The Essay of Doom: Fanfiction Reviews--The Rhetorical Situation

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After driving past Katherine Ave, Ashland

Interpret this, Freud

Somewhere around 10 am, needing desperately to pee, I dreamed of people I'd rather forget--the boys who sang NOFX songs in high school, only in my dream, they weren't boys. Hunched in an attic of a blue house, filled with bunk beds, the class of 1999 was escorted slowly away, down the stairs, out the door to a road called 150. It was flooded, a river, and we drove my mom's blue Jeep down it, trying to get away from that blue house, where there were fires behind curtains and an old woman protecting an old man who tried to feed us poisoned rice.
Upon escape, a blonde girl who shall remain nameless for the sake of the mystery, trapped me and someone in a basement slowly filling with water. Slates of concrete threatened to flatten us before we ever had the chance to drown. I used the last of my cell phone to call someone that I can't remember--why can't I remember her now?--and the door broke down as the boys awoke from their blondie-induced stupor and saved us with black spray paint and magical white tee shirts from Wal-Mart.
We went to the flat lands, where the poor people lived, and I rode the #1 bus (Boston MBTA--it was yellow) up a big hill with a broken bicycle in tow; the rubber had come off the tires. I got off at a park, where there was Chinese food cooking, and a woman who danced with red felt fabric like it was a silk scarf. There was a girl child with me, and I told her to be careful here, and that we would ride to safety once I fixed the bike (I don't know how to fix a bike). A boy looking like Derek Hatt did it for me, and told me to go back to the flat lands, that there were fires and tsunamis to see.
I was there, then, on a side street, watching everything get swept into the sea--was I in Boston, or was it what Ashland would be if the icecaps melted?--when a geiser of fire erupted from the top of a tall apartment building. We were in fire and water, and were trapped in an alley with no government identification. "What can they do?" asked one old homeless man. "They have a five fold plan," said a homeless woman. She pulled out an old newspaper, which was somehow digital. "Containment, military assistance..." she trailed off. "And the Tall Places."
The Tall Places rose from the sea, frightening self-contained structures thousands of stories high. The people around me and the girl child complained about nature and the destruction of the planet. I said, "It's beautiful. I hate nature," and I climbed to the entrance, pushing my way through to see Him.
He called us to his office at the top, and we rode the elevators that made the blood rush to our feet. He saw into our minds, and knew that we were planning revolt. "It's Bob!" I said. But it wasn't Bob, who had his name on his shirt like a mechanic. In line, He saw us all, and saw the black paint still on my white tee shirt. I thought as He passed by me with some slick piece of technology, I want to go back home, and when He was past, I opened my eyes, back in the basement where we were to be killed by concrete slabs, the smell of spray paint waiting just outside the door.

No Need for Poetry!

Eruption
On reading fanfiction and hearing fireworks

Someone's always trying to claim someone else. These declarations end with a slap and a little bit of blood on the mouth. This is how we beg for eternity, in chaining someone to us with a tooth or a nail. The moon is too full; it's going to overflow.
What better place, though, for the whitest of our fears to shine brightest once a month? If that tiny little door, the flimsy little membrane were to break in everyone, we might rend each other into little star-shaped pieces to hold on to and scatter from the balcony scenes. Would you join the fray if it were playing on your street? Could I ignore the bruises and the shards of glass under my feet? If we all go into heat, and set fires in the bonsai shrubs with the radiation from out skin, the city would erupt into desert, and the sun would be always setting. The moon is too full; it is spilling out milk.