Yes. I usually end up tickling them to death or make friends with them by cooking. Try it next time 
I haven't for years, but I have before. I also woke from nightmare as a kid and punched my ceiling while cursing, then got scared that my parents would yell at me for it. xD (I had a loft bed, so the ceiling was right above me. I want it back, so I can drape blankets from it and sleep on the floor again! In the dark... I miss my carpet!)
Somewhere between falling madly in love with Karen and crushing her pretty little windpipe, Alta found a middle ground on which to stand and pretend to be as normal as she could possibly be. There was no distinct way in which Karen walked; no particular feature that stood out from the rest of her body; no distinguishable flair in her voice that seemed to make any Adonis swoon and Venusian beauties fall at her feet. Karen was so painfully ordinary that it irked Alta- from the tip of her toes to her stiffening shoulders, to the trembling breaths she emitted whenever the other girl so much as smiled that crooked, nauseating, beautiful smile.
Maybe that was it: she was normal. She was normal and Alta was not, not in any way or form (every once in a while she thought she spied the telling toothmarks of growing vampire fangs, but never spoke a word to her uncle). Karen had a father, a mother, two younger siblings and a cat. She played tennis in the evenings and was relatively studious, though occasionally she would - like every other student - delve into the terrors of mindless procrastination and complain about it on disgruntling Monday mornings.
Alta had a workaholic mother, a dead father whom she had never known, and an uncle who was currently busy killing someone she couldn't bring herself to know in order to pay for next month's rent. Funny how life was awfully unbalanced. So terribly imperfect. So horrendously infuriating.
"Alta, we have English next." Karen piped up beside her. "You ready to go?"
"Oh," and Alta exhaled a trembling sigh, "I'm am never."
I'll continue
"I wish there was a way to bridge the gap between my two competing passions. I really hate that my family doesn't like that I'm artistic and I like to write. Sometimes I feel ostracized by the writing community because I don't procrastinate and that I've hit a lot of milestones. I'm not in the process of writing my masterpiece anymore, I already finished it. I feel like there's a well of misery that I don't understand anymore. I'm not a depressed artist or writer. I take care of myself and I can complete things that are creative and successful. Sometimes I feel like I'm on this mountain by myself that everyone thinks I'm looking down on them. Just because I have more doesn't mean I'm happy about it. I wish I could meet more people who are as accomplished as I am instead of trying to accomplish what I already have. Sometimes I wonder why I have this personality type that I'm not allowed to feel accomplished and I always want to do more. It's like this race to climb higher and higher mountains where if you get to the top of one, you're in the shadow of the next bigger one that someone else is on the top of. I feel so little with what I've accomplished. It's more than a lot of people, but it's a lot less than where I'd thought I'd be by now."
I really wanna release this one story early but I dont have a buffer but I still wanna have it out there >.> fffffffffffffff RIP
If you like turnips, may I recommend a short story1 featuring one?
(shameless promotion)
Moving. I hate moving. Looks like I am moving to another state. Where I know absolutely no one. I hate moving. Boxes here boxes there, boxes everywhere. Boxes in the nooks and cranny's, boxes that have my jammies, wait, I don't own jammies. I hate moving.
This same song:
It shouldn't be this long,
But because I listen to it on and on,
Perhaps there's something wrong.
For the first time in a very long time, I actually wrote something.It poured out of me, as I wrote and wrote frantically. I felt happiness like I haven't felt in a very long time. But then, doubt and shame follows. If I love doing this, why do I keep putting it off? Why don't I write all the time? Why do I only wait for the moments of inspiration for me to remember what really matters? This, right here, feels just right.
But I know the drill. The feeling will last for a while, I'll try to recreate it during the next few days, but at some point, I will lose myself in useless distractions, and since I'm not the most disciplined person, I will stop writing once again, until the urge comes back.
They say the universe breeds strange things, and that one must do well to respect that.
Bianca didn't respect that warning.
She chased after it and dove into the dark depths of woods, a young woman on the edge of seventeen. With curly red hair and outstanding freckles, she was a live wire that bounced along wet grounds, toeing and paving on the line of danger. With a flashlight to her name and a flowing blue dress down to her knees, she danced along the forest floors, barefooted and free like a nymph ballerina.
Her curls swirled around her head, and her eyes saw flashes as she spun and spun around, until a voice echoed through her ears and wormed its way in.
"Come inside the mellows and jump into my arms, my dear"
She opened those earth brown eyes and saw the grove of trees in the distance. It stood there, lanky and spidery -- eyes white like Minnesota snow. It showed its red teeth, and stomped its foot once, twice, before it beckon her to follow.
"Come to the meadows and jump into my arms...if you dare..."
Bianca felt her eyes ignite with fire, and she raced out to the entity, heart racing and flowers crushed under her feet. It towered over her, like a tree -- older than time -- and she bowed playfully.
"What do you have to show me, child of the forest?"
"Truths beyond human mind, daughter of the Earth. Take my hand, and look into my eyes. Only then will you see"
No fear flashed her eyes as Bianca took its hand. Darkness engulfed her, like a tight hug from an overbearing mother, and excitement raced through her veins. Her lips parted, and her eyes dilated, and in those white shark eyes, it showed her the universe's end.
"Bianca!! Bianca, where ARE you?!!!"
Her mother and eldest brother -- only older by 5 summers -- raced through the dark woods, carrying lanterns. Their eyes were laced with fear, Bianca's name slipping through the branches and returning distorted and deformed. Soon, whispers lingered in their ears, and her family ran to the meadows.
Her mother had been the first to see her, and she fainted on sight, a wail bellowing deep from her soul. Her brother stared, his skin turning deadly white, as Bianca came from the trees, holding her ears in bloodied hands. She smiled with long, spidery fingers and breathed through her eyes, her mouth staring back at them.
"I have tasted and felt the colors of universe.."
The universe breeds strange things, and that one must do well to respect that.
Why does it hurt to love, and why does it hurt to hate?
If a whippoorwill in the trees gave you a berry to eat, would you eat it? Or would you spit it out, a red pasty mess, and send an arrow through the whippoorwill's heart? And wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, leaving behind a red smear, and gaze at the screen briefly, breaking the fourth wall, then spit out the remaining juice like blood and leap down from the tree to approach slowly, slowly over the ghosts of those long dead that you must never meet?
And as the ghosts rise out of the ground like quivering jello, splash your spear over their heads one by one so that they explode like water and leave the ground stained with wetness, and once that is done, tiptoe over the top like a ballerina and blow a kiss before doing a backflip back into the trees because somewhere, that whippoorwill is waiting for you, and though you spat out its offering of a berry, you don't want to let it down.
Shoot an arrow from the tree into a fawn's heart and trill at the top of your lungs. Birdspeak.
Man, I don't know. My brain is weird.
Everything came crashing down when mc mcfucktits ran into his classmates morbidly oversized breasts and suffocated – except nothing came crashing down – this was in no way original, as it was an introduction taken from the brain splurge of another individual – and to be frank, I am completely indifferent about what I am doing. With that in mind, let’s restart this story:
…yes, it is true that everything came crashing down that day, but not in the way previously described. M.C McFucktits, during his way to school, ran into the chest of a most beautiful girl – a blonde maiden, with 3 arms, an overbearing penis that bulged through her skirt, and at least 11 toes on her feet, total.
“Gyaaah! You pervert” she yelled, as her elephantine genitalia swayed in the wind. MC Mcfucktits, despite his desire to scream to the world ‘I’ve found the jackpot,’ found himself in a most terrifying state of paralysis. In fact, his entire body went limp – he even saw centipedes crawling out of his fingernails, but he was unsure of their true authenticity. As his vision faded, this classmate of his leaned over his face, whispering something, something that alluded to a ‘brooding gloom’: “It’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine…”
It is true that I used the copy and paste function earlier, as a means of making the whole process of writing a novella quicker – I’m surprised that I’m tired of this task already, I wonder why I-
In an instant, I found the right side of my wall spattered with an organic material – it was red and squishy, much like a watermelon, and it was only after a few seconds that I noticed the rest of my head on the ground below. It was a wonder that I still had my own head on this feeble body of mine, but it was a surprise nonetheless.
“WHERE’S THE JOKE JP?”
Turning my head, I found my good friend Aya with a shotgun in hand, smoke floating from the double barrel. Her hands were shaking, and she had on her face a humorous aspect.
“STOP WRITING META JOKES,” she walked over to me and shot my head again – now there were two heads on the floor.
Any who, though I am most confused that such a friend is in my house, it is something I will put aside for now – let’s continue the story.
As MC McFucktits came to, he heard the rustle and bustle of crates on the deck of a boat, as well as the abundant rushing of water. Amidst the rushing of steps, he could make out the chitter and chatter of little monkeys and potentially small Sudanese children.
“Hip hop, hippedy bip bop – get the canoe, get the glue, look at me, my name’s Apu.”
The captain rapped orders to his men as they rushed to and fro, readying their ship for combat, for looming on the horizon was a monster of indescribable proportions – a giant, naked woman with three arms sprouting from her back, two giant chain saws sewn shoddily to her breasts (she was flat, and she considered this a form of compensation), and a tricorne-like hat on her head. ‘Let me get out of here, help me get out of here – I don’t want to be here, I want to go home and play some vidya.’ MC Mcfucktits (fuck it, let’s just call him MC from now on) shuffled his fat ass around the crate, feeling around the ridges of the surface for some hint to get out – alas, he escaped the crate in a most fabulous fashion, exploding out of the box and sending shards of wood at light speed into the faces of the men surrounding him – they were now all unicorns, or looked like them at least.
“What the fuck are you doing here?!”
The captain was a Sudanese person too, and despite her deep and masculine voice, she happened to be a most voluptuous woman. Nevertheless, she looked away, and threw her pokeball at the monstrous creature in the distance – she caught it, she caught them all. MC, knowing that his job here was done, lay on the deck and died promptly.
This is actually a little snippet of the short story I'm writing:
"Sometimes, Sal breaks down in his lone studio apartment that he rents for $950 a month, the one where the curtains are always tightly pulled to and the refrigerator never seems to be full enough; he sits in the corner of his bedroom, the one with the uneven pictures lining the walls, the frames outlining the sort of people Sal loves but never sees enough, and he just sits in the silent loneliness of his one-bedroom flat. Sal cries, sometimes, but mostly he sits and wonders if he’ll ever be the man worthy of holding Annette. Of cherishing her the way Perfection is intended to be. And it might just be this prison he lives in, Sal reasons, the one that always seems too loud when he breathes. The one that never seems big enough for his claustrophobia, but at the same time seems achingly too big for just himself to occupy."
“AAASDAsdasadasdaaasasasaasasaASADADADADADASDASASDADADASADASDADASD”
At the corner of the room, that boy screamed to his heart’s content – he smashed his table and threw his accessories all around the room – he threw himself onto the floor and made the largest of rackets – he broke windows, tossed chairs, smashed his head on the wall over and over and over and over again – blood spurted from his disgusting forehead and he ran his fingers across the walls until the surface of his skin broke in a most ruthless manner. Yes, he took the shards of glass and he carved despicable thoughts on his skin, and he ripped the ceiling fan down from the ceiling – the wires tugged desperately to the wall above, and the boy made a make-shift noose – yes, his body hung in that room for God knows how long.
…except he didn’t do any of these things – he was a dishonest boy indeed – all he did was crouch down at the corner of the rom and weep to himself silently. His peers detested him greatly – they carried on with their work.
*
I’m gay, lol. Except I’m not, I just need to write something in this section. Maybe I’ll put it in italics too to make it look like an extremely important quote.
*
As the Maths lesson droned on, a girl named Mathilda stopped by the back window of the room. Spring was in full bloom, and cherry blossoms fluttered around her in a really dramatic way – so dramatic that I don’t even want to write in his literary way anymore fuck this, let’s just write normally right now.
So anyways, this girl named Mathilda stops by the window, and she looks into the classroom to see all of these diligent Asians with their faces down in their paper and writing like the little Chink robots they are – except one of them – no, one of them was a brown little shit, probably from some shit-hole country in SEA – and he was in the corner crying his little eyes out. Mathilda felt bad for him for a small moment, but she then realised that she had to get to her English teacher’s office quickly so she could suck his dick and avoid being expelled for how illiterate of a girl she is. She could taste bitterness in her mouth already, but at this point, it was just a normal Tuesday afternoon.
Except it was Wednesday at the time.
*
The setting of this scene is one where the sun is making its preparations to set – in short, it was dusk. The sky was orange in a most beautiful fashion, and the sun filtered by the light clouds created a warm tint to the scenario – like an old worn out photograph, taken with a polaroid camera, perhaps.
At the centre of the school was a monstrously tall tree that overlooked the entirety of the suburb, and at the very top sat the boy himself, hanging his legs playfully over the branch and playing a sorrowful tune on his half-cracked ocarina. The melody soared throughout the land, yet the only response he could make out were the echoes of his own instrument. Stopping now, the world became silent again, and he considered jumping off and attempting to sprout wings-
-which was exactly what he did. Of course, his ocarina came crashing down, shattering into a million pieces – however, the same could not be said for his head. It is true that he landed on the concrete head first, but all he could manage was a little chip off of his head – though, that didn’t matter much, for the crack healed away by the time he raised himself. He peered down at the blood on the ground and wondered if it was even his – nevertheless, he despaired at the fact that he simply could not die.
Why does one exist? Why cannot one self terminate?
Why was this one born? Should this one have been born?
This one seeks the end, the true end. A death beyond death, an erasure of being.
A place of nothingness, a place of non being, a place where nothing exists. That is this one's true paradise.
Why can this one not achieve paradise? Why is this one born to suffer? Why does this one exist where another would've been better?
What is being? What is this one? Why can this one not die?