thread of total insanity

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I'm looking for my shirt, but all I can find is blood everywhere.
My god. I think I've killed them all.
The fruits.
The fruits are taking over.
But it's not just the fruits I'm worried about, the Umbrella is the real terror.
It doesn't just eat you like the fruits, no it first makes you eat the terror of other people.
There's only one way out.
I don't know if I can do it, but I think I have to.
I need to kill myself with the freezer.
It has to be the freezer because that's where it all started.

Whoa! Almost hit that lamp post there. Thankfully, I've got good shoes. Last time, I took it head-on and almost lost my lunch.

In other news, my friend had a child today. It wouldn't mean much at all, except that according to our contract, I get his first-born child. The real kicker is, he had twins! He's using that as an excuse to buy some time, maybe move outta the country, but the whole point of my being a demon is that I'll always know where he is. But that's just how it is. It'll be nice to have a human child take over for me when it grows, I've become tired of ruling over legions. They make such a big deal about it, but it's not all it's cracked up to be! I mean, I've got peons coming to me all the time, telling me about how "God's forces are strong" and the "good guys are really good at hurtin' and stuff". It's enough to make a demon lord sick. And I have been, too, and demon sickness is not something to mess with. You ever had a head cold? Yeah, it's worse. And I get it almost as often, too, so it isn't a rare occurence, like salmonela or whatever ridiculous diseases you humans have these days. Well, I'd better stop ranting, the underlings are here to report and I've got a baby to find. Ciao!

I AM KIROK!! !

Blue is a color but red is also a color. Why? WHY!! ! I'm sorry? Judy Bloom.

Tell me! Why? Why? Why can't I be like most Canadians, even though I was born in Canada? Why? Why? I really want to know!

Polos.

How random is that?

How about trousers? That's random.

I've got a jellyfish in my fridge, a toad under my pillow, a marmot behind the telly, several rodents in my guitar, John Frusciante in my garage, physical tones behind my clock and a treble clef that dies to tease my nipples. AAARGH!

Oh, lets not forget: Wooden shoes.

I hear it's amazing when the famous purple stuffed worm in flap-jaw
space with the tuning fork does a raw blink on Hara-kiri Rock. I need scissors! 61!

I was a North American Fall Webworm in my past life. Those were the
good old days...
What were you in your former life?

when you see the sign follow through with the plan!

don't meddle with your thoughts about fish....just remember that toothpaste is orange!

I was an angel. How's THAT for irony?

Seven stiff stirrups send sentinels soaring soundly. If I had a tuba, I might eat the fish. In other news, potatoes speak their own language, heretofore dubbed "Taterish", which was actually invented by J.R.R. Tolkien. When asked about this, Tolkien merely mumbled some incessant jibberish in another of his fancy languages and stormed off. Later, we got the chance to question Gandalf the Grey, but he merely blew us off before getting into his white limo, which he called "Shadowfax". Such strange people, those wizards!

I'm just a little black rain cloud, hovering above the Honey Tree,
Only a little black rain cloud, Pay no attention to little me.

We live in a dream, a simple dream shared by billions. Yes, life is little more than a fleeting melody trying to distract us from our true reality. We see it in our dreams, but kick and scream and make our way back into the safe, solid state of life. However, when death finally comes, all will see the truth of their existence.

my shoe hid my sanity from me so, i fried some potatoes

I am within one standard deviation of the mean for normality. Just towards the extremity.

The difference between insanity and genius is measured only by success.

The shrinks are crazy not the patients!! !

Watch ye for the tree, lest ye wish to lose thine head to it's sinister branches. That loathsome headhunter waits in secret amongst his brethren, watching silently for his time to strike. And when that hour cometh, it arrives as lightning; before ye may blink, this sinister devil hath stolen thine head from atop thy shoulders. Such a tragedy, the woe-begone traveler who rests beneath its branch-like fingers, for there remains little hope for those drawn to its haunting fragrance.

Thus is the story of the Head Tree.