a new, unexplored form of self-abuse

i suppose a lot of people fantasize about meeting themselves... they go on about how delightful, how magical, how wondrous it'd be to see another version of them, alike in every way, yet different in so many ways too... how it'd answer that eternal question of nature or nurture. how they'd finally be able to see themselves as the rest of the world sees them... what a chance to grow, to learn, to experience what it is to be an individual... to finally know yourself. it'd be grand.

this is all code... what they really, really want to do... and i have witnessed this many times in my travels... the one thing they absolutely want to do... is to have sex with themselves.

so it's emoticons that will destroy the universe?

some old-fashioned scientist or some old-timey philosopher or some old-timey quotation book writer once penned, mightily, that nature abhorred a vacuum. with the exception of a very few of our infinite universes, this holds true for every kind of particle, from electrons to bosons to kleptons to the one particular quanta we've been discussing here, the emoticon. unfortunately, the emoticon is the only subatomic particle that has no anti-particle. and double-unfortunately, the emoticon is what accounts for sadness, in fact the only true emotion that exists.

all joy is merely the absence of sadness...

ugh.

i want to make you sad

if you want yet more proof that the universe is an uncaring cunt, consider the following...

if you tell the same joke over and over again, people will eventually stop laughing at you, get angry, and cut out your tongue.

but if you show them something sad again and again, they'll weepweepweep until their eyes are sucked dry.

that's because good things, like pleasure, are finite. and there are only so many laughs to go around.

but misery and sadness... those the universe sees fit to supply in endless amounts.

now that warrants a hearty guffaw... and the universe can go fuck itself... i'll waste the chuckles.

same shit, different universe

taken as a whole, i'd say every single living species in my universe is incapable of learning from its mistakes. not only do we have frillions of epic poems, novels, sculpture, paintings, decoupage, semen-statues, plays, movies, holos, emographs, and quantum-injectable consciousness states detailing every sort of fucked-up, what-do-you-do, gods-are-punishing-me, which-baby-do-i-choose, is-glory-for-me, don't-play-god situation that we've ever, and are ever-likely-to face we still do the same stupid shit over and over.

why should your universe be any different?

nice to meet me

we thought it might be kind of fun, you know, to update you on our travels together. seeing as one angryspaceman is so great, having two is gonna be, at least, twice as amazing.

that's fucking stupid... at least make it exponentially better. twice as good? might as well fucking give up now.

fuck off... that was my sentence to write, and i'll write it any cunting way i want to write it.

useless shit, i don't know why i asked you to help me.

if you don't know, how the fuck should i know...

god damn it. just stop talking into it.

i'll talk if i fuknggmmmmcccchhhhhhhhaaaaaa.........

shhh... shhh.... go to sleep.

another shocking twist and i am going to kill myself

flapjack and skip were staring at me...
the kind of stare you'd give someone if, after having the left the room thirty seconds ago, they returned, acting as if they hadn't seen you in years.

that wasn't really too shocking. seeing as that was exactly what i just did to them.

fuck me.
i hate alt.space travel.

where nobody knows your name..

there are many types of friends. the kind that you pick up from the last conversation you had, and no matter how long it's been, it feels like you haven't missed a day.

there are the kind who would do anything, even risk their lives for you.
the kind that are always willing to get together, even if it's the middle of the night.
the reliable, kindly ones.
there are the casual friends, serious friends, friend with benefits, friends you'd do business with, drinking friends, thieving friends, best friends, friends you never want to see again, happy fucking tree friends.

at least this is what i've heard...

i don't have any of those... i'm pretty sure my friends don't even know my fucking name.

and we're back... sorry for the violence

falling from the interstitial void of quantum-scale space into an enormous, non-probabilistic space station is very similar to walking over to your roommates bed and trying to make out with her: whatever happens, your model of the universe is about the change.

welcome to the void... table for one?

i may have mentioned this before (and if i haven't, fuck you)... there is no down in space. there is no up in space. left, right, sideways, diagonally... none of those directions give a single shit about you when you are out in the big black void. this poses problems, very similar to the one i experienced as i stepped through the 'hole...

doing it in the missionary position... part nine

my immediate thoughts were to ditch dippy, grab pokey and run like fuck.

so i did.

 unfortunately, dippy had the same idea.

so the both of us ran head first into each other and fell on the floor.

pleasantries were exchanged. we shook hands and decided to stick the original plan. we sent pokey to the door to scout. he gave us the all-clear beep (i assume... all his fucking beeps sound exactly the same).

and out we went.

doing it in the missionary position... part eight

it is said, ad nauseam, that under great stress, people are capable of much more than they ever suspected. they can summon unknown reserves of courage, strength and willpower. they can surmount nearly any obstacle, through sheer force of determination. they can run farther, swim faster, think gooder and strategize craftier.

dippy and i are not those people.

those people sound like assholes.

doing it in the missionary position... part seven

'dippy... you terrible cunt. you magnificent loser. your fabulous shit. you are a reprobate and a liar. how i've misjudged you!'

i leapt across the table and gave him a huge hug. pokey was getting excited too, ejaculating some kind of fracking fluid onto dippy's boots.

'yes yes... fuck off, then. here's the deal: you remember i went to prison, right?' he asked, clearly not expecting an answer. i interrupted...

'of course i do, dippy darling! i sent you there,' i cheerfully replied.

'... well, as you might imagine, prison life and i didn't quite get along. so i made deals.

'i bet you did. sexy deals, right? were they sexy deals? i bet they were sexy deals!'

doing it in the missionary position... part six

'dippy dippy dippy... i see you've turned your life around. i've always been a cheerful endorser of the penal system. glad to see it's still working.'

dippy said nothing. he looked at me. he was flanked by a couple pirate goons. they whispered behind him.

'that's him. that's the guy. oh man. wow... just, like wow. '

they looked like you'd expect. hard. very hard. very grizzled, scarred, dirty, tough. but when they opened their mouths, they sounded like assholes.

i let them know this.

doing it in the missionary position... part five

there were no sweet memories of lost childhood from a different time that nursed and caressed and cradled me in my unconsciousness. there was instead only one dream... that a huge metal cock was trying to penetrate my skull. repeated, forceful banging thrusts, over and over and over, right against the side of my head... some insensate fucktron trying to get his gears off, joylessly pounding my fleshy skull until, hopefully, in his eye-stalks anyway, it would turn into something resembling an opening. anhedonic infertile copulation performed by an automaton... the most beautiful thing i've ever seen.

which of course i was actually seeing... i wasn't asleep at all. the worn down nub of the fucktron paused briefly while i looked at it, looked back, turned his eyestalks up, and went back to banging...

fuck me.

doing it in the missionary position... part four

like any good careworker who deals with the elderly, it is inevitable that you will wake up, one day, to an old woman's genitalia hovering six inches above your face... just close enough that it's unclear what is up there, and you have to refocus hard and it takes a few seconds for the picture to become clear...only to then realize that what you thought were your normal morning tears of waking to the reality that you had at least another day to live on this shitbox were not in fact tears but streams of thick, pre-diabetic, sweet urine sputtering stop-start on your face.

i'll take flapjack abusing himself in the bed next to me any day. i would rather not wake up this way again. ever.

doing it in the missionary position... the interlude

broken dreams... beautiful geometries dancing somewhere between my cornea and my eyelids... somehow both extruded into three-dimensions and yet permanently evanescent... memories, shuddering into place, then fading like those tessellations... a toy robot i lost as a child... a simple friendly giant who once helped me cross the street... an insect collection burned away in a fire... the wonder of making eye-contact with a chimpanzee at the zoo for the first time... a rotting sponge under the sink where i used to play... a trip to the shore and an encounter with a tiny octopus... cold white winters in some northern waste and the curious moose who nibbled the fruits straight from my hand... a backyard shack, with broken dusty windows, old rusting gear and long-abandoned spider webs... a safe place, away from the constant fear and suspicion of adults... the geometries grow harsher now.... they have edges... they have teeth and fangs... shouting... always shouting... always cruel... always judging harshly whining insulting  evil spiteful dangerous...  the other children, always mocking, always mean, always avoiding... the geometries grow weirder... nastier, somehow... colors that should never do so join forces... no rubbing of the eyes makes them change... they are all encompassing... they take over the robot, the octopus, the sponge, the giant... the colors grow and intensify and intensify and grow until there is nothing left but blackness, sprinkled with a few dots far away... and a giant gleaming brilliant beautiful polyhedron made of mercury, spinning and floating in the void...

then i woke up to some old woman pissing in my face... 

doing it in the missionary position... part three

i'm trying to figure out exactly how this is my fault. first off, they sailed on their own ship. they used their own funds to stock it. all i did was provide inspiration. in fact, i'm pretty sure that from a legal point of view the 'evidence' (fancy legal term) that i berated them and told them how stupid an idea it was may 'indemnify' me (more legal terms). and besides... look at it from the pirates point of view... some rich assholes show up in a fancy ship, berating them, telling them everything they've ever known as wrong and how stupid they are for believing it. what the fuck would you do?

i'd take 'em hostage too

doing it in the missionary position... part two

fuck me roughly with a laser truncheon... i wish i had thought of this missionary thing years ago. it's awesome. idiots come into the shack, i abuse them, they pay up, then they fuck right off to the far reaches of the galaxy, telling everyone how fantastic i am. it's paradise. and the best... the absolute starfucking best part of this whole thing is that they now send money and swag from all over, right back to hangar 23. it's fantastic. it's really helped take some of the sting away what with old skip being gone...

oh yea... skip.

i miss that stupid little robot.

doing it in the missionary position... part one

in difficult times, men find solace in all sorts of vices... booze, drugs, gambling, thieving, whoring, exxxtreme sportz!, family, and (most profitably) religion. for me, the fact that skip is missing has been a strain... but there are only so many nights you can rip people off at zargle's, steal from zog, spy on cute little galactopus girl or abuse yourself to dirty vids. at some point, you've got to fall back on what gave you solace as a kid... what your family taught you... your values... as i have none of those, i decided to go back to the only thing that ever made me truly happy... the shack of beration... with a fucking vengeance

heroes, heroes... every single fucking one of them is a hero

after thorough, repeated, sticky viewings of what are now known as the the 'spajjy vids,' i am convinced that dear old gear skip is not being used as a fuckbot. this makes me happy... because had i self-abused to a vid exploiting my missing damaged friend, i might have felt awkward. instead, i feel satisfied and well-rested... huzzah! the search, however, must continue... after this nap.

finding skip, by means of (fluid) elimination

as you know, my little robot friend skip, whom i love dearly and would never, ever, evereverneverever wish anything bad to happen to, has had something bad happen to him. this is a problem... for one, i have a lot more fucking work to do around hangar 23... for two, flapjack doesn't stop crying... for three, i miss him and for four, nobody steals from me and gets away with it...

chivalry is not dead, so much as subjugated by a laser-truncheon

soooo...... where have i been for these last months? have i been on an exciting adventure? have i made lots of new and interesting friends, found myself, found love, found skip, found a brain for flapjack and found happiness?

fuck you for even asking.

i've been in the brig for like a billion days. skip is still gone, flapjack still a retard, love elusive, self annoying, friends pointless and adventures temporal. i have, however, found that the das orbit's finest are in fact the finest cocksuckers in the galaxy.

who's been banging my robot?

strange things are afoot, indeed, on the station. yesterday morning, during the first few hours on shift in hangar 23, i'm getting along... doing my thing... taking a nap, as no one is visiting right now. then i realize... fuck me... where is skip? what's happened to skip? somethings happened to skip... what did i do with skip?

hey flapjack, here's how i say thank you

a while ago, i helped flapjack out of a financial jam that the poor bastard had gotten himself into. now, flapjack may be retarded, but he isn't without social graces. being the son of a shipping magnate, certain cultural niceties have been programmed into him: literally.

the revolution will not be emographed

one of life's pleasures is to piss away your money gambling in the hopes that you can get some more money, which you can then piss away gambling... this pleasure is only compounded if you are gambling with someone else's money... this is exactly what me, flappy, skip and mal-aka were doing at the robo-derby this weekend, when some unexpected events transpired... we got into a fight.

just shut the fuck up and kill yourself already

guess what galactopus boys and girls... are you ready to get a little history lesson today? exciting? well?  why? is it because i'm too hungover to remember what i did yesterday and this is the only thought that zips through my head? is it?
yes... it fucking is... stop scrolling so loudly...today we'll learn about why robots kill themselves!

splashing around the fluids of human kindness

my cup overflows with various fluids of human kindness. but sometimes, that cup gets tipped, or knocked, or jostled, or woken up in the middle of my fucking sleep cycle and it becomes time for me to take some of those fluids and start splashing them all over the place.

never try new things

i've never had much use for novelty or fads… when people get their dicks hard, or their orifices wet, or their whatevers whatever over some useless gadget, or suit of clothes, or pen, or pet, or ship, or person, or whatever-the-fuck… well… what i'd really like to do, is beat them stupid.

cosmoose's last supper

cosmoose comes from a very strange place... i believe the planet his people are from is very cold, very snowy and very depressing... sometimes, i'll be at zargle's, getting drunk by myself (it's a thing i do) and i'll see cosmoose, sitting at the bar, weeping, for no good reason, looking like he doesn't have a friend in the world... must be tough for him.

you two-faced piece of shit

so now that the shack is back, i am privy to the combined problems of however many squillion fucking losers live in this floating tin garbage can... lucky me... for some reason, people with problems also seem to be people with money...
the shack has been doing great... apparently all this civil strife has done nothing but to make people more anxious, so we've picked up exactly where we left off... swimming in coin and in tribute... it's good to be a messiah.

the shack of beration is back, ye of little faith!

the whore fortune likes to play games with me... i've mentioned before her cruelty and kindness... once again, she rolls over and accepts another at her teat to suckle... this is why i like her

robots are like cold, metal prostitutes

all i know is that if someone is trying to hide some shit from me it must either have to do with me, or be so fucking interesting that i have to know what it is... that's just the way things are

the shack of beration is temporarily closed

there is a time in every boy's life when he has to accept the mantle of responsibility and become a man... usually this takes the form of children, or jobs, or wives, or whatever stupid fucking thing people get themselves into... for me, it's because captain spacefuck shut down the shack of beration...

hey kids... want to be cool?

so ever since this insurgency thing has become a bigger deal and the fancyship has been hanging out outside the station, this fucking place is crawling with unitarded assholes, looking important and showing off their packages.

help us angry spaceman, you're our only hope...MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAA

politics and me... we don't mix... i am usually unaware of who controls the government, how they get there, or what they are doing. this suits me just fine, as the less i know about them, the easier it is to flaunt their laws.

hyperlift shitbags need to be thrown down the shaft

so, as i've mentioned before, this fucking place has a lot of levels... how many, i have no clue, although i'm sure i'm supposed to. so many in fact that they had to install these hyperlifts, not quite a teleportal (since those are expensive and we all know that management won't spend a fucking dime if they don't have to... think of them as an elevator that goes really fast... potentially at relativistic speeds.

HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY CUTE LITTLE GALACTOPUS GIRL

GOOD MORNING CAMPERS!!!!! I HOPE EVERYTHING HAS BEEN SWIMMINGLY GOOD FOR YOU THE LAST FEW WEEKS. I'VE BEEN SOOOOO HAPPY AND NOT ANGRY LATELY. I LOVE EVERYTHING.

time travel is a bitch

those interdimensional glory holes i've mentioned before have another, more illicit use... if you can imagine something more illicit than getting a a blowjob from halfway across the galaxy performed by someone you've never met nor seen nor are sure of their gender...

what in the name of fuck is going on?

as you well know, something has been very wrong with me lately... i've been nice to people. this must stop.

cute little galactopus girl

seriously, i'm losing my fucking mind... just the other day, i felt pity for someone who came into the shack of beration... me... this is bad... if i'm not angry, i'm not making any fucking money... luckily, i managed to pull my indignation at not being angry into some semblance of anger and got a bit worked up...

the shack of beration

my duties as 'the angry one' have been taking up more and more of my time. which is fine, as i don't really enjoy being a janitor anyway. besides skip and flappy can take care of most of that shit.

the diversity of nature at its best

the baroness klob is a horrible worm... pale, disgusting, lumpy, over sized, floating on a bed of her own excreted gasses and surviving entirely off other people's efforts. this has made her perfect for her position: station chief of propaganda.

don't believe any prophecy you hear

as i've mentioned before, i've become the focus of a certain cult which regards me as 'the angry one.' this has not been too profitable, but it has been entertaining.
a few days ago, their leader, who can usually be found drumming up new recruits in the ragged parts of the station, came up to me to speak, privately. i obliged, mostly cuz he takes me to zargle's when he does this and gets me loaded... besides, he'll often bring one of the cuter members of the cult and offer her to me... this i can never complain about.

it's my party and i'll destroy this fucking place and everyone in it if i want to

a few days ago, someone (with some encouragement) forgot what appeared to be a very large, very dangerous, very radioactive and very explosive bomb in hangar 23. as my birthday was in a few days, i chalked this up to the universe, finally, trying to remunerate me for all the wrongs it's committed over the years.

don't let your kids grow up to be starclowns

in this part of the galaxy, the weather is usually shit. how else could the cheapshits that run this station afford the real estate... we've got cosmic rays, fucking space debris, dead satellites banging around, and sometimes it seems like every fucking comet that's ever existed is magically attracted to us... causing a lot of tourists to shit themselves which then comes to me to clean up...

the angry one

rarely does the universe thank me for the great contributions i've made to it. yesterday, it made up for all the fuckings it's given me, and then some.

precious little angel

the miracle isn't childbirth... the miracle is that you don't kill the little fuckers before they get old enough to kill you...

it's like a slow, controlled fall into hell

crazy shit happening here... two nights ago (are they even really nights) the fucking power on the station just shut off... fucking scary...

roboderby dreams part 1

i'll be straight... i'm fucked. i lost a lot of money in the master/slave races the other day (which is an entirely different story) and now various unsavoury elements on this station are on my ass.

the fraternity of man

we just got an all-station memo that morale is at an all-time low... like anyone really gives a fuck.

the administrators decided they wanted to cheer themselves up, so they called a meeting. each department had to send a representative. we played a game of 'rob the tourist' and i, sadly, got the least valuable shit off my mark, so am forced to go.

the invisible hand of capitalism

sometimes i suspect that the world conspires against my attempts to defraud it. i, like anyone else, enjoys taking a little time off of my shit job in hangar 23, and sometimes i don't want to spend my own vacation time. sometimes, i want to get something for free... some people call it 'throwing a sickie,' some people call it 'playing hookey,' i call it 'evening out the universe's attempts at fucking me.'

our perverted natures will always find a way

from time immemorial, all living beings have had two desires - teleportation and gloryholes.
the first, the instantaneous, secure travel between any two points in the (or any) universe, is easily understood.
the second, the wish to stick their reproductive organs into holes in bathroom stalls in the hopes that someone will pleasure them is also simple to understand.

fucked by the fickle (robotic) finger of fate

so, as you know, cosmoose cooked me dinner the other day, which consisted of space monkey five ways. apparently, shitzilla somehow got wind of this and is now super pissed off, what with us eating one of his cousins.

bit hypocritical if you ask me, since i've been with him while he personally ate a dozen soft-boned space monkeys in one sitting. he'll get over it.

mal-aka's murderous rampage

i was out drinking with mal-aka. he comes from a very harsh, rocky, sandy awful place and resembles something like a gigantic locust dipped in bronze. this tends to make people uncomfortable. on a shit station like this, we get a lot of weird looking visitors, so if people here get freaked out by him, it's a sign that something is different

flapjack fones home

the other day, flapjack comes to me in tears... the blubbering monster barely makes any sense when he isn't shooting salt water out of his hideous face, but today, his suffering made him completely incomprehensible... and hysterical.

even computers need a holiday

there is little doubt that sentient, carbon based species are lazy. hell, we only get jobs so we can earn money and holiday time, which basically means we work so that we don't have to work. this also makes us particularly stupid.

another pointless task

the thing about a station this size is that it's a work in progress, which is a more polite way of saying it's falling apart. it's so fucking big that if we had waited to move into until it was finished, i'd be an impotent, drooling old man before i stepped foot off the shuttle in hangar 23.

fucking cosmoose

so, fucking cosmoose invites me to dinner the other day, says he has a special treat, as i helped him out lifting some fuel from a shuttle that came into hangar 23 a while back. i get all excited, as the last proper meal i had wasn't exactly the relaxing dinner i had planned.

won't someone think of the robots

some war broke out on some fucking planet somewhere, can't be bothered to find out too much about it but, while skimming the news, found it interesting that this entire war was fought with robots. and that the generals and strategists and soldiers were all several planets away, while they were controlling their respective robo-armies.

trouble at the old watering hole

i often run into some problems with strangers... the problem being that they end up listening to my conversations (about them) and get offended. it's not my damn fault that they've been eavesdropping on my private discourses.

who will defend the space monkey?

yet another of the myriad joys we experience here on the shithole is the complete lack of fresh oxygen. while it's true, we're a bit beyond the old 'lime-in-a-bucket' days of yore, it's still the same basic principles... gotta keep as much co2 out of circulation as possible. now i think they might all pump it to the fucking farm-levels or whatever... anyway, not my problem.

it's like a printer, only more stupid

so, i am forced, sometimes, to use matter compilers. as a rule, i can't stand them, for a couple of reasons

guess who's coming to dinner

apparently, the fool in charge of the fancy ship wants to meet some of the 'real' people who work and maintain this piece of shit. somehow, i got roped into it. that's cool. i could use a decent meal with good booze and hot alien females.

new fancy ship, same retards at the helm

so, the pride of the new pan-galactic fleet is coming to town. some gigantic starship. it's so god damn big, and so fucking new, that there is no existing port on the station can handle it. instead, the visitors have to tender in on shuttles. naturally, they aren't going to be headed for hangar 23. hooray for small victories.
or so i thought..
apparently, this is a really big deal for captain spacefuck. they won some kind of contest to be the first port of call for the ship. all the internal messages are for us to be on our best behavior, get clean, not be drunk... that sort of thing, as this will be over all the news. hoo-fucking-ray.

message to time traveler/readers who live on earth, circa 2043

life here is awful, as you may know. so, if you enjoy any of what i am writing, please do the following: find an engineer named frizzant skint, who invented space stations, and kill him.

although, it just occurred to me that if any of you have succeeded at this simple task, i would never have written this entry. thanks for all your help. dicks.

that poor, fat alien monster girl thing

remember how i had that little wormhole to the paradise beneath my berth? well, owing to some too-clever-for-his-own-fucking-good engineer, it appears that some sections of this station were made with a self-healing alloy. so, my magic portal shut itself. fine, no problem, cuz i've got the antidote, my little robot burden skip.

alien tourists are the worst

so this station gets a lot of tourist traffic. inevitably, this leads to conflict, as many alien species don't particularly care for each other. not usually a problem, because in conflict there exists a chance to profit. i don't care if they knock each off or jerk each other, as long as they keep dropping their expensive shit into my grate.

what i do care about, however, is the way they get around.

a delicious turn of events

sometimes fortune smiles on those who deserve, those tireless souls who try to fix the world, make people happy, unite the species and foster peace and understanding.

those days are awful, those people are pathetic and fortune can go fuck herself... it's much better when people like me get a little luck, like last night.

nobody knows how to laugh anymore

so, a while ago i discovered robo-porn. as i said before, it doesn't do much for me, but that doesn't prevent me from watching it whenever i get bored. it's usually good for a laugh.

skip update #1

i heard a nasty rumor that some cadre of space cadets is coming to the station - a kind of convention of losers who, when faced with the option of staying on a planet (shit), staying on a station (really shit), or staying on an interstellar cruiser (complete shit) feel that the cruiser is the way to go. brain damaged.

poor, sad, stupid robot

as you can imagine, the floor of hangar 23 gets pretty fucked up. this is where, after all, they send all the shitty ships, the broken ones that got banged up in asteroid fields, ships with engines falling off them, barely flying, shooting sparks all over the place. it's a mess. sometimes they only just get the doors open and some piece of shit zooms in, clipping the doors and crashing into the wall.

explosive decompression... hell yes

i've mentioned before that we have this artificial sunrise system that wakes us up. it works for most of the people most of the time, but rarely me. i've gotten used to waking at 3 am and staring out the window, the stars poked by god's own hand in the velvet, comets fly by on their thousand year orbits, reminding me of the majesty of the universe and why i came here in the first place....

another thing that does not turn me on

technology, for the most part, is a waste of time.

sure, we can live in space. but why the fuck should we? it's cold up here. always cold. we drink each others recycled piss and breath in each others old farts. would i rather be on a beach somewhere, surrounded by topless girls feeding grapes and booze? no, cuz then i'd have nothing to complain about. so i'm fucked either way.

for sale: one weird looking baby alien

age: fuck knows, young though
found: last night, stuffed behind a garbage can in hangar 23
color: greenish, grey
texture: scaly, yet soft
answers to: spazz
race: dunno, never seen one like it
eyes: three
mouth: wet
shits: all the fucking time

any offer considered, he's cramping my style

gravity kills

or damn near tries to.

I don't have a problem when people drink on the job. or do drugs, or steal or whatever. none of us are saving lives. hell, even the medics are pissed most of the time. but there is one guy who, when he drinks on this fucking rig, fucks everything up for the rest of us. his name is longshanks. he is in control of the artificial gravity. last night was his birthday. he likes to get drunk on his birthday, to the point where his teeth are drunk

so we did. and this morning i woke up floating upside down with my head in the toilet, surrounded by globules of my own vomit. happy birthday longshanks. asshole

flapjack, a simple soul

as i've mentioned before, i work a pretty menial job. it's thoroughly unfulfilling, as you can imagine. on top of the misery of mopping vomit and surviving by stealing stupid tourists fancy crap, i have an idiot partner. his name is flapjack, he is seven foot six, 400 pounds and dumb as fuck. he is also an alien.

the company he keeps

The scum of the east village, shoreditch, hackney, LES and every other hip, young, trendy fuckbag pretentious part of the world has been skimmed off and deposited in large ladles on my god damn rig!!! (apologies to papa)

one of my only vices

if you haven't heard from me for a while... here is why:

lots of people do bad things in the name of pleasure. and i am ok with every one of them. especially if they inconvenience or injure another. after all, einstein proved that your pleasure is increased just by decreasing someone else's.

the best part of my job

i'll be honest... my job isn't fucking hard. at all... mostly it consists of mopping up the puke of day-trippers who get all SASed when they hop out of the airlock.

To make this easier, the floor has a grating about 12 inches off of it. This way, the vomit slides through. At the end of each shift, I remove the grating and clean the puke.

moonshine in space

Lots of philosophical questions around this one: should we still call it moonshine if it's made in space? Or on the moon? would it be sunshine then? or earthshine? or starshine? One gets thoughtful in one's times of rest...

bullshit. No one fucking cares. All I do know is that a liter of that shit last 'night' made me sleep past that dickbag Wiggins little prank and straight through my shift. I have a headache so fucking bad I can't see straight. Call it what you will...I call it a good time.

plan didn't go to plan...

in order to combat the inscrutable Wiggins and his hated 3am wake up calls, I decided to smash every single bulb and fluorescent in both my cell, and the hallway adjacent. Apparently this inevitability was planned for, because security came up here right fucking quick and chucked me in the brig.

but.. at least the sun didn't rise at 3am... prisoners get up at 9am. finally, a lie-in.

Bad Morning...

Wiggins, that dick who's in charge of the artificial environment on this shithole, has it out for me. Everyone else can control their sunrise as they see fit... a nice, clean, pleasant way to ease into the awful life we have up here. Except for...wait for it... you're getting closer... now close the deal...... YES THAT IS RIGHT. ME. That fuck programmed mine to go off at 3 am. And no matter how many times i yell at the control panel, or hit the wall, or threaten to chuck him out the airlock, it won't fucking change.

But today, i have a plan...

Guess what's on the menu... again?

Space is awesome. What with all the radiation, lack of pressure, weird aliens, clanging metal stairways and AIs achieving consciousness and fucking things up, an angry spaceman can build up a massive appetite.

And what does the cafeteria put out?

More reconstituted vegetable based protein from the hydroponic farm-rooms. Hooray! I love reconstituted vegetable based proteins! They are delicious, and not at all distinguishable from real protein. Who wants a fucking cow when you can milk a fucking carrots and make a faux-steak out of it.

Fuck me... I think I might wait until another one of those fucking alien greeting parties show up, pick off a straggler and cook him up.

In space, no one can hear you complain

I've fucking had it with the Captain. How is he even a fucking captain? This station is in an ORBIT... ORBITS are FIXED. It doesn't even have a fucking steering wheel. And for all that hard work, he gets his own fancy cabin and double rations on whisky... what a dick.