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Messages - Eater of Clowns

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46
 :lulz:

I love fake lifehacks.

47
Dear sir, I intend to get fucked up, but I'd like to take my time doing it. Otherwise, it's just rolling I to a bar, ordering five shots of tequila, and drinking them in quick succession.

There's just no ART to it.

On this subject, any idea what's going on with the GAY BAR tomorrow? Roger hasn't been on in a few days.

48
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: Backfire!
« on: March 20, 2014, 06:37:26 pm »
It's beautiful that evil and hate filled people can't comprehend that not everyone is as evil and hate filled as they are. They cannot see the obvious outcome of their actions because it's incomprehensible to them that someone might behave with any sort of decency.

49
I'm talking about it because I think the millienium old children is a story concept that practically writes itself!

50
DEAR DOCTOR FUCKING MORON,

THE TECHNOLOGY YOU DESCRIBE GIVES US A PRACTICALLY UNLIMITED AMOUNT OF BRAIN POWER.

HOW'S ABOUT WE USE IT TO WORK OUT WAYS TO KEEP OURSELVES SAFE WITHOUT PRISONS?
Like, just offa the top of my head, we could use this to teach things to students that would otherwise take months of time in a matter of weeks(new languages, history, classic literature) but nah, lets fuck with prisoners instead

I'm with Celagoras.

I demand a LEGION of omnidisciplinary, multi-doctorate, completely insane 10 year olds.

51
Or Kill Me / Re: Some of it.
« on: March 19, 2014, 02:45:12 pm »
Before Friday, I was fine. Even during the date, or whatever, I was having fun. I went to bed happy that night. Then for the last five days I've been a fucking wreck.

Anyway, thanks all. I may just be conflating all of this with an overall depressive state. I just broke down over a couple of medical bills that I am more than capable of paying. Small things are getting to me in big ways.

52
Paes, I am having serious fun with your Necronomicoin idea. Awesome fun. Thanks for putting it out there.   :)

53
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: A new currency.
« on: March 19, 2014, 03:33:21 am »
“Mr...”

“Robowski. It's on the damn sign, spook.”

“Spook. Ah, you think we're with the CIA. I can understand your confusion. No, I'm agent Sherman and this is agent Harrington. We're with the United States Secret Service.”

“Ain't nobody in here killing presidents, so you gentlemen are free to see yourselves to the door.”

“Ah. You aren't aware of the original intent of the USSS, then. I see. Mr. Robowski, part of what we do is investigate financial crimes. Agent Harrington here likes to call it 'Protecting the deceased presidents.'”

“I pay my damn taxes, so if you boys ain't drinking, again I direct you to the exit.”

“Mr. Robowski. Have you ever known a Necronomicoin? We have reason to believe they've been used here as tender? Odd. Cash only establishment accepting such esoteric payment.”

“Aw hell, I didn't mean to, Mister. I just wanted that nut out of my bar. I'da turned down the money if I knew what was going to happen.”

“And what did happen?”

“I ain't likely to talk about that.”

“Mr. Robowski, I assure you, you aren't in any danger from us.”

“Ain't you I'm worried about, pal.”

“Just hand us the Necronomicoins and we'll be on our way. Here – take this crisp new bill. Old Ben Franklin here is hot off the press. Ever had money still warm from the mint? Quite a beautiful thing.”

“Afraid I can't do that. Not a fair trade.”

“Ah. The psychic value, is it? Mr. Robowski, money doesn't have to be metaphysical to be worth something to someone. This hundred dollar bill, it does what for you? Pays a fraction of your electricity? Maybe gets you a new pair of boots? Fills up your gas tank a few times? But toss this bad boy into the right part of Rio de Janeiro and you've got yourself a fight to the death. Don't think of this hundred dollar bill as a hundred ones, or a short stack of fives. Think of it as a manifestation of hope and survival, as dreams of possibilities? There isn't much difference between it and those Necronomicoins you're holding then, is there?”

“Rio de Janeiro, huh?”

“The bill's physically worth something. How many beers could agent Harrington and I buy with it. But it's mentally worth something, too.”

“Rio de Janeiro.”

“It's in Brazil.”

“They use dollars down there in Rio?”

“They use the Real, but a United States Dollar is worth something everywhere.”

“Everywhere?”

“Such is its power.”

“So let's say I pull this curtain back here, the one that's blocking the mirror?”

“Okay.”

“And you look in that mirror.”

“Oka-OH GOD. Oh my God, what is that? What is going on here?”

“Good. So you see the big eye staring back at you.”

“What is that? Harrington do you see this?”

“Agent...Sherman? You think they take dollars where that eye is? Hey, Eye! You in Rio right now?”

54
 :lulz:

55
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: The Pit, 5 parts
« on: March 18, 2014, 11:15:51 pm »
I'm not sure what's more terrifying:  the possibility that none of these places are real, or that all of them are.

56
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: A new currency.
« on: March 18, 2014, 11:01:14 pm »
“So I’m lucky. I’m lucky and I get to go home tonight.”

“Uh huh.”

“And when I get in the door I get to kiss my wife. Say hello.”

“Uh huh.”

“Except she’s going to ask me ‘How was work?’ and the beauty, she’ll honestly want to know.”

“Uh huh.”

“And I’ll say ‘Work.’”

“Yep.”

“Except when I say ‘work’ I usually mean I had to threaten some piss poor accountant with tax evasion charges, or maybe my boss was riding me about one of my cases. That’s what ‘work’ meant before tonight.”

“Uh huh.”

“Tonight, I’ll say ‘work’ and it’ll actually mean, it’ll actually mean I saw a man unmade. That the carbon in his hair, and the dust he left behind throughout his 34 years, no longer exists in our reality. It’ll mean that I have a vague idea of a screaming and sobbing man, like an ethereal splinter, occupying my head. ‘Work’ now carries with it that I left my senior partner dribbling after he stared into a living nothingness and became omniscient. Omniscient – all knowing. He told me the growth rate of the seven trillionth longest blade of grass in Africa and then he screamed and screamed and I don’t know if he’ll ever stop again. How could he? He has all the knowledge of a god but he’s as helpless as you or I.”

“Ignorance is bliss.”

“It isn’t.”

“Look, pal, it’s just a-“

“No. No, don’t say it’s just an expression. Don’t fucking say it’s just an expression.”

“Hey. Hey, alright take it easy.”

“See these scratches on my arm?”

“Christ, pal, those look bad.”

“They are. And you don’t know what caused them. Could be I got mauled by a guy’s dog on the job. Could be I had to hold back a widow and she clawed me while I stopped her from seeing the most gruesome shit you can think of. Could be I did them myself. You’re completely ignorant to how they got there. So tell me:  Do you feel particularly blissful?”

“Okay. Okay I’m sorry. Listen, I think you’d better go. Don’t worry about the drink, it’s on the house.”

“No I wouldn’t feel right doing that. Let me pay you – what’s it come to?”

“Let’s call it four.”

“Not a problem. Hey – do you accept Necronomicoins?”

57
Work is shaping up nicely. I think my current manager is going to lose his mind in short order. We're going to need another Timmy pretty soon.

 :lulz:

58
I wrote. Fun things and wretched things. I feel better.

59
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: A new currency.
« on: March 18, 2014, 08:35:24 pm »
“Jesus, what is that smell? The old devil never made it to the bathroom?”

“No, sir, it would seem he was pretty self sufficient even up til the end.”

“Well then, fuck, how long has he been here? Did he void himself when he finally let go?”

“Void. Huh. In a sense.”

“What the hell are you on about, son?”

“The old man was a bit of a…hoarder, it would seem.”

“Hoarder? Like in the TV show? I don’t think so. Look at this place – it’s spotless.”

“You haven’t seen the bedroom yet. We think he was squirreling money away old-style. In the mattress.”

“That’s not a crime. Don’t trust banks, myself. Not since ’08. Alright, show me the mattress.”

“See that’s the thing. The man wasn’t hoarding dollars. It was a bit more of a…psychic currency. Necronomicoins.”

“Look, stop mincing around and point me to the bedroom. I want to know what it is that they brought me here for.”

“If you insist, sir. It’s just down the hall here.”

“FUCK! FUCK! WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT? WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?”

“That would be the, uh, the mattress, sir. It appears to have grown a gnashing, gibbering beak-like portal into a timeless and disordered nether realm. Best as we can tell. The smell is, uhm, the smell is the fragmented ruination of the deceased man’s soul, rotting corporeally. I wouldn’t get too close to the abyssal plane, if I were you. We think we lost Johnson an hour ago, but we can’t be certain because, well, he seems to have ceased to have ever existed. What’s left of him isn’t as much of a memory as it is an insubstantial imprint of a human being in the backs of our minds. That we can’t seem to either access or disregard. Possibly for the remainder of our mortal existences. Which reminds me, sir, a few of the officers are going to need some personal time for counseling and, uh, coming to terms with their insignificance against impossibly vast horrors.”

“Fuck. Fuck, alright. Alright, let’s just do our fucking jobs. Let’s do the fucking jobs we’re here to do. Where are these Necronomicoins?”

“We, uh, we don’t know, sir. We can’t rule out theft of course, but without a physical anchor to our dimension they tend to drift back to the First Bank of R’lyeh.”

“Right, right. What about you, son. How are you holding up?”

“I’ve been scratching for the last few hours. Scratching until I bleed. I think I doubt my own flesh, sir. Otherwise I am prepared to investigate.”

“Good man. Good young man. Here, take a plug of this.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“One more thing.”

“Of course.”

“Why did they call Financial Crimes?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think they knew who else to call.”

60
Or Kill Me / Re: Some of it.
« on: March 18, 2014, 07:50:06 pm »
Prepare yourself for vented drivel. Murky inane self-absorbed garbage that I just need to let out:
I don’t know how to act, even these some four months later. The initial flood of support washed nothing away and in its wake a rot slowly settles, thick ugly foundation stuff, choking mildews and malignant molds. I’m on a constant search for fresh water. I feel like a beggar.

A single winter isn’t long enough to reconcile the life I thought I had ahead of me. There are too many individual things to sort out, too many parts malfunctioning in the engine. There’s the rage in all its directions. Inward for letting so precious a thing slip away, for accepting defeat so quickly, for this great heaping horrible pride, pride of kings and gods and too much for me. Pride dangling a body from a marionette’s strings. Outward to the one I trusted more than any other person I ever dared. Outward to the other man.

I let go altogether. I’ve seen her twice since the breakup while she picked up things she left behind. We texted back and forth a little bit, talked on facebook. Nothing real. A year ago when her brother’s girlfriend of four years left him, she didn’t agree with how the girl was keeping him so close; like it’d be easier for him if the break were clean. I know she’s doing the same with me. I haven’t attempted contact because, hey, pick a reason:  I hope it will help to move on, I hope she’ll see my illusion of doing well and it’ll hurt, I can’t be some sad wretch clinging onto that great unreal ghost of two years.

I’ve been running and writing letters. Both help, to some degree. I’ve been writing to a pretty woman I’ve known for a while and things looked promising between us, like maybe a new beauty to nurture and a move forward. We met up a few times, even. I don’t know if we both wanted something to be there, but there didn’t seem to be. A great relationship, maybe, but not one of love.

I’m still in love with my ex. That’s all there is. There hasn’t been a day where I don’t think of her. Lately I feel, absurdly, like I want her to know that. That’s all. Just to know it, and nothing else. What’s so unhealthy about some small knowledge?

I’m tired and tense. I can feel muscles tightened and coiled but I don’t know how to let them go. My vacation to Colombia is coming in two weeks and I keep thinking how easy it would be to disappear in that country. My step mother has family that owns a cattle farm and I’ll just be vaquero Americano, yeah? Never learn Spanish, just never speak again, living on coffee and beans. I don’t believe in fresh starts unburdened by the big messy piles we keep building. New beginnings are only made once in a lifetime. But I believe in new air and sweeping grandiose change, in stupid romantic false futures. I chased one for two years.

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