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Scrawl on the Wall 020
Maybe I can make this all a little bit clearer for you boys and girls. Maybe I can pull back the layers of the onion of time and cry my damn little eyes out for your amusement, you harpies!!
I don't need no group hug session, I am a loner. I do everything alone.
They called me El Masturbatorio when I lived in a tiny village on the Baja California coast.
There I would stay alone, like a hermit, living in squalor, eating only bad clams which I caught myself, and spending day after day laying in a hammock, clutching my stomach in pain.
Those were the golden years of my existence.
I would sit there and be totally alone, except when I went to work at the 7-11 and sold coca-cola and beef jerky to tourists.
Soon, I lost my dream job at El Touristo Seven Eleven Heaven, and sat alone, clutching myself after another fruitful day of catching poisonous clams to eat. The shellfish man. The shellfish.
And then, I left my little hut on the beach, and went back to America - Land of the Proud, Land of the Free, The kind of place where a man could live in Montana and shoot the fuck out of people.
It was paradise.
I worked at Circle K, instead.
The pay was better, and I started to eat Ramen.
But deep down, I was empty. I had lost my cool moniker of El Masturbatorio, and people just thought I was a crazed loner with a cat named Bastardtron.
People thought that, because it was true.
I began to just eat black licorice, drink Dr Pepper, and look at Hustler magazine.
It was sad. It was pathetic.
To lift my spirits I started to use recreational drugs.
But I never got a cool nickname from the losers who went to the Circle K and drank soda straight from the fountain.
So my loneliness was complete.
I like that in a civilization.
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