« September 2005 | Main | November 2005 »



Dear Trent,

It comes down to this: I can't think about you anymore.

I've done a lot of soul-searching in the past few days, and I know I'm doing the right thing. Michel and my own behavior have made it clear to me that our love (his and mine) doesn't have a chance if I keep holding onto my stupid dreams.

I know you probably don't even read these letters or know I'm alive, so you won't even miss me, but I can't even begin to tell you how desperately I'll miss you. For more than ten years now, you've been my true north, my compass, and my guide. If your beauty has been mired in chaos and contradiction, my heart has never been able to deny its fearful symmetry. You've always been my angel with meat wings, and you've shown me, more than any other artist or human being, a true glimpse of the divine poetry of human work. You've inspired me, frightened me, thrilled me, challenged me, and made me ache with desire. You taught me true, self-sustaining, bone-deep love, and I'll never forget.

You'll always be inside me, Trent, but reality has been crowded out for too long by this dream of you, and it's time for me to grow up. You will always be my first love, and the first man to ever truly touch me. No man has ever touched me as deeply as you did and do, and truthfully, I fear no man ever will. I don't know if I'll ever be able to get you out of my heart, but I've got to be serious about trying, so this is good-bye.

I love you.

Au Revoir,

Posted by Dierdre ~ in dear_trent | Permalink | Comments (16) | TrackBack


[Jerome_The_Vampire: Van_Rezning, Part_I]

          So you’re crashed out in your hotel room, watching TV.  Aaron is curled up at the other end of the sofa. He’s worked hard to find you some really good medicine. It’s so difficult to find chicks who aren’t anemic, especially ones who follow this band, but somehow your little minx has done it. Your eyelids begin to weigh heavily as you catch the evening news from Atlanta. A NIN logo in the top right corner catches your eye.

"Another dead body has turned up behind an arena the morning after a show by the industrial rock band, Nine Inch Nails. 21-year-old Marcia Tucker, a resident of Orlando, was found lying in the dumpster area of the TD Waterhouse Center early this morning by local cleanup crews. Tucker’s body was covered with bruises and two large cuts along her neckline. Police reported some sexual trauma to the body. Police are still mystified by the lack of blood at the scene itself, which appears to indicate that Tucker may have been placed in the dumpster area post-mortem."

          You shake Aaron like a cold martini.
          “Wake up, you dumb fuck.”
          “Huh?” he mutters, his eyes half open.
          “Watch this,” you cry, pointing at the television.

"There have been a series of homicides following the Nine Inch Nails tour across the country. Starting in Los Angeles, where the body of 19-year-old Annika VanderLingen was discovered in the parking lot of the Hollywood Bowl with similar injuries, Tucker’s is the sixth body to turn up during this month of the tour alone."

          “You got careless,” you scream at Aaron.
          “I thought I hid her body well.” He’s fully awake now, and the fear of your wrath engulfs his eyeballs.
          “She wasn’t inside the dumpster. You put her beside the dumpster. I told you to chop her into bits and throw her into one of Jeordie’s guitar cases. What part of that do you not understand?”
           You raise your hand as high as your voice.
          “Forgive me,” Aaron cowers. You both turn towards the television as you see Trent’s muscle-filled head appear on screen.

"This has been called a 'comeback tour' for Nine Inch Nails.  Their CD With Teeth is the band’s first studio release since 1999, and the first after lead singer Trent Reznor’s much publicly discussed battle with drugs and alcohol. The tour has been plagued with mishaps and general bad luck since it began in September of this year, from drummer Jerome Dillon’s onstage collapse due to heart problems, poor ticket sales, hurricanes and now this string of homicides. When asked about these problems, lead singer Reznor said, 'We are going to continue on with this tour no matter what. That is what I want to do, and that is what our fans have demanded. We are here for our fans, who have stuck by me through thick and thin, and will, I believe, continue to do so even through this crisis.'"

          You can’t help but fall down on the sofa laughing. You look at Aaron, who sits frozen, waiting for your permission. You nod. He breaks out in full glee, rolling next to you.
          There’s a loud pounding at the door. Giggling, you look at your minion, who has already leapt to his feet and is reaching for the knob. Musclehead storms into the room.
          “Fuck, what the hell is wrong with you two?” he screams. He’s always screaming these days, moody fucker.
           “What?” you say.
           “There are dead girls popping up at almost every gig, and I find you two in here fucking laughing about it?”
          You look at Aaron. He knows what you want him to say.
          “Dude, what the hell? We can’t laugh anymore when we’re around you? You can’t always let yourself get weighed down by the dark side of life, dude. If we didn’t laugh, we’d be terrified.”
          That was a little too much. You’ve really gotta learn to turn down the telepathy. You can’t make Aaron sound smarter than he is. Too late. Rezzie’s giving Aaron a death look.
          “You’re laughing to release tension, then?” Rez asks pointedly. You’d better answer this one yourself.
          “Yeah, sorta,” you say. “I mean, what else can we do? Worry that every single person traveling with us is some type of serial killer? I mean, how do we know that you’re not the one slicing these chicks to death?”
          Good, his temper’s getting out of control and he’s about to have a fit. He’ll completely forget about Aaron’s beacon of wisdom.
           “Are you fucking accusing me of doing this shit? After everything I’ve fucking done for you? I could’ve fucking left you back in Cali, tending to your fucking garden. But you said you’d be okay because of your new meds. What the fuck kind of meds are they anyways? Ones that make you completely fucking paranoid and stupid? You’ve got a lotta balls, fucker.”
           “Don’t talk to him like that.”
           Shit, no, Aaron…not now. You try your hardest to get him back under control, but his adrenaline is too strong. It’s sweet in a way, though, how he stands up for you.
           “What the fu…?”
           Before Rezzie’s even finished the thought, Aaron’s picked him up. Trent’s body makes a crunching noise as his back slides down the far wall next to the bathroom, leaving a dent in the drywall. Unfortunately, he hasn’t passed out.
           Aaron picks him up by the throat.
           “Leave my master alone, bitch.”
           He bodyslams Trent onto the floor, holding him down by standing with one foot on his chest.
           “Next time, treat people with respect instead of screaming at them.”
           “What the fuck has gotten into you?” Trent can barely speak.
           “This is what happens when I take out my anger on people. Do you fucking like it, bitch?”
          Aaron picks him up, opens the door, and flings Trent into the hallway.
           “Come back when you’ve learned some respect.”
          Aaron slams the door, and smiles at you. You don’t know whether to kiss him or kill him. He’s a wonderful hero who’s just ruined the party, and there’s nothing you can do but wait for the fallout.

Posted by Mimi Jones-Taylor in tales_of_terror | Permalink | Comments (30) | TrackBack



Guess what readers? You're all a bunch of fucking genetic throwback monkey motherfucking lemmings that just don't goddamned understand anything and I'm fucking sick of it!

I just got off the phone with your precious little princess Dierdre FUCKING Keating. You know her, the one that gushes on and on and MOTHERFUCKING ON about Trent all the time? That's been dating some French douchbag, who doesn't approve of who she really is and how she really feels about things and wants her to change if he's going to be with her? The one that I've been saying "Break Up With" since day one, but you all in your sickening girly fanclub pillowfight bullshit have been supporting her on? Telling her to take her time, find her inner happiness, and saying you wish you could go to her wedding when it happened?

I don't remember which one of your crazy hormonal bitches came out with that one, but seriously: Why Don't You Stick Your Finger Down My Throat And Make Me Goddamned Puke On Your Sausage-Smelling Digits while you're at it.

So yeah, so Mz. Keating just called me, fucking crying and hysterical from Paris. I'm in the middle of my advanced graphic design class and I get her infamous weeping and hiccupping on the line. Fucking SWELL.

Turns out she and her Froggy Fuck boyfriend were supposed to go out dancing tonight. Though she never as much as two-stepped in all the years I knew her, she just loves dancing now, and they were celebrating -- get this -- the fact that they'd moved up their wedding date from Christmas to November 12th. WHY? Because she "was feeling unsettled and pressured and wanted it over with."

Okay. Like that makes ANY FUCKING SENSE. Maybe if she's stressed out, she shouldn't be making the decision in the first place? But I guess that would make emotional sense, so we can't bother with that concept.

Anyway, Michel -- ever-constant douche that he is -- decided he just wanted to stay home and "ruminate". (Or apparently the French word for "ruminate", whatever the hell that is). I guess he wanted to ruminate on what a cock he is, so Dierdre and her friend Lenore went out dancing themselves, and I say good for her. As she should.

Only she saw a guy there. And this is where I cross a BIG FUCKING LINE, but I'm sick of this bullshit, and it's time for the Tough Love Intervention folks, alright? She went dancing, and there was some guy that -- quite simply -- had a stare that "stung her like Trent's glare". Not her exact words -- add a lot of fucking sniffles in there, and her shouting at some random passerby in some Frenglish bastard language -- but that's about it. And she was allured by this guy. And she made out with this young Trent-gazer.

So there it is. Dierdre's dick of a fiance blew her off on a night they were supposed to celebrate their impending marriage and she made out with some other dude.

So I'm going to tell you here, Dierdre, what I told you on the phone, and I hope to God the readers will support me for once: THIS IS NOT THE RIGHT DECISION FOR YOU. You admitted to me yourself tonight that you don't love Michel! So why in the name of sweet fuck would you get so defensive when I tell you as much?

You can tell me off all you want, but this is a BAD THING. Going back to Michel tonight was NOT the right call to make -- and it is NOT going to make you any happier!

Please, D. I've known you for years. You're my best fucking friend, you crazy miserable bitch. So why would you turn your back on me, and all of the other things we've shared, and our friends (when's the last time you called Alex back, hmmm?), to be with this guy that you admit does not understand you?

I don't know what to say... Just please listen, for once in your stubborn fucking life, will you? LISTEN. What you did tonight is not the problem. Trent Reznor is not the problem. Not WTC, me, or even the enigmatic "..." are the problem.

The problem is Michel.

Wake up, hon. To quote Trent Reznor, "Please".

And if you refuse, if you decide to go down this path, and ignore the sense and care the rest of us are trying to throw your way, then Fuck You.

Fuck You To Hell.

Posted by Gabriel in gabriel's_ponderings | Permalink | Comments (40) | TrackBack



Dear Trent,

Oh, Sparklepants! Is Le Tour getting to you?

I can only imagine how deeply frustrating all the acts of God with which you keep getting hit have become by now, not to mention life's millions of vexations, the sudden arrival of bad news, and the stupid side of your job as a (RAWR!) rock star, which has to wear thin some days for an adult man with a brain.

Everytime I hear about more tour dates, I worry about you a little bit. I guess after 10 years of worrying about a guy who seriously looked like he was digging his own grave by the end of every outing, it's a hard habit to break. I hope your strength is holding up, that you have people with you who love you, and that you are taking care of your dear self.

I don't really know you, so I don't know how truly your spirits are flagging, or how real your crises of confidence are, but I do think you've never seemed more courageous than you do now, taking the reigns of this huge beast of a thing with full consciousness and stepping out into the world to present your work with diligence and a clear head. I love your intentions. I love your need to make everything you do real and true. I love your committment to your own work, and your enormous generosity as a performer. I love that you're trying to deliver "the goods" and be truthful at the same time. You're a rare creature in your field, and it's fucking beautiful.

I wouldn't presume to give you advice, Trent, it's obvious that you know what you're doing, and God knows you're doing a bang-up job, but I keep reading your interviews where you say things like, that "the artist" in you wants to just play the new record, or that you admire David Bowie for doing exactly what his muse dictates whether or not it tanks, or that you're thinking of a solo piano tour in diametric opposition to the dinosaur rawk circus you're fronting nowadays, or that you're writing new songs, and touring isn't as rewarding as it was -- it's all execution and monotony -- and you'd rather be in the studio, doing the work that truly engages you now. I love reading that stuff, because it gives me faith that even if, sometimes, it seems like you must give inordinate consideration to the business end of this whole rock firegod thing, underneath it all is the devoted heart of the artist I love.

Do you wonder if we would follow you down those paths? Dear, dear Trent! Wonder no more: WE WILL. Maybe not every last fucking one of us. You might lose a few of the youngsters screaming "WHOOOO!", but you won't ever lose those of us who have been hearing you for years. I know there are a lot of people out there who want to see you tear it up like in the days of yore, but there are also those of us who are paying our money to be surprised and challenged by what's in you, not to have our nostalgic, preconceived expectations met. As I've said before, I'm not only ready and willing, but positively on the edge of my fucking seat to hear whatever you're playing, however you want to play it. As long as you're doing what's vital to you, I know it will be loaded with your undeniable aesthetic potentcy, and exactly what I'd hoped to hear.

If this is all a bunch of retarded stuff to say, I'm sorry for being the hyper-romatic gusher I know I am. I'm just trying to tell you, seriously, that you are not just loved, but adored, for real reasons -- reasons other than the fact of your nuclear weapons grade hotness -- by the people who hear you. I know I'm only one in about 7 million girls who are constantly declaring their undying love for you, but as dumb as everyone seems to think it is to feel sincere emotion for a big fat rock star in sparkly pants whom I've never met, I can't help it, and I 'd rather be sincere than cool.

Also, OBVIOUSLY, I love you way more than the rest of those bitches.


Posted by Dierdre ~ in dear_trent | Permalink | Comments (32) | TrackBack


[Dear_Meathead: I'm_Sorry]

Meathead: I'm_Sorry

I have no words, so I've spent these meandering darkened hours of night crafting for you this last parting gift. It is all that I am, and all that I can feel myself to be. I hope you will know it for its truth. From my hands, to the keys, to your ears, and your heart...

that's what i get (absolution)

Godspeed, sir Meat, Godspeed. Your spirit of yore shall be missed most dearly...

Posted by Gabriel in soundscapes_of_pain | Permalink | Comments (50) | TrackBack


[Are_You_There,_Trent? It's_Me,_God]

Well we all saw it yesterday, the mighty words from Fearless Leader:


Then, moments later:


One thing is abundantly clear -- with the cancellation of the Ft. Lauderdale Nine Inch Nails show at the hands of Hurricane Wilma, Michael T. is getting a little frustrated.

And who can blame him -- I mean, the guy's had his drummer almost die -- twice. He had to get friggin Nikka Costa's drummer to fil in... there's been cancellations, venues only selling out at half-capacity... spirits are so low, the band has even taken to mocking their own fans to keep spirits up.

What's a former reigning King of Gothy Doom supposed to do?

Well normally, I would say Come With Gabriel To The Bauhaus Show This Weekend, but unfortunately Trent's going to be "raising money for a good cause" by "helping his fellow man" and "using his posturing for charity to get some extra choice nookie" at the Voodoo Festival on the 29th, so that's gonna be a no go. So instead of distracting himself, I think Trent's gotta face facts here. All these tour-related problems aren't just random coincidence, Trent.

Somebody's trying to tell you something. And I think you know what His name is.

I know you tried hard, to be the powerful rock demon... you wanted to rock the sparklepants off your minions -- and hey, dude; you have. Right on. Good for you. High Five. But at the same time, things never seemed this difficult before did they? When you broke open Chris Vrenna's skull, you guys cancelled what, one show? Robin Finck practically cut his finger off. Once again; a single cancellation. For fuck's sake; Richard Patrck was in the band for years and I don't think that ever resulted in any rescheduled shows. Sometimes the tide's just not with you, my man, and you can't force it.

But that's okay. So come on, Mike. Give up the arena rock touring already. That's what God is telling you.

Now you may be saying, "I pray every night, Gabriel -- my statue of Jesus hasn't spoken to me and told me to quit With_Teeth_Live_2005, or to call off the pending With_Cancellations_2006". But that's why God is your friend. He's not going to preach to you like some Jerry Falwell motherfucker. He's just going to throw some rain and some wind your way and let you figure stuff out for yourself. Which I think is pretty cool.

We all know you're listening to Him, Trent. Even Anne Rice is listening to Him. And with your recent comments in Rolling Stone, about your plans after this tour -- "I might play theatres by myself, with the piano and some electronics... just try something that's the antithesis of the shows we're doing now" -- I think we all would agree that your listening to God is going to be one very good thing.

Posted by Gabriel in gabriel's_ponderings | Permalink | Comments (34) | TrackBack


[Inside_Dierdre:_Reason_#_9,759 Why_I_Love_Trent_So Much_It_Hurts]

So, I read this totally enchanting interview with dear, dear Trent, and it contained the following paragraph of quoted material on the topic of what kinds of things spawned all his years of silence:

...also, it's just been me fighting myself all this time, because I've been afraid. I'm afraid I suck or I can't write songs anymore or I don't have anything to say or was just lucky that I got this far; I fooled people. I listened too much to that, and I wasn't rational enough to put it in its place, to know what that voice is, what its agenda is. And, I just feel free of that. I'm waking up feeling like I don't have to lie to everybody, as an addict, and also waking up like I can sit down and write, and, hey, it might suck. So what? The next one might not suck, and it's not going to be the end of my life if it does.

People, I swear: the love will eventually break me.

I mean, let's just start with the part where the man who recorded The Downward Spiral could possibly think, for even ONE MINUTE, that he got into our hearts so fucking permanently by fooling people. Jesus H. On the one hand, that's just depressing, because if Trent, with his incredible, gloriously beautiful creativity and perfectly callibrated effectiveness as an artist can possibly be fighting the delusion that he has "fooled people", what hope is there for a mere aspirant such as myself? On the other hand, it's so inspiring to think that obstacles can be removed or reimagined to reveal something as staggering as Trent Reznor's current chapter, and With Teeth, which is the first record in 10 years (since The Downward Spiral?) to take up residence in my heart in that way that makes it feel like it's become part of my fucking DNA.

Gabriel made the point, in his criticisms of Trent's new most beautiful song ever, "Non-Entity" (arguments for and against can be found in the comments following that link), that it felt unfinished, structurally, and inconclusive; but my feeling was that the song's power, and the force of Trent's gorgeous performance, lay precisely in his willingness to break out his spray-painted boom-box and give his full and considerable emotional committment to something that was not polished to his usual hermetically sealed, obsidian perfection, and was also ABOUT being in a painful, difficult moment of clarity and process, surrounded by self-wrought destruction and sadness, and not having a fucking stranglehold on all the answers. There is nothing harder, or more courageous than that, and there's no other way to begin to engage with the truth in oneself or in the world.

Trent's greatest strength as a performer has always been his ability to make REAL what he is saying, and the fact that he thinks thoughts like these, and moreover, can sit down at a piano for 3 minutes for a goddamned MTV telethon and make that happen is just...

FUCKING HELL. I admire him so much.

Trent, really. I love you. So not kidding.

Posted by Dierdre ~ in inside_dierdre | Permalink | Comments (69) | TrackBack



OMFG, I love the way you can download videos from iTunes!

iTunes is a SUCH A LIFESAVER when you need to brush up on all the latest songs played between bands at Trent's Reznor's rockshow, and whatnot; but now, with the making it possible to download "Deep" and "Into The Void"?!


Needless to say, I got right on it, and I can only recommend that you re-experience the unbelievable genius of the "Deep" video as quickly as possible, because dudes! I FORGOT THE LICKING! Awwww, yeah. Plus, I love the way Trent is like, the total opposite of the Jolly Green Giant in that video, because... uh... yeah... he's not so jolly, and he's really fucking short.


Size matters not, especially when you're Trent "Sparklepants" Reznor.

Even better, though, if you ask me, is the video for "Into The Void", because not only does it feature close-ups of Trent's pretty, pretty eyes and scrumptious, hairy chest (and, JESUS FUCK is that hott) but also, THIS:



You know, Trent's very existence on planet earth is always forcing me ask myself how something so wrong can be so right, and seriously: those teeth, despite their obvious lack of perfection, are just pure porn. I simply cannot look at them without imagining exactly how they might feel if skillfully applied to my...

Right. I'll say no more. Plus, TONGUE, and SALIVA. Oooof. I am DYING of him. DYING I TELL YOU!

Plus, my computer is such a little fun manufactuing machine, because it allows me to capture images like these two:



In which Trent and his very, very cute (yet, apparently deadly) little pal, Jerome, look positively ridiculous in the throes of RAWK! What is the story with Trent's little tiny keyboard? That is so adorable!

My final capture is for Gabriel, though, because I know that his many unmentionable "experiences" with The Chalice will make this one especially satisfying. Even though he will undoubtably deny it, I know that right after he looks at this picture, he will go directly to the nasty little boys' room for about 30 seconds of violent self-abuse:


Because, is it me, or is there just something FILTHY about that?  Ok, maybe it's just me.

I think the fact that very soon I will have washed Trent out of my dirty little mind forever is making me a little slap-happy, but I guess I'm going cold turkey tomorrow... or something.

Please leave all comments in haiku format, and don't hesitate to make 'em naughty.

The Management

Posted by Dierdre ~ in pictures_of_you | Permalink | Comments (24) | TrackBack



by Mimi Jones-Taylor

            Snare hat bass hat snare hat bass hat snare hat bass hat snare hat bass hat…
            You’re pounding your life away on the drum kit. You’ve been doing quite well. You’ve been taking your prescribed medicine, and you’ve been following all the instructions. You slam the last beat, and just before the lights go off, you catch a glimpse of her. In fact, she’s so close, you can smell her. Security is just pulling her over the rail. And she looked right at you. You motion for a water boy and you give him the thumbs up sign and nod towards the beefcakes at the front of the pit. Everyone has their own sign, but the guys like you a helluvalot more than they like Jeordie (that selfish prick). You have to make sure you get to them before he even sees them. God knows what you could catch if he got to them first.
            “Good night, Cleveland!”
            Your head is going to be a hole if you have to keep playing that fucking song. Still, you smile and throw your sticks into the audience. Hell, they ate up the Trent does Tom Jones routine; of course they go ape shit over the Van Halen exit. So fucking predictable; it’s a wonder that you can keep your faces straight during the whole show.
            You stroll backstage, and find a beef man dressed in yellow. You ask him if they got the message. He nods, and points twice down the hall. They already have her waiting in the sick room. Perfect.
            “Dude, wanna go grab a beer?”
            Oh it’s that crazy fucker Aaron again. You know, if he had boobs, he’d be kinda cute, but he also smells funny. Can you risk standing near someone who smells like rotting brie.
            “Sorry, dude. Gotta go take my meds.”
            “Dude, you’re worse than the T-man. Who the fuck am I supposed to hang with now?”
            “Sorry, dude. Do you want me to die?”
            Aw, isn’t that cute. He looks like a lost puppy. Your mouth begins to water.
            “Dude, how long you gonna be? Ten, twenty minutes? I can wait for you.”
            The desperation in his voice is almost adorable. Aaron looks so vulnerable right now. Still, that ammonia note and funky cheese smell hit your sinuses. But you could do something to change that.
            “Tell you what,” you say, “Why don’t you hang out with me, and as soon as the meds kick in, we’ll go for a beer. Cool?”
            Aaron’s eyes perk up like a kid’s at Christmas.
            “Cool, dude! Where are we going?”
            “Just back here.”
            You lead him down the corridor to the room with the rusted door. You take one last long look down the hallway. Nobody’s even missed you guys yet. You nod towards Aaron as you open the door.
            She’s waiting inside, sitting up on the sagging cot that acts as the makeshift sick bed. The scent of wasted deodorant hangs in the room like bats sleeping in a belfry.
            “Hi,” she says seductively. You glance back at Aaron. He’s smiling, but has a quizzical look. Soon. Soon he will understand, too.
            “Hey,” you say. “How are you feeling? I saw the way Security dragged you out of the pit.”
            “Oh, um, yeah,” she answers. “That kinda sucked. But my ribs were poking into my lungs, so it was probably a good thing that they got me outta there.”
            You give a knowing glance to Aaron. He cocks his head and smiles back. Could this moment be any more perfect?
            That cute little voice takes you out of your reverie.
            “I thought you had to take your medicine.”
            “I do,” you say. “I am.”
            The sweaty skank screams as you throw Aaron’s skinny body against the wall. His head hits the bricks with the thud of a sledgehammer dropped from a broken wrist. His eyes cross to look at you; the light brings out the purple tones in his hair. You hear her feet slam against the floor as she bolts from the bed.
            “What are you doing?” she cries from right behind your ear. Using the pent-up strength in your arm, you fling her like a rag doll back towards the bed. Aaron’s breathing is becoming stilted, and drool is leaking from the corner of his mouth.
            “Dude, what is this?”
            “I’m taking my medicine,” you answer. “And I’m going to share it with you.”
            “Listen,” you say, “this medicine will give you strength beyond your wildest dreams. You’ll be able to take the T-man and chuck him halfway across the stage. Plus, and this is the best part, you will be able to smell the best pussy from half a mile away. And you’ll be able to tell if they’ve even been near Jeordie.”
            “Come on, man, what do you say?”
            You’ve definitely piqued his interest.
            “Ah, what the fuck, dude…I’ll try anything once.”
            Your eyes light up with glee.
            “So how do I take this? Smoking? Drinking? Snorting? What?”
            You lower Aaron from the wall. The light strikes the pale crease inside his elbow.
            “Close your eyes,” you say softly. “And don’t move.”
            Aaron is as complacent as a four-year-old girl. You roll up his sleeve, and sniff out the right spot.
            “No peeking,” you say, as you sink your teeth into the bit of bulbous flesh above the elbow line. Wow, he tastes better than he looks. And definitely better than he smells. His blood is almost syrupy, like grenadine mixed with metal filings. When you’ve had enough, or rather, when you stop yourself from having more, (because you could literally eat him all up, that little minx) you quickly open the wound that was left on your arm, and hold Aaron’s nose. As his instincts open his mouth, you drop three drops of your blood onto his tongue, and hold his jaw closed. He widens his eyes as he swallows. He’ll be the perfect minion.
            “Dude, is that it?”
            You smile, and nod.
            “And now,” you say as you both face the passed-out fangirl on the rusted cot, “It’s time to take our medicine.”

Posted by Mimi Jones-Taylor in tales_of_terror | Permalink | Comments (49) | TrackBack



Some folks have been bitching in the comments lately, about the hate brought(en) by some of Trent's fans, and some have expressed confusion as to how this could happen.

Well let me school you all.

Trent's fans are a bunch of ignorant fucking jackyls. They'll clap along like a bunch of fucking douchebags, then snidely quip against anybody that doesn't fit into their definition of "freak". Nothing is worse than the clique of the anti-cliques, and NIN fans I'm beginning to realize are the worst.

I thought perhaps it was just ETS at first, but I think it's all of them across the board. Of course, I guess that's what you get when your fans are fucking fat 13-year-olds who can't get laid and hate themselves (which is SO FUCKING SPECIAL AND UNIQUE; yeah, none of us were in that exact same boat). I mean for the sweet love of Christ, how can fans of a man who's basically said how awful it was for him to feel like an outsider suddenly turn around and start excising other folks from the "fan" community?

Oh, that's right. I guess it's pretty easy when your fearless fucking leader starts acting like a frat boy on steroids. You don't need to think when he's ignoring the dangerous and the subtle, and instead acting like a fucking Mack Truck of consumerism -- bashing the Bush adminstration with the most obvious film montage ever (you gotta take the shit on that one, sheridan -- the rest of your work is cool, but sorry -- that one sucks) whilst selling $65 sweatshirts to The Kids, and luring your $30/$60 in for The Spiral, with the promise of messageboard chats, only to let the place be run like a fucking band camp on retard day.




And when your best friend suddenly decides to give up all she is and all she's ever thought because of some desperate need to belong, it doesn't really suprise I guess. Because that's what the whole fucking Team of Lemming Retardation has been up to lately.

the leapers
words by Gabriel

lining up
march right along
don't question
don't think
don't you dare, little precious

just take off your shirt
and give me your neck
so i can feed
like a vampyre
and suck it all down

and passion
the fever
it's yesterday's fashion
to care
and to hold yourself up
and to try
why perserve
when you can buy your way into
happiness with a hoodie

don't fool yourself, previous
your denial daugerotype
just because you throw everything away
doesn't make your emptiness the truth

Posted by Gabriel in things_i_hate | Permalink | Comments (64) | TrackBack