114 lines
6.9 KiB
Plaintext
114 lines
6.9 KiB
Plaintext
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(~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~)
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(*) (*) * (*)~*~(*) HOE E'ZINE RELEASE #900
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* 0 0 ~ 0 *
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~ 0 0 ~* *~ 0 hOGS ~ "Hoe 900"
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( 0*~*~*0 ( ) 0*~*~ oF )
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~ 0 0 ~ ~ 0 eNTROPY ~ by Tasha
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* 0 0 * * 0 * 11-7-99
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(*) (*) ~ (*)~*~(*)
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(~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~)
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Every girl here is required to wear a white dress covered in navy
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blue stripes, making it some sort of futuristic plaid. They've been
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required to wear these dresses for some time now, though i don't know why or
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since when. I just know that this is the way things are. The fabric of the
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dresses are thick and ill-textured, covered with some sort of material that
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gives them some semblance of being smooth. If they were put on any normal
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body, they'd leave the skin horribly chafed. Raw and deceivingly pink,
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making the viewer think of perhaps a spring flower, rather than tender and
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sore skin. But these girls have been subjected to this rough fabric since
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their birth, and second-handedly subjected to it from the moment of
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conception, since their mothers were required to wear the same thing, maybe.
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Again, I'm not sure when this futuristic plaid dress thing came into play.
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In all the glory of their pure nudity, the girls are found to have leather-
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like skin covering their bones and muscles and organs from their shoulder to
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mid-thigh. That's what part of the body the dresses cover. The dresses are
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sleeveless, however, and have one-inch straps covering the shoulders. Pale
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orange sweaters accompany the dresses. The sweaters are used to be more
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provocative or modest, maybe both.
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Sadly, global warming took over the planet many years ago and the
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sweaters keep the girls fairly overheated. Acne covers their back and arms
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from pores clogged with sweat, but the sado-masochism of everyday life must
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prevail through these little wool things.
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[-----]
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I sometimes get these incredible urges to grab someone off the street
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and talk at them. Not talk to them, at them. Then I would like them to
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talk back at me, and not to me, and we would continue talking at each other.
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And this wouldn't really be a conversation or debate, but just two people
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talking at each other, like conversations in one's head, but the other
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person's talking would spawn more thoughts and it would be beautiful endless
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chatter of meaningless intensity.
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I think the reason I ramble so much is because I am often so
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uninterested in reality and what's really going on that I have elaborate
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conversations and stories in my head. And I play them out, playing each
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character, and how I would want them to be. And then I get in an situation
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with another person there, and I'm supposed to be talking to them, but all I
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can do is talk at them, because I forget that there's another person there
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receiving these messages from me through some medium. And I just talk and
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talk and talk, like I do in my head all the time. Although, the
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conversations in my head tend to be a bit different, because there are never
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any subconscious obligations to be the cool kid on the playground cursing
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just a little bit too low for the teachers to hear.
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I want to dance in the rain and have a raindrop living on my lower
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lip forever and I want to dig in the mud until I hit the golden clay and
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then keep digging on and on and on and on to China or Japan or some other
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Asian country. I want to climb a mountain, only to scream and climb back
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down again and be the Japhy Ryder of this generation and of some other poor
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mis-guided Buddhist, even though I hate Japhy Ryder. I want to crack my
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knuckles endlessly until my mind is constantly clouded with that small
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sound. And I want to ride around in the back of a pick-up truck and feel
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the cold air of a Michigan winter on the tip of my nose, which I seem to
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have grown out of. And I, I, I, I, it's all about me. Maybe I should start
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a diary, but I tried that once and failed, and just disappointed myself.
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I had a dream of a junk-sick boy crawling down a hallway towards me,
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and he was grinning and his teeth were yellow, and some of them were
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missing. And it wasn't a nightmare. It was just a beautiful junk-sick boy
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crawling down a hallway towards me, grinning, with yellow teeth, some of
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which were missing. And I woke up, and that's all I remember, and it
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somehow makes me think of Stephen and his e-mail about dreams. And how he
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said dreams are just neurons firing randomly and then the person fabricating
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some plot for the dream. But that whole idea just makes dreams seem so
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worthless and pointless and meaningless, and dreams are beautiful, even if
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they are just fabrications from firing neurons.
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I'm supposed to be writing this hoe #900 thing, but I'm not sure what
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I want to do with it. For the longest time, my writing consumed me, and it
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was the only thing I felt passionate about. Then, I lost track of
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everything in my life and lost myself on a path of not knowing. Not knowing
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what I wanted to do and who I was and how to find these things out. And
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slowly I found my way again, but my writing was no longer very important to
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me. I discovered a me that could be unattached from the world of
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prepositions and direct objects and punctuation and everything and anything.
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And I'm forcing out how #900 now, I wasn't before, but now I am,
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because I've been confined to a deadline. And every girl I pass seems to be
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wearing the plaid dresses and orange sweaters from some weird novel
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predicting the fall of society as we know it. And I wonder if there's
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something wrong with me in my gray skirt and plain t-shirt, and Allison
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claims I look Amish. And I wonder what it's like to be Amish. I wonder
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what it's like to be religious in general, though. To know for a fact that
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God exists and have no lingering questions about reality and the world and
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the nature of it all. I wonder what it's like to be able to have such
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strong beliefs and convictions in one thing, and I wonder and wonder and
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want to have that, but I can't. Something in my nature doesn't allow me to
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believe all these things, and the sides of myself clash again and create
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thunderstorms inside my head of wanting to believe and not wanting to
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believe or have anything to do with it.
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And I'm confused, and back to forcing out hoe #900. And I'm kind of
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tired, and kind of wondering what would happen if I suddenly ran around
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naked and screaming in French. Would that make everything better? It seems
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like a wonderful idea.
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Phairgirl wants this now.
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(~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~)
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( *(c) hOGS oF eNTROPY pRESS* HOE #900 ~ WRITTEN BY: TASHA ~ 11/7/99 )
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