22.2.06

Craniopagus Parasiticus.


Say the words to yourself once or twice. Ten syllables. Cranio-pagus Para-siticus. The biological equivalent of finding an extra large and deformed M&M in your packet. Twins, but wrong. A human life, twisted by a matter of womb-inches, to the status of a tumour with a face. Insane ethical questions. The stubby bit has reflexes and a seperate personality- introduce a bottle to its mouth, and it sucks. It remains awake while the host sleeps. Without its own heart or respiratory system it has no hope of independant survival- it's just a head, after all. But is it human? Is it a person? The entity as a whole- two people, or one with a noteworthy addition, like a third nipple or extraneous thumb? Medical intervention is mandatory, as one heart can't support that much matter, but should the approach focus on excision of the alien mass, or prolonging the survival of the entity as a whole? Given time and care, could the extra head be capable of learning? Is it sentient? And if so, would a surgical procedure to remove it qualify as excision or infanticide?
Craniopagus Parasiticus. Two heads aren't always better than one.

18.2.06

You want WHAT?!?!

You want to know what I'm listening to, as I'm listening to it? You want to be able to see what sort of music I listen to, and when? You want charts of my most popular artists, and a breakdown of when I listen to them most? Better go here then, and make sure to leave a message in my shoutbox telling me you came from my blog. I'd recommend Audioscrobbler to anyone, it gets more interesting the more you play with it. The only downside happens when your girlfriend plays Kelly Clarkson on your PC and puts a blemish on your oh-so-cool and eclectic listings. Hey-ho.

11.2.06

My Name is Janet Morgan.

I am filthy. Something happened to me before I became this way, something that my mind has chosen to not let me remember. I can only guess what it might have been- a brother carved up by the mob? A mother raped by a gang of mental patients before my infant eyes? A beloved pet, kidnapped and mailed to me piece by piece? Who knows? Not I. One thing however, is sure. I am bar none the most hate-filled, loathsome, dry and unloving motherwhore on the face of this fuckbecursed rock, and wherever I see the promise of good or the potential to prosper then I pour my bile over the seed as quick as I can to suffocate and immolate any hope of a brighter future. Underneath these drab garments of scratchy hessian my skin is as parchment- a thin, transparent firmament that barely holds my herniated and prolapsed organs in place. So lucent is this film that each heartbeat would be visible were I naked- each spasm of life can be seen pushing its way through my veins, the black ichor that I call blood can be seen forging its way through the courses of my foul being, working its way ever onward toward the black spasming mass of tumour that I call a heart. My name is Janet Morgan. Run me down with your car. Find my home, and mail me posthaste gifts of burning turd. My name. Is Janet. Morgan.

5.2.06

What do you think?


War casualty? Botched suicide? Act of a vengeful God?
Or "other"?
This site's nearly a year old, so do please join me in a big fucking yippee.
Another year passed, and we're still waiting for The Rapture.