(English, Spanish, Italian, German)

The pages

Manipulating the mass drug and mass murder.

Millionaires have monopolized hysteria and manual slaughter

Let them eat artificial medicine snacks, make them satisfy.

Has there ever been a real reason to take all these capsules?

Addiction is mentally created by becoming monsters.

The system is only activated to monitor dollars.

Then a million monsters decide for a moment.

Maybe they can cause metamorphosis.

They are likely to make some mistakes

It's the same place they are.

-----

(English, Icelandic, Chinese, Swahili, Haitian Creole, Latin, English)

Columns

Treating Drug and Mass Murderers

Men kill millions, and the monsterised monsterized Mouth,

it was treated mixture makes him suspect.

There are real reasons to take the pills?

Urging them to include change of the monsters.

That does not display the reason for the screens USD.

Hence, we have the whole set up of thousands of monsters, so that we may do the same. Maybe changed image.

It could be that many more mistakes; There fell.

I

am no saint.

But my sins destroy me.

I

have done wrong.

But my rights are selfless.

I

am not perfect.

But my judgement is withheld.

I

walk a fine line.

Between moral righteousness

and self-hatred.

I

define

and redefine

myself.

I

burn that which no longer serves me.

Onewards, upwards

Through a spiral of ashes.

There was a chance, they said. She could pull through, they said. Isn’t that what doctors always say to the family of dying patients? To be honest, I had half a mind to believe them until they said, “She seems like a fighter. The rest is up to her now.”

Mira was never a fighter in any sense. Violent video games gave her anxiety, depression whispered in her ear. She’d lost her youthful looks in her early 20’s, sprouting white streaks throughout her brown hair. It was stress. Her passion for like completely vanished not long after.

She wasn’t the type to slit her wrists. The pain would be unbearable. She was weak in most aspects and would have fainted the moment blood broke the surface. One more thing she would have failed at…

Pills had always seemed like a good option. I think that’s common for women. Mira didn’t know anyone with those kind of pills though. She’d managed to get her hands on three OxyContin once. Knowing it wasn’t a lethal amount she swallowed the with vodka, thinking she’d finish off the bottle and be done with it. I don’t know if that would have worked, but she only drank a few shots worth of the stuff before she passed out.

It was a desperate attempt to concoct a lethal elixir. She was knocked out, dead to the world for an entire day, but she still woke up feeling like even worse physical, mental, and emotional shit. She assured me she wouldn’t try it again. Unless she had a whole bottle of pills…and maybe drank some liquor first.

Despite her suicide attempt, and her lifelong battle with suicidal thoughts and depression, I sat in the special waiting room- that one for families to mourn the inevitable in private- unable to believe she’d done this to herself. Even though it seemed possible, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was…off. I kept quiet. My mom was in enough pain. Sixteen hours after being rushed into emergency surgery, my sister’s fight was finally over.

I watched a darkness fall over my mother’s face as she leaned in close to my sister. My heart broke, my mother was inconsolable. There were tubes of all kinds attached to my sister’s lifeless body, but my mom disregarded all the equipment to hold sweet Mira one last time. My sweet, gentle sister…

Mira wanted to die. The sense of relief I felt left bitterness in the back of my throat. That feeling of relief was hers, not mine. She could not find peace or happiness in her own life. Although I could have been angry, I couldn’t hold this against her. I accepted that death was her way of finding that which had alluded her in life.

Unwanted thoughts flooded me despite my empathy to her plight. Tears swelled in my eyes each time I thought about how scared and hopeless she must have felt before her body met the street, below her second story apartment.

The day of my sister’s funeral I could not control my tears. I wanted to be strong. Mira always admired my composure. I was supposed to be the strong one for my sister, my mother, for everyone to see. That’s what I’ve always done. Not that day.

I approached the casket. Thick, bitter guilt rose as bile in my throat again. The lavender shirt with delicate, lacey long sleeves and black dress pants had been my choice. The mortician did a good job covering the small cuts and bruising on her face and neck. The back of my sister’s skull had been shattered but somehow her face hadn’t been. To the other mourners, she must have looked beautiful, and she did. But I could tell there had been damage to her bone structure by the way her head laid against the pillow. Surely our mother could, too. This turned my stomach and I had to look away.

I stood over her, forced myself to look at her lying in the white satin of the casket. Suddenly I was taken back to a certain memory from our childhood. My sister and I playing a tag version of hide and seek in the field behind our grandparents’ house, where we spent every summer vacation. We were always warned not to go under the pines because they were infested with ticks, but being extremely competitive, I often hid there knowing Mira would give up and declare me the winner. That summer when we turned twelve, I snuck into the trees and waited for Mira. I won the title of Champion for the day, but my victory came with a price. A tick found its way onto my face and embedded itself to the underside of my jaw. Grandma heated up her best sewing needle and pried the thing’s mouth from my skin. A small price to pay to keep my winning streak alive.

Mira was appalled by the whole ordeal. I was scared when Grandma came at me with that needle, but I tried to hide it. Otherwise, Mira might never play outside with me again. I was strong and claimed the pin prick burn scar of Grandma’s needle was my champion battle scar. Mira wasn’t tough or adventurous enough to get many lasting scars, and yet…

As I laid my head on her chest and draped my arms over her to hug her one last time, I saw on her face that tiny scar left by grandma’s needle. Faint as it was, I saw it through watery eyes. It was no coincidence my sister had this same scar.

I knew Mira had mental issues, I just never understood how bad things truly were. My mother had barely spoken to me since the day Mira died. I thought I understood. Looking into the casket was like looking at a lifeless reflection of myself. But I couldn’t blame my mother if she never spoke to me again.

@wabisabi

#dissociation

Death is only a concern for the living and it feels like loneliness and abandonment. People always fade away from my life, even the ones who would never abandon me in life leave in death. Death right now, for me, is every text I receive at work or at home. With my grandma being in the horrible shape she is, and her sister up in Wisconson, taking care of her...I get an update here and there. The last one described how my grandmother’s lungs are full of fluid, the cancerous spots were revealed to have doubled in size, according to the latest CT scan, and the medicine that’s supposed to encourage her appetite might be working, but the other treatments cause a weakening of the muscles, including the ones used to swallow. Even if she wants to eat, it’s damn near impossible.

Death looks like a nauseating train ride straight through hell that will never pull back in to the station, so you figure you’ll jump off sometime and be okay. Then one day it dawns on you that you left your favorite jacket on the train and it’s never coming back. The one jacket in the world that made you feel warm on the coldest days, brought out the color of your eyes, and comforted you more than anything else in the world ever could. That jacket. But when it’s gone, there is nothing like it. But clothing comes and goes, sometimes we outgrow it and still keep it around. Sometimes it’s too big and we have to grow into it to see how well it really fits. Sometimes you lose the person... I mean, the jacket...you are most fond of in the entire world. The jacket you turn to, to hide you from the world and protect you from anything that could ever hurt you or bring you down.

Death just fucking sucks and it looks like a wellworn jacket abandoned on a train seat, but you move on and continue being good to yourself. That’s all there is.

And all there will ever be.

I miss you.

I haven’t seen you in years.

But I still miss you,

Sometimes I still feel the tears.

I miss you,

Because you set me on fire.

You weren’t perfect,

But I was a liar.

I miss you,

Even though our memories are faded in my mind,

I miss the way you made me feel,

And I miss how badly I wanted you to be mine.

I miss the passion and...

When I type that last line into my phone,

I miss the passion and-(your name is the first autofill option).

It's poetic almost but seems cruel,

How badly I still miss you,

That fire you sparked is all but dead,

Sometimes I swear I can feel you,

And I swear I can hear you in my head,

Whispering back, I miss you too.

Before I ever saw him, I anxiously asked the doctor if he had all his fingers, toes, and...parts. The doctor confirms all is intact and as it should be.

And I wonder, is he cute? But I keep that to myself. I don't even remember hearing him cry, like a lot of people do. What I do remember is someone bringing him towards me. It could have been anyone at that point. I only had eyes for him. As the person lifts him up, I notice he has an extremely pointy head.

I can't help but laugh a little and say out loud something about an alien head. I didn't mind at all. It was the cutest cone head I ever saw!

And he was very tiny to me, but average size for being brand new! I was scared because he was so fragile, yet I was not scared at all. I already knew I could never let any harm come to him, and I've been making sure of it ever since.

Wake up, finally- after all the alarms have been sent to snooze at least once.

5:41 am: Cutting it close, gotta be there by 6 am. New hair cut, it’s short now. Almost short enough to wear down, but I think I still have to put it up. Food service and all. Damn, it’s like... really short. The ponytail is real awkward too, but oh well. I’ll make it work.

6:01 am: Coworker is calling to see if I’m coming. Yes, I’m on my way! I reply quickly, about to grab my shoes and purse. I left my car keys in my purse last night for the distinct purpose of NOT having to search for them. I have already noticed my boyfriend isn’t in bed. His buddy was here last night, they always stay up late. Hopefully he’s not still up! He’s going to need some sleep. Our son will be up in a few hours. I don’t see him on the couch, maybe the spare room?

6:04 am: I’m confused, kinda concerned, kinda pissed. I open the front door to look outside. My car is gone. His car is a piece of crap, so it makes sense he used it to take his friend home. As usual, all the time, without ever getting gas money. Which is fine and all, except it’s my money in the gas tank, my car that should be in the driveway. Now this is a real problem...

6:07 am: After getting no answer from the boyfriend’s phone, I call my manager to explain this stupid and bizarre situation. Apologizing and frustrated, excessively no avail. I’m calling and texting the friend, also nothing.

Between 6:08 am and around 7:30 am: I call the county jail, and the neighboring county just to check. I call the non-emergency police line for my city, which tells me no accident reports have been reported with names or vehicles matching my description. The neighboring county doesn’t give me any word on accident reports and the lady sounded like a bitch. Maybe it’s just me.

Finally around 7:30 am, I get a phone call from the missing boyfriend. He was so incredibly tired he was falling asleep on the way to the friend’s house! Mind you it’s like a 12 minute or less drive with no traffic in the wee morning hours. So instead of just, you know, surviving the arduous journey home, he decided to “sleep for just a minute” in the friend’s driveway. Did you? Was that your best solution? And you’re upset or offended that I suggested you better be in the hospital or in jail, otherwise there’s no excuse for this shit?

I’m sorry, I’ve been offered an assistant manager position, which includes a $2 or more raise, and I have to work on my attendance in order to get the promotion. I’m often a few minutes late, but that’s on me. Now, I’m almost 2 hours late because you slept in a fucking driveway, knowing full well you either a. Didn’t set an alarm or b. Wouldn’t wake up to an alarm anyways. And then when you get home I’m just so unmotivated I sit around for another 15 minutes or so wondering if I should even go in at all, but knowing full well that I will. I've never called off a whole day in two years. Plus I'm a closer so someone will get screwed over if I don't show.

Around 8 am: I rush myself through the doors, back to the office, and bitch about it to my manager, but I apologize first.

The rest of the day goes smooth enough, but there's that tiny voice piping up now and then. Can I even believe that shit? I mean...I cant even believe it, like how...seriously lame...can you be!

But also, he's lied his actual face off so many times. Is it necessarily a bad thing that I'm almost numb to this shit? Not quite, but almost.

The overflowing sink full of dishes that he vowed to do today only adds insult to injury. Carpe fuckin diem.

A doe walks out of the woods and says, "That's the last time I do that for two bucks!"

A dung beetle walks into a bar and says, "Is this stool taken?"

What's a pirate's favorite letter?

--Rrrr?

No, it's the sea!

A mommy shark and baby shark see a man drowning in the ocean. The baby shark asks his mom, "Why didn't the lifeguard save that hippie, Mom?"

"Because...he was too far out." :D

All the jokes about the guy with no arms and no legs...

Ex: What do you call a guy with no arms and no legs....

-in the mail box? Bill.

-in the ocean? Bob.

--by the sink? Don (dawn).

-in a pile of leaves? Russell.

-on the front porch? Matt.

My litter sister clutched my arm, refusing to let go. She was trembling, terrified, but so was I.

“Let go, Sky! I have to close this!”

I jerked my arm away, locking the heavy, bulletproof door. For a second, I felt safe in the dimly lit bunker. I collapsed against the door. Sky dropped into my lap, struggling to breathe. Everything down here was meticulously organized and labelled, making an inhaler easy to find once I opened the medical closet with a tiny key obtained from neatly labeled hooks.

They said the old man next door, Mr. Darrell, was crazy; he ranted about impending disasters, raved about survival preparations. He was odd, but I genuinely liked the old kook.

Speakers crackled as I flipped switches on the control panel. Dots of colored light sparked like lightning bugs. The wall of tvs illuminated.

Despite his eccentricities, Mr. Darrell was a kind man with a sense of urgency. His words of wisdom were engrained in my subconscious; tomorrow isn’t guaranteed, inactivity invites evil, and action is divine.

Surveillance cameras showed several homes nearby burning. My eyes followed dark clouds of smoke billowing from one screen to another. Every news program showed the same things. Some screens were empty.

Chaos blared through the speakers, as cameramen fled, with cameras still rolling; frantic people, demolished buildings, thick dark clouds in a burnt orange sky. Screaming, crashing, and thunderous roars became too painful for me in every way. As my hand moved towards the volume control, the world went quiet. Too quiet.

I looked down at my hand then back to the screens. A couple of them flashed static before going completely dark. I led Sky away from the wall with its fancy, useless screens.

“Let’s go, Sky. We’ve got a lot to do.”

Desperation, on me, tastes like bile on the back of the tongue,

Constantly dry heaving,

Knowing the worst is yet to come.

And the texture is terrible,

It’s like sandpaper set on fire,

Burning to a flaky crisp,

Squeeling like a set of tires.

And all the while,

There's never enough to drink,

And there’s always ashes in the water.

But you, on the other hand,

Desperation fits like a tight dress,

You're willing to give it all to me,

And that is exactly what I request.

Tell me how much you need me,

And let me taste how badly you do,

I can't get you out of my mind...

I think I'm desperate for you, too.