ulala06
11-15-2004, 09:58 PM
vampyr, feel free to post yours...
My Life as a Handicapped Sheet of Thin, Processed Wood
The Following is the documentation of a story conveyed to me by a severely ailed paper wad that came to me complaining of mild depression. I, unfortunately, declined his offer due to his state of complete dishevelment and being… Impaired. In no way are the views, ideals, or opinions stated therein to be taken as my own. The papers this is printed on are named Dave and Steve. They are different sheets altogether.
Professionally yours,
Dr. Noombatu Panzil
My journey began at a “Processing Plant” where I and billions of my brethren were packed into shrink plastic and shipped out from Wisconsin. Yes that is where I got this stupid accent and complete political correctness. I was produced through elemental chlorine free bleaching processes, using wood from sustainable forests. Don’t flinch; I apologize if that was a little bit graphic for you, the inner workings of the reproduction of Happypants School Supply paper are at times too much for even me; those monsters.
Childhood was a 9 hour drive of constant sliding around in the back of an 18-wheeler. Our Multi-Wheeled Vehicle Engineer or “Truck Driver”, Johnny, had a slight obsession with blondes and sour whiskey, both of which he used in extremes. I only know this much of our companion because he had a habit of bringing his obsessions into his home; the trailer of my 18-wheeler. I say MY 18-wheeler because I won the deed in a drunken poker match with dear Johnny. He really sucked at cards.
Finally, me and the pack headed out on our own at the ripe age of 18 hours, wide-eyed and ready for adventure. My adventure was Morgan County High School… The place where I first did lead. Oh precious lead, you snarer of senses and bandit of souls. Of course, you wouldn’t really understand the effects of lead unless you were a user, and no doubt you are not. I’ll attempt to explain. When you do that first line, that’s it, you understand the meaning of EVERYTHING! I had a good writer too, some people say that’s important to the effect, and I am inclined to agree. My writer was a girl, probably about 17 years old, and God knows what made her think to do it but she chose ME to write poetry on. It was the most wonderful sensation I’ve ever felt… And after what I’ve been through, I’d give anything to have it back. You see, just as she was finishing the second stanza, this boy comes along, and, well, maybe it was due to my state of mind, but I’d SWEAR he looked like death himself, dressed all in black, you know? So this boy, he picks me up, and of course as soon as that pencil isn’t in contact I go mental, and I mean INSANE. But before I could escape, he did it… HE WADDED ME UP!!! And, as if that wasn’t enough, he through me in the TRASH!
So there I was, completely out of it, crippled, used, thrown away, and all I could think about was how I could’ve been a professional, you know, got me a letterhead or something… But I’d wasted my life away, and now I was going to die in this garbage can next to a banana peel and a half-empty can of Coke.
As I lay there, considering my slow demise, the Earth began to quake, and I found myself toppled out of my coffin and onto the cool, tile floor of the classroom. A boy in glasses and a plaid shirt had taken my place in that black plastic tomb, put there by the same person. That boy saved my life, but he could not save my soul. I got myself swept up, and traveled down here to see you. Here I am, a crisp sheet of paper just needing your stamp of approval. Okay, I’m more or less still crinkly and used. You could at least recycle me.
My Life as a Handicapped Sheet of Thin, Processed Wood
The Following is the documentation of a story conveyed to me by a severely ailed paper wad that came to me complaining of mild depression. I, unfortunately, declined his offer due to his state of complete dishevelment and being… Impaired. In no way are the views, ideals, or opinions stated therein to be taken as my own. The papers this is printed on are named Dave and Steve. They are different sheets altogether.
Professionally yours,
Dr. Noombatu Panzil
My journey began at a “Processing Plant” where I and billions of my brethren were packed into shrink plastic and shipped out from Wisconsin. Yes that is where I got this stupid accent and complete political correctness. I was produced through elemental chlorine free bleaching processes, using wood from sustainable forests. Don’t flinch; I apologize if that was a little bit graphic for you, the inner workings of the reproduction of Happypants School Supply paper are at times too much for even me; those monsters.
Childhood was a 9 hour drive of constant sliding around in the back of an 18-wheeler. Our Multi-Wheeled Vehicle Engineer or “Truck Driver”, Johnny, had a slight obsession with blondes and sour whiskey, both of which he used in extremes. I only know this much of our companion because he had a habit of bringing his obsessions into his home; the trailer of my 18-wheeler. I say MY 18-wheeler because I won the deed in a drunken poker match with dear Johnny. He really sucked at cards.
Finally, me and the pack headed out on our own at the ripe age of 18 hours, wide-eyed and ready for adventure. My adventure was Morgan County High School… The place where I first did lead. Oh precious lead, you snarer of senses and bandit of souls. Of course, you wouldn’t really understand the effects of lead unless you were a user, and no doubt you are not. I’ll attempt to explain. When you do that first line, that’s it, you understand the meaning of EVERYTHING! I had a good writer too, some people say that’s important to the effect, and I am inclined to agree. My writer was a girl, probably about 17 years old, and God knows what made her think to do it but she chose ME to write poetry on. It was the most wonderful sensation I’ve ever felt… And after what I’ve been through, I’d give anything to have it back. You see, just as she was finishing the second stanza, this boy comes along, and, well, maybe it was due to my state of mind, but I’d SWEAR he looked like death himself, dressed all in black, you know? So this boy, he picks me up, and of course as soon as that pencil isn’t in contact I go mental, and I mean INSANE. But before I could escape, he did it… HE WADDED ME UP!!! And, as if that wasn’t enough, he through me in the TRASH!
So there I was, completely out of it, crippled, used, thrown away, and all I could think about was how I could’ve been a professional, you know, got me a letterhead or something… But I’d wasted my life away, and now I was going to die in this garbage can next to a banana peel and a half-empty can of Coke.
As I lay there, considering my slow demise, the Earth began to quake, and I found myself toppled out of my coffin and onto the cool, tile floor of the classroom. A boy in glasses and a plaid shirt had taken my place in that black plastic tomb, put there by the same person. That boy saved my life, but he could not save my soul. I got myself swept up, and traveled down here to see you. Here I am, a crisp sheet of paper just needing your stamp of approval. Okay, I’m more or less still crinkly and used. You could at least recycle me.