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scum of the earth

Scum of the Earth


I’m not badly off with the women. I like them and some like me. The problem is, though, that I want all of them to like me. And I believe that can happen if I owned a guitar. In my mind, I see myself walking around campus with an acoustic guitar slung around my back. A guitar I have named Lily.  I have thick dreadlocks and wear colorful beach shirts that I sometimes unbutton to show off my ripped chest. I also have the musky smell of a man that works in construction, with just a hint of marijuana. I am the embodiment of a 70’s hippie rock star. In this reverie, I sit at the school cafeteria and ‘randomly’ play something mellow that I may or may not have been practicing the past week. Something that picks the attention of girls around because they’ll think I’m a dark, profound artistic soul. When a group of girls inevitably emerge and converge around my table to compliment me, I will play the ‘sad profound artist’ card and tell them things like: I want to play Lily till my fingertips cut and bleed on her marvelous strings. Or, music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination and life to everything. Hopefully, they won’t realize that last line is Plato’s.
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King is a mad writer on the loose. He is suspected to have lost his mind a few years after he was born. Since then, he has been writing his mind almost everywhere he can put his pen on. Someone – a government, a state, a police force, a parent, a teacher, a rabbi, a president, a sacco, a doctor, a deranged ex, a church, a therapist, or anyone with a bit of power bestowed upon them – should reprimand him and help him.