Real is Fake

This world that we all live in, it's run by robotic ants. The ants live in the brains of all the world leaders, and they are controlled by a queen cyborg ant living miles below the antarctic. All these wars, these laws, these conflicts, are machinated by the queen for her own personal gain. Because she absolutely despises humans. Hates them with a passion. Not only are her robotic mind-controllers living in the Membranes of world leaders, but she also controls all of the ants around the world. It's all one big tree of control.

These ants, they're crawling on my skin. Every flick of hair I feel, every itch on my scalp, every goosebump I get is caused by them. I scratch, and the feeling goes away, because they're flying with their little rocket jetpacks onto another part of my skin. Sometimes I feel that brush against my hair, and instead of immediately scratching, I'll look at the spot on my skin. Nothing there. Y'know why? Because they have cloaking devices. The queen ant is that technologically advanced. She's attacking me specifically because I know all about their devious plan to wipe out the human race. She sends her little invisible jet-powered attacker drones to skitter all over me, making me itch like mad. They can also read my thoughts. See, I'm typing this out and as I type it out the itching gets worse. That means they know I'm on to them. So I scratch and scratch, and think about it more, and scratch some more, and it gets worse, and on and on. My scalp is all red because of this. Also I have scars from where they decided to attack my skin and I had to defend my body by scratching at them. They won't leave me the fuck ALONE.

I have plans to assassinate all the world leaders being controlled by robotic ants. I'll gather an uprising, which will fund me to buy a state-of-the-art sniper rifle with armor piercing bullets and plot and plan to take them down. God, they're itching even more. They know I know. The queen ant is probably reading this as I'm typing it, and organizing her ants to come kill me. Too late, fuckers! The zombie piranhas already got my brain. I'm working on just synapses now. Unless the ants crawl through my ears and into my mouth and work their way up to that hollow space and build a nest. Then I'm fucked. My ears are itching. They already know. That queen ant, she's a crafty motherfucker. Her drones can read my thoughts. Better not think about it, then. Maybe it will all go away.


I'll think about balloons and fucking and racecars and bunnies and green and borscht and MSG and exploding heads and the number 3 and tires and footlong subs and metal wires and LEGO and suave hats and 8 ft tall naked women and neurons firing and the gates of hell and the SPCA and gnawing on fingers and really large guns and ink cartridges and cardboard boxes and the cheshire cat and the 1920's and Transylvanian castles and filing lawsuits and stubbing my pinky toe and female robots masturbating and wood lacquer and getting high off markers and Spuds Mackenzie and giant claymores and slugs frying in salt and getting my first blowjob in the movie theatre and ballpoint pens and security passcodes and picking dead skin off my ankles and breadcrumbs and red lines and that one art piece of a cross inside a jar full of piss.