Tuesday, February 28

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.

as i weaseled my way down to hangar 23, i decided to take stock of my situation. and in particular, my friends.

i expected flapjack not to remember me. he can barely remember to unzip his pants before he takes a shit.

some of my other so-called cadre (like spajjy, cuz he's a sponge and mal-aka, cuz his fucking razor wings slice every living things to bits) hid in the gooier and less easily damageable  recesses of the ship, so it's unlikely i'd see them for a while. 

zargle would only remember me when i finally paid my bar tab. 
i had no doubt that cute little galactopus girl would have forgotten who i am.
and of course captain spacefuck would be overjoyed to have me back.

it occurred to me that i had no idea how long i'd been gone.
it could have been months, or weeks. i didn't really pay attention, and when yer zipping all skippity-fuck around the universe, you don't really have a good sense of absolute time. 
and besides, whose fucking absolute time are we talking about. 
billions of galaxies
billions of stars
a few dozen planets per star
even within each solar system, a day goes from either 20 minutes to 50 years
and whose years
my years?
your years?
how can we know anything at all? if everything is completely relative and relies on something else to measure it or compare it how do we ever start in the first place? how do i even know that whoever is reading this has any idea what a foot, or an hour, or a qubit, or a smoot, or a zart even is? they probably don't even have enough shmiggles to fill a zart! 

i don't even know what a fucking zart is!

i bent over and threw up at least seven zarts worth of fujab.

i was starting to panic. 

never mind how long i was traveling... i might have been on that gurney with the robodocs for ten hours or a fucking century century.

there was something odd about all of this. 

none of the people i passed looked particularly familiar. but then again, i'm an inordinately self-absorbed human being. so that might as well have been me from some altspace that just walked by and i wouldn't have noticed it.

i took a breath and burst the door open...

'honeys... i am home!'

flapjack looked up... i saw a glimmer of recognition in his eyes...

and from behind him peeked a little dust pail, followed by a dented, abused 'bot.

i fell to my knees and started crying! skip was back... flapjack knew who i was... 

flapjack looked puzzled. oh no... something was terribly wrong.
'flapjack, old friend. don't you recognize me? don't you know who i am?'

'yes. i know who you are.'

'so why are you giving me the crazy eye? and skip, why aren't you over here showering me with adoration?'

flapjack responded...
'you just left 30 seconds ago to get beer. why are you back? did you forget money?'

maybe if i wasn't so fucking self-absorbed, i would have noticed the other me that i passed in the hallway. 

then again... he could have noticed me, right? he could have said something.
self-centered cunt.

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