The Tiniest of Alphabaggages

Deep Glitch Ancillaries 4.2: Spies-2

Oh hai

Blandom Act of Errorism, like a Suitcase Puke. -- My funeral better not be sad-boring.  Make it a boozy wake.  Dance, eat weird food, play triumphant and silly metal at my funeral.  Paint my dead-ass face with the Ultimate Warriror facepaint . Play  taboo breaking games Does any of that still seem interesting? God, this is fucking boring.  Die, me.  I had no idea I would have to be lucid for this shit. I’m actually terrified and feel psychotic, like a hospice resident at the very end.  Where is my family? Please cry at my funeral.  I mean, laugh.  Shit.

Passion abreastive: mominate while seemingly subtitting. -- Bryan and I play some partly lukewarm shit to people, though a handful are really excited.  I’m pretty stoked, I play my ass off, and I’m exhausted.  Some dickhead starts bullshit and talks shit.  I figure why the fuck not, and I engage in a fight.  I get one of the worst beatings I have ever taken in my life.  I’m fairly sure I have a punctured lung.  I’m fairly sure I might not wake up tomorrow.  I don’t give a shit.  Wait - nope, still no shit. Peace out, do some fucking...

Secret agent mang, thesbian sabateur galore. -- Republican Friend hangs out with me and Bryan; they’ve never shared the same space.  Bryan blows a snot rocket.  He eats a lot of the food off of Rupublican Friend’s plate too, not waiting to see if he is, indeed, going to finish it.  Bryan says “oh, yes, fuck you sir” instead of “thank you” and laughs as if it were the funniest thing ever said.   Together they smoke pot and talk about conspiracy theories.   I sneak up on both of them, steal both of their bikes, and put them in a tree.  

X-Rated colonization of my Enemy's attention span.   ---- Britnow and I ride bikes together all the way across the city and back, stopping midway to shoot guns in an empty clearing.  “I see why you like this; it feels... I don’t know, powerful?” she says. We’ve reached total exhaustion.  We mutually start talking about our deepest institutionalizable thoughts.  And we shoot even more.  “Something about this is actually arousing” Britnow says, but we both know we’re not fucking touching one another that way, ever. I’ll be calling Creepy Lady tonight.  I don’t know who she’ll be calling. Fuck yes!

Bite sized tactic, like bagel bites on the road to blasphemy (I mean, victory). -- Britnow and I write in our journals while facing each other like sphynxes; weird reflective narcissist shit, mang.  Afterwards, we cook each other different meals, at opposite ends of the kitchen at varying times, like we’re taking shifts.   She asks how I got those cuts on my arms (not knowing they were also all over my torso) but then says “nevermind.”.  She quietly walks over and hugs me for 5 minutes, not letting me go.  She may be crying a little, I can’t tell.  Yes.

Give Them Rope.  Give them Wicker Man Dope.  They'll smoke and swing all on their own. --------- Tantric sex and anti-yoga with Creepy Lady.  I go home and carve random lines into my skin, knowing its a tax. I furiously eat pizza instead of bleeding to death. I supplicate a voodoo god I don’t believe in.  I scream at every star blotted out from light pollution, calling out their first names.  I let a total stranger beat the light from me.  I bleed, and laugh, and blackout a bunch.   My blood is dark matter, my body antimatter, explode, amen.

Behave like I'm doing the universe's will or some shit, but scratch my own sniff. --- I send more art letters, this time, explaining what I've learned about the intersections of space, time, and being nice!  Halloween candy blessings, like a live-long-and-prosper in peanut butter cups; Reece's Pieces be with you, and also with root beer.  Its all about sugar, sugar.  Meep! But seriously, dawg: my journal says some sad-ass shit, and I share it.  I plant little Aha! seeds that will self replicate, like Johnny Appstore-Weed.  Take on me, take me Gawd!

Guy Piccoto says I’m a target - I can zero-warp through cartoon holes, into non-target void (but an enthused one?) ---- I burn all my favorite books in my emptied-out drum shells.  Oh well.  I guess I’ll have to borrow a drumset or something from another player for our last show. Lets not forget the smashing; anything of resale value in my room: destroyed.  Razed.   I whistle as I work.  I piss as I hate.  This is a healthy, purging kind of psychotic episode, I think.  Like, posi-rancor-rampage animal snarls!  Satisfied mouth froth, like inspired latte dionysiac rabies foam!

The moral high ground is a vert skate ramp that I will learn to shred, even if I opt against shredding ----- Bryan and I race skateboards.  Neither of us know tricks, really, just point-A to point-B, growing Ninja Turtle calves.  Strong like bullshit! That night, Creepy Girl and I actually explain our feelings, and it is as if dead crabs materialized under her bed, in toadstools made of urinal cakes.  This is to say shit was awkward and stank. Britnow text messages me, nevah stop infinity, like she needs me, because she does.  I shall not be a motherfucker!

Be a crazy-ass sometimes.  Or, if that’s your default, take a boring-break.   ----- I wake myself by pissing the bed.  I’ve read somewhere that sociopaths do this, but I’m a swell guy! Oh, puker-puke.  Republican friend calls me on the phone, tells me to meet him for a run across the city.  No preparation, bad shoes.  Sometimes, he has good ideas.  Lets go! I text Britnow, telling her where I’ll be.  I know she’ll be asleep through most of it. As I’m running, I puke a little bit more.  I also cum accidentally as my brain hemorrhages ever so flirtatiously.  

Salvation at the end of a braid of Bullshit and Truth --- The five of us make prank calls together, like teenagers.  Then we shoot guns at Anarcho-punk farmhouse.  Then we do the brain-melty drug and go running naked through the woods, and later watch El Topo, freaking out. Bryan throws his Milkshake into the open Jeep of someone with a racist bumper sticker.  Car chase! “Lick my clit on rollerblades, suckah!” says Britnow, and we all laugh. Reckless cars killed and maimed some of us recently, but (apparently) who gives a shit? Mortality can lick it on rollerblades, suckahs!

Our needs are distributed in strange ways.

Britnow can’t handle it anymore.  “It’s so lovely to be part of an extended network of psychopaths”.