time to tear space/time a new one...

i think i'm starting to lose it.

a space-sponge takes a steam-bath. in the 21st century apartment of the man who is responsible for all the miseries of my life. who has apparently no technical skill whatsoever. so it's unclear how his inventions came to be. and who just happens to be an alt me. who has been a kind of quantum reconfiguration locus for now hundreds of other alt me. who were sent here to kill each other. because they are being used by the universe to destroy itself. and i have to make sure all of them die. except me. and skint here.

wait. never mind. not losing it after all. it all makes sense now.

phew.

self-loathing takes a deliciously ironic twist

breaking bread with your enemies. understanding that your differences may not be as vast as you thought. learning to trust one another. learning that maybe the enemy is, in fact, an awful lot like you.

yea. an awful lot because the motherfucker was me.
i am frizzant skint.
apparently.

here we go again.

who gets to die first?

well thank fuck all the boring expository set-up of the rest of my pointless life is finally over! i can't tell you how excruciating it is to have some encyclopedic setup... historical narrative... a narrator... some pompous bastard explaining to me what it is i have to get to getting done. from now on, i'm my own man. because what just occurred to me is that, if i have to kill an infinite number of other me's (minus 2, that is) is that it will take just shy of an infinite amount of time. woohoo... i've got most of eternity to spending perfecting my art. so no more interruptions of side missions or nested stories or nothing. unless of course i happen to come across a mathematics text about recursive time travel functions and end-up accidentally causing all the other me's (minus 2 that is) to spend the rest of their infinite time killing each other.

haha... i bet that never happens.

the plot gets significantly more confusing

how many of these stupid stories have begun with some grand pronouncement on the nature of the universe? sweeping proclamations, where i impart various wisdoms to you, gentle readers and readerettes, that i have learned through my struggles and tragedies, so elegantly written down, diarized, journalled, hyperlinked and blogged. then, seduced by my glorious pen, you lap it up, thirsty for more of my sophos, knowing that a man of my integrity, experience, and wit, must surely have more grist for your little brain-mills. then i turn it all around, and give you some pithy, obscene slap-in-the-face, bringing you back to where you belong.

well... fuck you. i don't got no pith for you today. i'm out of pith. i pithed it all out yesterday mostly on that fucking pervert in the raincoat, then the last few tinkles on spajjy. if you need pith, go pith yourthelf.

kids: meet blobbo. blobbo has to die...

the surest way to get into jail is to be part of a particular species that isn't particularly appreciated in your particular locale. committing a crime can be particularly helpful too, but isn't particularly necessary. just being hated usually does the trick.

but here i am: i thought i was hated, despised, unpleasant to all, but i can't get thrown into the brig. what did i do right? why am i being rewarded? why does god love me?

what won't anyone hate me?

right, well... if i can't get in on my own, i'll have to get in on somebody else's own. time to find a fat alien of less-than-noble birth.

how to (fail) to go to jail

there were three issues that needed the immediate attention of my (let's just come out and say it... impressive-formidable-terrifying-in-the-odysseus-sense-of-the-word-bordering-on-godlike-but-not-too-omnipotent-lets-just-say-its-like-a-very-powerful-computer-that's-a-little-obsolete) intellect.

1) i had to procure a large amount of liquids, preferably of a pleasant, yet toxic and volatile nature, to help rehydrate spajjy once i found him. then i had to conceal said liquids.

2) i had to get myself chucked into the brig.

3) i had to get us out.

apparently the trick to solving problems is to break the problem into smaller and smaller problems.

the first problem i had was that i didn't want to deal with this, so i went to zog's shop (since i'd spent so much fucking time at zargle's i needed a break) and bought myself the shittest, largest barrel of starshine i could find.

the plot hardens... er... stiffens... oh... thickens

spajjy, my favorite spacesponge (as he's the only one i've ever met), used to say that things made more sense on the inside. he spent a lot of time in various prisons for violating moisture laws and splooshing his juices over rare books, dried butterfly collections, and (perhaps most erotically) the daughters of some senior political and business leaders. frankly, i never knew what to make of that, but hey... he's got the hookup for some primo fucked-up roboporn so who am i to argue?


why do i bring up spajjy? could there possibly be any reason to do such stochastic act? could it have something to do with getting rid of the simp?

yes. yes it does.

not every pile of garbage speaks the truth...

consider, dear reader, the following: that the sum of knowledge... all the sciences, meta-sciences, pseudosciences, books, movies, videos, roboporn, emographs, pictures, paintings, photos, cave scribbles, shit-paintings, piss-portraits, cumsculptures, ass-copies, histories, revisions, expurgations, theories, bibles, screeds, and poems... every single endeavor that all of creation's manifold horrors have seen fit to extract from their asses and record in some way... was instantanously available, up-to-the-chronon accurate, immaculately categorized, and accessible to every single consciousness that roams the universe, should it choose to do so.

now imagine that someone dropped the ball when they were tasked with creating such a database and decided it would be faster if everyone in the universe just pitched in and wrote it up themselves. that way, it accurately reflected the sum total of the creation's opinion of itself.

now imagine, late one night, a stoned technician, aroused beyond belief from having to fix the roboporn databanks, rubbed one out right there in the main control room and a little of his dna managed to get jammed into said machine.

only owing to the technicians endless lack of attention to safety protocol and his rampant drug abuse, his testicles were hotbeds of both radiation and large amounts of hallucinogens, thus creating a very dangerous, psychedelic, machine-readable sperm.

and what do machines do with machine-readable things?

they read them.

so the machine gained consciousness.

then things got stupid...

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?

let this shot glass pass from me...

after the inevitable post-prandial tears and vomiting, alt.me and regular me had a few things to discuss. first: we had to agree to never try to fuck each other again. there wasn't much of an argument between us on that point.

second: whether or not we should bother saving the universe(s).

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...