That love is like a stapler is an idea I cannot deny;

And Cupid must work in an office, wearing a dress-shirt and tie.

Love and a stapler both bring things together with a sharp, bright shock:

A stapler fastens leaves of paper, while love makes souls interlock.

Both bring their share of ease and trouble, both can make one feel bereft:

Regardless whether staple or love, when removed a hole is left.

But if all amorous relationships are merely metal bent,

Then Cupid's staples have made many a beautiful document.

Pain shoots from the crotch

Blasts through the brain to the skyLike a child's murder

The drive was growing tiresome. The Sun was setting. The conversation had played itself out, and the driver and the passenger were thinking desperately to find a topic worthy of breaking the silence.

Finally, the passenger said, "If you could say only one-hundred words each day, what would you say?"

"Well," said the driver, "I would save verbal communication for the phone and the drive-thru, places where you can't communicate any other way. When talking with someone face-to-face, I would write down my words. Do written words count?"

"Yes."

"Oh, that's tough. Then I'd only say what mattered. Things like:"

Few remember the dark day that Morgan Freeman forgot how to explain things. That day, he falsely said that the Universe was a magic bathtub whose wizard-sparks contained realms ruled by a velociraptor who wore a foam finger. When that dark day ended, all were thankfully forgetful.

I can't help hating myself. I can't stop thinking I'm not good enough. You are my friend; am I your friend? I can't think positive: no matter how I try, I can't swallow optimism, it's the bitterest thing; I can only swallow cries for help. And once I've shut myself up, I put my smiling mask back on and pretend to be happy.

"Meow."

No.

"Meow meow."

Go away.

"Meow?"

I'm trying to sleep.

"Mrreow?"

Ugh. Fine.

Open door.

Cat walks in purring, rubs face on ankle, blinks at me, then walks away.

Close door.

Back to bed.

"Meow."

Preface: Sometimes my friends and I will collaborate on little stories using the "exquisite corpse" method; by which one person writes the first part of the story on a piece of paper then folds part of it over before passing it to the next person so that the next person must continue the story using only the last bit as a basis, then that person folds it and passes it on and the next person writes a little and folds it and so on and so forth. When my friends and I play this game, this is the kind of story that always results. I apologize in advance.

~

It was a fine morning at Barstucks, my go-to coffee shop that at night becomes a bar for Homestuck fans. As usual I was sitting, enjoying a nice cup of Joe with my friend Sinoc the Edgehog. We were drinking bile directly out of Joe's liver, which we called a cup.

"This is boring!" exclaimed Sinoc. "I want more human suffering!"

Wishing to please Sinoc, I went for a simple form of human suffering: a battle-axe to the thorax.

Joe's screams were very pleasant to listen to as I, with my battle-axe, scraped Joe's liver into bloody, bile-drenched strings. I then swung at his stomach, his gall-bladder, his pancreas, his diaphragm, anything but his heart; anything that would keep him alive and writhing in transcendent agony long enough to satisfy Sinoc. Anything to satisfy Sinoc.

Then, the screaming stopped. A stream of blood bubbled out of Joe's mouth. At last, Joe was dead.

"That's not enough!" shrieked Sinoc.

"What else could you want?" said I.

"Kill yourself," replied Sinoc, coldly.

"You know what, son?" I said. "I like the cut of your jib."

I then bent my head back and tilted the axe away from my face. A few seconds later, axe met forehead, blood and gray matter were sprayed on the walls, my carcass fell to the floor, and Sinoc was satisfied.

...

"Not again!" said Carl in his Eridan cosplay as he peered through the windows to see the two bloody, mangled corpses on the floor of the coffee shop.