Does exactly what it says on the tin. Some of the nonsense contained herein may be very loosely related to The Sisters of Mercy, but I wouldn't bet your PayPal account on it. In keeping with the internet's general theme nothing written here should be taken as Gospel: over three quarters of it is utter gibberish, and most of the forum's denizens haven't spoken to another human being face-to-face for decades. Don't worry your pretty little heads about it. Above all else, remember this: You don't have to stay forever. I will understand.
Inspired by the moniker of our newest member but one, I had a frighteningly original thought in my enormous noggin:
If Eugene O'Neill and Arthur Miller were to have a fist fight, which one would ultimately prove victorious as the most depressing American playwright ever? I swear, it was as if the trials and tribulations of the twentieth century existed merely to provide these Oedipal misbegottens ammunition with which to cannon their mothers.
I'm still deciding whether marrying Marilyn Monroe counts as points for or against A.M. I'm leaning toward against.
Miller. Although I should thank him, really, as Death of a Salesman helped me to realise the world is a sick, sad place. More depressing than ten Morrisey albums...
Hrm...Arthur and Marilyn in one corner, Eugene and his dead mother in the other. Tough call. It'd be like Ultimate Fighting Championship with out the fighting. Or the ultimate.
