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The Flight of the Hemmingway

Shit, damn. I can't believe it. Of all the places it could have happened, it has to happen here, over The City.

The horrible urban monstrosity that makes the mills of Pittsburgh look like a flower garden laced with Poppies and Marigolds and Lilies.

Lily.

I close my eyes against the wind -- or is it me that is blowing past? -- and there she is, with all the corny cliches tattooed around her face on my inner mind: alabaster skin, raven-black hair, fnord-red lips, eyes as deep as infinity.

I want to hold on to this -- I have to. The only thing that ever made this world worth living in -- the only person worthy of the title Human -- this has to be my last thought. I have to release the psychic energy that will make this world more beautiful, more sweet, more... more like her. She deserves it. She deserves to have the world bend to her will.

...unlike me, who only deserves to be thrown out of an aeroplane for yelling plane in a crowded bomb. Stupid childish pranks. Now I will forever be an intimate part of the landscape -- a mark upon the misshapen urban post-industrial canvas.

How much further, her face still burning itself into my eye-lids?

Shit, not far enough! The hideous pseudo-psycho-angles and concrete! I can't get her face back! The world can't have more of this ugliness heaped upon it! I shouldn't have opened my eyes! I shouldn't have looked dow --

Okay, I'm writing a story. Why, I don't know. What it's about, I'm not sure. But here it is anyway...

The sections are not in order and I cannot promise that any of it will make sense or be in anyway relevant to anything.

Hey, I googled emo and the first result said it was a sub-genre of punk.

And yes, a new thread is a good idea.

[ edit: and hre it is: http://www.principiadiscordia.com/forums/viewtopic.php?t=5807 ]

(PS. This one time, at band camp, I stuck a cat in my flute.)

Dammit! I'm NOT EMO!

*sob!*

Why oh why must I be so tortured and humiliated?

If I may be crude:

A woman spits. A Lady does what she's told.

I suck.
Everything I write is shit.
Cultivate discontent,
but don't use Miracle Gro.

Okay, I think I figured it out.

First: Not only am I writing this story in no specific order, but I also have no idea where to go with it.

Second: This story is complete shit and should be deleted.

I'll leave it up to the audience:

Does anyone want to read about the lab experiment gone wrong, the trip to the mystic in the bar, and the touchy-feely scene in the airplane where a hooker with a heart of gold teaches him about love in the airplane's bathroom?

The Folding of Hemmingway

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The Future of the Hemmingway

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[EMO!?]

WTF is up with the above emo?

Emo? EMO!? It's not emo; it fodder for cameos!

...walking down the sidewalk, and as we passed the Hemmingway Crater...

And besides, it's the end of what should probably be a longer story, which I might write, if I can find a way of completing it without the entire thing being emo. (I first have to find out what emo is...)

[edit: oh. I guess I'm not actually offended... I think. Maybe. I've never really listened to punk though. I prefer PJ Harvey.]

Flight of the Hemmingway

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