Imagine that you’re a bubble floating through the air, descending down from a very tall tree as the rainbow of color shining through you from the sun in the sky, smashes onto the trunk behind you! Smashing and mixing into each other, writhing like an orgy as the colors glide down the rough terrain of the bark… its disco shades following you like an obsessed shadow as you fall ever so slightly towards your inevitable fate. Do you:
A or B ?
A. See the shades of color that are dancing behind you on the tree-trunk from the sun’s rays, and though you accept your inevitable fate of dieing on the ground when you will eventually pop, you dance… and you just don’t dace like any other night, you dance disco style. Disco bubble style; until inevitably you explode into tiny particles for the blades of grass to sip like a margarita and make love to. John Travolta has nothing on your slick moves, you’re the bubble.
B. You don’t want to die. You have flash-backs of your mommy blowing you into existence; she was a whore, you understand. She blew many bubbles, and she blew hard. But the flashbacks; they all hit so fast, and so violently… relentless!! ****ing bubble flashbacks!! “I don’t want to pop! I don’t want to pop! Mommy mommy blow me again; that I might be a large bubble once more!” You scream, but it’s pointless you say; you will pop, you will pop, accept it you dumb ****. Harsh reality in the mixture of emotions before one dies, especially when they all hit in the fraction of a second. You look for the nearest tree-branch. The ground will not defeat you, you will defeat it by destroying yourself on a tree branch before you hit that damned prideful ***** that they call, “the ground”. You have the upper hand. You are powerful; dominant. You take your life before it takes you. “Maybe”, you hope, “someone might blow me again.”
A or B ?
A. See the shades of color that are dancing behind you on the tree-trunk from the sun’s rays, and though you accept your inevitable fate of dieing on the ground when you will eventually pop, you dance… and you just don’t dace like any other night, you dance disco style. Disco bubble style; until inevitably you explode into tiny particles for the blades of grass to sip like a margarita and make love to. John Travolta has nothing on your slick moves, you’re the bubble.
B. You don’t want to die. You have flash-backs of your mommy blowing you into existence; she was a whore, you understand. She blew many bubbles, and she blew hard. But the flashbacks; they all hit so fast, and so violently… relentless!! ****ing bubble flashbacks!! “I don’t want to pop! I don’t want to pop! Mommy mommy blow me again; that I might be a large bubble once more!” You scream, but it’s pointless you say; you will pop, you will pop, accept it you dumb ****. Harsh reality in the mixture of emotions before one dies, especially when they all hit in the fraction of a second. You look for the nearest tree-branch. The ground will not defeat you, you will defeat it by destroying yourself on a tree branch before you hit that damned prideful ***** that they call, “the ground”. You have the upper hand. You are powerful; dominant. You take your life before it takes you. “Maybe”, you hope, “someone might blow me again.”
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