SNAP!
a
stream-of-consciousness diatribe from the mind
of
Mr Daniel Paul Mead
bastards.
bastards.
bastards.
the prince hated everyone. yes. he was so full of hate. hate that could not
be quantified. oh, no no no.
he
always said that his hate was directed at the system. of course he did; his
age ended in the syllable "teen". understand that this was not the system
as in the government, any real monarchy, evil megalomaniac multinationals
or other assorted authority figures.
no, this was directed at such demonic persons as his parents and anyone in
his peer group who didn't agree with his ideals and opinions (sadly, he was
unaware of the ironic reverse-facsism of his hatred focus, which was a shame,
because fuck knows he needed a sense of humour). that constituted the s-y-s-t-e-m.
bastards.
he, and the other (insert number between one and ten) million people who listened to the same music as him felt so alone.
and no, he was not aware of that irony either. but my word, he was miserable. so miserable that it had to be italicized.
the princess was equally lonely, worthless and quote-full-of-hate-unquote. she pulled the sleeves of her long-sleeve tee (bought from Camden Market, but of couuuuursssse) over her hands, and took another swim in the miasma of pain that was irrevocably her life.
oh wait, let's italicize "irrevocably".
irrevocably
there.
she made her way through the streets of the rich neighbourhood to the prince's house.
did i mention she (thought that she was) a socialist? yes. a radical revolutionary, too. she was going to smash the system (the whole system, not the prince's system). although she needed transportation to spread the message, but her parents would provide that for her.
using money, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha (or there would be laughter if she was once again aware of the irony).
actually, the irony throughout this tale walks/has walked/will walk a big irony/hypocrisy tightrope.
so.
the routine
was familiar by now, they had been a royal couple for some months. tonight,
as before, she would lie beneath him and he would fuck her noisily, soundtracked
by the music that simultaneously. built and destroyed their dreams.
they called this "making love".
speaking of all topics sexual, both the prince and princess occasionally claimed to be bisexual, though if anyone of identical sex would ever made a pass at them, they would almost certainly run a mile. was it not george clinton who said "you can't fake the funk?". perhaps it was james brown. maybe theolonius monk. but anyway.
back in the castle of eternal angstiness...
they were together.
bastards.
everyone else, the world, the system (whichever variant). all were bastards,
seeking to stamp out both them and their kin (although a stamping-out of that
magnitude would require incredibly durable soles).
but they, the prince and his princess, the princess and her prince would be together forever, in their black eyeliner pain and sparkly glittery spangly nail-polish loneliness, eternally (accompanied by their numerous friends). there's another example of the tightrope i mentioned.
time passed.
the story had a tragic ending as the prince and princess one day grew up.
shaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaame.
THE END