Thursday, February 28

wow! what a great audience... for the hundredth time!

so this is kind of a weird situation: that janitor and the sculpture are missing, as well as a large chunk of the corner of my apartment. i noticed this because, as i was walking home from the pharmacy, i noticed a gigantic hole where my wall used to be. also a lot of smoke, static, and a kind of electric fuzzy foam everywhere. spajjy was nowhere to be found. the landlord put up some tarp and then disappeared.

with nothing else to do, i turned on my tv, where the following video, which i'll transcribe for you, was playing. i guess it was a farewell message from that guy. here it be:


he's pacing back and forth in the living room, bottle of blueberry schnapps in his hand. it's spilled all over him, his dark blue overalls somehow being stained by the stuff, in dark oily patches.

listen world, if that fucker is narrating or transcribing this video, ignore all of his overwritten, godawful, descriptions. he's a hack, pure and simple. just listen to the words i'm saying.

he takes a seat next to the 'all'n'one™ skintronic station reactor' and gives it an eyeballing, then spits a bit of schnapps on it.

well my little fuckadees, i'm back and i have some terrible news. well, a couple of terrible newsiums...

first, i managed to get my emograph back from the shitstain skint, who kept braying into it with all his 21st century feelings and hopes and dreams and fears. there was a last entry which i'm pretty sure i erased... something about failure and writing and creativity... i don't know. sounded pretty whiny. i feel like he's tainted it and i don't want it back anymore. skint you can have it: maybe you can get some emotions into your writing this way.

i've also figured out how to use this little shitty camera to record a message. now, it's true, this video that they used was incapable of conveying pure emotions to people, but you'll have to make do. pretend like you are feeling whatever it is i am saying and this clown is writing down.

he scratches his head. his hair sticks up straight where does, thick and unwashed. he sighs, exhausted the weight of all the universes on his shoulders.

at this point, ass clown skint probably made some horrible metaphor or exaggeration about how tired i look. but here's why: this is the hundredth time i've updated you on my goings-on.


that's a lot of times to stick to anything - besides the usual stealing and drinking and blahblahblah...

he interrupts himself, like a person who farts themselves awake. he gets up, and walks over to the tv, which is off, and stares at his reflection.

you know what? this is all getting a bit tired. who wants to hear lame versions of the same stories that are (i promise they're not) completely made up, from a suspicious character who fully admits to being a liar and an asshole.

a man gets reflective on his hundredth... eh... blogday, i guess. is it worth it? have you learned anything, besides a few dirty words from the future, and that there's no justice, no matter how far in the future you look and that the state of affairs will not change, no matter how much clicketyclick (a great term i learned from a friend of mine who was a musical instrument that gained consciousness... what the fuck was his name... nadroj... i think that was it... a good story there, maybe i'll tell it to you one day) the bastards stick in the world, it's still people and their base desires.

he gives his balls and ass a little scratch while talking and, after having discovered his blueberry schnapps is empty, grabs a bottle of gin from the bar.

and here i am, standing on the cusp of destroying ∞-1 universes and i don't seem to actually give a shit. just goes to show you...

he sighs again, shakes his head. it looks like he wipes a tear away from his face, but it could also be the gin he is now glugging at a ferocious pace that sort of spurted out of the top of the bottle and bukkaked him in the eyes. 

i don't know what it shows you, but it shows you something. that's for sure.

or maybe it doesn't, i don't fucking know. or care. it is what it is. so just keep doing what you do and maybe it will work out. but it probably won't.

he now looks straight at the camera.

skint, you cunt, stop writing me little happinesses, if all you do is take them away. you owe me that, at least.

he composes himself and raises the bottle of gin to the camera.

so here's to a hundred miserable updates, and maybe, if you're nice, a few billion more.

a deep slug.

fuck you world, it's time to go home!

he reaches his hands towards the anode and cathode of the 'all'n'one ™skintronic station reactor.' the moment his hands touch the poles, he's gone.

and the wall is gone and the reactor is gone and my couch is gone. 


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