Wednesday, August 22

another glass doll in our exotic menagerie

imagine you woke up one day and shuffled around in your skimpy, torn, stained underwear to get a glass of something strong to remove the veil that the previous night's entertainments had wrought on your already shrunken, sclerotic mind.
you lurch your way to your favorite chair, which is deeply uncomfortable anyway, your overfull glass sloshing and spilling. nervous, you lick the stuff off your fingers: waste not, want not, though that's the theory that got you into this hangover in the first place.

as you wipe the (hopefully) eye crust from your face, you see that in your chair sits a rather large, rather unattractive, deeply disturbed alien of some sort. this alien knows you and bolts out of the chair to give you a massive hug. it stinks, terribly, and you spill what little booze you haven't already spilled from your shaking hands and unsteady gait, all over yourself. it now appears as if you've soiled yourself. the large, retarded alien points out this fact and laughs, uncontrollably, farting a bit when the guffaws get too strong for him to control his sphincter.

now imagine that this is your view of happiness, and the universe is asking to take it away from you and for you to become miserable forever.

or you can destroy the universe and yourself and everyone in it. thus precluding misery from every happening again. except for the brief, actual moment of annihilation. that'll probably be pretty bad.

what the fuck would you do?

that was the choice we were facing. both of us know we are selfish, terrible people. both of us have a deep distaste for the universe and its many, and varied, flaws. and the self-destructive impulse might just tip our decision in favor of saying 'fuck you, universe' and taking it all out. after all, look at the fucking messes the cunt has brought me: eh... wealth (horrible), fame (distasteful), friendship (blech), travel (fuck you and your expanding horizons), love (at least it's self-love, not the oozy mammalian sort).

terrible. all terrible.

on the other hand, some people have told us that there are good parts to the universe. a lot of other folks seem to enjoy it in here.

and we've been known, once or twice, to give a tiny little smile at things. a shapely tentacle. a rampaging insectoid. a perverted sponge selling roboporn. a semen-crusted hug from an idiot giant. aren't those the things that happiness is made of? it can't be huge, grand, sweeping, melodramatic phenomena? it's gotta be the small, stupid, shitty, somewhat repulsive occurrences that all add up, quanta by quanta, wavicle by wavicle, to happiness.

maybe the reason survived the juicing was because he was... happy?

that would mean that i'm happy.

dark thoughts.

a short, happy life, or a miserable eternity...

your choice.

and no number of trips to zargle's, or tourist-raids, or cute-little-galactopus-girl-toilet-peepings, or flesh-eating-virus-coffee-dosing-on-captain-spacefucks will delay this decision. only one course of action is clear. caught just as i was trying to jump into the incinerator tube. fucker.

'let's go see revilo,' he said.

'what the fuck is revilo?'

'you'll see.'

we took the hyperlifts to the classroom levels. i've never had much cause to visit, as the janitors who work these decks are considered a lot more fancy than shitproles like me. apparently last-class janitors tend to scare the precious angels who get their learnin' on up in here. they gotta learn someday what a man shitting in the hallway looks like. that's my opinion.

at the very top of the classroom levels are the schools for the youngest children: 7 days and up. strict station legislation mandates 6 days of maternity and paternity leave... very progressive... to force you to understand just what it is you've created. as a matter of fact, they lock you in your berth and don't let you out at all.

after you're done cooing and swooning over your brood, and have had enough of shitty diapers (if you can't afford a robonanny, that is), you can dump your little darling here and get on with your life. 

or you can raise your own fucking kids. either way works. i don't much care.

we got off on the top-most level and wandered down the hallway. it was the night-shift, so the little bastards were asleep, gettin' their education via probe: food and learning go into the ass, shit comes out. i wonder if that's the wrong way around.

we came to a door marked 'supplies.' stopped. that door had an amusing warning illustration of a hand-and-arm melting off someones body. 

'revilo is in there. you ready?'

'how can i be ready if i don't know what the fuck revilo is?'

'there's no revilo where you come from?'

'what the fuck did i just say?' looked a little concerned. 'where did you get your ideas from?'

'from the same place as those fucking kids we just saw down the hall: out of my ass! where else?'

'revilo is my oracle. you must have some kind of oracle. something you consult.'

'fuck off. i don't need anyone else to come up with bullshit for me. i'm a factory for it. my shit is my own' continued to stare at me. he finally threw his hands up 'fuck it. let's do this and sort of what that means later.'

'great. so what the shit is revilo?'

'not what. who. well... a bit of what and also some who thrown in. you'll see...'

he opened the door.

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