Long live the new flesh

I want to tell you about a growing subculture among our female youth.
http://pixiehollow.go.com/
Age old tyrants, Disney, have created an online militia they call "Pixie Hollow". Taking a short visit to Pixie Hollow led me to uncover their strange practices.
First, you create your alter-avatar. You start by choose your assigned power. You have the choice between Water, Garden, Animal, Light and Knives. I chose Water. Then you choose the anatomical proportions of your pixie. This is a little uncomfortable, so I will skip it.
Then you dress your minuscule wood nymph. I became meticulous about this step and added unnecessary trinkets and accessories. Already I was being grasped by the fantastical hand of the Hollow.
After this you must obey a randomized machine to choose your name. You can't just type in, "Floggerman" as I was hoping to. You must choose a combination of two of around 80 "faerie" names such as "Nightshade Pumpernickle". Goddamnit. After struggling with the desire to run from this, I ended up naming my avatar "Twilight" because that's pretty.
Finally, they turn you loose onto the pixies woodland world. You begin by collecting worthless objects like twigs and raindrops that you eventually trade for weapons and, presumibly, drugs. As I tirelessly searched for natural debris, I was cojoled by other fairies. They asked me if I wanted to be friends with them and if I wanted to play hide and seek. I smartly realized that these were obviously code words for their devious schemes, so I retreated in fear of capture.

Squeamish analgesics.

You don't want to see want I'm about to show you. Fair enough. Don't look at it. What about it makes you ill? Which human process affects you with such a malignant force? Don't pretend that you're an "artist" when you're not. When you can't even stand to experience what I experience every day. When you can't look down the esophagus of the wolf that brings you kindness. When you can't see through this bullshit. Don't talk to me about what art is. You don't know what it isn't.
This is anger.

This isn't.
I like it when what you see grosses you out. I like it when you feel something. Even if you don't like what you feel. Look at that guy who's naked! Look at red balloons in sequence. Look at this fairy that came out of my pocket.
Tell me. Tell me what you see.

Hmm...

I think I want this.

Refreacted

This is a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy o a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a coy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy o a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a journal entry I used to imagine when I was 7 years old. In my memory, it said:

"Frankfort is a long way from New Zealand. That's why, when you close your windows at night and you feel the strange sensation that you just ingested a living entity, you realize that we can't be together. I used to by you cigarettes and then gum so that your father wouldn't know you were smoking. I held you up on the carousel so you could pretend you would actually amount to anything. But now, in the gray light of this dressing room, we push our lips together and hope for the best."

Put your bones back together. We got though this, just like I said we would. Doubt me again and I'll kill you for real.

-Rock Man On Off

I'll tell you what it is.

It's a single swamped fly in a hotel bed, floating acid in a shot glass and holding up his head.

Let's not scold each other over sold angles and sought after salesmanship. It doesn't really matter what comes out of you. The sound of horns is the same as a siren and the colour of scorn. It folds and bends around your head and spins through the synapses of those around you. Why get catty over who meant to? Who sent who? Let it become what it will anyway.

It's a folding, breaking ice cube tray, falling through the cracks in the gray cement under the hay.