Erases Eraser

by Erases Eraser

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Nobody wanted this.

This album has abrasive content which may be upsetting to sensitive listeners. A large portion of this album consists of sample-based material.

Released on Grumpy Records.


released January 3, 2020

The "E" Man - electronics, samples, vocals

Kristin Owens - vocals on track 2

All music written, arranged, performed, and produced by T. A. Babcock. All words on tracks 2 and 6 written by T. A. Babcock.




Erases Eraser Des Moines, Iowa

Erases Eraser (T. A. Babcock) is an experimental electronic artist, visual artist, and computer programmer. He has been making music since 2014. He played drums in Tantrum Throwers and Culture Chester.

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Track Name: The Pit
It's the first, second, third time you've sabotaged yourself like this. You've kept me from attending college even though I've had an inoperable brain tumor, and not only that, you've destroyed every relationship you've ever had, including ours. I can deal with it when you mistreat me, but when you treat our family like it's a burden, a non-issue, a nuisance, that's what I can't fucking stand.

Do you think your children, friends, relatives enjoy being with an abuser? No one's buying your little narrative that this is normal, you can't isolate your children. Everyone knows what you're doing is wrong.

Eighteen days at the luxury hotel, bothering the hotel staff and slowly tricking them into thinking you really work there, and you think you're Mister Hot Shit Breath Don't Smell Rockerfeller. You've come crashing back down to earth, into a drain of a life that quickly destroys your ambitions and dreams. You deserve it.

Piece of shit cocksucker mother fucker. Think you can write intel x86 assembly because you can copy and paste code from the lesser-known tags on Stack Overflow? Stick to what you know: Masturbating, hand-coloring paper asylums for children via crayon, absorbing self, and indulging. You don't know jack shit. Every single one of your coworkers knows that you're a sorry excuse for an architect. Not a planner or a mathematician, a measurer or designer, rather a bean counter, or a social magician, who can hide behind his own petty manipulations and appearances. Keep taking everything in your life for granted, fuck face.

Into the trenches you go again. You have briefly slipped into the terrifying stage of life where others around you begin to trick you into thinking you're going insane. Rock music? Architecture School? Nine Wellington Wood Academy years and letter jackets were all pissed away in the great Heroin Frenzy of '17.

Your children hate you. They don't even know who you are. They used to ask about you when they were little, "Where's Daddy? Where's Daddy?" and I would have to be put into the unenviable position of telling them that their dad would rather be doing something else, something "more important". But over time, they stopped asking, and they stopped caring. They grew into the violent, impulsive, borderline psychotic, angst-ridden teenagers we have now. Instead of spending time with your children, you've opted for a less favorable way to spend your time: to be right-hand bitch to an aspiring hitman with steel-string marimbas and forty cylinders. "Pwease wet me pway tambowine with you, big geetah man!" No kids allowed bitch, turn the phone off and tell your wife to chill the fuck out.

"Fuck you, Dad!" your daughter Jacqueline shouted at you and carved into your Mercedes at the age of 13. She said it to you again last week, too, over Frosted Flakes. "Fuck you, Narrator." Your son is blackmailing his female classmates into sending him pornographic pictures of themselves. Did you or did you not block it out when little Narrator Jr. mutilated a defenseless lamb by cutting its leg off in a farmhouse in 2004? He even threw the leg in the pond to try to kill a toad with it. Your children are showing signs that serial killers exhibit at an early age.

You never gave a fuck. The one opportunity you really had in life, which was the Young Entrepreneurs and Part Time Republicans Club in high school, you pissed away because you really wanted to do ketamine at the Dave Matthews concert. You ignored every call from your fellow members you ever got. I know because I was there. No, we didn't have a romance at that point, I was your friend's ugly pain in the ass girlfriend for two years, while you were off banging every Betty, Polly, and Sue with big eyelashes and more tits than brain cells. Fuck you. If I ever needed a morsel of self-esteem or positive self image, it was during the mistake of my life that was meeting you. I have trouble believing that you didn't just marry me because I was the safest option with the least amount of effort.

When your son Narry Junior was 8, and you were 34, you had come home from the casino after losing $10,000 and drinking a fifth of Max WellMan. Your son had created a model Empire State Building out of 30,000 lego bricks, with perfect symmetry, color shading, and geometric angles. He kept showing me all night. "Look at it now, Mommy! Copper legos next to the gold legos, with silver on top." You threw a sock full of pennies at his head and he tumbled into his own creation, scattering his carefully selected two-centimeter-wide bricks around the room, and turning his masterpiece into a pile of ruins. You laughed in his face as he lay bleeding with a black eye and snot running into his gaping, heartbroken mouth. I would have yelled at you until my lungs collapsed if I wasn't afraid you were going to kill me.

And then came the cheating. The first time I left you in 2006, I thought I was done with your bullshit and I was finally free. But no. You came running back to me, grovelling, begging, promising me you'd change - read: telling me everything you thought I wanted to hear. I saw the pictures of the women you'd fucked on your phone, saw the lipstick on your collar even though you thought you'd hidden it from me. I confronted you countless times. Every one of those times, I thought it was the last time.

One day you will rot. With that, I'm leaving and I'm taking the kids. I want you out of the house by Monday. If you're still here on Monday I'm calling the police. Don't call me. I'm not at my parents, and I'm certainly not staying at my sister's. I'll be at the Sheraton with a stranger I picked up that looks like you from ten years ago.

If you hurt me, try to contact me, contact my family, harass me, stalk me, or manipulate our children in any way, I will file a restraining order. You will not win this. If I have my way in court you'll never see the kids again.
Track Name: Solitude
Attention friends and family. You are all such empty, pathetic people, that I often considered not leaving a suicide note at all. Because after all, you people aren't worth it. But that's rude. I changed my mind. I want anyone and everyone to know what happened here.

To my wife, Charlotte: Hopefully it has become obvious to everyone in our lives that I would still be an architect if it weren't for you. You were always criticizing me, attacking me. Nothing I ever did was good enough for you. I suppose you expect me to cherish you for finally helping me get clean after years of enabling me. But I never got clean for longer than 8 seconds at a time.

I was a young child with a lot of talents. I could have been a developer, an architect, an engineer. But because I used to hang out with jazz musicians in the early '60s, I have to pay the cost of being helplessly addicted to heroin, marijuana, and OpenBSD for the rest of my life. My potential was stunted at a very young age, and I blame my parents for that. It's a shame those eight rehab programs never worked. Thanks for letting me die thousands of dollars in debt. I attended private school in Billings, Montana, even though I lived in the Busby-Lame Deer Community school district. Wellington Wood Academy gave me a thirst for learning, and an immense disdain for being taught. My early years as an adolescent were spent in a fury, trying and failing to learn x86 assembly, and copy and pasting answers from the Board Games Stack Exchange. During this time I experimented heavily with crayons.

My 23-year marriage with Charlotte is, was, and will always be completely empty. It was hopeless, tired, and devoid of any human emotion. We felt nothing for each other from day one. She knew it as well as I did. It was because of this that I cheated on her with Betty, Polly, Sue, News Stand Girl, Redhead at Dave Matthews Concert, Monaeiqua, LaShaunDay Day, the Waitress in Budapest with the nose rings and stomach tattoo, Bernadette, Tiffany the Real Estate agent, and several underage Brazilian prostitutes whose names I've never bothered to learn because of their vocation and their stunning lack of contraceptives and spermicides. I'm shamefully and terribly sorry. I probably would have cleaned up my act if I was really in love with Charlotte, but I wasn't. The worst thing I ever did was sleep with her sister for four years: the belly-button years.

I would like to shamefully and humbly apologize to my son, whom I assaulted with a sock full of pennies when he was only a tyke at the ripe young age of 4. When Narrator Jr. was a little fuck, he was very talented at building symmetrical, geometrically correct and detailed structures; in a nutshell, Legos. He had built the top 22 stories of the Empire State Building. I have a very foggy memory of that night because I had lost $14,000 at the casino and was strung out on Crystal PTSD (I told Charlotte it was just Max Wellman), but from what witnesses tell me, I destroyed his Empire State Building and broke his heart. This was partially your mother's fault, for enabling me and letting me throw away our life savings countless times.

To my daughter, Jacqueline: I know having your father commit suicide when you're --- 18 now, right? -- can only fracture your life and give you even more problems with men later on. For that I apologize. But to directly address what you said to me last week: Fuck you too. Try not to key up my headstone your family can barely afford the way you did my Mercedes.

From when I was 25 til about 40, I was really into taxidermy. It was a cheap way to kill and torture animals. I got to arrange their bodies into hilarious positions, and stuff them with cotton balls and styrofoam. I even made them little costumes. I made a fire department made of little squirrels in fireman costumes, a police force of possums, and a flock of seagulls dressed up as A Flock of Seagulls doing their hit song from the '80s (it was a weird time). Even though I loved taxidermy, and I loved mutilating what were once defenseless animals, I absolutely hated the smell of dead things. Charlotte threw out my collection multiple times due to it, as the stuffed brigade was starting to traumatize the children (the squirrels and neighborhood rodents were often missing eyes, tails, or limbs), and a fire marshal and his fanny pack full of raisins accidentally fell on the heads of our dinner party guests while they were putting their coats away in the closet. That ruined everyone's appetite for veal, but made for great dinner conversation.

My parents began sending me to psychiatrist appointments at the age of 9. Most of them pronounced my name wrong, emphasizing the "tor" instead of the "Nar", as in "nar a-Tor". I mostly lied to them and made up things about my life. Anything to get the attention off of my real issues. I played them all like a fiddle, usually getting them to prescribe me Vyvanze and Adderall, once Klonopin, and to tell the truth, I bet a lot of so-called psychopaths are capable of it. I destroyed all of my relationships before they even started. I knew what would have really happened if I had told them the truth: That I was playing them for drugs, that I killed small animals for fun, that I masturbated in my little sister's room weekly for a sexual thrill, that I frequently self-harmed by sticking needles in my pelvis: They would have locked me up in the looney bin and threw away the key.

Now, my biggest and perhaps only sincere apology of this entire letter, I humbly apologize to the Sheraton Hotels Cleaning Service and Chambermaids' Union Local 722 - not only for my rudeness to their intrusion during my autoerotic asphyxiation two hours prior, but for the enormous amount of blood and brains I'm about to blow all over their steamed, tucked cotton sheets. I should have put a tarp on the bed. Now I considered a lot of methods to suicide before deciding on the .357 my father gave me for my 20th birthday. I would have went with an old-fashioned hanging, it would have been convenient since I had the belt out to choke myself with while I was masturbating to Asian fetuses. But my neck has been so sore and stiff from doing that so much, that I just didn't want to have any more strain. It itches. I also don't want to be found that way, by anyone.

The idea of an overdose is tempting, and I do appreciate the thrilling irony of a long-recovered drug addict who has overdosed on accident multiple times, using his own placebos and withdrawl medications to die on purpose. Too stupid. If I'm leaving this world high, I want to get really fucked up, and since Charlotte threw out my little black book of dope delears my second-to-last rehab trip, I've had no way of getting any. So overdose is out of the question. Plus, I've gotten a good look at a guy who tried to kill himself by overdosing and lived - he had the mind of a two-year old and drooled creamed corn on his Thomas the tank engine sweater.

Jumping off of a bridge? That's fun. I've always wanted to go skydiving. The one time I went bungee jumping, which was with my family in the early 2000s, I was too depressed to enjoy it, and fantasized about the cord snapping and throwing me into the East River. But I heard something from my friend Charlie a few years ago, that when suicidal people jump off of a building or a bridge, they get a rush of adrenaline to the head from the free fall, and they get a sudden will to live. But because it's too late, they tragically plummet to their demise after changing their mind in mid-air. I don't want that to happen to me. I don't want anything to interrupt me or change my mind. I've had enough of that patronizing shit, the last thing is my own body bribing me with little trinkets of dopamine to stay in this meat grinder.
Track Name: Despair
Based on his short life now, what's to say he won't do this again?

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