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Messages - Eater of Clowns

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Ah Ikea.
I love their cheap furniture.
Like the Misynskru cabinet, and the ShŲsdurt sofa.
But their glassware is awesome. Especially the Warpnkrak and Chiptuth.

I wish I was this good at making up deity names for Necronomicoin.  :cry:

It was easy it seemed so easy. The guy spoke English, great English. I felt like I hadnít spoken in years. I canít remember what was in the shop. I bought something. I bought something and I understood what it was, and what it cost, and I paid for it. I forked over a few ten thousand peso notes and the man shook his head. He started talking and I understood him, understood perfectly, felt like a fucking economist at the end of the exchange.

I woke up in Cali. A week ago, a ten hour drive ago, a tricky few hundred kilometers ago. I was on the pull out bed in our hostsí fine apartment. Across the cold marble floor the huge sliding doors were open to the balcony and the curtains, great sweeping translucent white things billowed lazily inward. My father was in his favorite spot, leaning on the balcony railing overlooking the twisting city sprawling out onto the mountainsides.

He was young again, the huge man, young like I remember him before the trip. I knew it from a dozen paces away that he was young, his legs less worn from carrying out the giant frame for sixty long, long years. I knew without seeing his hands that all ten fingers were curled around the railing, that last digit Iíve never known him to have, recovered from his Air Force days, recovered from the roadside in Germany after the truck rollover. He was well rested and slept like he used to before the barracks fire and the charred men made him a light sleeper. Dad.

And with one step closer to the balcony the hallway and the living room and the dining room and the balcony sped past, a blur of speed. Cali shone in the sun and then sparkled with the million lights of a city night and then I was in the finca again.

The finca, that little sliver of classic Antioquia carved into the mountains above Medellin. The dozen photos of Christ and the Virgin Mary adorning every room and passage were turned around backwards, brown and grey and white canvases displayed in the frames with two holes just where the eyes of the portrait would be and nothing behind them. In the back room Maria and Josefina, our hosts, were each peering into holes oblivious to my presence. Their bodies were slack, as though every muscle limp, like they were hooked to the backwards portraits by their eyes, hanging as fish on a line. In the little garden by the bathroom that read Caballeros the statue of the Virgin was gone but her shape was there in nothing. The sky held a brilliant, huge, white hot sun that hung in blackness and shed no light. I walked up to the next portrait of Jesus and I peered through the nothing eyes and I saw a place Iíve never seen.

It was a spotless and meticulously decorated tenth floor apartment on the north side of Bogota. I was on one of the sofas, fine printed floral pattern rising out of dark wood trimming. My step mother was there and talking to her sister that I briefly met in the States years ago and a man I never met. When the opened their mouths to speak, their jaws and lips and tongues merely hung loose a moment forming no words. The sound coming out sounded like radio stations just missing their frequency. I still do not understand their Spanish.

I pulled my head away from the portrait eye window and the head of my Bogota self moved back. I tried to push myself away from the wall and I could see my arms rising. I was my own puppet. I could picture myself hanging like the other two, a fish dead and drying and staring.

This is what death is. One day I stopped controlling myself directly and became the puppet of a previous me that hung against two eye windows who had himself one day lost control to a previous him hanging from a portrait without eyes.

When I screamed I watched myself in Bogota open wide and wail the only real sound, so much louder and so much clearer than my company. It hurt my ears in Medellin and it burned my throat in Bogota.
My wail subsided and it turned to a painful cough. I checked my pockets. They were empty, but my hand still came out with a Necronomicoin.

It shivered and stretched and I gripped it harder, hard enough to shred the flesh of my palm. I lost control of it and it burst, spilling a dozen more Necronomicoins from my hand, then a dozen more and a hundred and a flood. They clanged to the floor and they never made the same sound twice. They piled up to our knees and they melted through the floor and they rolled ten floors down to the streets of Bogota, more money in this little world of money.

What was it I bought in that shop.

I feel as though the readers of this thread are getting an unfair picture of me. The matter of being unable to bend at the waist is simply structural integrity - if that part of me pivoted, I would collapse upon myself and be unable to stand erect. Frankly I don't know how the rest of you manage it, bending as you do.

And as for the mirrors, well you're the strange ones, looking at yourselves in them and having someone else look back at you? That's purely terrifying. No, no thank you, one of me is enough. Of course I need to disappear through the mirrors every now and then. It would be rude of me to leave the other yous standing about wondering where I've gone. I say to you what I say to them:  I'll try to make it quick. That much is easy, what with all the time inconsistencies.

Finally, I see there is some kind of fuss made of my teeth. I grin a lot, and I do it because I have to. My eyes are just a decorative distraction, you understand.

I need my teeth to see.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: The Pit, 5 parts
« on: April 14, 2014, 11:17:56 pm »
Caught up on this, what a way to return to PD!

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: A new currency.
« on: April 14, 2014, 09:50:21 pm »
It was going great until Medellin, just at the beginning of the second week in the country. Iíd eaten a steak from a tough enough cut that a reciprocating saw would have been a helpful utensil. Thinking back, it might have been horse. Horse after a lifetime of hauling around tourists for a few thousand pesos. We drove back to Cali that night and were passed off to another family member. He took us out for pizza at this hip little joint. Pizza turned into beer and beer turned into midnight.

Our drive to Medellin was at 4am the next day. Ten hours in a damned nice SUV but with six pieces of luggage and the giant that is my father, up and down mountains and around infinitely winding roads. Road signs were hilariously unhelpful. They were in kilometers, but the distance was arbitrary with the roads turning in all directions. At one point, a sign read ten kilometers further than the previous one weíd passed a half hour before.

We were welcomed into the finca of a sweet little lady that was the cousin of a friend of a nephew. After a day in the car I stopped at their toilet, helpfully labeled Cabelleros, and the misery started. I thought back to the egregious pile of meat from the day before. I thought back to the dayís rest stop morsilla and chicharron. I thought back to Salento and that slip up in the bathroom sink where, purely out of habit, I rinsed off my toothbrush from the tap.

Anyway, I was feeling unwell in Medellin. I was on some over the counter stuff handed to me so I could make it through the day, and let me tell you, you do not know terror until youíre looking at a pill with an extensive information booklet written in a language you donít understand purchased from a store adjoining a roadside chorizo stand.

The road splitting off from the huge public square outside the Museo de Antioquia is a clutter of vendors hawking counterfeit everything. Iím eyeing the glowing yellow glasses of alleged guarapo in neat arrays carried around by shouting brightly dressed people every 50 feet on this 90 degree day.

My step mother is a shopper. Sheís in and out of every storefront that looks like it sells a decent piece of cloth, arranging it on the dinner table or in the backyard before she haggles down the price by a few thousand pesos. Itís been a week of this, and Iíve taken to wandering around during the wait. In Medellin, it was mostly to find the closest restroom in case of very likely emergency.

Thatís how I found the shop, down some alley off a side street that I had no business being down. It didnít look dangerous, not in this area. Pickpockets were more a concern here than bodily harm, but it was still probably a stupid place to venture down. I consider pulling out my phone to translate ďPlease donít stab me here is my walletĒ into Spanish but decide itís best to leave it safely in my pocket.

Small piles of rubble sit in front of the worn houses, people sitting outside their homes and eyeing me with vague interest. Itís unreal to see this so close to the tourist heavy main way but Iím becoming less and less surprised by such things after just a week in the country. Iíve got this walk I try to use wherever I think I might look like a victim Ė eyes forward, head level, stride confident. I hope thereís an outlet at the far end of the alley so I donít have to walk back from where I came because I can feel eyes on my back.

There doesnít look to be one. But there is a shop. The shop. It doesnít look much more welcoming than this little off route, but if I duck into it for a few Iíll look like I had a purpose down here.

I wish Iíd just walked back the other way.

As a product of B, I think A would be more damaging for a number of reasons.

I've yet to meet a person with depressive tendencies that doesn't go through cycles. While they vary between individuals, and the elevated moods don't always equal out the depressed ones, there are periods that are better than others. Those periods, however brief, are an important thing to be able to look to.

I am in New Bedford again.

I am so, soo happy about this.

Painfully happy.

Alright, cats, I'll be in Colombia for a couple of weeks so you won't hear from me. Treat yourselves as EoC would treat you.

Good night.

Blood results came in!
Good News!
Type 2 diabetes averted. My blood pressure won't be a issue once my meds drop me down. I'm fat no matter how healthy I ate because of my under-active thyroid. So the medicine will help me shred pounds more and I won't be as tired anymore.  I come back in 6 months. The low-GI diet I followed along with my parent and exercise only prolonged the weight gain.

So I'm one of the special snowflake cases where I actually take Levothyroxine now. So I get to be THAT guy if I want whenever someone makes a fat post on Facebook. I'm trying to take a good picture of me in a "Actually" pose. Binks is mad because I get a free pass to derail her threads. HAHAHHAHAHAHAHAH

I can't wait to work out and feel the energy levels like a normal god damn person. Prepare your anus! Bears back in his ultimate form!

Awesome, dude!  :)

I just had a sewing machine needle fly right for my FUCKING FACE. AGAIN. Fortunately, I was wearing safety glasses this time as I've been known to get a little hardcore. Ask Richter, I accidentally his crotch last workshop day. With Luna's machine.

I sat at home on the toilet all day.


I think I win.

Only until the toilet weighs in on its occupational hazards.   :evil:

My lumbar doesn't reach it. This chair is made for people three times my girth.

EVERYTHING is made for people three times your girth.  If you stand sideways, you turn invisible. Unless you grin.  Then there's teeth...


My lumbar doesn't reach it. This chair is made for people three times my girth.

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