Dead Inside

by Chandler Morrison

People gross me out.

Society defines what’s good and what’s bad, and society doesn’t know the difference between its own anal-beaded asshole and its dick-sucking mouth.

Now is the part where I’m supposed to say something profoundly dumb, such as, Not as beautiful as you. But that’s really not my style.

“It’s realistic thinking. No matter how much of an individual you are, no matter how unique and different and nonconformist and antiestablishment, you can’t deny the inescapable effects that society has on everyone, including you and me.”

I want death neither behind, nor ahead, of me, but around me and within me.

The living are dangerous. They inflict pain. They’re so fueled by greed, a lust for useless material shit, a smoldering desire to fit in . . . and they’ll hurt and betray and destroy whomever they must in order to get anywhere close to all of it.

The priest is here to make people believe dying really isn’t so bad, that there’s something on the other side. He’s here to make dying easy. To make it attractive. And me? I just fuck dead girls.

“You don’t seem like the type who eats cheeseburgers.” “You don’t seem like the type who eats babies.”