Marc Browne

Tuesday, September 9th, 2014

This fucking dude. I swear we were lovers in another life.

Reincarnated to be tortured.

I love this guy. I haven’t spoken to him in a year or so. But somehow I feel like he will get this message one day. He’ll know, he’s the most magical, most full-of-love dude I’ve ever met. This guy is a real gentleman caller, but he isn’t some old fuck either. He is classy, witty, and a party dude. He’s so fucking handsome! I wish I was 20 years older. I would have married that dude. (Or re-married. Whatever it is 40-yr-olds do.) I wish I lived near him, so I could see him more. But I’m just an asshole, and I do what I want, which is selfish.

I need to see more people that I love.

And I love that man.

I love you, Marc.


NO Fucking Wonder

Tuesday, September 9th, 2014

No fucking wonder Batey killed himself. Jesus fucking christ. What kind of friends do I have? They literally make jokes about me killing myself. They’re so fucking sick of me. I’m 26 fucking years old. No one wants to hear this shit anymore. They’re like “It’s old fucking news, Carrie.” They give me a fucking thumbs up when I say I want to kill myself. Rich said something so cool to me tonight. He said he felt my music. He didn’t even want to tell me about it because he said it was weird. Yeah, you know, feeling music is weird. But to have someone finally listen to my music, and close their eyes, and feel it. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. That makes my entire life worth living. All of it. If I can just write one song that touches one persons life for even one second, that means more than any lifetime I could ever live not making a difference. Even if it just made him think one thought for one second, it means so much. No one ever fucking listens to my music. Like, no shit, assholes, I’m making it for you. Fuck me! Even my best friends don’t listen to that shit. No one fucking cares. It was so good to feel someone that felt me. It made me cry. I sat in that field with the supermoon tonight, and I watched the dusk roll in with the fog. It was beautiful. Rich is beautiful. Music is beautiful. Good night 🙂

We’re Not “Home” Yet

Tuesday, August 26th, 2014

Just got an email from my mom. She was concerned about my depression so she tried to cheer me up by saying:

“HEAVEN is our home—  I sometimes forget that I’m not home yet….  SO IT REALLY DOESN’T MATTER WHAT HAPPENS TO ME DOWN HERE—Nothing can stop the fact that I’m a child of God –and there are great things waiting for me…LATER—at my designated time..”

Thanks mom. That really makes me feel better. Who fucking cares about life? Nothing we do here even matters. (Unless it’s worshiping God, of course) Life will be depressing. But it’s okay! After you die, life gets really great probably. Or, not life, but death. Afterlife. You know. 

Good intentions. Bad ideas.

We’ve Lost Her, Captain

Tuesday, August 26th, 2014

The depression is overwhelming. My friends are sick to death of hearing about it. You’re all I’ve got left. After six years, I thought I had it together. I thought I was the only one in the whole family that had moved on. That had actually grieved “correctly”. I thought I was okay. I was dead fucking wrong.

Robin WIlliams’ death has sparked an immeasurable flashback sequence. I feel like I’m mourning for Chris all over again. I never knew the guy, but I feel empathy for him like I’ve never felt for anyone. I’m obsessed with him. I can’t do anything but cry and watch Mork and Mindy. Patch Adams. Old stand-up. Night Show interviews. Anything I can get my hands on. I even read his reddit AMA.

It’s been two weeks and I’m not any better. In fact, I’m worse. The insomnia started again. It’s difficult to describe insomnia. It starts out like normal. You feel sleepy. You turn off your light. And then you lay there. And a little voice starts right in the back of your brain. Telling you how much you need to sleep.

You gotta go to sleep, Carrie. Hurry up. You have to be up early. Get to sleep. Gotta go to sleep, Carrie. Go to sleep. Get sleepy. You have to get sleepy. Check the clock. You only have 5 more hours to sleep. You can’t call out again, Carrie, you don’t have enough PTO. 4 more hours left to sleep, you better hurry up.

And your heart starts beating. Really deliberately and hard. So fast. You try to control your breathing. It doesn’t matter. That voice is there, taunting you.

3 more hours, Carrie. Time’s running out.

Then you lay there, eyes closed, for hours. Just hoping your body will let you sleep. Just a little. But you don’t.

The scream of your alarm.

Good morning.

For over 40 hours, I wander through my work days in a stupor. There is a black cloud floating so low I’m sure it’s trying to suffocate me. Last night, or this morning, rather, I finally managed to grab hold of a couple hours of sleep.

I wish I hadn’t.

I dreamed I was violently raped. I didn’t even know the guy. He was just some dream monster. I couldn’t get away. It was an apartment, or a home for sick people, I couldn’t tell. I finally got past him, and ran outside.

I was at my old church.

He found me, though. And brought me back. He was drunk and violent. He was married, but his wife was too scared to do anything. He took my car keys. Bent me over the bathroom counter. It was so vivid and real.

I remember screaming. But it wasn’t like one of those dream screams where it’s muffled and far away and it’s hard to force it out. This was just, real. Then he punched me. Right in the ribs. Smashed my head against the counter so many times I couldn’t even remember my own name. Screaming at his wife to help watch me so I wouldn’t run. Tying me to this old, beat up, probably stolen hospital gurney. 

I woke up to my alarm at 6am, screaming and sweating.

DinoCity Night Terror

Saturday, February 8th, 2014

It’s the future. I’m in the future. It’s not a nice place. It’s fucking terrifying. Dark. The dream starts, and here I am, strapped to a chair, like that episode of LOST, being forced to watch The City’s propaganda videos. The video starts out with a narrator telling us all about the vicious mecha-dinosaurs. We created them. We made them, so we must stop them. Somehow they started growing, evolving. Turning on us. The ones who gave them life. They are even more aggressive and violent than the ancient dinosaurs that were cold-blooded and made of scales. These are a nightmare, and we were living it, every single day.

The projector flickers the title screen onto the concrete wall. The narrator tells me the story of the one hero. The Dinosaur Killer. Our role model. All of us, we are being trained to fight like this person. They are calling it trained, but my mind fights back. This isn’t training. This is fucking brainwashing. The footage shows two military-clad guys in a futuristic open-air Jeep riding around in a lush African Savanna. Shiny metallic raptors chased them.

The narrator says, “You will protect The City at all costs.” Mecha-Raptors catch up to the guys in the Jeep. One of them springs up and lands on the side of it while it’s rolling across the prairie. The tires pop. Raptors eyes light up a devilish red as they all screech in unison. They are smarter than us. They do not want to eat us. They have no need to eat us. They are fucking robots. What do they want?

They want us to kill each other. They are manipulative, sadistic, and just fucking mean. They’ve evolved so much over the years that they even have a mild form of mind-control, the narrator says informatively. The driver turns his head slowly to his partner. His eyes are blank and empty. The herd is still and quiet. They all stare at the passenger, silently. The driver raises his arm up. There is a giant rock clenched in his fist. He is being controlled by The Dinosaurs. The camera zooms in on his face. It is void of all emotion except there are tears pouring down his cheeks. The dinosaurs hiss but it almost sounds like cynical laughter. The one perched atop the Jeep screeches, cuing the driver to bash the fucking passenger’s head in with the rock.

I am forced to watch as he smashes the boulder into his partner’s head, over and over, until there’s nothing but slippery goo falling out of the back of the skull. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps smashing this pile of face… But he isn’t like the others. He is stronger. His mind is stronger. We must be more like The Hero.

He screams with blood going all in his mouth and after moments of tension, he tosses the rock at the raptor on the car. They all scatter. No one has defied them like this before. No one has had control over their own thoughts in 100 years.

He runs across the prairie, gasping and holding his head. “He is safe… for now.” The narrator adds coyly.

Dream flash.

I’m standing in The City. Dinosaurs and people lived together… if you could call it living. The dinosaurs are tyrants. They’re filthy, savage creatures, and our fleshy human selves can do absolutely nothing to stop them. Humans are a minority. We live inside The City walls and are forced to live in Barracks. I step up to the table that is set up outside the inner City. The ground is worn down to hard, smooth dirt. I have no shoes. It’s so busy outside the barracks. I can hear humans bartering with each other for food. Children in rags are running around playing. Dinosaurs are bullying humans. They all try to keep to their own groups, but it was chaos.

The lady at the table hands me a drawstring bag. “Here are your items,” she says. I assume it’s filled with rations and bedding materials. “You’re in 8W.” She points me in the right direction.

8W. It echoes through my head. It sounds so familiar. 8W. 8W. Where have I heard that before? I turn around with my bag over my shoulder and start wading through the streets. People are everywhere, laying on blankets, sitting on stumps and stools, selling leather pieces and other shitty things. As they look up from their blankets, they stop what they are doing. The children stop running. Everyone watches me walk to 8W. They know something about 8W. I saw something about 8W in that video but my brain is so exhausted from The City films that I just can’t remember.

I reach the inner city, and walk down a small musty alleyway, looking for my barrack.

In the distance, I hear massive applause. I follow the sound of laughter and music until I reach the arena. It’s a wooden shack with a tin roof, but it’s huge. Wooden planks form a stage, and people are sitting in the rafters, cheering for The Hero. Fucking Jon Jafari. He recounts his tales of bravery, fighting off countless Mecha-Dinosaurs outside The City walls. He laughs, but it is empty. He makes jokes, but his eyes are fucking sad. He’s seen too much. It’s all a show for the people. The government is using him, no doubt. After he leaves the stage, he walks past me and says “Are you new? Where are you going?”

8W, I tell him. He stares blankly at me and blinks. He looks for the nearest door and shoves me inside it. It’s a one person bathroom with a rusted lock. It’s freezing in here.

Do you want to see something? He asks.

He lifts a tile up on the floor and brings up a dirty metal box. He opens it up and pulls out a deck of worn, weathers Cards Against Humanity cards. My eyes widen! I haven’t seen these in a long, long time. I thumb through them, they are so old they are falling apart. I thumb past one and he stops me “No! You have to read the extra stuff we wrote on it!” They had made them even more vulgar than the original cards. Despite this crazy as fuck dream, I find myself laughing. He puts an arm around me and starts humming along to a movie that is playing (In this shitty tiny dream bathroom) He says, “I know you’re trying to get skinny and all, but you looked great before, as a bigger girl.”

Does he remember me from somewhere? Or Is he reading my mind?

From inside the bathroom, I hear a hissing sound… But it’s not like the raptor’s hissing. It’s different.

“Smokers” Jon whispers. “We’ve been here too long.” He unlocks the door and holds it open for me. When I step outside, a pink mist engulfs us. I start coughing and everything gets hazy.

Dream Flash

I wake up. I’m on the stage. I stand up. There are bright stage lights shining in my eyes. I step up to the microphone. “What’s going on?” There’s no cheering. There’s no clapping. There’s no sound at all, save for white noise feedback off the PA.

The music starts.

I am informed that, being in 8W, The Hero’s barrack, I am constantly subjected to humiliation and bullying. The first game being, I have to sing karaoke, or fucking kill another human.

I sing, no shit.

When I stop singing, everyone cheers so fucking loud, they are clapping so loud my ears hurt, and I see in the distance, a new girl approaching the stage, holding her drawstring bag, looking very, very lost.

She tugs at me when I walk by her “I’m looking for 8W.”

I just stare at her and blink. “The maestro is looking for me.” I state matter-of-factly, and head down the alleyway to 8W.

In order to restore equality with humans and Dinosaurs, we must keep fighting each other. We must keep hiding our rebellion. We must save our strength for an uprising.

The question is, how long can we survive?

I woke up.

Slenderman Nightmare

Friday, January 24th, 2014

It was almost like dream deja vu, like you recognize the place, like you know you’ve had the dream before. It was almost like a sequel.

I am still plagued with these memories. One of my friends has died. No, she was murdered, by him. She has dried up like a blueish-white prune. Stiff as a board on the burgundy chaise lounge. The skin on her face is petrified so tight around her cheekbones it gives her a malicious and mummified grin. Her eyes just glassy and bulging. Just a skeleton with creamy, cold skin. I open my eyes. There is no one here. There’s no one on the chaise lounge. In my dream, it is a memory of times past… But now, I can feel someone watching me. As I stand up from the couch, I take a good look around the room.


The family is downstairs, talking quietly, about what I’m not sure. It’s that foggy dream speak that doesn’t really matter. Just mechanical background noise. Whose house is this? Whose family? I look outside. The sunset pours blood orange through the window.

A low, pulsing sound vibrates the room I’m standing in. This is all too familiar. It’s happening again. The foggy memories, waking up in places you don’t remember… And that fucking sound. It bubbles up until it’s peaks at a high pitched frequency. “MY FUCKING EARS ARE BLEEDING!” I’m screaming it, but I can’t hear myself. The room is blurry from that fucking sound. It’s vibrating reality itself. Suddenly, a glitch. Oh no. Fuck no. Not him. Not again. I panic. The fabric of reality seems to glitch again, right across the middle. And then I see him. Standing in the corner.


I can’t hear anything anymore. Maybe I’m deaf? My vision is shaking so badly that I can only see browns and grays, and his black silhouette. Fear, anger, confusion, I feel nothing. I drop my hands to my sides and stare at him. I stare super fucking hard. The room is still vibrating. He’s still blurry, but I can make out a suit, and those long, slender arms. Another glitch, and everything stops. I blink. He’s gone.

I laugh to myself. I laugh until I cry. And then I just cry.

I bust the fuck out of the house. It’s pouring down rain. The streets are flooding. Cars are pulling over. The sun is setting more and more, and the sky just gets darker, and darker, so fucking dark…. Finally, under the shelter of an overpass, I stop to catch my breath. I remember staring at a blinking red traffic light for hours, just not wanting to move, just wondering why he was still after me.

I still hadn’t gotten a good look at him. Was it really him? I might have been dreaming. I might still be dreaming. I turn around.

He’s standing right behind me.

Startled as fuck, I duck under his arms as he reaches for me and start running again. I am getting out breath quickly this time around because I am literally sobbing while I’m running. The feeling I felt wasn’t fear. I wasn’t crying out of terror. I was crying because I have seen his face. His face looked kind and warm, I swear I even saw a little smile on it as he reached out to me. Was he trying to grab me? Or was he trying to hug me? I don’t want to run anymore. I turn around. He’s gone.

Dream flash.

I’m back at the house. I’m staring out the window. The sun is coming up. Where have I been? How did I get here? I touch the cool glass of the window with my fingertips and stare through the glass. It’s quiet outside. The rain stopped.

I want to see him. I want to touch him. I need to. I shut my eyes and try to imagine his face. The bridge was overshadowing him but… I remember dirty blonde hair, a strong chin, and that fucking smirk. What color were his eyes? He’s never looked more human.. It had to be some kind of illusion.


He’s watching.

I don’t dare turn around.

I whisper, “Why?”

There’s no answer.

“You don’t even want to hurt me, do you?”

I slowly turn. He’s standing right up on me. Holy shit.

His eyes are blue.

“Why won’t you just kill me?”

He does that smirk again. He says, “It’s your laugh. I love your laugh.”

And then I woke up.


Broken Bones Night Terror

Monday, May 6th, 2013

There’s been an accident. Please, I can feel the bone sticking out. I don’t know where I am, but I recognize that smell. Sweat is dripping into my eyes. It’s so fucking hot in here. When you break your arm, the first thing you feel is nothing. It’s numb. You wonder what that hard snapping sound was. Then, sequentially, bit by bit, the pain starts to uproar, like turning the volume up on the TV until your ears want to bleed. Like someone with a vice is tightening it, one click at a time. Waves of nausea come next. The pain gets so loud in your ears; it’s just hard to believe. Even harder to explain. The shock makes you lightheaded. This… it all goes so fast.

Where am I? How did I get here? The air is thick, and that smell… that fucking smell. Metal and sulfur and sweat and I can’t catch my breath. I am breathing but not by choice, not the way I want to breathe. Short gasps erupt uncontrollably. I have to concentrate. Even though I am in pitch black, I still close my eyes and try to swallow.

My throat sticks together. My mouth is so dry. Please, help me. Water. Light. Anything but nothing.
Eyes shut tight, I hold my breath.
Still holding. Just a little more.
Get your bearings. You’re going to have to crawl, Carrie.
I exhale slowly, deliberately.
I’ve been lying on my side. I wrench myself up, but I can’t sit up on account of my head is already hitting the top.

My immediate thought: My God, I have been buried alive. They must have mistaken me for dead. Please, let me be wrong. I’m too terrified to reach out into the darkness. Too scared to check and see if four more walls are staring me in the face. The arm I’m laying on, it’s the broken one. It’s throbbing so hard it’s got a whole different heartbeat than mine. My other arm, I outstretch it as far as I can.


What is this? Hope is caressing my cheek. It must be hope. She has appeared in the form of a cool breeze, whistling past me. I take in the crisp air. Hope. There’s wind. There’s a way out. I’m in such a position; I have to drag myself along this wet concrete.

I’m dragging my broken arm under me. Each time I move along the floor it’s like breaking it all over again. And still, despite everything, I manage a laugh, the tone causing a brassy, muffled echo. With each breath, I pull. With each pull: desperation. Sweat is dripping into my eyes but tears are pouring out. It seems like hours before I notice a change in the air. I’m closer. Up ahead I hear a lulling hum. I crack a disconcerted smiled as the cool air brushes past me, reaching out once more to pull myself, a newfound second-wave of adrenaline powering my mobility. My hand does not touch concrete. Instead, it clutches something much softer. Carpet. The humming grows louder. I’m almost there. One last pull and I emerge into the cast of a blue light.


I have just crawled out from under my own bed.
The lights are off. The fan is running. The blue screen of the television casts light on my face.
Complete disbelief.
Fastidiously, I manage to hoist myself up to my bed. I crawl under the covers and the fan lulls me back into an exhausted sleep.

I Want To Eat An Entire Fucking Bottle Of Valium

Thursday, November 4th, 2010

yeah, thats fucking right. imagine one day, drinking with your buddies, the next day, you wake up in jail in your halloween costume. sure, we all got in this together, i thought we were all in this together, but somehow, in some fucked up way of judgement, it is entirely all my fault? fucking no one wants to talk to me. they wont answer my calls, nothing. since when was this all my fault? i didnt call the police, and everyone was fucking too drunk to be there anyway. i admit i was wrong, and they should be fucking man enough to admit it too. it was everyones fault equally, its not fair for them to pin it all on me, like i was the one that called the cops. they make me cry hard, like all of the sudden out of the blue they just quit talking to me, acting like they’re the victims. those bastards, im the one who’s going to be doing all the time. they’ll get goddamn probation or something, but me, i’ll get a felony. those fucking assholes, how could they, theyre supposed to be my friends, they arent supposed to call me a cunt and hang up on me. they are supposed to forgive me like i forgave them and hug me and we are supposed to get through this together. what the fuck is going on please. if i had a bottle, id be dead by now. fuck all this, those traitors, those fucking people ive spent my life trying to hang on to. and for what? for a weeks worth of tears.

Google it!

Friday, June 11th, 2010

Oh, google. Sweet, sweet google. I can find any information there. Seriously? the internet is no fair. Why, if i had a fucking quarter for every time some goddamn sonofabitch challenged me to a battle of wits, and I won because i wikipedia’d that shit, i’d be rolling in fucking benjamins.. don’t you see? this is the corruption and solitude that we don’t need to instigate. Who the fuck really needs online banking? Who the fuck even really needs a bank account? Geez are we ever sorry lazy ass sonsofbitches. I am telling all of you, i have learned so much from sitting, stoned off my ass, digging and digging, until my nails were bleeding, yes, digging through the internet, i’ve dug to the very bottom. i have dug so deep into the internet that i found GOD. I feel like the internet is something very strange but yet simple, kind of like space. What a foreign universe this is and it is so exciting. I’m still freaking out over n64 graphics.

On another note, I have been carefully planning my next career move. Those sorry pigs, swiney bastards, can’t appreciate the one of ’em that gives a shit! That doesn’t mind elbow grease or let’s say a good ‘arguement’. By god, the fuckers have cameras there now, 5 of them, “the eye in the sky”, we call it. I have started a documentary on how shitty we are treated, I am giving it one volume at a time to my attorney, who just happens to be a waffle house regular. I am considering seriously to try either
A) being a stripper
B) being a phone sex operator

I believe each of these choices are both of equal distaste and super slutty. What the fuck do I care? I am the antithesis of hedonistic, promiscuous, and also, to be honest, quite the sexy fox. Gimme a little break, I was thinking of mixing it with some Burlesque-ish moves, feathers and saxophones. That shit is the sexiest fucking thing I could ever think of.

Anyways. I’m drunk. It’s bedtime.

Why Are Drugs Really Illegal?

Wednesday, June 9th, 2010

I think drugs are illegal WHY? Because they make you think… We use our brains a lot when we trip, and we constantly think of new ideas and entertain thoughts of afterlife or protolife or whatever.  I think I might have reached nirvana too early. I can see it, folks, and it is this thread that is unraveling and the thread is reality. It’s so groovy. Can you see it? Smoke some DMT. You want to know why that shit is illegal? Because they don’t want you to see how awesome life can be. They want to make sure we are going to be stupid stoners forever. They want to keep us down because they know we are smarter than we think we are. Whatever. I can see it but i cant explain it.

Religion came from drugs. Right? Weird, huh. Oh, Jehovah and Allah? Same god. Different drug. don’t quote me on that. I’m just a high speculator but some of our founding fathers were stoners and i’m guessing before all this shit was illegalized most of our ancestors were probably really fucked up.

I’m just sayin’, it’s weird to have something illegal so long because of some stupid smear campaign in the 50s… it’s less harmful than alcohol, it’s a fucking plant, it can make hemp? which is kind of lame.. isnt there some way to show the world? maybe we just need a reeeeeeaallly big bonfire.