I have been using words since I could talk. Anytime I needed to express a thought, an urge, a hunger, or a prophecy, I would whisper it into a square-inch pocket of air. That pillow of sound would then float from my face to other people’s faces, bursting with a gentle *puh* and enveloping them in my unremarkable voice and SAT vocabulary. This is basic acoustics. But since watching Salvadorian comedian Julio Torres’ HBO Special My Favorite Shapes, I have begun to question my entire system of linguistics, and also the laws of wave mechanics. Words are weakness. WEAKNESS. Computers speak in numbers, so why can’t I speak in the sparkly prose of acetate parallelograms? I will henceforth ❐❑❒◐◑◒◓◢◣◤◥❐◑◢◢❑❒◐❑◐◐◓◣
Rachel’s official statement to the Anti-Defamation League:
I met a guy named Charlie at a party once. We started chatting and he was telling me about this cute little commune he ran and it sounded really fun. He told me he liked my deathly thin frame like a “sexy wooden board,” my long ratty brown hair, and that I especially looked like a submissive little bitch. He gave me three tabs of acid and started going off about how he was the reincarnation of Jesus or some shit. He told me about some really epic orgies he’s had and asked if I might wanna join… Maybe it was his charismatic personality or maybe it was all the free drugs he gave me, but I was so freaking into it. The Beach Boys started playing and he said that he knew them. He explained how if I kept hanging out with him, I’d learn to “shed my ego.” As an overly egotistical bitch (at least according to my ex) this was really enticing. Everything he was saying sounded so nice and, fuck, who doesn’t wanna meet the Beach Boys?! He was grabbing my waist when my trip started. This party reminded me of my Bat Mitzvah, what with all the God talk and all the “you should really take better care of your nails if you want to do coke with me and the others.” I told him about the time I lied to my mom about memorizing my Bat Mitzvah (___) and his whole demeanor changed. You’d think after he’d been staring at my flat chest all night he would’ve seen my Star of David necklace! He said he guessed it made sense since I was “smoking hot” but he said because I was a Jew I could not participate in his little club/commune. He said, and this is really fucked up, that I could only be a victim, since, “I should be used to that, what with the historical terrorization of Jews throughout history.” Charles Manson wouldn’t let me join his cult because I was Jewish, but he did say I’d be hot with a bullet through my pregnant stomach. He seemed really into that, too.
Shiittt girllll,,,, i was swiping through your vsco and saw that you listen to neutral milk hotell? That’s so fuacking crazy I never thought I’d meet someone else who likes 90s alternative folk grunge jazz DIY folk music, you’re definitely not like the other normal girls who drink white claws and shower. I think, and totallly stop me if i’m not respecting your boundaries, that’s my number one priority, that you’d fit right in with my crew. We all wear beanies and hate alcohol and lovvvve weed, and we don’t actually know how to skate but Colin has a tech deck. We just sorta hang out, and talk about deep thoughts at art museums, and make weekly sacrifices to the blood god Zovtar. It’s mad chill, we just sorta follow the blood rituals and grab unsuspecting middle aged men off the streets, and in exchange we all get eternal youth and these kickass stubble beards that never grow out past the middle school stage. You’d be perfect, you could be the ramona flowers to our five scott pilgrims, and Zovtar could grant you the power to drain mens souls with your eyes. Def hit me up if you’re tryna hang tn, we’re finna go blast Mac Demarco at the target parking lot until someone yells at us and then we’re gonna jump them and harvest his organs. We could, like, split the cost of a lyft? I swear i’m boutta get my license, but you know how much time serving an ancient blood deity takes haha. Still, I’d love to spend some quality time w you, at an economically viable rate ;) No fatties.
I can’t keep auditioning for the Manson family, it’s expensive to take the metro up to Spahn Ranch. Like, my hair is scraggly, my clothes are tattered, I reek of stale weed and pickled onions. You know, a real regular dude. What else could they possibly want? I guess it must just be because of my incredible aptitude for playing the theremin. This one night right after I got there, Charlie had us all circled around. There was Tex, and Squeaky, and Grumpy, and Sleepy, and Dopey, and Stabby, and a whole lot of other family members watching chestnuts roasting on the open tire-fire. Charlie pulled out his guitar and started laying down some real cool music. I mean, like, I really got into it. He’s some strange mix of Bob Dylan, John Lennon and Richard Nixon. So I just quietly crept out of sight and brought out my theremin and tried to join in. But, man, Charlie was pissed. I guess he had some pretty strong opinions about the Beach Boys discography, ‘cause as soon as I started playing he said “Is that Good Vibrations?” And I thought it was kind of a vibe thing he was trying to get going, so I said, “Yeah man, these are good vibrations.” Then he started trying to attack me. So I ran. There are plenty of surf rock groups that I would gladly die for, but the Beach Boys aren’t one of them.
My name is Jo Hingabaddum. I’d love to join American team organization, ILLUMINATI. Here in Sweden we have many socialisms, so I believe I excel greatly at work of teams. I hear you have blood sacrifice, sex party, and American celebrity Thomas Hanks. I am not so good at the blood sacrifice, but I am big fan of European sex party, especially bisexual BDSM rave culture here in my country. We have Hylga Svenster, a well-endowed pleather-clad blonde witch that the children like to dress up as for the Swedish Hallows Eve. Of course, this is only for the children -- for the adult parties Hylga is very exciting indeed.
I would love to share our European sex-fest secrets with you Illuminati… I can, perhaps, Illuminate your Naughty, if you understand my drift.
Please take me off of your private Snapchat story. I understand that “bitches be trippin” and your parents are “faithless heathens,” but I am not a “real one.” I won’t swipe up when you ask who your ride or dies are, and I’m not interested in why humanity has lost its chance to repent for their sins. We’ve never even hung out before, I have no idea why you consider me a “close friend.” The only reason I have you on Snapchat in the first place is because my only plug went to grad school. Now whenever I open up snap, all I see is you vlogging about “goon shit” and the skin-colored book covered in weird symbols you found in the woods. I didn't add you to see you and your friends get stoned and read chants to each other, I added you because you have a med card. You’re nearly 30 and still getting “lit” on social media every day of the week: Monday you’re sprinkling ketamine in the timebomb, tuesday you’re boofing DMT “for the culture”, oh big surprise on Wednesday you’re hearing “voices in your head telling you to kill your family.” I get that you like to smoke, but there’s this thing called moderation. Take a look in the mirror, your eyes should not be that bloodshot. They look like you literally painted them red. And I don’t care if “the blood of the innocent will flood our cities and stain our vast oceans,” maybe try focusing on the grease stains on your tracksuit. I will give you props for learning a foreign language though, I know for a fact you didn’t used to speak Italian.
My name is Jazzy and I grew up in a lil town called Peach Pit, Georgiakansabraska. My Daddy owned a pig factory but I was never allowed to go there for his big fear that the reddie red piggie’s blood will stain my lily ivory baby soft cheeks. Every night, though, I said an “Amen” for each big ol fat ol biggie oldie fattie piggie pig we would kill. Life was simply peachy in Peach Pit.
Once I turned 12, Momma explained that one day I would be honored as the Dusk Goddess, Princess of Hell in Peach Pit, Georgiakansabraska, aka the Prettiest Peach in Peach Pit (PPiPP). Oh, when I say I was thrilled! It would bring my tiny girl heart so much joy to be the Prettiest Peach and Harbinger of the Great Cleanse and Awakening, but the process was ever so difficult on my young feminine, undeveloped, hollow bird bones!
The Prettiest Peaches before me would spend weeks, if not days, brushing their hair with whale bone, bathing in buttermilk, and never ever going to the lavatory. Oh, yes, we were not allowed to go number 2 once we were made aware of our nomination to the PPiPP. I adored them, as did the rest of Peach Pit. Our Mascots, our Babes, our Idols, our Gods; that’s what it meant to win. To lose meant something very very bad and I had no intention fo finding out what that bad thing was!
When I turned 15, I was finally nominated to participate in the glorious contest. I pulled my nails straight from their cuticles, that’s how nervous I was! After weeks of no number 2 and a prune juice/ laxative gum , I successfully completed my weigh in. I was as smooth and shiny as an embalmed corpse, my PopPop himself lay me down and oiled me up for the final staging!
I said a little prayer and completed the contest. “Oh lordy god, please do let me be crowned Dusk Goddess, PPiPP. Lordy god don’t forget to remind our lovely township that losing is wrong and that the loser must find a cure for Malaria or HIV. Make them suffer! Amen.”
When the Sir Announcer announced my name as a loser, oh boy, that was not so good, and so disappointing! I would have to join the network of losers planted alongside the Winn Dixie Line! I said an “Amen” and put the whole town on fire! Those who survived followed me out to the woods. I said to them, “I will be the only Debutante of the New Peach Pit, Georgiakansabraska. If you disagree, I am asking Lordy god to remind me to line you up and shoot you. Amen.” They all nodded, and all was well.
Well, it’s just about time to call the newest Dark Sky Princess and Goddess of Hell of the New Peach Pit, Georgiakansabraska. Amen.