Being curious can be fun. It can expose you to new ideas. It can lead you to find answers to important questions. It’s how you find out whether or not sex hurts. It can be good excuse to bring a picture of a rocket to class that’s just big enough to hide your erection. Because you’re just curious about rockets. You don’t really care about those Jordache jeans the teacher is wearing today. You’re just being curious. About rockets. Curiosity can kill cats, too. That’s fun. Killing cats can be fun. You should forget about sex and just kill some cats. (Picture found on laughingsquid.)
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Being curious can be fun.

It can expose you to new ideas.

It can lead you to find answers to important questions.

It’s how you find out whether or not sex hurts.

It can be good excuse to bring a picture of a rocket to class that’s just big enough to hide your erection.

Because you’re just curious about rockets.

You don’t really care about those Jordache jeans the teacher is wearing today.

You’re just being curious.

About rockets.

Curiosity can kill cats, too.

That’s fun.

Killing cats can be fun.

You should forget about sex and just kill some cats.

(Picture found on laughingsquid.)

Maybe the other kids will laugh. Maybe your teacher will keep you after class to talk to you. Maybe your mother will cry. Maybe your father will take a switch to you and yell at you for putting your mother through this. Maybe the doctors will shake their heads. Maybe the nurse who brings you your pills will look at you with a potent mixture of pity and terror in her big hazel eyes before she walks away a little faster than you think she needs to and whispers nervously to a man who is standing in the shadows next to a machine that looks like one of those recording machines you saw last year during your field trip to the Pacific Bell building except instead of tape running between the big reels there is coiled wire crackling with electricity and running out the top of the machine and down to a small metal hat of some sort. Maybe the wet towel they give you to bite down on will taste a tiny bit like bleach. But none of it will change who you are. You know it. You accept it. You’re a farm. (Picture found on laughingsquid.)
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Maybe the other kids will laugh.

Maybe your teacher will keep you after class to talk to you.

Maybe your mother will cry.

Maybe your father will take a switch to you and yell at you for putting your mother through this.

Maybe the doctors will shake their heads.

Maybe the nurse who brings you your pills will look at you with a potent mixture of pity and terror in her big hazel eyes before she walks away a little faster than you think she needs to and whispers nervously to a man who is standing in the shadows next to a machine that looks like one of those recording machines you saw last year during your field trip to the Pacific Bell building except instead of tape running between the big reels there is coiled wire crackling with electricity and running out the top of the machine and down to a small metal hat of some sort.

Maybe the wet towel they give you to bite down on will taste a tiny bit like bleach.

But none of it will change who you are.

You know it.

You accept it.

You’re a farm.

(Picture found on laughingsquid.)

You’re an African American woman. You’re in love with a caucasian woman. You don’t know how to tell your friends. You’re worried. Because it’s 1892. And all of the adults are dead. And the leader of the Grown Children is standing right there. And he has his stick. So you hide behind the curtain. You pray for the sound of his enormous steam-powered mansion’s massive brass spider legs pounding down the cobblestone street away from the speakeasy. You wait. And you just worry. But it won’t help. Because it never does. It never helps just to worry. So you also cry. (Picture found on laughingsquid.)
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You’re an African American woman.

You’re in love with a caucasian woman.

You don’t know how to tell your friends.

You’re worried.

Because it’s 1892.

And all of the adults are dead.

And the leader of the Grown Children is standing right there.

And he has his stick.

So you hide behind the curtain.

You pray for the sound of his enormous steam-powered mansion’s massive brass spider legs pounding down the cobblestone street away from the speakeasy.

You wait.

And you just worry.

But it won’t help.

Because it never does.

It never helps just to worry.

So you also cry.

(Picture found on laughingsquid.)