Scribble: The Seussian Pseudonym by EwokABdevito Lyrics
Part 1
Lars was pacing around his incredibly diverse sleeping quarters. He didn't want to call it a bedroom; it's unconventionality warrants something more like a "Swiss-Army Bedroom". He had set up a makeshift laboratory in the Western perimeter, a small kitchen on the Northern side, the Eastern side was used purely for meditation, and the Southern harbored his varied "sleeping stations". For Lars had created 3 "sleeping stations' of decidedly different comfort levels: The most comfortable was a plushy queen size mattress, while the least comfortable was a swinging piece of plywood that tips over at the slightest imbalance. Lars usually slept in a dog kennel; Good sleep was a reward for accomplishing goals and increasing self worth. Very rarely could Lars surprise himself and rise to the expectations lodged deep in the heart of his mastermind. This inability to achieve, nay, attempt perfection; became his prime source of existential torment.
Lars was pacing through all of the 'zones' in his room: counter-clockwise, then clockwise, over and over again, as if he were unlocking a combination lock, or trying to stir up some kind of feng shui tsunami. Lars was not his real name, he hated it. You see, Lars was never given a "government name", his mother was a jailbird and had several outstanding warrants for her arrest; so she was forced to take to the backyard and birth him in a kiddie pool.
Lars was adopted young by an eccentric German couple who bestowed upon him the name that taught him the uselessness of names. Lars, what did it mean? He was obviously of Irish descent. His foster parents were engineers at the big nearby government sponsored laboratory. They were always so subservient to him! Catering to his every whim, they would shower him in obsequities and absurdities; there were even times when Lars would throw a tantrum and they would genuflect in utter humility, begging for his forgiveness! It was all fun and games until Lars found a newspaper article stashed inside of a shoebox in their closet, it read: "Son of prominent engineers goes on shooting rampage!". It all made sense, Lars was a replacement for the German couple's son, nothing but an altar of guilt. A god who holds the key to their redemption.
Lars stopped pacing and sat down directly in the middle of his room. He began chanting "I am the axis of being", "I've burrowed into the apple of knowledge undetected", "I wait in the core to be thrown outside the gate", and erected a vertical mirror directly in front of himself. He slowly unwound a curled up 'e' (thin one) guitar string and pulled a small vial of ink from his laboratory. It was time to re-brand himself. As today was his 10th birthday he found it an aesthetically appealing time to make himself a man. Why wait until 13 to pass a self imposed gauntlet to manhood? He had just overcome 9, The largest 1 digit number! Using a marker he began tracing a combination of patterns he had found in internet images of "warpaint", his face became unrecognizable. The left side was somewhat reptilian with heavy accentuation around the mouth, and the right side was more feline, with heavy accentuation around the cheekbones and eyes. As he began the process of repainting his face with a homemade tattoo needle he immediately felt despicable for wanting to copy the painted looks he had seen in aboriginal cultures. Those were THEIR looks, THEIR culture, this sudden revelation caused him to start carving wild lines into his face with no rhyme or reason. Having finished, he pressed his stinging face into a wet towel and in the mirror he saw that it looked as if he had walked into a black spiderweb.
He had finally found a name that suited him; Scribble, an unwanted character.
Part 2
Lars was pacing around his incredibly diverse sleeping quarters. He didn't want to call it a bedroom; it's unconventionality warrants something more like a "Swiss-Army Bedroom". He had set up a makeshift laboratory in the Western perimeter, a small kitchen on the Northern side, the Eastern side was used purely for meditation, and the Southern harbored his varied "sleeping stations". For Lars had created 3 "sleeping stations' of decidedly different comfort levels: The most comfortable was a plushy queen size mattress, while the least comfortable was a swinging piece of plywood that tips over at the slightest imbalance. Lars usually slept in a dog kennel; Good sleep was a reward for accomplishing goals and increasing self worth. Very rarely could Lars surprise himself and rise to the expectations lodged deep in the heart of his mastermind. This inability to achieve, nay, attempt perfection; became his prime source of existential torment.
Lars was pacing through all of the 'zones' in his room: counter-clockwise, then clockwise, over and over again, as if he were unlocking a combination lock, or trying to stir up some kind of feng shui tsunami. Lars was not his real name, he hated it. You see, Lars was never given a "government name", his mother was a jailbird and had several outstanding warrants for her arrest; so she was forced to take to the backyard and birth him in a kiddie pool.
Lars was adopted young by an eccentric German couple who bestowed upon him the name that taught him the uselessness of names. Lars, what did it mean? He was obviously of Irish descent. His foster parents were engineers at the big nearby government sponsored laboratory. They were always so subservient to him! Catering to his every whim, they would shower him in obsequities and absurdities; there were even times when Lars would throw a tantrum and they would genuflect in utter humility, begging for his forgiveness! It was all fun and games until Lars found a newspaper article stashed inside of a shoebox in their closet, it read: "Son of prominent engineers goes on shooting rampage!". It all made sense, Lars was a replacement for the German couple's son, nothing but an altar of guilt. A god who holds the key to their redemption.
Lars stopped pacing and sat down directly in the middle of his room. He began chanting "I am the axis of being", "I've burrowed into the apple of knowledge undetected", "I wait in the core to be thrown outside the gate", and erected a vertical mirror directly in front of himself. He slowly unwound a curled up 'e' (thin one) guitar string and pulled a small vial of ink from his laboratory. It was time to re-brand himself. As today was his 10th birthday he found it an aesthetically appealing time to make himself a man. Why wait until 13 to pass a self imposed gauntlet to manhood? He had just overcome 9, The largest 1 digit number! Using a marker he began tracing a combination of patterns he had found in internet images of "warpaint", his face became unrecognizable. The left side was somewhat reptilian with heavy accentuation around the mouth, and the right side was more feline, with heavy accentuation around the cheekbones and eyes. As he began the process of repainting his face with a homemade tattoo needle he immediately felt despicable for wanting to copy the painted looks he had seen in aboriginal cultures. Those were THEIR looks, THEIR culture, this sudden revelation caused him to start carving wild lines into his face with no rhyme or reason. Having finished, he pressed his stinging face into a wet towel and in the mirror he saw that it looked as if he had walked into a black spiderweb.
He had finally found a name that suited him; Scribble, an unwanted character.
Part 2