Conformist Spondylitis had taken over the village. Everybody was in a panic, dismembering each other with dull and rusty scrap metals found in garbage heaps as far as the world is round.
My girlfriend at the time that the panic broke out was playing two-dimensional video games from the Eighties: Asteroids, Tempest, TRON, Fucking Qbert. I tried to make her see what was happening around us, but she told me (mock girls voice) “If I look away from the screen I might lose a life”, so I left her there in the primary, and what I’ve found to be discriminatory, glow of basic shapes, in her peacock tested smeared globs of make-up caked face and clogged pores that would no doubt age here into a shriveled old bitter drag queen impersonator 40 years before her life would end, blinded by what the advertisers decided to market as beauty and sell to the masses of bitches with snuffed out skin cells that die screaming for oxygen to radiate a two-faced inner glow of a a jealous insecure know-it-all. Who the fuck want’s that?!?!?!
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