|Reading these suicide pages you will find people seeking help and people offering their help. Some witness about suicide from real life experience, others who play along with me would pretend it's a children's game. Some make sick and cruel jokes about it, and angry people blame me for even mentioning the subject. You might also want to read my favourite answers. If you want your answer to be included here, fill in the form.|
What is the best way to kill yourself when you're under 13?
Quelle est la meilleure forme de suicide pour les moins de 13 ans?
|25 Feb 2021||yours||enzyme, i miss you deeply.
i have been thinking lately that it is very likely that i will die before ever having a conversation with you, or ever knowing where youve gone, or ever knowing what lovely hymns you write now.... i am very upset by this. please email me...
|27 Oct 2018||enzyme, is that you? please come back.....|
|24 Jan 2012||DearlyBeloved||I wanted to say the only reason I am still amongst the living today is this site. Or more specifically two very specials demons of mine... Billythefreak and Enzyme are the ones I seek out when I think about chewing on a powercord or running in the highway. Many thanks! You each earned a virtual cookie and pixy stix (you get one too mouchette!)|
|10 Nov 2010||olivia||Enzyme, Your words never cease to memorize me, swallow up my thoughts, and amaze my soul. Thank you.|
|09 Nov 2010||greg||enzyme is a sad shit wannabe poet. it must suck to have something to say but no talent to say it well|
|16 Oct 2010||O, Enzyme.
How great it is, to come here after a long time and find more of your delicious words to read.
I wish I knew who you are so I could move near your home and stalk you every day.
Yours truly, an anonymous admirer.
|11 Oct 2010||Enzyme||My dear, lilting, eviscerated, death-rabbitsâ¦
Too long have we been apart. Yes, it is indeed I, Enzyme. Back with hands of fire. Back to stir the cauldron of woe.
Mouchette! My lovable lilâ antichrist! Let me kiss your pale, evil feet.
Today we shall cross the river styx and look at that pernicious vortex: âLonelinessâ.
It is a cry many of you adorable death-rabbits espouse. I know. I know what itâs like. You sit on the bus, a gargantuan, plastic maggot carting you to and from work. Or maybe in your car. Or maybe on foot. The transitions of life are the most wretched for the lonely peon. Itâs the going to and from. When life grinds you down to the knuckle. Thatâs when loneliness cracks your skull and pours her syphilitic powder into your cerebral cortex. You thinkâ¦ âWasted time. Who could ever want me? Iâm too complex to love or understand. Look at these worn faces. Theyâre avoiding my gaze. I could spit up blood in front of them, speak in tongues, summon Achilles and they wouldnât bat an eye. Nothing changes. Nothing ever, fucking, changes.â
Perhaps once you werenât lonely. You cast your spirit back there. To that basement in Brooklyn. That skinned wheat-field. That wide, acrid beach. Existence seemed endless then. Full of rare, ratified adventures. And now?
I know, little mice. I know. But what IS this thing called âlonelinessâ? We use it freely to describe our maudlin stateâ¦ but what does it truly imply? To be lonely means you donât like being alone. But thatâs not true, is it? Like all good creatures of darkness, Iâm sure we all love our lairs, no matter how pathetic and venial. Ahhh the late hours of the night, up in my tower, playing David Bowie, watching âTwin Peaksâ, reading 19th century French literature. Iâm at peace. In my smoking jacket. Eating sâmores. You all love your solo time, am I right? Thatâs why God created Mozart and masturbation. Great combo, by the way.
So if being lonely is not really about hating to be alone, what, pray tell, is it about? Perhaps it is a need to be WITH another human being? To talk and converse, to suck on their genitals, to hold them and cry. Yes? Maybe THATâs what we want? More people.
But letâs be honest, my little zombie tap-dancersâ¦ you donât really LIKE most people, do you? I mean, most humans are rather boorish, dull, witless, and uptight. I mean, if MOST of the population was teleported into your cage and demanded to be your constant companion you would cringe in horror. âYou??? In my lair? Messing with my collection of Zap comix? Get thee gone!â
Alright, so maybe being lonely is about wanting to be with the RIGHT person. The right personâ¦ who would that be? Wellâ¦ unkempt hairâ¦ and yes, a love of film noir. Weird teethâ¦ and a rye, pithy sense of humorâ¦ adventurousâ¦ simultaneously hi-brow and low-browâ¦ a fascination with evilâ¦ but a tender, romantic creature at heart with a love of Cole Porter, punk rock, and good white wine. My godâ¦ itâs me! Yes, you probably crave yourself, as an attractive member of whatever sex you wanna put it to.
But wait! You already have yourselfâ¦ not as another person, trueâ¦ but you do have what you want. As you. And maybe if you squint your eyes in the mirror, youâre not really all THAT hideous.
So WHY do we crave another human being to love who is basically ourselves but more attractive?
The answer, little death-rabbits, is obvious.
We want to fully appreciate who we areâ¦ we want to fuck ourselves, and adore ourselves, and vindicate our misery, and lovingly molest that beautiful, perfect, innocent creature we areâ¦ somewhere deep in the recesses of our beingâ¦ and say: âI love you, for the fucked up, adorable miscreant you are. I hate the monsters who did you wrong. I forgive you for your suffering. Iâm on your side. Youâre not alone.â
So loneliness is really the desire to truly love ourselves. And forgive ourselves. And reallyâ¦. You donât need to go through the awkward hell of internet dating to do that.
Free severed angel hands for everyone!
Enzyme of the petrified forest.
|22 Jan 2010||O Lovley Castrati||Ho, dear dear Enzyme. My catalyzing agent of red velvet raptures!
There seems to be so many words in which a virtual virtuoso can describe the putrid being of a loved little boy as myself.
Oh dear protein messiah, have you come to aid my reform to continuation?
Have you come to encourage my life to take one last role in this finale of bloated moral decay?
How on Earth, thus, am I supposed to continue my soar?
My lovely mercury overdosed hatter, are you saying my life is still worth more than the void that is the dull eternity of my soul?
My corpse deserves a good place to rest, that is my humiliate thought, but nevermore nevermoreâ¦ nevermore am I supposed to consume the greens and reds and the blushing blues of this world.
Nevermore am I supposed to describe my empty hemispheres to the evenmore nothing that is outside my little room.
The horrors I might indulge; though, can my castrato self still hold more grisly visions than reality?
|06 Dec 2009||Dearest Enzyme of the Petrified Forest.
I love you.
Yours truly, an anonymous admirer.
|20 Nov 2009||High Fidelity||Enzyme, your on a good roll with these songs of the day. Keep the faith.|
|19 Nov 2009||Enzyme||My dear darlinâ death-rabbitsâ¦
Enzyme, captain of the rotting multitude is back. So much mercury-tainted misery on the forums these daysâ¦ my poor maudlin angels! Your wings all torn off, soggy with blood and bileâ¦ Come into the foldâ¦ into the copse of pine trees. Iâll heal the maelstrom in your cerebral cortexâ¦ Stand tall little death rabbitsâ¦ all is not lost.
First off. One towering lament I hear again and again is that no one loves you, lil mouse. No one cares. No one really understands your delicate brainpanâs electric vibrations. You are wretched, ugly, foul and besmirched. Yes? Who will ever hold you to their neck and coo? Who will stroke your greasy hair and whisper soothing words down your raw throat? Who will cook your pancakes in the morning? Who will flip the record over? Who will lick your temples and cradle you in eternal warmth and silver salvation?
But I ask you. What is the true nature of this âloveâ you crave? Love. Our society has anointed this elusive and brief emotion to the throne of absolute human achievement. More than just a human âexperienceâ weâve turned it into the âphilosopherâs stoneâ. The rare ingredient that alchemists used to turn base metals into gold. The solution and balm to all our clawing torments. If you just get âloveâ youâll be all better. Free from all woe. At peace. Complete spiritual enlightenment. Complete joy and freedom. Those who have it are ascended deities. Immortals living the epic saga you never could. They stare down at us lonely peons, codgers, reprobates, losers, and vagabonds. Thatâs how it seems, yes? Youâre a blip on the radar. You exist not, because no one cares if you live or die. Yes?
But you are wrong, my adorable little persimmon. Dead wrong. This world we live in is but one shade of the entire story. Deep within your migrating being is another, golden universe of the dawn. The universe of your velvet soul, your chattering life force, the cathedral of your emotions, call it what you will. Your consciousness. And this consciousness IS the audience you crave for your life. You really donât need the love, approval, understanding of another being to be happy and content. Some of the happiest people on earth live in total isolation in Tibet on the tops of snow-covered mountains milking goats. Sure, love, sex and approval from other humans are NICE and fun to have around, and kinda good for us. But they are not what truly sustains us. No one will ever love you more than your own being.
Close your eyes and listen to your life force trembling and pulsating inside you. A radiating harmonium of thoughts and words and beats and dreams and images and demons and nymphs and monsters all part of you. All created by you. That glow, that universe, that place adores you, lil rabbit. Like no one else ever can. Because you sustain it. Because it is completely original. It has never existed in your distinct pattern before, and will never exist ever again. Think about it. No one exactly like you has ever existed before in the history of the universe, nor will ever exist again. You are so damn rare. If you tend to that inner world by creating things, breathing, escaping, imagining, lollygagging in your unconscious, youâll get all the love you need. And much more.
See, weâve all been sold a bill of goods. Our social contract is hopelessly pernicious. From everywhere were are bombarded with constant tirades: âBe loved! Get happy! Get laid! Make money! Find friends! Look pretty! Have children! Be a success! If you canât, wonât, or live with your mom, youâre a failure! Kill yourself! Give up! Life is a game! You lost! Game over!â
Take a breath, lil mouse. Remind yourself. Life is NOT a game. There is no winning or loosing. Only the passage of time and the accumulation of experience. Thatâs it. And all experiences are worth having. Good, bad, pathetic, tender. Itâs all part of the human rollercoaster ride. Take your fingers off your eyes. You donât want to miss a thing.
And always remember. Enzyme loves you. Even if no one else does. I do. Iâll enfold you in my poison arms, coo in your ear, give you head, lick your teeth, knit you mittens, braid your greasy hair, draw on your hand, crash your car, kiss the nape of your neck, put on Nick Drake, film you while you sleep, smell your armpits, clean your bathroom, let you doze off, cradle your breasts, eat your food, buy you candy, watch 30 rock with you, clap when you play air guitar, wrap you in a down comforter while it softly snows outside, rent your favorite horror film, and mull you hot apple cider. I will. You know why? Cuz I love my lil velveteen death rabbits. Thatâs why. Yes. Yes I do.
Song of the day: âRock & Roll Suicideâ by David Bowie.
|19 Oct 2009||Melvin||And dad would dream of all the different ways to die
Each one a little more than he could dare to try
|14 Sep 2009||Enzyme||Dear Velveeta Death Rabbitsâ¦ Enzyme, chortling mutant of the undergrowth, is back. Todayâs post is in praise of warm french-fries, mango-chutney dipping sauce, and evil. Iâm going to reach my withered hand out towards you, through the computer screen. If you pry open, and/or chew off my fingers at the knuckle, youâll find a gift. A present. For you. Yes, you. An ornate silver boxâ¦ and inside? An enchanted set of World War 1 aviator goggles. They should fit, I measured your skull last night while you slept. Upon adorning the twin periscopes, activate the mechanism on the nose bridge. There! Now notice and observeâ¦ all around youâ¦ what was there beforeâ¦ and what youâve never seen. The clandestine chamber reveals itself. With these goggles you can see the world as you wish it was. A new skin of time and space painfully sutured onto this insolent reality.
Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! The lifeless office temps slumming their way to work are leering jackals in pill-box hats! Billie Holiday has risen from the dead as an oscillating, gossamer specter! She whistles and coos her beaming siren call âGod Bless the Childâ. Breath out now, little rabbit. You are safe. Wrapped in my poison arms. Drink this mulled apple cider. Turn over the record. Know that I love you unconditionally. Know that.
Now turn off the goggles. You donât want to waste the batteries. Use them whenever you feel like a bad penny. Like a tin bucket collecting rain water. Like a set of false teeth.
P.S. âNotes from The Undergroundââ¦ you are at home with me, and have a lovely lexicon.
|13 Sep 2009||Enzyme.
As, I read through you're writings, I can't help but feel at home. You embody something that I've grown up besides, a feeling possibly, that has always been nameless. I feel almost as though you are the modern 'Underground man', from Dostoevskii's 'Notes from the Underground'. A disfigured voice for a small and subtle existence...
I would go on, but my lexicon bothers me these days. So, I stay brief. Goodnight.
|09 Sep 2009||Enzyme||Salutations my lovely death rabbits. Enzyme here with a brief rumination about suicide. Yes indeed. While standing in the shower fantasizing about slitting my throat with a box-cutter, I had a sudden revelation. The reasons we hari-kari vary from person to person, but I believe there is a common psychological thread that weaves all self-inflicted murder together. True, there are the folks who blow their brains out to end some physical suffering or because they weary of enduring old age. The vast majority, however, are usually people that have reached some nightmarish climax of guilt, shame, isolation, terror, heartbreak, frustration or self-loathing. Consider this. As children the first lesson we ever learn is one of punishment and reward. If we do good, our god-like parental units reward us with affection, love, and gum drops. If we do bad, we are punished, sent to our rooms, smacked, or denied love and gum drops. How tragic that this bizarre confluence of crime and success is thrust upon our fresh young minds. Some people learn this lesson far too well. At first the forces of reward and punishment are all external, localized in parents, teachers, and other children. As we age we tend to internalize all figures of authority psychologically. I think itâs a survival mechanism. If a figure of power or extremity terrifies us we attempt to control the threat by absorbing that person into our own being. Like a clam turning grains of sand into pearls. This isn't necessarily a bad thing. The only trouble is that some of us internalize the wrong authority figures too deeply. Harsh morally austere task masters with zero remorse or compassion. As we grow into adults, these tyrannical voices become indistinguishable from our true inner dialogue of self-preservation. Gradually we mentally absorb large swaths of society, like a carnivorous gelatinous blob. Until we become our own judge, jury, and finally executioner. There is no doubt that we are punishing ourselves when we commit suicide. The ultimate punishment. The Death Penalty. Like that poor girl a few posts back who was going to kill herself if her STD test came back positive for herpes. Such a common, controllable, non-fatal VD. Yet to that poor darling she has to die. She has to punish herself for the crime of sleeping with a boy, for the crime of catching a disease, for the crime of being young. The most ruthless judges imaginable reside in our cerebral cortexes. Our parents eventually stop rewarding and punishing us, and we gradually take over the job with a hysterical zeal. That poor girl is on trial. In her own mind. Suicidal people who struggle with failure in business or romantic ventures never talk about giving up and becoming a vagabond or criminal. It's always about killing one's self. Punishment for their failure to procure a wife, to make enough cash, failure to stay healthy, failure to stay sober, failure to be a good parent, or a good daughter, failure to get happy and successful. The truth is, however, that these internal subconscious judges and jury members are far from objective. Heck, let's face it, they are fascistic Nazi bastards with no goddamn sense of perspective. Imagine that poor girl killing herself over a case of herpes. She's just a young kid doing her best to find love and validation. In moments of clarity all of us with suicidal tendencies can occasionally see how out of touch we really are. What was the crime we committed? Some minor infraction, in all reality. And plus, life is not a gulag unless we make it so. There is no one right way to live or experience existence. Even if you murdered someone. There's always room for redemption and progress. Let's free ourselves of the yoke of perpetual reward and punishment. Expel these false prophets from our brain pans. Let go. Let yourself off the hook. Yes, my lovely undead figure skaters. Yes, indeed.
Song of the Day: "King of Carrot Flowers" by Neutral Milk Hotel
P.S. Melvin, a benediction upon you. Hang in there kid.
Bebop! I'm kind of a world traveler. Not in L.A. now. In the meantime, watch that film tonight and imagine I'm there, eating all your ice cream.
|09 Sep 2009||Melvin||I kept seeing the coffin in front of me, I felt I was at the funeral again. Unable to cry freely, and the ridiculous amount of sleeve needed to stem my nose. I was shivering, I was freezing. I tried so hard to breathe... not to cry.
The last few minutes of class dragged. He was talking to me. I opened my mouth to reply but instead began to sob. I ran out and down the corridor sobbing hysterically.
Was I dying? I sank to the floor, sobbing and choking. I thought I was going to be sick. Suicide methods, loved ones, excerpts from my journal, all going around in my head. I called childline but hung up when the man answered.
Later I had a biology class. In biology we were learning about Enzymes and I thought of you.
|07 Sep 2009||Bebop||Enzyme, your from LA?
I have "Let the Right One In" on DVD, let's hang out.
|25 May 2009||Enzyme||Hello my velveteen death-rabbits, a thousand evil butterfly-kisses upon your tortured brows! Mouchette! I brought this still beating mailman heart for you! Wrapped in candy-corns, jaguar eyes and silt! See how it glistens in the wide, rich light of dawn? Thatâs real cosmic loneliness I garnished it with. Just for you my darling ruffian. How delightful your shimmering canines are! May I offer my forearm up for you to affectionately tear the flesh off my bones? I adore you so my little persimmonâ¦
Let me tell you all about a vacancy. Take the late-late gilded one stop train deep into the aorta of my homeland. Waiting to carry your bags is a positively charming World War I flying ace with empty holes instead of eyes. He grins with a wide copper smile and steps forward to kiss your hand. âYou poor, poor thing. Right this way.â And into the asphyxiated night he leads you through cobble-stoned paths and pale fire to the All You Can Rest Stop. Everyone there is drowsy and adorable, intoxicated with warm lamplight. Dryads, Demons, tall thin train conductors with artificial internal organs they keep wrapped in wax paper on their laps. Here youâll be safe my sweet Mouchettelings. Come here anytime and cuddle with the malnourished scarecrows, belligerent angels, and pouting zombie children. Sway to The Ink Spots and dip long needles into the living meat pastries. Hereâs a buy-one-get-one-free ticket. Keep this place deep in your heart. And instead of slashing your lovely wrists go here in your volcanic mind. Visit it whenever you like. Iâll be in the back near the jukebox that runs on human blood, giving away free benedictions and nuzzles.
The point being, I want you all to flee whole-heartedly from reality. Just pack your bags and get the hell out of dodge. The world of the everyday is laced with cyanide and sobbing railroad apartments. The agony of tying oneâs shoelaces. The magnetic yearning with all your exploding blood vessels for something you canât fully articulate. Happiness doesnât seem to be woven into the fabric of the day to day. Thatâs why the trembling furnace in our dawn-soulâs imagination exists. Let go of all your mundane, earthly needs. Acceptance, wealth, marriage, fame, sex, beauty, everlasting joy. The pursuit of happiness will yield more misery than anything else. Yessssssâ¦ Good. Now feel the suppurating beetle of guilt and shame withdraw its revolting proboscis from your swollen neck. Remember, youâre still alive. Feel that expanding cataclysmic sunrise in your ribcage? Thatâs the miracle of your demonic life force shuddering and expanding. How rare. How extraordinary that you are. Stuffed with emeralds and goblin tyrants. No, you are not incomplete, but whole and burgeoning. Everything you need is in your heart and skull. This is not a competition, not a race for happiness, freedom or achievement, not a transition, not a buffet. You are already the goal, to exist as the lovely and hideous creature that you are. The specimen drifting peacefully in formaldehyde on the shelf. You are a self-perpetuating motion machine. A short-wave radio. Meant simply to be sensitive enough to emote. By existing you have already fulfilled your destiny. There will never be another exactly like you in the history of the dark, expanding cosmos. Enjoy it.
And go watch: âLet The Right One Inâ by Tomas Alfredson. Swedish vampire films always cheer me up.
P.S. Hello Billy the Freak, I bow low to you my liege, my scalp scraping the hard wood floors. I am indeed a deity. The god and goddess of shy nooks and awkward corners.
|24 May 2009||M.M. a.k.a. billy the freak|| (Rape, Murder and Suicide Are Easier When You Use a Keyboard Shortcut: Mouchette, an On-Line Virtual Character
Leonardo - Volume 38, Number 3, June 2005, pp. 202-206)
this quoted from web site project muse in brief review of mouchette
i noticed i spelled your name wrong on my last post. i was key stroke off. please do not take offense.
some years ago mouchette asked me to stop making spelling errors, because she didn't have time to correct them. mouchette has given few a interviews over the years and in one of her early interviews she was asked how much time she spends at her computer. she did not want to answer for it was so much. i was not upset, in fact i was happy she took the time to correct my post long as she did. she wanted my words to be right and further more she challenged me to do this myself in a sense make my own work better. with that she helped me design the way my post are styled. i do this by copy and paste from my yahoo mail account. that way i can see it spread out and i use spell check. pretty smart, huh. then finally she asks me how i started spelling so good. i told her i used spell check.
the bangles manic monday plays in the background.
now, i don't really know if my post have gotten better, but i do feel as if they have matured, however they still give the opposite vibe. hey, i'm a freak.
you said you had a screenplay.
i fancy myself a writer as well. mouchette says: to become an artist you simply make something and call it art. i guess you can do that with writing as well. i make a few post in the kit and now... i'm a writer.
in an interview with peter luining mouchette says: (I am the kind of person who thinks that art is never where you expect it, and that art is only in the eye of the beholder: a true descendant of Marcel Duchamp.)
i agree with this one hundred percent and i consider what i'm doing right now art. a revolutionary type of art where you are allowed to contribute even if you are tricked in to doing so.
after the first time you then pick your level of involvement. i bet there are souls who have been visiting for years and never once posted and of course i only speak of the kit. there is so much more. she has so much allure.
in the reviews of mouchette they try break it down with psychology, and i can tell from your post you know a little something about that. in the interviews it seems to me the person answering the questions instead of answering the questions as if they were mouchette they speak of mouchette like it is piece of art that is influenced b the hands of many and left to interpretation. please don't get me wrong mouchette does provoke you on a psychological level and does a good job of steering your thoughts in a certain direction, but what two psyches are the same. so i feel it is definitely up to your interpretation. they say mouchette allows you to flirt with the thought of death, maybe... it also allows you to flirt with the thought of life.
with all the searching i have done and personal interaction i have had with mouchette i am no closer to knowing what she is then when i first began, but i do know how she makes me feel. if mouchette was music i would download her onto my i pod. if mouchette was an herb i would smoke her. you know what? i am getting way off track. enzyme, i'm sorry i spelled your name wrong. i noticed you didn't have any typos in your post. perfect. god. are you god? well if you are. i'm sure you know what you are getting into and can handle it. don't let us down.
billy the freak
p.s. we all know mouchette is on the cutting edge of pop culture but has anyone noticed how wattle chick sounds and reads like lewis carroll's jabberwockey? curiouser and curiouser. billy wins the award for most mentions of mouchette in one post, he chortles in his joy. mouchette i love you.
|16 May 2009||Enzyme||O.K. my charming undead miscreants. Captain Enzyme is back with more. I really should be writing my screenplay but I do love all you demon bats so. Gotta post. First off, it seems that old shuddering hag, "lack of love/loss of affection/isolation" is still bogging everyone down. Again and again. Sheâs a suppurating spinster that wonât relax her grip on your throats my dears. So letâs take her on. Many of us naturally suffer from the paradox of a loveless, peppermint-flavored existence. Counting on our clawed fingers the people that adore us. The list diminishes. You choke on the hissing feline sensation that youâre a cog in the machine, a drowsy doddering afterbirth, shuddering and clawing your face off while no one takes notice, yes? I know my darling dryads, I know. Truth is, the acquisition of other humanoids who adore you is a poor qualifier of oneâs merit. Think upon those slogging peons you know who have the adoration of other carbon-biased forms of life. Honestly, are they as lusciously sensitive as you? Do they wrap their animal spirits in warping insanity and eternal goblin delight? Didnât think so. How many times have they watched âLabyrinthâ, huh? Most likely they are not interesting, not in the cosmic âDirk Bogardeâ sense anyway. Run of the mill (great term!). Why? Because the less complex of a creature you are, the easier it is for others to convince themselves they âloveâ you. The more of a blank attractive slate you are, the simpler it is for others to project their ideals upon your Etch-A-Sketch scalp. We beasts of the underworld are few and far between. A rarified endangered species, and we can only truly mate or flourish around our own kind. You know of what I speak. Some of you may even be married, with comrades abounding, but still the grip of chaos and isolation tightens inside your golden ribcage. The shuddering clarity you fear is omnipresent. Deep down in the copper mine of yourself you know they are not your real tribe. Not your breed of cerebral cortex. So you feel alone. Pitiful. Trapped. All you really long for is other rare shuddering psychokinetic underlings who, like, really really âgrokâ you, man. Naturally youâre going to be disappointed if you expect us to be around every corner. Itâs like digging up your yard looking for moles and expecting every mole you find to be a rare Brazilian naked mole-rat with corrugated albino eyes worth millions on the naked mole-rat black market. âAint gonna happen. Nor would you want it to, think of the adverse effect it would have on the mole marketâs price fluctuation. Regardless, you see the point Iâm making here. So what can you do? Well, think of your vibrating demonic dawn-soul as a submarine beacon humming and transmitting radio signals out across the interstate to the rest of your creed. If you are indeed an endangered species you owe it to the rest of us to stay alive, if only so the ecosystem isnât clogged with boring happy people who love life, have great sex, and walk around with frozen grins on their Plasticine features. Canât let those punks win out. What would you say to the last of the endangered monkey-whales drifting through the cataclysmic deep of the oceanâs womb? Cherish your rarity. And invest in naked mole-rats.
Love Enzyme, of the Petrified Forest.
P.S. Plus, by some miracle you could grow up, meet Mouchette at some subterranean cocktail party, fall in love, and travel around the country killing people and living in tree houses ala âBadlandsâ. Hey, it could happen, you never knowâ¦