The year was 1991.... a young fledgling rock star from Seattle was in pain. A lot of pain. Rigorous touring was not to blame. Soon the young musician realized something was wrong. Very wrong. His wife, that he'd had memories of but never actually met was missing from his life. From that time period in general. Trapped in 2012, she awaits a way back. A way back to change the future... a future that turns into a place with no Kurt Cobain.

A murder plot that turns into the most famous suicide in history, this site is dedicated to the small story of the husband who left a billion clues for the wife who figured them out.

Now her goal is to avenge her husband's death by pinning the murderer's with their crime...

Meanwhile she pours herself into her journal, awaiting the day she is finally reunited with her husband in time.

Letters to Kurt...


Sunday, March 31, 2013

Anyone know where I can GET some DOPE and a SHOTGUN??











the gugaplex


bible-thumping baptists
critical catholics
multi-racial fascists
copy-cat masses

aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye
aye aye aye aye aye
aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye
aye aye aye aye aye

prissy little princess in her perforated room
with your elemental existential confidential groom
all the supercalifragalisticexpiali crones
on their anal-tentive moth collected mary poppin's brooms

all you age-defiant all reliant counteractive drones
on your piggerific dickless biggot certifiable thrones
with your elemental crypt-essential money laundered homes
I'll see you in your sick and twisted parasitic mount ballistic tombs

aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye
aye aye aye aye
aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye
aye aye aye aye aye

all you squirmy germy counter-physic sick and twisted bones
on your radio-active prophylactic tumor-antic phones
with your tacky dressing whore infesting soul-defiant clones
I'll meet you in my iron-claded cronic-ladded apocalyptic zone


aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye
aye aye aye aye
aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye
aye aye aye aye aye

Usef Husef what's in a name?
Jackson Faction militants to blame?
when you're riding six white horses
and on little engine's train
if their bombing Pope's cathedral it's clinically insane


aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye
aye aye aye aye
aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye
aye aye aye aye aye

sick and twisted sick and twisted
supercalifragilisticexpiali crones
leave my suger-kiss-ed butterfly
wing-ed baby girl alone


aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye
aye aye aye aye
aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye
aye aye aye aye aye

WAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye
aye aye aye aye
aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye
aye aye aye aye aye


I'll meet you in my iron-claded cronic-ladded apocalyptic zone

I said


I'll meet you in my iron-claded cronic-ladded apocalyptic zone






aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye
aye aye aye aye
aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye
aye aye aye aye aye

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