The Slick and the Dead Films

It’s been a while. Heres a story:

Imagine, if you will, a boy, or man I guess, sort of a man-boy, but without the grotesque flopping man-tits that are linked with this phrase. He was living in a place far from his birth-home, a place filled with shiny buildings and drunken, possibly slightly inbred sports-fans cluttering up his daily commute. This man-child-thing was happy, for a time. And then sad. And then happy. Then sad. Happy. Very sad. He self-medicated, and found he was quite pleased with living with the rush of amphetamines or the blur of alcohol. For a time. The creeping horror that was his dissatisfaction penetrated the bubble, violated his protective spere. He was just sad and inebriated. His studies fell by the wayside, and then his projects, and all he claimed to live for suddenly was replaced by a panicked need to watch episodes of tv he’d seen countless times before, all staving off an insidious fear of growing up, of responsibility, of living. Work was missed, money was spent recklessly, and in time he found himself broke. At this time, one of his darkest, he found a strange peace and motivation. He then grew tentacle arms and made an organic rocketship out of orphan parts.

Anywho, now that the story is done, yeah, I’m back, expect photos and words and movie bullshit clogging up your feeds again.