Acid Punk Fucks A Peach

29 Mar

[This short story is meant for mature audiences!]

First and foremost, allow me to make this clear:

I’m not like the others.

I don’t do things to fit in. I don’t do things to follow trends, unable to think of my own ideas. I don’t look down on everyone else thinking that I’m doing the best job of living life.

None of that’s true. Or rather, nothing is ever true outside my head.

This feeds into an obvious loop of honesty contradicting its own concept. If nothing is true, then how do I tell the truth?

I simply must redefine honesty.

I am an honest person. I always tell the my truth.

So you can trust me when I say that I’m not like everyone else. (Not to say that no one is like me.)

I don’t go to a punk show for the message the band is promoting. I don’t say things like, “why don’t more people listen to this great music? Everyone’s stuck on their fucking Lady Gaga and Justin Bieber.” I truly don’t give two damns of a fuck if anyone likes the music I like. I understand that we’re different people on a fundamental level, and that the course of our existence won’t lead us to the same place.

This should be obvious, but it isn’t. That’s why I feel the need to clarify it.

The bands themselves don’t have to agree with me. Some of the bands I like think of themselves as better than some of the other bands I like. It doesn’t matter, because that’s not what I listen for. I can like the lyrics even if they mean nothing to me, so long as I enjoy their kind of entertainment.

If you understand that, then you’ll know that I’m not listening to Mindless Self Indulgence because I’m your average high school punk who does a lot of drugs and giggles at lyrics about sex and calling people idiots.

But I do dress in punk style, because I like it.

And I do take acid, because I understand that the only problems with it are what people make of it.

And I do giggle at lyrics about sex, because I know that there’s no point in acting stuck-up and pretending they aren’t fun.

And it entertains me the way Mindless Self Indulgence makes fun of the kind of people who listen to them, because I understand that they’re doing so. (Even though I listen to them.)

(And by the way, I’m in high school.)

Now that you understand my truth about myself, I can tell you my story.

What I decided one day, whilst alone in my room, was that shame is meaningless. Feeling bad about anything is meaningless, really. Some things have consequences, so it’s important to know about those, but that doesn’t mean I have to feel regret. I’d rather look with bright eyes at the possibilities which remain.

This is the benefit of knowing that God doesn’t exist. I can’t imagine the difficulty of living while always thinking that someone’s judging me, and that if I don’t pass their test I’ll be tortured for all time (which would be a bitch move on God’s part if he existed).

If shame has no purpose, then it’s important that I weed myself off of it, doing things that I would’ve been ashamed of myself for in the past.

That is, things I want to do. (It would be just as pointless to do something shameless just for the hell of it, after all.)

My dark mind had long conjured up a number of shameless deeds I wanted to perform and was ready to flood the world with.

I’d already dropped acid a couple of times in the past, though I’d only ever done half a tablet at a time, so I started by shamelessly taking three of them. If I wanted to get the next activity under way, I’d need to get it done before the trip kicked in.

I was home alone. “Capitol P” by Mindless Self Indulgence was blasting from my speakers.

“I don’t want to be the one who’s stuck with me when I whip my meat out, trapped in a room when I start to beat it—
I don’t want to be the one who’s touching me when I whip my meat out, jugglin’ my balls when I start to get a beat out.”

I’m a very horny guy. <-That’s my honesty and shamelessness at work. I’ve got no qualms about experimental masturbation.

So I remembered something I’d read before about fucking a peach.

Maybe it’s not so extreme after all. You couldn’t tell your friends and family you were fucking a peach unless your friends are just as shameless as you are. But fruit sex is widespread enough that most people have probably heard of it. I mean, if they do it in porn and fetish clubs, why can’t I?

Not having any friends I could discuss it with would certainly make it feel insular—like a dark secret kept to myself. Not out of shame, but out of respect that no one really wants to hear about me fucking a peach.

(Except you, I guess.)

Realistically, I should’ve been able to do all of this from the start; but that’s the magic of a revelation. It’s always something you should’ve known all along.

So I made up my mind and got a peach from the kitchen.

For a moment, I stared at it, confused. Certainly, I understood how this peach could be a euphemism for a vagina, but how to go about having sex with it remained a mystery to me. I turned to the internet for tips.

It looked like my best bet was to carve a hole through it and use it just like a rubber vagina. (Not that I’ve actually used one.)

And so, without going into unnecessary detail, I fucked the peach.

It took too long, though, and somewhere in the middle of it, the peach turned into the Bride of Frankenstein, and I realized for the first time how to see through a woman’s outer shell to her inner beauty. I feel deeply in love with the Bride of Frankenstein, even though I knew she was a married woman, so I promised I’d take her away and elope with her, and she said she loved me so much and never wanted us to be apart. But then Frankenstein showed up, and the parts he was stitched together out of included Richard Nixon’s face, except it was on his chest, and the other face on his stomach was Rasputin. Rasputin’s beard was on Frankenstein’s chin, even though he didn’t have a face where his face should’ve been. Bride of Frankenstein got up and apologized to me and Frankenstein and said she was going back with her husband because she didn’t want to abandon her family, and Frankenstein spared my life; but Rasputin said that if I ever came around their family, he’d kill me. (Nixon also said something, but it was garbled and nonsensical.) I was left in a depressed heap, having lost the only woman I ever loved, and the patterns on the wall were telling me how I was a failure and I’d never love anyone like her again. But then, thankfully, Charmander walked over and tried to comfort me. He couldn’t get his point across very well because the only thing he could say was his own name, but I understood what he was trying to get out, and it cheered me up. Charmander and I immediately knew we’d be best friends, and I told him I’d take him on an adventure, so I had to go get dressed because I knew we’d have to cross a snowy mountain at some point and my balls would jump into my throat, so I went and got dressed, and when I got back, Charmander had brought over his best friend Psyduck, and they were both eating magic mushrooms. Charmander offered me some—(such a fucking great guy)—so I ate them, and then Psyduck used his psychic powers to have a lengthy and detailed conversation with me about how much he’d mellowed out after they divided his brain in half, and eventually we all three became best friends. I remembered my promise to Charmander, so I told him it was time for us to set off and we all stepped outside.

Thus began my quest to become a Pokemon Master.

When I woke up naked on my bed covered in juice and peach fragments, finding that every round object in the room had been thrown at my closet door, I shed a single tear—a bit sad to see my journey end, but happy with the memories that I’d carry in my heart.

Fin.

[This story was inspired by listening to Mindless Self Indulgence. The lyrics quoted are from Capitol P off of the Despierta Los Ninos album.]

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