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 Jimmy opened his eyes with a start. His bedroom was engulfed in the semi-darkness of a morning sunrise.
His General Electric alarm clock was screeching out at him, as if to dictate him in every possible way. He
frowned. Life would seem so much more beautiful if he could just afford one of those wonderful iPod clocks. He'd
feel more accepted.
He stepped into the bathroom and looked at himself. He was a plain looking youth, with dull brown hair that
looked like lumber. It clashed horribly with his pink and round fat face. It was as if his very skin were screaming
at him to cut himself open with a razor and pull off all those hateable chunks of being that clung to him. He
sighed. It was only 6:32 AM, and he already wanted to disassemble himself like the rusting old car in his
backyard. He slid on a pair of dirty Levis and headed downstairs.
His mother sat at the breakfast table. She had been a pretty woman, her face had been scarred by the test of
time. He had been constantly been telling her to try Botox, but she wouldn't hear of it. She just sat there, puffing
away at a near-stump of a Marlboro Red. Next to her lay a plate with his Insta-Breakfast on it, waiting for it to be
devoured.
“Good morning, sweetie!” she said. He ignored her and eyed his plate.
“What the hell is this?! You know I hate strawberries.”
His mother looked crestfallen. She had taken the time to be nice to him this morning, after all.
“I'm sorry, sweetie, I can make you another fla-”
“Fuck it. You can't even properly cook the few times that daddy is home anymore. I'm wasting my time here, I
might as well grab some Pop Tarts at school. At least they're more filling than this tripe.”
“Well,” she said, biting her lip, “Then you best get headed out to the bus stop. Remember to give Mrs.
Pillsbury your signed permission slip to go to the zoo.”
“Whatever. Fine”, he said.
And so he headed off to his kintergarten class. His five year old mind was swimming. He slammed the front
door, kicked the white picket fence open, and trudged through the Tollhouse Brownie-like mud. Rain pelted the
ground like bullets hit rock stars in music videos.
The sludge had stained his Vans, the very shoes that made him feel like an individual at all. He hung his head.
Finally, the yellow whorehouse of a schoolbus pulled up. Rust covered the edgings along the windows and
doorframe. It creaked open.
“Get in, kid.” the bus driver wheezed through his cigar smoke. He coughed, cleared his throat, and smiled.
The entire bus reeked of old Marlboros and Budweiser. He walked all the way to the back to try and avoid it.
He sat down, adjusted his Jansport backback, and carefully pulled out his Microsoft Zune media player. He
hoped doing so didn't bring too much attention to himself.
“Hey, faggot!”
Too late. Everyone had seen his gaping flaw.
“Hey, faggot! I'm talking to you, you piece of shit!” the same kid yelled. It was Billy Hampton, the most popular
kid in school. He tried feebly to make a reply, but to no avail. Billy walked back to him, and grabbed him.
“Listen you little bitch, do you know what you've done?” Billy yelled. “Only a fucking retard would own a Zune.
And you know what we do to retards. Only iPod owners are worth anything.”
It was true. Everyone in school clamored for the latest Apple iPod releases. You could get off with a fair
warning if you just had an outdated model, but you were a real goner if you used a different brand. Ipods were
the sole item that made people individuals anymore.
Jimmy shuddered in remembrance of what happened to Joey Klein a month ago. The poor kid brought a Sansa
Gigabeat with him, and everyone on the bus kicked him so hard that he pissed blood for a week straight.
It appeared that the bus was a cannibal restraunt, and Jimmy was on the menu. A flurry of fists, feet, and
chains whipped towards his face. This was the price he paid for being an individual.
The pain burned like the heat of a cup of McDonalds coffee. Several of his teeth took off like rockets, ejecting
from the bruised crevice that was now his face. The bus driver smiled and looked on, swerving every once in a
while to sip his beer.
The bus finally pulled into his awful school. Shithole Elementary, he called it. It was actually Kroger
Elementary, but everyone around these parts referred to it as Shithole. Even the bus drivers.
The fat-ass bus driver sat there lazily, pulling open the door after downing yet another beer. Billy and the rest of
the students pulled off of Timmy and filed out of the vehicle one by one. The fatass walked over to Jimmy's
broken body, kicked him, and held out a hand.
“Get up, you sap-sorry pig fucker.” he muttered, breathing stale smoke all over.
Between the large amounts of blood in his lungs and the thick cloud of ash in his face, Jimmy managed to gasp
out a “Thank you.” and managed to crawl out the back of the bus, which had been hanging wide open the entire
ride there.
He tried to pull himself up by the side of the curb. After staggering with it for a while, he limped into the dark
hallways of his deprecated school. He only had moments to get to class before Mrs. Pillsbury would destroy him
as a human being. The bell rang out his final death note, and he walked somberly down the hall to Mrs.
Pillsbury's classroom.
He stood at the doorway, and hesitated. He could just pull a sick day, medicine WAS in fact out of fashion at
the moment. Alas, it was too late. She had already spotted him, and her gigantic ass was already somehow
hauling her to the door frame. She opened the heavy door with the strength of a mad lumberjack.
“Pass?” she asked. Her words had the qualities of a light slur of an autistic child in it. Her glaring eyes were
brown like Milk Duds, and her mouth was always pulled into a frown by her four or five chins.
“No, mam.” he replied. He was in for it now.
“You fucking imbecile!” she cried. She threw a rotting apple at him.
“Go stand in the corner, you little shit! That one's a fucking detention!”
He made his away across the sea of taunts and jeers, and stood in the corner of the room. He tried to be as still
as a pillar. Perhaps she would forget about him.
The announcement speaker blared with a low, ominous tune. A crackly voice wheezed through it.
“Good morning, students. Today is Thursday. Please stand for our pledge to the Grand Icon.”
All of the students turned away from Jimmy, put their hands on their hearts, and looked at a poster with the
American Federal Reserve Currency flag hanging from the poll. The AFRC maintained a picture of a smiling man
with a bald head and a beard on it. Jimmy always wondered if that man was God. He looked so benevolent, so
caring and full of peace.
The students recited the pledge.
“We, the Lifeblood of Prosperity, solemnly vow to uphold the Interests of our great Nation, to serve and protect
the well-being of our Society, and to always expand the arm of our System. In all, we give to One.” they chanted.
The class sat down robotically, and they stared ahead at Mrs. Pillsbury.
 “Now class, today in History, we are going to talk about...” she stooped over to the blackboard and scrawled
“The American Uprising”
“Who here knows about the Uprising?”
A little boy's hand shot up. It was young Joey Heinz.
“Yes, Joey?”
“Well, ma'am, my mom and pop told me that was when our own people started becoming terrorists, and we
beat them.”
“Well done, Joey!” she gleamed.
Jimmy pouted. His father had been one of the so-called “Terrorists”. He considered him a Freedom Fighter.

“Unlike some of us,” she glanced at Jimmy hungrily “there are still a few of these people among us who like to

cause social disorder.”

“But ma'am, he was fighting for our freedom to-”

“Don't give me THAT! He was simply in it because he couldn't cope with life.”

There was a brief pause. She obviously had struck a nerve. He could hold it in, all he needed to do was hold

his breath-

“If you ask me, he was a fucking disgrace just like you.” she gloated.

That did it.

“You listen to me, you old, fat bitch. My father tried to free us five years ago. Hell, it's the Reserve who are even

the real terrorists.”

“James Mach, you did not just say that!”

“I just did. Never talk about my dead father that way EVER AGAIN!”

He swung his fist at her face, but she grabbed it just in time.

“Right you are. I think it's off to the Dean's for you.”

Her greasy talons were digging into his skin. She continued to pull him along as if he were a Yo-Yo.

After being dragged down a seemingly endless hallway, he finally was thrust into the doorway of the Dean's

office. The door read: “Office of Edwin Quincy Naumech, Dean of Students/Draft Manager”.

He was thrown into a chair. He waited for hours. Lunch passed, and Jimmy sat there, practically starving.

Never mind, he would at least lose some weight from it.

Mr. Naumech finally arrived. He was an older man, a skinny bald fucker with bad teeth and slimy lips.

“Well, Mr. Mach.” he rasped. His voice pulsed like magnetic death. “It appears we've had yet another outburst

with you at our respectable Institution. What seems to be the problem?”

“Sir, she called my father a disgrace.”

“He deserved it. You see, James” he made motions with his hands, “perspective is an empty shell sometimes.
It's fine on the outside, but on the inside there's nothing substantial in those claims.”

James looked up.

“James, YOU'RE an empty shell. Look around. You have no value in life. All you ever do is putz around in

class and backsass Mrs. Pillsbury. I'm giving you an hour's detention in The Machine.”

“But Mr. Naumech! I simply cannot do that tonight, it conflicts with my job!”

Mr. Naumech frowned. He pulled out a Career Clipboard and flipped through it lazily.

“Ah, here it is. Yes, it would seem that you most definitely need to work at McTasty's tonight with the other

children. Very well. You can serve it tomorrow. Now, get the hell out of here.”

Sitting in that room had made Jimmy's bladder fill up, so he quickly hurried to the nearest bathroom. He kicked

open the door, and ran to the one stall that didn't have a security camera in front of it.

Alas, he was too late. Behind the door he heard the existential moans of a young boy and girl, happily going at

it like jackrabbits. It had become a standard Manifesto among children to have sex as quickly as possible.

Basically, if you hadn't had sex by age 7, you were a nobody.

The couple seemed to hear Jimmy's presence. He quickly rushed over to a wall urinal, pulled down his pants,

and relieved himself before the door opened.

Out of the door stepped Billy Hilton and a girl named Megan Skippy. Megan had lovely brown hair that hung off

of her from all the sweating.

“God damn it, Zune boy, when are you ever going to learn to give me my fucking space? I suppose all of your

kind are faggots, aren't they? Well? Like what you see?” said Billy. His flaccid cock was hanging out of his pants,

coming in at slightly more than three inches. It was massive.

He grabbed Jimmy by the throat, and pointed to his cock.

“Next time you get in my way, I'm going to choke you in more ways than one.”

Billy threw him on the ground into a warm puddle of piss. Megan laughed, and they left.

The school bell sounded out as a cling of Justice that day. The sky was bright, speakers next to trees let out

emulated animal noises, and the artificial grass looked unusually healthy. Any day spent outside of The Machine

was a good one. He decided to avoid the bus entirely, walking home with a sense of joy.

He was crushed when he remembered his obligation to work. Slowly but surely, he put on his uniform to switch

from one dull lifestyle to another. He looked in the mirror. In this light, he looked nice in a uniform. He got on his

bike and rode to McTasty's.

Working in the grill at McTasty's was ridiculously easy. Nearly every device was automated, all he had to do

was simply stand there and inform a manager of strange occurrences. The grill that he stood at was a hulking
piece of machinery. It was a black oddity, a magnificent monstrosity that had pipes and hoses going in all

directions. It also had a lovely touchscreen, which was a lot more convenient than those painful buttons on the

last model. For his 10-dollar-a-week paycheck, this was not so bad. The ceiling above the grill seemed to be

leaking its usual amount of viscous white fluid. Apparently it was mechanical lubricant, but he didn't really care.

He pushed a button, and the poles in the ceiling pushed themselves deep into the roof. This always resulted in a

gasping, almost breathing sound. Perhaps that's why he liked this place, it felt human.

After ten hours of working, he finally clocked out and went home. He sat there, feeling strange. As he stripped

off his clothes and went to bed, he realised just how empty he felt. His life was pointless at best.

The lights went out. He sat in the dark, afraid of the coming day.
 About the Author
Sean Tilley is a typical 18 year old. He lives in Illinois,

loves to mess with computers, and tends to have many

thoughts about the world, as young people tend to do. Sean

is a wanna-be programmer who spends more time on

creative projects. Hey, it's how this got made.

Sean Tilley runs several blogs, which are noted below.

As a side note, he's a huge Free Software/Open

Source/Free Culture Enthusiast.

Sites of Interest

Sean Tilley's Life Blog:

http://seanrtilley.blogspot.com

Sean's Literature Blog:

http://seantilleywritesalot.blogspot.com

Sean's Cruddy Music Profile!

Http://www.myspace.com/musicofseantilley

Sean's crummy YouTube Account!

http://www.youtube.com/user/seantilley