in which skint contemplates hunting the most dangerous game.

i remember as a kid that sad feeling that happened when parties were over, when houseguests packed up the car, when thanksgiving and christmas and new years and birthdays had played themselves out and the house became quiet and lonely and boring again... nothing special... nothing important. somehow i understood that living was when there were people around, new people, old people, strangers, friends. and without those gatherings we entered a horrible gray foamy inbetweeness. i hated that.

i woke up around 3am thinking and feeling those same thoughts and feelings... like i could practically hear that torment made real, a chirping, screeching horror.

then i realized there were squirrels fucking in my living room, who'd come in through the gaping hole in the wall. now i don't miss that janitor and his dishrag much at all.

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:

::::BEGIN TRANSCRIPTION::::

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.

one
hundred
fucking
times

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. 

asshole.

special guest blogger: frizzant skint... quince!

finally, things seem to be in motion over here. weeks of this guy and his sponge soaking up all my liquor and getting in the way. he seems to have fixed the coatrack/quantum reactor in the corner of my living room and is getting ready to test it out.

although i don't quite understand how it is a janitor knows how to fix something like that. though that may be the least of this weirdness. none of this make sense anyway: janitor engineers who live in a world based on notes i write on post-its and scraps of envelopes hundreds of civilizations from now.

one benefit to all this: the spaceman has been looking for clues and technical notes in my drafts and memos on how the "all'n'one(TM) skintronic station reactor." so i guess it's like having my own in-house editor to read and comment on my work. which can be good, and also can be awful when he starts complaining about how i fucked him with the layer design of the station i described in 'dante in the crabface nebula,' or the mad scientist who discovers that happiness is merely the absence of sadness in 'we cried, we cried harder.'

i'm also responsible for making robots sad. this is what i think a crying robot looks like.

why? because i apparently i created this thing (which i did not, despite how awesome it is)...

...and the rash of robot suicides it caused because of 'me robot, me sad,' where i suggested that those stupid boxes might be a kind of tree of life/apple of knowledge symbol for robot kind.

so in one way, it's great to be read and know you're work matters. it's also awful to know that your work caused so much unhappiness.

although this guy is an asshole, so i don't really feel too bad.

special guest blogger: frizzant skint... cuatreaux!

so it's been a week since spacecadet and his absorbent friend showed up, and i have yet to see any evidence of a vast horde of janitor clones assaulting me for eternity.

there was an over aggressive sushi delivery guy, who kept claiming i owed him a dollar for the extra spicy mayo. and some asshole who pretended like she lived in the apartment building and forgot her keys and kept buzzing and buzzing my apartment until me 'n spacey sent spajjy down to freak her out. instead, spajjy bring her back up to the apartment and we hang out and talk. as it turned out she was my next door neighbor, whose name i do not know, whose face i do not recognize, but apparently moved in the same day as i did.

so this was good, because i had an issue with this particular neighbor. for years i'd hear synthesizer music blaring from our shared wall and i'd resort to banging on it with a shoe to get the music to stop.

which never worked.

so i, emboldened by some fresh-squeezed-spajjy-effluent-cocktails, asked this (apparently lovely) neighbor of mine if she ever hears loud music, of the electronic sort, invaded her homespace.

no, she tells me, but she does have a problem with a hammering on her walls at all hours of the night.

liar! i accuse her. how dare she, knowing damn well that it's her fancy synthesizer which she insist on practicing at 4 in the morning that interrupts my slumber.

no, she insists nervously, then angrily, it is not her. she doesn't own a keyboard. she doesn't even really listen to music.

i have her on the run! i pursue, she avoid. spajjy and spaceman are watching with amusement, like they've seen all this before, that this classic interaction is part of their daily lives.

i'm screaming now, jacked up on sponge-juicings and i don't know what i'm saying. everything is yellow and red and stubbly and angry. my arms are flailing i see stars.

then a pseudopod taps me gently on the shoulder. i wave it off. then i'm violated... my ears are violated... two spongebits jam themselves into my ear canals, blotting out all the sound of me shouting.

and what do i hear? synthesized bass, unts-untsing its way through my floorboards. and this cute little neighbor girl staring right at me, arms crossed, peeved.

spajjy removes the shoe from my hand, and gently places me down on the couch. there's a mighty big hole in the wall now, from my banging.

i guess one mystery has been solved. just not mine.

she took in stride, poor thing. we've even got a date next week.

unless she just said that to get out of the apartment...

i guess we'll see on thursday.

special guest blogger: frizzant skint...treis!

so now fuckface spacedick over here is making me run all over town looking for widgets and apps and gudgeons and fucktrons and fuckknows to fix this stupid coat hanger statue thing that i bought hungover ten years ago in chicago that he insists, insists! is a 'skintronic all-n-one station reactor.'

does this look like it belongs in a fucking space station to you?

and who the hell am i talking to?

special guest blogger: frizzant skint...deuce!

so i'm not really sure why this lunatic from the future insists i keep talking into this weird, flattened, eggy disc thingie, but for some reason he thinks it is important that i do. i guess this is the version of a blog in his time. full of all sorts of personal revelations, deep insight, brilliant prose, immaculate grammer (hey... it got my joke, not fucking bad at all), and not-in-any-way-no-sir-no-ma'am-not-at-all-even-the-slightest-hinty-inkle-donkle-dink-iling of self-indulgence, narcissism, or vanity.

nope. not an iota.

although, if he gave me this disc thingie, it means that i invented it. so i must have, or will at some point, write it down. but how could i be using it if i haven't created it yet. this is the problem with physics and math and whatever time travel bullshit paradoxicology... there's only one solution.

booze.

and the solution for booze, is spajjy, who is quickly becoming my first friend, though he is drinking me dry, bastard. so we came up with a solution. the other day the janitor decided to go for a walk, so me and spajjy went down to some local bar and, while i engaged the bartender in brilliant chatter, spajjy slooshed his way to the bottles by the mirror, inserted himself into one like some octopus finding a new home in a beer bottle, then jumped from bottle to bottle, dancing fountain style, sucking up all sort of liquor.

then i went to a booth, and ol' spajjy squeezed out cocktails for me under the table. yea, maybe i looked a little weird constantly looking down there and talking to, apparently, the coasters keeping the damn thing level, but you know what? fuck you. that's what.

janitor was still out when we got back, so i had spajjy get under the neighbors door and reconnoiter us some more gin. this time, though, it was terrible: some nonsense artisan shit from brooklyn.

note for stories: in my future, there will be no brooklyn.

special guest blogger: frizzant skint... yay!

first of all, i want to clear up one thing: i don't know if i really believe that all these identical assholes who show up in my apartment, who manage to sneak past the well-installed security of two buzzer-controlled gates, and knock on my door, are actually from the future. it seems a bit weird to me, if i'm honest. but the one who showed up with the giant walking spongebob squarepants (granted a drunk, anal-fixated spongebob) convinced me.

i am not happy, however, about having to kill the rest of them. in theory, if i killed this one, i wouldn't have to kill any more of them. but there's something charming, in the familiar, body-odor, sort of charming, about this guy.

i guess i can murder a couple, just to see how it feels. if he lives in a world based on my ideas, i owe him that, at the very least. poor fucker.