Are there any serious writers on the site?

What doesn't kill us only makes us stronger, right? And this hasn't killed me yet, that I know of that is. I mean, one would know if they were dead, wouldn't they? There would be signs. A flash of light, where I can't decide if I've accidentally killed my grandparents as the dmt floods my brain, because hallucinogenics were never really for me. Or there would have been a "Welcome to Hell, population 99 billion people." sign, because that's how much of the human population has already died off. Or I would be floating in some blank white space, like a dot in the center of a wordpad document, waiting for my eternity to be decided for me by some overly idealized figure of omnipotence, who has no face, or body, and will only speak to me through the shape of a small duck wearing a plaid tuxedo. So, I must not be dead. Though, I've been told that if I don't take "God" more seriously he might smite me by throwing lightning bolts into my shower while he jerks off to, not me, or the countless number of other people he can also watch showering, but to the mere idea that he can watch those people showering at all. It's sickening, isn't it? It makes your stomach turn, sharp turns, too. The type of turns you take on an S curve, going 95 in a little red sports car that you got during your midlife crisis, right before you hit the guard rail, and flip 8 times, killing you, and your teenage son who was in the car with you. That kind of sickening. Try not to vomit when you've seen a man being twisted inside of a giant piece of metal, as it crushes his bones, causing them to angle in a way that you should only see in an abstract painting while his skin is torn off, and sliced by the tiny shards of glass, and screeching metal as the car collides with the rail. Rolling them into a giant expanding snowball of suffering, and pieces of organs... Until finally he's ripped into two at the waist, with his guts flying across the small wooded area where the car has finally landed for the wolves to pick at once the police, and emts have finished scraping up what little they had it in them to bare themselves. And I nearly followed suit, trying not to let my lunch decide that I needed a second course. Adding my own vomit to that picture would make me subject to be a part of some fetish porn video that you find on the internet while you're searching for 1 guy, 1 jar to email to all of your friends while you're sitting at your daily 9 to 5 office job bored out of your mind. And for what? All to see their reaction about the video the next time you bring it up to them in person? While laughing at their descriptions of the deeply rooted, horrible, cold, sweat soaked nightmares seeing that jar break made them have for several days after? "FUCK!!" I wonder if I was having a screaming contest with the squealing of my breaks as my tires skid across the road. I don't remember which was harder to pull myself away from. Whether it was the trance like stare at the teenage passenger who had been thrown from the car, his body folding over him to the point that his lower back could touch the back of his skull, his face nearly gone from sliding across the pavement. Leaving nothing behind him but some 15 year old girl that he asked to his winter formal, at which he decided to take advantage of her after spiking her punch throughout the night. That, a trail of blood, and chunks of skin ripped from his left cheek. Or if it was my suffocating grip on the steering wheel in front of me, grasping it as if it were my grip on reality, or the concept of death to somehow cope with what I had just seen unfold. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck..." It was all I could say as I tore my hands away from the wheel, trembling as I shoved my right hand into my pocket. It felt like hours before the tips of my fingers reached my cell phone.

What doesn't kill us only makes us stronger, right? And this hasn't killed me yet, that I know of that is. I mean, one would know if they were dead, wouldn't they? There would be signs. A flash of light, where I can't decide if I've accidentally killed my grandparents as the dmt floods my brain, because hallucinogenics were never really for me. Or there would have been a "Welcome to Hell, population 99 billion people." sign, because that's how much of the human population has already died off. Or I would be floating in some blank white space, like a dot in the center of a wordpad document, waiting for my eternity to be decided for me by some overly idealized figure of omnipotence, who has no face, or body, and will only speak to me through the shape of a small duck wearing a plaid tuxedo. So, I must not be dead. Though, I've been told that if I don't take "God" more seriously he might smite me by throwing lightning bolts into my shower while he jerks off to, not me, or the countless number of other people he can also watch showering, but to the mere idea that he can watch those people showering at all. It's sickening, isn't it? It makes your stomach turn, sharp turns, too. The type of turns you take on an S curve, going 95 in a little red sports car that you got during your midlife crisis, right before you hit the guard rail, and flip 8 times, killing you, and your teenage son who was in the car with you. That kind of sickening. Try not to vomit when you've seen a man being twisted inside of a giant piece of metal, as it crushes his bones, causing them to angle in a way that you should only see in an abstract painting while his skin is torn off, and sliced by the tiny shards of glass, and screeching metal as the car collides with the rail. Rolling them into a giant expanding snowball of suffering, and pieces of organs... Until finally he's ripped into two at the waist, with his guts flying across the small wooded area where the car has finally landed for the wolves to pick at once the police, and emts have finished scraping up what little they had it in them to bare themselves. And I nearly followed suit, trying not to let my lunch decide that I needed a second course. Adding my own vomit to that picture would make me subject to be a part of some fetish porn video that you find on the internet while you're searching for 1 guy, 1 jar to email to all of your friends while you're sitting at your daily 9 to 5 office job bored out of your mind. And for what? All to see their reaction about the video the next time you bring it up to them in person? While laughing at their descriptions of the deeply rooted, horrible, cold, sweat soaked nightmares seeing that jar break made them have for several days after? "FUCK!!" I wonder if I was having a screaming contest with the squealing of my breaks as my tires skid across the road. I don't remember which was harder to pull myself away from. Whether it was the trance like stare at the teenage passenger who had been thrown from the car, his body folding over him to the point that his lower back could touch the back of his skull, his face nearly gone from sliding across the pavement. Leaving nothing behind him but some 15 year old girl that he asked to his winter formal, at which he decided to take advantage of her after spiking her punch throughout the night. That, a trail of blood, and chunks of skin ripped from his left cheek. Or if it was my suffocating grip on the steering wheel in front of me, grasping it as if it were my grip on reality, or the concept of death to somehow cope with what I had just seen unfold. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck..." It was all I could say as I tore my hands away from the wheel, trembling as I shoved my right hand into my pocket. It felt like hours before the tips of my fingers reached my cell phone.