I hate everyone.
Today they made me do stupid arts and crafts. So I built a Death Star out of popsicle sticks. All I have to do is build a generator that can power a giant wooden space station without setting it on fire.
Today I wrote a poem. It is called "The Force is Out of Balance."
Here it is:
The Force is out of Balance
Because nobody cares.
They take away my freedom
like shooting tie fighters out of the air.
I hate to be alive
Because life is like a rotten pear.
I want to kill some Jedis.
But there aren't any
Because I killed them all.
But that is their fault not mine.
If only they had listened to me
And been nice to me in time.
But instead they kept on saying
"Master your feelings, little Padawan."
They were so sanctimonious
It made me feel all shat upon.
I have more midi-chlorians
Than all their stupid faces put together
But I'm too depressed for Jedi mind tricks
My heart is like
Because Padmé is dead.
Life sucks so much! I wish they had just let me die instead of amputating all my limbs and giving me mechanical organs. It doesn't matter how badass my awesome black armor is, because inside this lifeless shell I know I am ugly and no one likes me. Even my own kid hates me! I wish I were dead.
I can't believe it! That asshole Ben Franklin destroyed my Death Star! And then he was all blah blah something about freedom and wild turkeys and liberty and reading making men.
God you know what sucks? When people are all, "Anakin, we want you to live!" because you know they are just lying so they can act all high and mighty and superior. None of them would miss me if I really died; they would just be all "Thank god he's gone" and then laugh about how I breathe too loud. I know they do that behind my back. Instead they're all, "sure, you're horrifically burned from head to t-- OH WAIT YOU DON'T HAVE TOES-- but at least you're not fat and ugly like Jabba the Hutt or Howard Taft and life is beautiful and blah blah blah!" When really they're just wishing I would die as much as I do. God I hate people.
I wrote another poem.
There is a giant hole in my heart
Where my Death Star used to be.
I thought that we would never part,
But then it blew up on me.
It took me so long to build,
I thought that I would cry.
But I have a splinter of popsicle stick
That I can stab in my heart so I will die.
I think that one is very profound.
(What follows is a literal transcription of the comic)
(There is a sheet of paper with some cursive handwriting on it. It says "I cry alone." With a heart over the I. The next panel shows the same sheet, but it now says "I cry alone in silence." With hearts over all the Is. The next panel shows a hand in a big black glove crossing out the bottom line.)
Scene: A sandy beach. There is a large rock. Darth Vader is sitting on top of it.
Darth Vader: (thinking) No, not silence. Hmm...misery? Loneliness? Despair?
(Enter Jane Austen)
Jane Austen: Lord Vader! Are you writing emo poetry AGAIN?
Darth Vader: (looks up) Jane Austen! Ye-er. No!
(He hides the notebook behind his back.)
I mean, er, what? What would make you think THAT?
Jane Austen: Well, ever since Ben Franklin set fire to your popsicle stick Death Star, you've been seeming really depressed.
Batman: Yes, Anakin. We think it's time for an intervention.
Darth Vader: Et TU, Bruce?!
Batman: Bruce?! Who's Bruce? I'm Batman! Why do people keep calling me Bruce?
Jane Austen: Er, Mr. Wayne, isn't it high time we abandoned this foolish charade? I found your utility belt and the keys to the Batmobile in your sock drawer!
Batman: Hey, don't turn this back on me! I thought we were discussing Mr.-give-in-to-your-anger.
Darth Vader: Look, at least I don't dress as a bug because I blame myself for my parents' murder.
Batman: BATS AREN'T BUGS*
(*with apologies to Bill Watterson)
Jane Austen: Yes, but Lord Vader, we DID find this poem about suicide signed 'D. Vader'
(She shows him a copy of "I want to die" by D. Vader
Darth Vader: God, you PEOPLE. It was a METAPHOR.
Batman: Metaphor for WHAT, exactly?
Darth Vader: Jesus fucking CHRIST. I'm a Sith Lord. It's called "The Dark Side" for a reason.
(Enter Sigmund Freud, holding a cigar.)
Sigmund Freud: Ah! Progress! Let's talk about this! And maybe your mother.
Jane Austen: You stay out of this, Sigmund. We've had enough of your terribly improprietous penis talk.
Sigmund Freud: It's not MY fault you feel repressed by the dominant patriarchy, Jane.
Jane Austen: I'll dominant patriarchy your ASS, good sir. As soon as I find an acceptable husband.
Batman: AHEM. Did I mention I'm available?
Jane Austen: Yes, Mr. Wayne, but vigilantism is hardly a respectable career. What would the society papers say?
Darth Vader: GUYS. I thought we were going to talk about ME. Why doesn't anyone care about MY problems?
Jane Austen: Lord Vader is such a crybaby. It's very unbecoming a man of his station.
Sigmund Freud: It's because his lightsaber is so SMALL.
Darth Vader: I can strangle you with my mind, you know.
Author's Note This week's entry was inspired by a conversation cacophonesque told me about, in which a little boy she knows asked his mother about what Darth Vader's hobbies are.
This entry was written for therealljidol Week 19: Open Topic