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"Satan's Got Your Ice Cream" by Anita Brey & Joe Cha
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Friday the 13th by Bob Flanagan & David Trinidad
You can make a new start with your last breath, it so happens, every time you let go. If bad luck follows, why not embrace it like an oozing mutation right out of your high school anthropology textbook? Why not learn to love the part of you that dropped off ages ago but nonetheless hangs around, hiding in the attic or in the basement, or somewhere in between? Are you afraid other people might scream? Too bad if they do. You are what you were: a ghoulish vision of selfishness and self-imposed emotional implosion. You have no reason to live, but still you fog up the windows with your heavy breath and point that accusing finger at me, the one who wants to hold you in his arms. You’ve grown too big for that, like a balloon expanding beyond your own capacity and my sense of good taste. It takes courage to stay the same, bravery to be small. In the land of the giants, no one gets stepped on but the dumb ones, the bit players. What a spectacle your life has become! With your head in the clouds, you don’t notice the peons you crush beneath your great feet. It’s no great feat to make mud pies of men, but you act as if you should be given a standing ovation. We applaud you, O fifty-foot woman! When you attack, our penises react, little pip-squeaks squealing and scurrying hither and yon. We excite you, don’t we? Oh, please say so! Otherwise we must hide our heads in shame, weeping over our diminutive egos, while you grow larger with each breath you take.
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