Freewrites! I told you all that there would be more. Be warned that some of these get odd. Or dark. Or both. There’s a bit of comical horror in here.

Enjoy!

Given, Not Taken

Hugs must be given, not taken.
So too your love must be,
For a stolen kiss or moment
Is worth nothing to the soul on the sea.

A word mustn’t tear or disparage.
It must build and give something from you.
It must sacrifice all you’ve been given
That others may live by it too.

On Valentine’s Day

Valentine’s Day is the perfect day to try to gag your way through writing an article for a client because she thought it would be a great idea to write an article on the best love songs for Valentine’s day. If this freelancer had his way, however, this holiday and all its associated paraphernalia would be banned, rounded up, and cremated alive with liberal applications of gasoline, then reverted back to the nice, quiet religious holiday it was initially intended to be rather than this grotesquely over-commercialized mess that we have today.

Once I considered the question of what I would change the first day of the year to if I could. I chose February 14th because then it would hopefully overtake the blight that this holiday has become and allow it to settle down in a quiet spot in the annals of history. Sweetest Day may try to take over after that, but really, no one pays any attention to it, so it will only be able to continue its halting and feeble attempts at popularity as it drags itself through the semi-decayed corpse of our former “love” holiday.

Unfortunately, it’s not up to this freelancer to write what should happen to this holiday, but to quietly and meekly go along with the requests of his client because, hey, she’s paying me fairly generously, and I need the money.

<Griping about work. I think I attempted to use freewriting as a way to get started on an article, and it turned into this. Also, I have opinions about Valentine’s day, apparently.>

Delicious

There’s something delicious about how the birds bid a cheerful “Goodbye! Farewell! See you tomorrow!” to the sun as it lies down to sleep,

Or in the way the moon’s silvered face peers out bashfully from behind a cloud to bathe the landscape with cool, shimmering, quiet glory,

Or even how the lights of men, tiny and shriveled, huddle in dark places, lurking in their own self-loathing.

The Mark of Death Is Plaid

The mark of death is plaid.

And it also causes people to turn yellow, but there is no pee in it, even though pee is also yellow.

If you put a dollar in a jar every time you pass gas, would that mean your fart jar is full of gas money? Or is it just pee?

<Yeah, I dunno either.>

Various One-Liners

The mark of sentience is a preoccupation with shiny things.

Have you ever beaten someone senseless? It’s quite fun, especially if you do so with a rubber ducky.

She felt the stars breathe down her neck, and fankly, it was kind of annoying.

Pretend for a moment that you never ate your friends.

Older homes have a great deal of charm, which is actually an industry term that means “Eh, it needs work.”

Waking Up on an Operating Table

I woke up on the operating table. And it was an operating table.

I looked around. Then looked over at the doctor who had a section of my upper intestine in his hands.

“Um,” I said.

As one, they all looked at me, their eyes wide with horror.

“Doctorr,” I slurred as sternly as I could manage, “Isz there a r-rreason you’ve dissemmbowelled m-me?”

“Marge, get him more morphine,” said the doctor.

“He’s too light,” she said. “It could cause lasting damage.”

“S-see?” I said. “At leasht sshhe caresz.”

“Sorry,” said the doctor. “We had to fix something. Go back to sleep.”

“Well, you c-could at leasht have asked firsst. Where hash human decenshy gone…”

<The idea of waking up on an operating table and thinking only to reprimand the doctor for cutting you open amuses me. Probably more than it should.>

The Perfect Code

People think the genome is merely a code that programs life.

Oh, but it’s much, much more than that. It’s data about the great secret….

It’s in the blood. They come. They sequence your blood. They derive… something… from it. What, we do not know. Something to do with the fundamental operation of the universe.

It’s a computer program, and we were bred to generate the perfect code.

<Definitely usable for something. Maybe a more serious execution of the concept behind The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Universe.>

If Not Flesh and Blood…

The priest cried out to his congregation, “If we’re not flesh and blood, then what are we?!”

A random child in the front pew answered, “Boogers.”

The priest’s eyes widened. The entire chapel went silent. The revelation was too much for their feeble minds.

Hope you enjoyed! Or at least made it through with your wits intact. Or at least kept some of your wits semi-intact. Or at least still remember what “intact” means. Anyway, share this if you feel like outing yourself as a deranged weirdo. All proceeds go toward campaigns to reassign the new year to the 14th of February. Really.