Our thoughts, to the average Joe in 1549 B.C. Egypt, were not thought to belong solely to us. Rather, our thoughts were sent to us directly from the gods. When you are woken up by the sudden surge in your bladder it’s because Ra has ordered you to rise.
When you feel yourself particularly virile and masturbate more than six times a day, Osiris is on one.
Tawaret wills your sporadic drives to Pinkberry at 9:30p.m. on a Tuesday.
Isn’t that just ludicrous? That the ancient Egyptians could think something so silly?
Nowadays, we know those drives aren’t sent to us by gods.
They’re sent to us by way of marketers, the gods of the Tech Revolution.
We are relentless in our conspicuous consumption, more, more, more, gluttonous pigs. We have not changed. We’ve modernized but we still are the same sheep listening to commands, demanding speed, demanding instant gratification. Give me the most for the cheapest NOW.
Now when I think of a simile to compare with happiness, happiness is like swerving & snaking through desolate highways in a glittering Mercedes, shot by a prolific film director in 4:3 and black and white.
Love is a sultry Tiffany’s moment behind red velvet and her hair’s pinned up and her mascara’s plastered on thick and her breasts are supple and her body is lithe and she’s wearing nothing but diamonds.
And beauty is the Cover Girl who’s air brushed and lying and projecting a false, wholesome image who dies alone in a musky hotel with a needle sticking out her arm, nowhere near a vein.
Or the Cover Girl who’s severed head is hanging from my kitchen doorway, draining into a bucket which I will provide extra nutrients to my Wednesday morning breakfast.
Hi. My name is Betty Duncan. I’m forty-three, I’ve had two natural births, one C-section, 32 bad perms, and I used to be Miss South Carolina and currently spend my days as a serial killer. Screw you if you think my sentences are all run-on. I have a lot to say, dammit and don’t have time to stop and think about how the reader might like it.
I married a pro football player who’s bad with money and would rather jerk off to Jugz magazines secretly in the attic than touch my cellulite-pocked fat ass. I’ve obviously seen better days.
I’m actually nice. I’m a real person. I deserve happiness.
I know you’ve probably turned your nose up, judging me for choosing such a traditionally male career. But let me tell you, there are plenty more serial killers out there who are women. They just aren’t stupid enough to get caught.
I don’t need your judgement, what I need is an extra scoop of vanilla protein powder. I’ll run by the Vitamin Shoppe after disposing of @TwinkleFairy’s skull. Luckily human blood is rich with riboflavin, amino acids, and protein. Much better than whey, anyway.
I’m loving my new diet, I can feel a new verve for life!
Torturing her for her Instagram passwords is the easy part. Her pathetic pleas and vain screams were like Bach to my ears.
The hard part was getting her smile to look natural in our selfie before I killed her.
Post is always the same with all the beautiful young Insta starlets I target:
Follow my good friend, @BettyDuncan – she’s a real hoot and is pageant history! #originaldiva
Then I watch the followers start rolling in.
Why should they get all the attention? They’ve never had to grind. They’ve never had to work. They simply typed a hashtag and found an audience, an agent, an income. Twinkle Fairy made twice than I do and she’s 16. She doesn’t even know who the president is.
The good thing about a rich husband who’s terrible with money is you can spend it without him knowing.
He never questioned my steadfast support in his weekly trips to the casinos, sitting at dealer tables for hours, coming home drunk and tasting like whiskey. Returning to demand sex like some crazed Neanderthal but too drunk to actually give it to me.
While he was out, I’d hire contractors – a new one every week to keep them from questioning. I told them I was building a Tornado cellar. But there was cellar beneath cellar, mazing into each other, with different sorts of locks at each level and various booby traps.
I made the second cellar a poison gas chamber, second because oxygen is the second most abundant element in the atmosphere, and in that chamber is where my victim’s supply ends.
The third chamber is sound proof, if I’m feeling very naughty I can bring out the toys: saws, knives, cheese graters.
The bottom cellar is the furnace and acid bath. I’ve built this very efficient death factory so my hobby may continue on.
No one’s ever come looking. No one asks. No one cares.
I watched a documentary on how to manage online talent. It’s difficult because you’re dealing with this being who chooses to forgo friendships and relationships to cultivate digital ones. But when a connection is solely forged through 0’s and 1’s can it be human? Can emotions be real?
My theory proved right. The YouTube stars were socially inept, terrible at conversing or understanding the feelings of another being. They were like mindless chicken running toward the farmer with the birdseed in his hand, the perfect opportunity to ring the chicken’s necks.
After killing the YouTube stars, no one noticed they were gone. No one cared about them. When asking why their YouTube content stopped the answer was always the same flippant one:
Must have been discovered and put on the TV.
No one was actually focused on the Youtube stars they’d watch, they were too busy in their own rat race to Insta-fame. Fifty-thousand followers and no friends. An economy where Likes are the currency.
Empathy is extinct. Humans are sarcastic robots hiding in plain sight on social media.
Why care for one another when you only have to care for yourself? We’ve become vapid, self-centered mongoloids. We must find our humanity. We must begin to care for each other again.
Steve Jobs was Judas. I’m your new savior. Find your way back or suffer my wrath.
My Wednesday blood orange smoothie helps me return to my humanity. It’s also really good for the skin. Like thirty-two people have commented on my last post, mentioning how great my skin looks!
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