end of their bad joke. Not that Suicidalists give a **** about Death, anyways.

 

[Alexxx]

Bitches!


1st Bitch! Such vanity. This bitch strutted down the hallways in fanciful manners, displaying not a formal sense of one as she went. You could look at her and tell she calcuated which surronding peers were worth a gaze. Even the girls who stood at her side, luscious as they'd have to be to do so, were treated with remarkable inferiority. No quality they possessed or accessory they brandished could possibly rival her's. In her mind's eye, she epitomized beauty. The horny and dashing boys she allowed to court her were surely reminded of this every second that they were pussy whipped and tethered to her whims. It makes sense then, that someone such as I could never be granted this same servitude. Unattractive and unfashionable, I was to never blimp on this bitch's radar. I was just a member of the audience; another face she figured only useful in raising her self-esteem through desperate gazes. To this bitch, my kind existed only to make hers look better, and that is why she never once returned the many favors I'd given her with a tasteful gaze of her own. I was worthless. A look at me would be eating in a backwater diner; shopping in a used clothing store; living in a low-scale flat. As long as she lived on this Earth, she was to be devoted to everything gorgeous. Beauty was her god, any reflective object, her place of worship. Even now, as she stood in front of me, she twirled and tossled her hair, ignoring the devious man in front of her. As my mind rewinded through the times she'd done this to me, heat pulsated in my eyes. I closed them at first, thinking I'd become teary eyed in my frustration, but no...This was something greater. I could feel my optic nerves igniting, expanding to quarter a strange energy my body was screaming to expel. Almost in knowing, I opened my eyes wide, and a blinding light flashed. Concussive beams shot out of my sockets, hitting her perfectly. I couldn't see what was happening, but I could smell the most ominous odor...Burning flesh. The lasers went as quick as they'd came. I gazed upon the bitch - she lay where she stood, now a scorched skeleton, as if she'd been teleported to and from a furnace in an instant. I'd burned her to a crisp. I walked over to the "body" and stomped on the bones, crushing them to black powder. Such a fitting end for a bitch obsessed with beauty, to die stripped of her looks, as ugly, charred remains.

2nd Bitch! Cold blooded asshole. This bitch lived off of insults. The venomous hatred she spat was like her lifeblood, constantly flowing according to how many people she could put down in a day's work. Ridiculing outcasts for their dull and sexless lives and populars for their silly reliance on social acceptance alike, her harsh words were never without a target. It was pure shock value, and it was the source of her happiness. I especially found myself in her crosshairs often, and what an event she made of our encounters. Like a trained marksman, she hit every flaw with critical accuracy: How I wore the same five outfits for each day of the school week; how I constantly flirted with girls in my classroom to no success; how my face looked as if I hadn't washed it since birth. She dismantled me as harsly and efficiently as she had everyone else. But standing here, in front of her, I see something I hadn't before. I see why she'd given herself with the task of verbally assaulting whoever, whenever. It was out of fear. This bitch was extremely self-conscious. She minded her own imperfections so heavily, she could only think to deflect attention from them by averting it to other people's. She was beating us to the punch. The bully was scared of being bullied. Classic. Smiling maniacally, I clasped my hands together, and focused. The bitch stared at this gesture cynically, likely thinking of a thousand ways to criticize it, but none would ever be vocalized. She suddenly adopted a bewildered expression, looking at her body, wondering what the hell was wrong with it. She then darted her eyes to me, as if I must have the answer. I did. I let the next few seconds speak for me. The bitch gave a horrifying scream as her flesh ripped apart and hazardous amounts of blood exploded from within and gushed in every direction, mimicking the nature of her past insults. My hemokinesis had struck her. When the crimson geyser ended, a pale clump of flesh was left, lying in gallons of blood. In life, the bitch was frightened by what lay inside her, and with death, I'd given her a damn good reaosn to.

3rd Bitch! Christ, what a whore. I've never met a person so in love with sex. A part of me was both sickened and amused at the thought of how she could live with the reputation of being an easily accessible cum dumpster. Dozens of males and females have been with her, and the common critique was that she was a dirty, obsessive freak. There was nothing she wouldn't try, and almost certainly nothing she hadn't. Orgies, snowballing, scat, you name it. This bitch was the most powerful definition of SLUT that I could imagine. Why would anyone associate with her, outside of asking her to fulfill a grossly extravagant sexual fantasy? I could answer that, personally. She was a sweetheart. Aside from being fairly attractive, looking at her was blistful. Talking to her was comforting. Unless you'd heard the rumors and seen the pictures, you'd never guess that there was an outrageous nymphomaniac hiding behind the princess-like exterior. I lived next to her, and too many times for me to count, she'd walked home with me, listening to my problems and giving heaps of advice. I loved her. I wanted to be her boyfriend and show her true passion, that fiending for sex was not necessary. But no. My attempts, plentiful and as romantic as I could muster, were denied. She had tons of boys and girls waiting to please every hole on her body, many of which she'd engage, but somehow I wasn't one of them, despite being the only person who cared for her. When the thought of what I must do hit me, I honestly looked away from her. I could tell she didn't falter. I could feel those angellic eyes still locked on me, sending the waves of kindness that'd made me fall for her. An abundant amount of details circulated around the pantheon of rumors she'd built up over the years. She loved being choked. It excited her, so said the rumor. With a disgusted contempt that I'd never felt for her before, nontheless fueled by my heated passion, I turned toward this oddly lovable bitch and opened my mouth. A long, prehensile tongue portruded from it, extending to the ground and forming a mound. Under my physical control, it unwound itself and rushed to greet the bitch, fiercly wrapping around her neck like a python. Gasping, she looked at me in ghastly fear, surely wanting to ask why. I wish I had the heart to tell her. I'd have screamed it at her. The bitch had no respect for herself. Now, neither did I. I snaked my monstrous tongue into her mouth, clashing with hers in a final, violent kiss goodbye. I forced my tongue down into the esophagus, and then into the saliva-soaked trachea. Immediately, she began to choke ferociously. I continued to penetrate with anger, my tongue receiving infinite amounts of pleasure from the slime. It wasn't long before the glorious sounds of her throttling for air ceased. She stood still, lifeless. I allowed myself a few more moments of this erotic creepiness, then exited my tongue from her throat and uncoiled it from her neck. I walked to her corpse and held it in my arms. I could only hope that the excitement she was said to derive from choking made her death more comfortable.

I do not regret a single thing I've done to these bitches. They deserved their fates, for living as wretched examples of the female species.

****ing bitches.