It's like: slow cancerous death rattle, this american life

the finalization of the universe as it nears itself in a moebius strip of irony

By dusty (April 3, 2008)

Last week I was red. Not red from paint, or from being covered in tomato juice, but from the sun’s evil, evil (and also radioactive) rays. I am not sure exactly how it happened. One minute I was sitting on the beach in Malibu with no sunscreen and an albino-toned body and then after multiplying that minute for 3 hours a day over the course of 5 days, I suddenly looked like a Mark Rothko painting. (I think I just figured out how it happened, btw.)

When I came home, my mom got scared, and said you’re moving with your auntie and your uncle in Bel-Air. I whistled for a cab and when it came near, the license plate said fresh and it had dice in the mirror. If anything I could say that this cab was rare but I thought, “Nah, forget it. Yo Homes.. To Bel-Air!” I…pulled…up to the house at about 7 or 8 and I yelled to the cabby “Yo homes, smell ya later!” I looked at my kingdom, I was finally there — to settle my throne as the Prince of Bel-Air.

Then I flew back home to Phoenix. And I was still covered in the sun’s evil, radioactive poison.

After many days (probably about 4), my skin began to fall apart (like a snake). When your skin falls off, you often ask yourself: “gross” And also, “I am dying” or “I have cancer for sure and it is over for me.” But because I am a better person than everyone else, I did not do those things (that is a lie).

My skin is still falling off, and as such, I have not been able to type on a keyboard to update you, dear readers, on my tales of life and life’s asskickings and donkey-punches.

However, my new keyboard arrived today — it is a special skinless ergonomic model that allows for typing with just bones for fingers.

I think I will enjoy my new life as a skeleton, though. I will no longer have to buy a costume for Halloween. And I can change my name to Skelly, just as I have always wanted. And people can put things through me, which I am sure will be a big hit at parties. Also I can pretend to unearth myself from a nearby grave when people are visiting their loved ones.

But with no heart, will I be able to love again? With no skin, can I ever use the term “sure, it’s no skin off my back”? The answer to those questions is probably no, and that is going to be a hard life to live, my friends.

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