Just writing, reblogs and the muses of a man with an unwell mind. Come hither to delve into it. Or just ask me stuff. Open book.
Holy Land USA
Holy Land USA was once an 18 acre Bible-themed park located in Waterbury, Connecticut. The park had about 40,000 visitors a year until it closed in 1984 for renovations. Holy Land USA never opened back up again due to the death of owner John Greco in 1986. It has been abandoned ever since. The abandoned acres of the theme park have been watched over by groups of nuns for decades, but the place keeps getting more and more creepy as the park continues to deteriorate.
On top of the vandalism and eeriness the park gives off, a teenager was murdered on these abandoned grounds in 2010. Since then police records have shown that the amount of trespassers have been decreasing which just means abandoned Holy Land USA is as creepy and deserted as ever.
this is what you get when you cross rapture and columbia
Holy BALLS. Road trip!
Went on a hike here with my family a few years back. An uncle lives right nearby. It is freaking scary, especially as the sun goes down.
This was one of the best nights of the year, a year which has felt rather uneventful, among other things… (even though I have enjoyed days like my graduation and other milestones). We went to the Steampunk World’s Fair in our Piscataway, NJ, and had an incredible time. I almost didn’t go today, due to a migraine and an overall feeling of “meh”-ness, but I was so glad I got to go. Evan and I took a Bieber-fangirl selfie at the Steam Powered Giraffe show and then hung in the parking lot talking about life. Then we enjoyed the drunken tunes of Voltaire. Splendid.
Nights like tonight make me happy to be here. Nights like tonight make me feel truly fortunate for my wonderful family, my brothers back home in Hamilton, and my new family that I have more recently found. Thanks for the journey, all.
So fucking jelly. If I was there, I’d be covered in red cloth as a Vox Populi.
New Jersey, huh? I swear, there’s someone I know that wanted to go to New Jersey..
You sit at the restaurant with your young son, he says he is hungry. You agree to get him dinner. You open up to the kids menu, your child is far to young for adult food. Chicken nugger stares at you from the page. You don’t understand. Your palms get sweaty and your son complains. He says he is hungry. Your mind strains, searching for an answer in a world of sweer potato and french fried. You try to order the chicken nugger, but you cannot. The words cannot escape your lips. Your son is hungry, he complains. The waitress stares at you, her head a spinning chicken nugger, her arms swinging french fried. Your son cries the tears of a chicken nugger-less child. In your mind you scream. It is raining sweer potato now, you have french fried engraved on your left temple and you do not understand. Your son weeps in the corner, he is starving. Starving for the chicken nugger.
You watch as your son scarfs down nugger after nugger. He is satisfied. He loves the chicken nugger. You wonder if you could ever attain that kind of happiness in your own life. You quietly pay your bill and enter the street. Your son asks if you can buy him an ice cream. You enter Mrs. Moo’s on Jefferson street hoping to order a rocky road. You look at the menu on the wall.
Chicken Nugger …. $3.50
Chicken Nugger …. $4.75
Chicken Nugger …. $2.11
Chicken Nugger …. $6.65
It goes on and on. You are confused. Your son asks again for the chicken nugger. He is full but wants chicken nugger for dessert. You ask the woman at the counter for a scoop of rocky road. She doesn’t know how to respond. You get desperate, you ask for vanilla. Her eyes widen. She motions her way toward the telephone. You ask again, “a scoop of vanilla?” She picks up the phone and begins dialing. Your son again asks for chicken nugger. You want to run, you want to scream, you look at your palms and the lines have begun to form chicken nugglets. The phone the woman is dialing starts sweating chicken grease, her eyes close and she is ashamed, ashamed that she her customer has caused such a problem. You want to run but your son is screaming for the chicken nugger.
You sir have just gotten yourself into a reality war, are you ready?
The waitress makes her call and collapses into chicken nuggers, grease rolling from where her body had stood. You look up to the menu on the wall, but the words have tumbled off the paper and have conjeeled as mustard on the floor. You turn to your son, his eyes flaming mirrors of your own reality. The rain has turned to hail, currents of sweer potato break the glass windows in the shop and sirens yell in the distance. You try to cover your eyes, but your hands are no longer yours, they drip grease and melt into a familiar form. Your hands are chicken nuggers. You scream.
you watch yourself from above as you become chicken nugger. Your son collapses into a quivering sweer potato as the universe fold in on its self to form a massive french fried. Your son is now screaming from his forehead for a chicken nugger and the space time continuum ceases to exist and in its place is a toasty nugger. you try to scream for chicken nugger but all your mouth will produce is sweer potatat. In japan, your hundreds of children mime to you their deep need for chicken nugger, and you demand a lawyer to defend you. The planets, all of them, mercury through pluto, crash to earth and are reduced to a myriad chicken nugger. Death comes for you. you hope to go to a better place but there is only chicken nugger.
This website is on drugs.
I give you a hamburger.