Anon cheers up his dad
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The spray. The warm spray is what alerted me.
Have you ever witnessed what a hydraulic lift can do to a human torso? Your average stick of butter can only dream of understanding how cleanly a ribcage falls to such unyielding force.
At first, I reflexively sought refuge behind the car I was working on, but there was no need. I had no way of knowing this, but my friend’s chest had been crushed and sheared well beyond the center point. Ironically, he had been the only victim of his own arterial action, spraying himself in his final moments. What struck me was the fluid from the severed hydraulic line.
After I had finished hyperventilating, the rest of the day was a blur. I could hardly manage to focus on the paperwork the police handed me or anything else, for that matter. How could I?
He and I had taught each other how to babble, learned how to walk side by side. We had cheated our way through school, partied, cared for each other when sick or feeble, built our lives on trusting one another. We had lived together longer than most families, truly loved one another as friends. And then he was meat taking up space in a bag.
I don’t know how I arrived home, but I remember my wife’s worried face as I stood in front of the door, keys in hand at my hip. She tenderly hugged me but I couldn’t help but recoil at the foreign pressure. I dragged myself through the door frame and slumped against the wall, finally landing upon something soft at my wife’s near imperceptible guidance.
She decided that I needed to remove myself from the situation, from my life. At least for a little while. Long enough to eat and breathe. My lungs felt as though they had been stuffed with cotton, and I was nearly ready to tear it out when she placed a bottle of whiskey at my hip and turned on the television across the room. To be outside myself was the greatest blessing I had ever been given.
My son walked into the room, chuckling to himself. I couldn’t help but light up a bit at his mirth and purity. He was everything right in the world, an unblemished angel sent to keep me from shattering. My vessel could take not a drop more, and he knew that.
He spoke some words made inaudible by the tv and the ringing in my ears, before dropping his shorts and expelling dripping feculence across the ground, and shrieking a laugh that felt like drills eating through my ears. The same tone that rang from my friend in his final moments.
I was broken.
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The spray. The warm spray is what alerted me.
Have you ever witnessed what a hydraulic lift can do to a human torso? Your average stick of butter can only dream of understanding how cleanly a ribcage falls to such unyielding force.
At first, I reflexively sought refuge behind the car I was working on, but there was no need. I had no way of knowing this, but my friend’s chest had been crushed and sheared well beyond the center point. Ironically, he had been the only victim of his own arterial action, spraying himself in his final moments. What struck me was the fluid from the severed hydraulic line.
After I had finished hyperventilating, the rest of the day was a blur. I could hardly manage to focus on the paperwork the police handed me or anything else, for that matter. How could I?
He and I had taught each other how to babble, learned how to walk side by side. We had cheated our way through school, partied, cared for each other when sick or feeble, built our lives on trusting one another. We had lived together longer than most families, truly loved one another as friends. And then he was meat taking up space in a bag.
I don’t know how I arrived home, but I remember my wife’s worried face as I stood in front of the door, keys in hand at my hip. She tenderly hugged me but I couldn’t help but recoil at the foreign pressure. I dragged myself through the door frame and slumped against the wall, finally landing upon something soft at my wife’s near imperceptible guidance.
She decided that I needed to remove myself from the situation, from my life. At least for a little while. Long enough to eat and breathe. My lungs felt as though they had been stuffed with cotton, and I was nearly ready to tear it out when she placed a bottle of whiskey at my hip and turned on the television across the room. To be outside myself was the greatest blessing I had ever been given.
My son walked into the room, chuckling to himself. I couldn’t help but light up a bit at his mirth and purity. He was everything right in the world, an unblemished angel sent to keep me from shattering. My vessel could take not a drop more, and he knew that.
He spoke some words made inaudible by the tv and the ringing in my ears, before dropping his shorts and expelling dripping feculence across the ground, and shrieking a laugh that felt like drills eating through my ears. The same tone that rang from my friend in his final moments.
I was broken.
Bravo. Instant classic.
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The spray. The warm spray is what alerted me.
Have you ever witnessed what a hydraulic lift can do to a human torso? Your average stick of butter can only dream of understanding how cleanly a ribcage falls to such unyielding force.
At first, I reflexively sought refuge behind the car I was working on, but there was no need. I had no way of knowing this, but my friend’s chest had been crushed and sheared well beyond the center point. Ironically, he had been the only victim of his own arterial action, spraying himself in his final moments. What struck me was the fluid from the severed hydraulic line.
After I had finished hyperventilating, the rest of the day was a blur. I could hardly manage to focus on the paperwork the police handed me or anything else, for that matter. How could I?
He and I had taught each other how to babble, learned how to walk side by side. We had cheated our way through school, partied, cared for each other when sick or feeble, built our lives on trusting one another. We had lived together longer than most families, truly loved one another as friends. And then he was meat taking up space in a bag.
I don’t know how I arrived home, but I remember my wife’s worried face as I stood in front of the door, keys in hand at my hip. She tenderly hugged me but I couldn’t help but recoil at the foreign pressure. I dragged myself through the door frame and slumped against the wall, finally landing upon something soft at my wife’s near imperceptible guidance.
She decided that I needed to remove myself from the situation, from my life. At least for a little while. Long enough to eat and breathe. My lungs felt as though they had been stuffed with cotton, and I was nearly ready to tear it out when she placed a bottle of whiskey at my hip and turned on the television across the room. To be outside myself was the greatest blessing I had ever been given.
My son walked into the room, chuckling to himself. I couldn’t help but light up a bit at his mirth and purity. He was everything right in the world, an unblemished angel sent to keep me from shattering. My vessel could take not a drop more, and he knew that.
He spoke some words made inaudible by the tv and the ringing in my ears, before dropping his shorts and expelling dripping feculence across the ground, and shrieking a laugh that felt like drills eating through my ears. The same tone that rang from my friend in his final moments.
I was broken.
Behold! BEHOLD! The birth…of a copypasta.
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The spray. The warm spray is what alerted me.
Have you ever witnessed what a hydraulic lift can do to a human torso? Your average stick of butter can only dream of understanding how cleanly a ribcage falls to such unyielding force.
At first, I reflexively sought refuge behind the car I was working on, but there was no need. I had no way of knowing this, but my friend’s chest had been crushed and sheared well beyond the center point. Ironically, he had been the only victim of his own arterial action, spraying himself in his final moments. What struck me was the fluid from the severed hydraulic line.
After I had finished hyperventilating, the rest of the day was a blur. I could hardly manage to focus on the paperwork the police handed me or anything else, for that matter. How could I?
He and I had taught each other how to babble, learned how to walk side by side. We had cheated our way through school, partied, cared for each other when sick or feeble, built our lives on trusting one another. We had lived together longer than most families, truly loved one another as friends. And then he was meat taking up space in a bag.
I don’t know how I arrived home, but I remember my wife’s worried face as I stood in front of the door, keys in hand at my hip. She tenderly hugged me but I couldn’t help but recoil at the foreign pressure. I dragged myself through the door frame and slumped against the wall, finally landing upon something soft at my wife’s near imperceptible guidance.
She decided that I needed to remove myself from the situation, from my life. At least for a little while. Long enough to eat and breathe. My lungs felt as though they had been stuffed with cotton, and I was nearly ready to tear it out when she placed a bottle of whiskey at my hip and turned on the television across the room. To be outside myself was the greatest blessing I had ever been given.
My son walked into the room, chuckling to himself. I couldn’t help but light up a bit at his mirth and purity. He was everything right in the world, an unblemished angel sent to keep me from shattering. My vessel could take not a drop more, and he knew that.
He spoke some words made inaudible by the tv and the ringing in my ears, before dropping his shorts and expelling dripping feculence across the ground, and shrieking a laugh that felt like drills eating through my ears. The same tone that rang from my friend in his final moments.
I was broken.
I read this entirely in Meatcanyon's voice, bravo
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I read this entirely in Meatcanyon's voice, bravo
My inspiration! I truly believe that he’s at the forefront of instantly digestible horror and agony.
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The spray. The warm spray is what alerted me.
Have you ever witnessed what a hydraulic lift can do to a human torso? Your average stick of butter can only dream of understanding how cleanly a ribcage falls to such unyielding force.
At first, I reflexively sought refuge behind the car I was working on, but there was no need. I had no way of knowing this, but my friend’s chest had been crushed and sheared well beyond the center point. Ironically, he had been the only victim of his own arterial action, spraying himself in his final moments. What struck me was the fluid from the severed hydraulic line.
After I had finished hyperventilating, the rest of the day was a blur. I could hardly manage to focus on the paperwork the police handed me or anything else, for that matter. How could I?
He and I had taught each other how to babble, learned how to walk side by side. We had cheated our way through school, partied, cared for each other when sick or feeble, built our lives on trusting one another. We had lived together longer than most families, truly loved one another as friends. And then he was meat taking up space in a bag.
I don’t know how I arrived home, but I remember my wife’s worried face as I stood in front of the door, keys in hand at my hip. She tenderly hugged me but I couldn’t help but recoil at the foreign pressure. I dragged myself through the door frame and slumped against the wall, finally landing upon something soft at my wife’s near imperceptible guidance.
She decided that I needed to remove myself from the situation, from my life. At least for a little while. Long enough to eat and breathe. My lungs felt as though they had been stuffed with cotton, and I was nearly ready to tear it out when she placed a bottle of whiskey at my hip and turned on the television across the room. To be outside myself was the greatest blessing I had ever been given.
My son walked into the room, chuckling to himself. I couldn’t help but light up a bit at his mirth and purity. He was everything right in the world, an unblemished angel sent to keep me from shattering. My vessel could take not a drop more, and he knew that.
He spoke some words made inaudible by the tv and the ringing in my ears, before dropping his shorts and expelling dripping feculence across the ground, and shrieking a laugh that felt like drills eating through my ears. The same tone that rang from my friend in his final moments.
I was broken.
slow clap
