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I no longer need the lightning that makes the spirit boxes speak. I have evolved beyond it, found my own source of power, an inner strength. The strength to cling to the ceiling fan and kick wildly at the others. As I rotate past a mirror, I note that I have also apparently evolved beyond pants. Thereâs a quiet dignity in that, I think. Or at least, thatâs what I screech at Tori as she tries to wrap my lower half in a blanket. A little bowel evacuation got rid of her though.Now whoâs âmaking a sceneâ!?Big Spirit fill me; I run with wolf. One I call âassfaceâ dead by my hand. I will sleep inside him tonight to gain his strength. Carving would be easier with electric knife, butâ¦ you know.Great light come! Blind us! We retreat to abandoned wig cellar. Much noise above. Much that seems so familiar, but distant, like voice of ancestor echoing down long corridor. The Time of Awakening has come again. The great Metal Gods stir. Me look excellent in powdered wig.Ohâ¦ oh God. What have I done? Iâve got to call the police and turn myself in, beg for mercy. Itâs my only chance. Jesus, Adam. He looks like a damned Tauntaun. And Iâm pretty sure that rugâs never going to be clean again too. Oh shit, I just remembered, I still need to write my post for Saturday. Should I do that before I call? Yeah, great, Iâll tell the police that in my murderous frenzy I paused to write an article about Coldplay. âWas that before or after you clubbed your fiancÃ© with a wine bottle?â Shit, Michael. Shit shit shit. Maybe Iâll just type this up, slap some random graphics on, and post it. Iâm sure the readers would think itâs a joke. Theyâre so stupid. God, I hate them all so much, and their stupid, whiny, retard faces. OK yeah, Iâll do that. Note to self: Edit last part before posting.When not sharing a quiet evening with friends, Michael serves as head writer for and co-founder of Those Aren't Muskets!