When people call me Marilyn Monroe I know that is a compliment
I respond by farting or hiding behind a mustache
I see my skin
Over fat
Straw hair
Scared Cat

I was drunk and fucked up in a hotel once.
I looked in the mirror
And knew it was true blonde martyr moment

I smile big regardless
It has made me good at customer service
I assure you its genuine
Like the bleach in my chalice
This one is for you!
Ever sip closer to perfection

Would the comparison even be made if I were brunette?
Norma Gene was a brunette
My roots are the dirtiest shade of dark blonde

But does that mean I’m going to die naked drugged out at the hands of a corrupt president on the path of his own final destination?
Sounds pretty accurate actually
I relate more to chubby sweatpants Anna Nicole Smith
Besides the elderly husband and obsession with money thing
I need no ring

I hate the whole dumb blonde thing
I actuality did really well in school

Now I am the degenerate scum

Smoking blunts on a trampoline
Riding bikes with teenagers on acid
Standing a top Niagara Falls
Water that would rip my skin off
My body would grow flaccid
Under the waves

On the rocks
I keep falling for cocks
That are obsessed with skinny brunettes
Not buxom blondes
They tell me about it like I can help them get into her panties
Get off my lawn bro
Just go!

I keep falling for rockstars
That are scared of my shine
I am fine
My heart is all mine


I will never lose my name
She was married 3 times
But the only one that got her to change her name was the mistress of fame
She won at that

Everyone knows who she is
I have shirts and leggings with her face on them
She has more drag queens paying homage per capita than any other celebritant

At what cost?
She did not get the chance to grow old
Intrepid dust
I feel its lust

I don’t want to grow old but its creeping in like a storm
That has been on the radar since the day I was born
It is inevitable that I will be carried away in the cyclone
The cycle of humanity

Free pass for the prettiest ones
Golden child
Free of earthly holds
Loss, love, and lack of communication
Body folds

The photo taken of just her ass

While singing “Happy Birthday Mr. President”



American founding father Benjamin Franklin once said that the only certain things in this world are death and taxes. Over the past few years the Canada Revenue Agency (CRA) has proven this to be more than true. Since 2007 they’ve been erroneously declaring thousands of Canadian taxpayers deceased. Though the heroes of modern action and suspense films extoll the virtues of being believed dead, being legally dead can have harrowing consequences for those who are alive and well and happy to be it.

There are a lot of ways a person can become dead in the eyes of the law.

The most obvious one is also the most natural: you die. In Quebec you can also be considered legally dead after a prolonged absence. If you disappear from the province for seven years and no one knows if you’re alive or dead, any interested party can apply for a judgment declaring you dead, and such a judgment has the same effects as if you actually died.

In order for the CRA to consider you dead, all it takes is a phone call. Though the CRA typically receives calls from executors and beneficiaries of a deceased person, anyone can call them and give a date of death of a person. The CRA doesn’t ask for any supporting documents.

Unfortunately you can also end up dead in the eyes of the law via mistakes by government officials responsible for keeping and updating records.

In February 2014 Canada’s Taxpayers’ Ombudsman J. Paul Dubé released a report on Canadian taxpayers who’d accidentally been declared dead by the Canada Revenue Agency. The report was commissioned by the Minister of National Revenue following the discovery that from 2007 to 2013 almost six thousand Canadians were mistakenly declared dead.

The report identified the three major causes of the erroneous declarations of death by the CRA: mistakes made by taxpayers and representatives on their T1 forms, CRA agents mistakenly marking deaths under the wrong social insurance numbers, and incorrect information received from outside sources. The Ombudsman’s recommendations included ensuring that forms are correctly filled out, and following up with taxpayers who’d reported a death by phone and asking them to substantiate the deaths by providing documents.

In spite of these recommendations, Canadians still get mistakenly declared dead by the Canada Revenue Agency. On January 28th, 2016 the CBC reported on a Winnipeg resident who found out via a letter from the CRA addressed to the “Estate of the Late Alyanna Lapuz” that she’d been mistakenly marked deceased when she’d phoned them to ask for direct deposit on her tax refunds.

As a result her Social Insurance Number was flagged as belonging to a deceased person and her application for a student loan was denied. Despite her complaints, it took over three weeks for the CRA to fix the problem.

Regardless of what action heroes will have you believe, there are major disadvantages to being considered dead.

The legal definition of death according to Canadian and Quebec law is the cessation of life and the complete stop of the vital functions of the brain and body. Death also means the end of a person’s “juridical personality” which allows them the full enjoyment of their civil rights.

If you’re dead your social insurance number becomes invalid. You technically won’t have to pay taxes but you’ll also find yourself ineligible for the government benefits you might need and otherwise be legally entitled to. This includes not only child tax benefits, but welfare payments and tax refunds.

You won’t be able to collect a legal paycheck, open a bank account, or get a student loan. If you need healthcare, you’re out of luck. If you’re legally dead, your medicare card will lose its value.

Though health care is administered by the provinces, federal and provincial governments work closely with one another and frequently share information. If the federal government deems you deceased, eventually so will the provincial.

In Quebec, being dead means the dissolution of your marriage or civil union. It also means that your estate, consisting of your property and rights therein becomes open to your legal heirs and all the rules regarding wills and estates apply. If you don’t have any legal heirs, your property reverts back to the State.

Fortunately, if you’re accidentally declared dead by a government screw up or malicious caller, you have options.

First, find out which agency is responsible and call them during their phone hours. Don’t bother with the automated system. Service Canada’s automated phone system is particularly annoying to navigate but there’s a loophole. Press zero and you’ll automatically be put in line to speak to a human being.

You may have to listen to an hour’s worth of annoying music, but it’s worth it if you speak to an agent who can fix things or direct to the person who can. If you’re lucky, you might even get an apology.

When contacting the government agency fails, you can file a formal complaint. If your issue is with the CRA, contact the Taxpayer’s Ombudsman whose office is responsible for investigating complaints from taxpayers who feel they’ve been treated unfairly or unprofessionally by CRA agents. If your problem is with the Directeur de l’état civil (DEC) – the Quebec government office responsible for keeping track of births and deaths – you can file your complaint directly from their website.

If all else fails, go to the press. Governments hate bad publicity and sometimes a little bad publicity is necessary to right wrongs. In a welfare state like Canada, your social insurance number and medicare card can determine whether you get treatment when you’re sick and whether you can earn a salary to feed and clothe yourself.

All that can mean the difference between being literally alive or dead. Don’t let a government screw up kill you before you’re ready.

I’m thankful that one day you are going to die. That one day your blood will be split and it shall be washed away like water flowing into a drain. I am thankful that one day, someone’s going to snap, grab a meat cleaver and tear your face apart. Rip your ears off. Your eyes. Your nose. Your lips. I am thankful that one day, I can smile as I stand above your grave and slam a knife deep into the toxic soil. And I will whisper softly, “this is why I’m thankful” as you burn below in hell’s infinite fires.

People like you are a virus. A disease. Something that needs a cure. Something that needs to be eradicated. Tortured. And left for dead. You see, what you are, is an infection in my system. A glitch in my subconscious. You’re the epitome of everything I hate, and everything I want to destroy. You resemble icons of the past: liars, manipulators, sinners, murderers, rapists — the list goes on and on and on. And it doesn’t end. Why should it? How can it when you continue to breathe the same air I do as if it’s your God-given right? How can you walk the same roads I walk, see the same things I see, and hear the same things I hear? You’re not me. Quite the opposite. The exact opposite.

If I had my way, I’d make sure your death came slow. I’d torment you. I’d make you experience everything I experienced, and all the pain you caused others. I’d break into your mind, and like you love to do, I’d contort it. I’d break you. I’d drive you to the brink of insanity, and then push you over the limit. This Rubicon shall be breached. And I’d watch you scream. I’d laugh as the tears flood your eyes and you beg me to stop. But it won’t stop there. It won’t stop until I make it stop.

Next I’d cut off your balls, and your penis will soon follow. I’d rip it apart and make you bleed profusely. I’d stick knives in your flesh and tear your skin off inch by inch. I want to expose the real you. The monster that lives beyond flesh and bone. The creature who gazes at angels through a mask of sanity. I want to show the world the truth. And I want the world to stand in awe — and witness the harsh reality of who you are. What you are. What it is that needs to happen. I’ll rip off your face, exposing Satan’s bliss. Your dark, cancerous thoughts. Your artificial, darkened heart. And who you really, really are. I’d take you. And I’d end your life.

Your hands. Your legs. Your arms. Every inch. It’ll all be cut off. Thrown into the trash like all the other diseases. Like all the other people who had outstayed their welcome. All the other people who couldn’t feel. Couldn’t cry. Couldn’t love. Couldn’t understand. But lied. And spread demonic lies with a self-made wit and a well-crafted charm. You see, I know who you really are. I always knew what lied behind the shadows and the mundane grin. Like a spider, you spun a web of lies and like a cult leader, you converted my friends. My hopes. My dreams. My future. Which is why I’m thankful you will die. Which is why you will die. Which is why you deserve to die.

And not a thing you do can stop this now. Not a prayer you say can save you now. Nothing you may hope for will occur. Because I can’t stop now. And it’s over now. And there’s not a thing I can do to change the past. Not a hope or a dream that could be answered where you’d die before this came to pass. Before you spread like a cancer on a weak body. It’s like if I put a gun to your head and pulled the trigger… you’d be gone. Finished. And the end result would be a happy ending. Not a guilty conscience — not an overdose of regret, topped off by fear of the unknown. I’d watch you die. I’d save myself. And it would be alright. Everything would be alright.

Too many lives on display. Too many tombstones with names I read clearly even in darkness. Even with the fog’s abyss stretching over my graveyard of lost emotions and empty half-lives. Broken souls wander the empty corridors of this special place I hold dear. It’s where I pay my last respects for everyone you took. Everything you destroyed. Like a venom that courses through my veins, suffocating me from within. And so I drown. But I’d take you down with me. Making sure my last breaths come after yours. If only to see the world without you for a few moments — even a few seconds. To see God’s green earth with its beauty intact and your head decapitated from your shoulders. Then it’d all be worth it. Then my prayers would be answered.

This is the world. This is reality. Your falsehood and charades bring a swift death upon the weak-minded. But not for me. Not for the one you tried so hard to kill. You see, this is my quest. And right now, I’m gazing down at you with your eyes torn and your body leaking a surreal gore. The moment of truth. What I’m thankful for. And so with victory in my sights, it’s time to seize the day. Carpe Diem. This is how you die. Your head rolls to the floor. Your life over, gone, and enriched by an ending that ruptured your core. Your life on display on a table filled with blood. And in the shadows, I wander, sending you to hell.

I left you with nothing. As I take back everything. And so much more. It’s easy to see now, isn’t it? Like an epiphany realized in the finest hour. When the hourglass runs empty, and the world takes notice. Everyone. Everywhere. Standing in awe. And the earth’s thunder is like my grand applause. My finale. My encore.

What I’m thankful for…