A Day in the Life of an Agalloch Fan


The day begins to the irritating alarm of your cellphone. You could change it to a ringtone, but don't feel you deserve the satisfaction. You masturbate to pictures of your ex-girlfriend from three years ago—a girl named Kelly from Kinkos who taught you to fax and remains unaware of your relationship. After the minute is over, you walk head down to the shower in shame and sob under cold waters. You prefer warm showers, but take cold showers as you read serial killers do it and believe it's a cool attribute to impress your friends with. Your only friends are two LARPers who pretend to like you because your Mom carpools. Around this time you call up your friends to make arrangements to "Tag up trains 'n' shit like Mark Ecko," but you never do, opting to flee the scene of any urban area at the slightest rustle of wind.

Shortly after noon, you enjoy a breakfast of apple sauce and Dunkaroos, then curse your Mother for not having brought Poptart S'mores the stormy night before. Teary-eyed and full of hate, you run to your room and put "The Mantle" on full blast, just after flipping the bird at God (a ceiling fan). During the profound auditory experience you Instagram a photo of your broken amp, browse Rotten.com and write "FUCK. Everything!" on your Facebook wall. When the album is done you weep continuously for two hours. Then you attempt to call your Father and forgive his repeated attempts to enroll you in school, before realizing the oppressing sadness of Skeletor's vocals prevent you. You browse Lambgoat for a while and write, "That's killer!" in every music thread so if they get good, you can claim you liked them first.

Come night, you weightlift to "Not Unlike the Waves," convinced this time you'll stick with it and turn your life around. Three pumps of an empty bar later you give up, and consider how your life would be better as a rock, if only you could listen to Agalloch as a rock. You eat a well-deserved bag of MorningStar Chick'n Nuggets and then feed your ironically-named pet iguana. You go to the local hole-in-the-wall bar which you insist on calling a pub. By miracle a goth girl talks to you. The conversation ends when she brings up her affinity for Staind. You say, "Haha, that's pussy numetal shit," not realizing if you slowed Staind down and replaced the word "girl" with the word "forest" the bands would be identical.

The goth responds with, "I would've fucked you if you weren't such a stupid faggot." You go home and listen to Pale Folklore. You put out your candles with your tears. You pray you'll wake up an elf.

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