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Baby Tom Hanks.

February 23rd, 2008 · 3 Comments

02.23.08
Seattle, WA
10:13a

fuckedinthehead.jpg

Has anyone noticed that I’m fucked in the head? I am. Fucked. In the Head. Split. Right down the riddle. MIND-tosis has set in. I am no longer singular. I have become legion. I have become we. I no longer feel the sense of any one identity. I am Tom Hanks talking to a volleyball, only I’m talking to many balls, as many Tom Hanks, on a multitude of deserted islands. My balls say nothing back. They just stare at me. Hitting me in the face with their reality–their nothing to say-ness. I want to be You’ve got mail Tom Hanks, or That thing you do Tom Hanks, but in reality I think I’m Forrest Gump. Actually, if Forrest Gump Tom Hanks and Joe versus the Volcano Tom Hanks had a baby Tom Hanks, yeah, that. That would be me. I suppose Philadelphia Tom Hanks would have to be in there somewhere as the catalyst for the two Tom Hankses to fuck, but I don’t feel much like Philadelphia Tom Hanks, except for the dying really fast part. But I finally don’t care, Yes I do, Yeah but hardly, Come on, You care more than that, Alright fine, but not much more, I’m deserted, I’m mostly Castaway Tom Hanks right now, where’s my fucking Porta-Potty door, the one that randomly washed up on shore to save Castaway Tom Hanks, the one that provided him with a make-shit sail, a means of escape from his involuntary exile? My hair is proof that there were cavemen back in the day, before hygiene, before having to apply for a job, I have lost all sense of supposed to. I don’t think you’re supposed to end a sentence with supposed to, fake gasp, cover mouth, supposed to, supposed to, supposed to.

fuck you supposed to.

fuck you! grammar;

fuck you speling.

FUCK YOU caps lock.

fuck you fuck you.

This guy I know, who is also in the “entertainment industry,” fuck me, I can’t believe I just said “industry,” what’s next, I’m going to start saying “I knew this one cat,” or “I’ve been gigging around town a lot lately,” what a fucking tool I am, anyway, he commented on my last video, “Memoirs of a Mental Retarded,” saying, “Good bait, keep fishing often and often…you never know.” What? Fishing? I’m not fishing– I’m falling apart you fucking retard. Can’t you tell the difference? I’m showing signs of implosion, of self-destruction, of way too much time on my hands. Ok, fine, I suppose I am fishing, fishing for other crazy fucking looney tune losery retarded fuckholes who think uncontrollable spasms count as art.

My only goal is to fall apart in front of friends, so that I can help make them realize that they too, are falling apart, and it’s all o fucking k.

Let’s fall apart, together.

Apart. Together. A part. Together. Aparttogether. APART.

Together.

Oh life, how you feel like constant rape.

A cyber-holler to all my fellow fuckholes out there.

Love,

Baby Tom Hanks

 

Tags: ryan matsumoto

3 responses so far ↓

  • 1 used tires // Aug 1, 2011 at 11:55 pm

    Poor Baby Tom Hanks!

    -Jean

  • 2 Aniexty // Jun 21, 2013 at 4:20 am

    I agree with your conclusions and will eagerly look forward to your incoming updates.

  • 3 Astrology // Jul 3, 2013 at 2:57 am

    I thought it is going to be some boring old post, but it really compensat for ours time.

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