The Curse of the Forgetta-Girl (Remastered)

Eerie Cosmic Horror 90s emo 🇯🇵 bubblegum Nü-metal, Hydraulophone, 🎭, polyrhythm, wall of sound, synthbowed banjo

irreversible disciplinary action. Or that certain “disposable” civilian girls are brought to the Land to tortured and then killed, used as human sacrifices for ungodly experiments and animalistic rituals. “It’s obvious why they torture them,” the gossipmongers whisper. “Those in the Land bathe in civilian blood to maintain their breathtaking beauty.” Goodness great-shoes! A literal bloodbath, dahling? That crimson elixir must leave a nasty ring round the tub. And then there’s the reality of the Pilgrim Plague, a form of sadness-meets-madness that compels unselected hopefuls to embark dadless on an unauthorized pilgrimage to the Land. It's a sickness that comes with a quickness and afflicts the most determined ... and desperate. And the trek through the dangerous Diabolical Divide always ends in dismembering death. Ouch. As The Day of Discovery dawns, however, you and every young girl around the world tune out the horrifying negatives and concentrate on the glitzy, gaudy, dream-come-true positive. You dredge up every ounce of self-confidence from deep within. This is my year, you say to yourself. And so does every other girl. They'll choose me for sure. Every girl feels the same way ... except one. Tookie De La Crème. Have you ever seen her? The girl whose face not even the meanest person you know would describe as yuck but who you’d never in a million—no, a trillion years describe as alluring either. The girl whose eyes are three centimeters too far apart and whose mouth is four centimeters too wide. Not that you’d break out a ruler, but when you look at her, it’s enough to make you say that something is definitely … off. Come on now, you’ve seen her. She’s the girl whose hair has multiple personality disorder and can’t decide if it’s supposed to be quasi-curly, silky-straight, frantic-frizzy, or wet-and-wavy-or maybe a “Power to the People” ‘fro. The girl whose body is a contradiction of itself: a slightly hunched back (from years of poor posture, one must presume), feet the size of snowshoes, and stick-figure arms and legs so fragile, you think you hear them screaming “Feed me an entire grilled cow, now!” The girl with the humongous, punch-bowl-sized head, with a forehead that goes on and on and on, making her look like the weight of her cranium will topple her over and break her into a thousand pieces. And not only is her clothing painfully mismatched, so are her eyes, dahling. You heard me right. She has one green eye and one brown one. Have you ever seen Tookie De La Crème? I bet you have. Maybe you’ve even met her. You just don’t remember her. No one ever does. For as unusual-looking as she was, Tookie was a Forgetta-Girl, one of the most forgettable girls in the entire world. But maybe not for long

now, you’ve seen her. She’s the girl whose hair has multiple personality disorder and can’t decide if it’s supposed to be quasi-curly, silky-straight, frantic-frizzy, or wet-and-wavy-or maybe a “Power to the People” ‘fro. The girl whose body is a contradiction of itself: a slightly hunched back (from years of poor posture, one must presume), feet the size of snowshoes, and stick-figure arms and legs so fragile, you think you hear them screaming “Feed me an entire grilled cow, now!” The girl with the humongous, punch-bowl-sized head, with a forehead that goes on and on and on, making her look like the weight of her cranium will topple her over and break her into a thousand pieces. And not only is her clothing painfully mismatched, so are her eyes, dahling. You heard me right. She has one green eye and one brown one. Have you ever seen Tookie De La Crème? I bet you have. Maybe you’ve even met her. You just don’t remember her. No one ever does. For as unusual-looking as she was, Tookie was a Forgetta-Girl, one of the most forgettable girls in the entire world. But maybe not for long

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You WANT to be there. You know you do. Don't lie, dahling. It's okay. I know what you're thinking when you look up at that splendorous place atop the mountain. I know what fills you, spurs you on, fuels your dreams. You're obsessed with being chosen. Everyone is. The Land you thirst for has loomed the top of the mountain in Me-topia for as long as you can remember. But for most of the year, it's covered in fog, its color changing with each passing day as if it's a gargantuan mood ring. You begin your mornings staring at the fog, longing for the fateful evening when it will turn a golden yellow and then, finally, like a push-up brassiere, lift. Oh, how you long for that moment, with bated fresh breath, I hope. For it signifies that the luminescent eye will soon blaze in the sky, bathing the whole world in gold, touching every one of its inhabitants ... including you. But dahling, it is no ordinary golden light. Once it tickles you, you are suddenly transported. You hear the softest of sighs or faintest of giggles in your ear, even if you’re standing alone. The once-stale air around you becomes both sweet and tart, making your nose tingle and sending a charge of excitement through your brain. The finest silk, the softest velveteen, or the supplest suede will brush your skin, but whatever you thought was touching you is nowhere to be seen. Basking in the light is such a naughty tease, like getting a single lick of the most delicious butter-pecan gelato you’ve ever tasted: it inflames your obsession, increasing your desire a hundredfold. You lust to go to this Land to become one of the only famous people in the world. You ache to be a 7Seven. But very few ever get the chance. Nevertheless, you and every young girl in the world vie for an opportunity on The Day of Discovery, which grander than every global holiday combined. Making the delirium even more intense, the Land sends seven talismans called SMIZEs into the world. (What an arcane word! Who thought of such a thing?) These SMIZEs, which boost your odds of being chosen by ninety-one percent, are propelled through the world’s waterways. Naturally, the week before The Day of Discovery, bathing showering, pool use, and even sewer diving increase, threatening a drought. Chance meetings erupt into fisticuffs on occasion. Every girl wants to find a SMIZE, dahling. But not nearly as much as you do. You ignore the slim odds and disregard the warnings you’ve heard since birth, like how it’s easier to grow three inches in a month than it is to score a spot in the newest class. You turn a deaf ear to the cautionary tales whispered in your hometown and throughout Metopia: in dingy alleys and side streets of PitterPatter, during shift changes in Shivera, and on assembly lines of Peppertown factories. Like the rumor that the school often takes inhumane and irreversible disciplinary action. Or that certain “disposable” civilian girls are brought to the Land to tortured and then killed, used as human sacrifices irreversible disciplinary action. Or that certain “disposable” civilian girls are brought to the Land to tortured and then killed, used as human sacrifices for ungodly experiments and animalistic rituals. “It’s obvious why they torture them,” the gossipmongers whisper. “Those in the Land bathe in civilian blood to maintain their breathtaking beauty.” Goodness great-shoes! A literal bloodbath, dahling? That crimson elixir must leave a nasty ring round the tub. And then there’s the reality of the Pilgrim Plague, a form of sadness-meets-madness that compels unselected hopefuls to embark dadless on an unauthorized pilgrimage to the Land. It's a sickness that comes with a quickness and afflicts the most determined ... and desperate. And the trek through the dangerous Diabolical Divide always ends in dismembering death. Ouch. As The Day of Discovery dawns, however, you and every young girl around the world tune out the horrifying negatives and concentrate on the glitzy, gaudy, dream-come-true positive. You dredge up every ounce of self-confidence from deep within. This is my year, you say to yourself. And so does every other girl. They'll choose me for sure. Every girl feels the same way ... except one. Tookie De La Crème. Have you ever seen her? The girl whose face not even the meanest person you know would describe as yuck but who you’d never in a million—no, a trillion years describe as alluring either. The girl whose eyes are three centimeters too far apart and whose mouth is four centimeters too wide. Not that you’d break out a ruler, but when you look at her, it’s enough to make you say that something is definitely … off. Come on now, you’ve seen her. She’s the girl whose hair has multiple personality disorder and can’t decide if it’s supposed to be quasi-curly, silky-straight, frantic-frizzy, or wet-and-wavy-or maybe a “Power to the People” ‘fro. The girl whose body is a contradiction of itself: a slightly hunched back (from years of poor posture, one must presume), feet the size of snowshoes, and stick-figure arms and legs so fragile, you think you hear them screaming “Feed me an entire grilled cow, now!” The girl with the humongous, punch-bowl-sized head, with a forehead that goes on and on and on, making her look like the weight of her cranium will topple her over and break her into a thousand pieces. And not only is her clothing painfully mismatched, so are her eyes, dahling. You heard me right. She has one green eye and one brown one. Have you ever seen Tookie De La Crème? I bet you have. Maybe you’ve even met her. You just don’t remember her. No one ever does. For as unusual-looking as she was, Tookie was a Forgetta-Girl, one of the most forgettable girls in the entire world. But maybe not for long now, you’ve seen her. She’s the girl whose hair has multiple personality disorder and can’t decide if it’s supposed to be quasi-curly, silky-straight, frantic-frizzy, or wet-and-wavy-or maybe a “Power to the People” ‘fro. The girl whose body is a contradiction of itself: a slightly hunched back (from years of poor posture, one must presume), feet the size of snowshoes, and stick-figure arms and legs so fragile, you think you hear them screaming “Feed me an entire grilled cow, now!” The girl with the humongous, punch-bowl-sized head, with a forehead that goes on and on and on, making her look like the weight of her cranium will topple her over and break her into a thousand pieces. And not only is her clothing painfully mismatched, so are her eyes, dahling. You heard me right. She has one green eye and one brown one. Have you ever seen Tookie De La Crème? I bet you have. Maybe you’ve even met her. You just don’t remember her. No one ever does. For as unusual-looking as she was, Tookie was a Forgetta-Girl, one of the most forgettable girls in the entire world. But maybe not for long

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