since my life lately hasn't provided much fodder for really quality blog matter i'm just going to start making up stuff in the style of a really trite novel.
he squeezed the trigger of the speargun, firing a piercing shot through the lower torso of his grandfather. the old man, unable to scream due to the respirator, slumped over and fell out of the antique wheel chair he loathed. he lay there motionless, save for the struggling rise and fall of his chest as he battled for air. the stagnant mutton joint he was gumming hourse earlier lay near him. the pet ferrett carried it away. young man walked to his grandfather and calmly whispered, "less filling, bizatch".
album du jour: moloko do you like my tight sweater?
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