Yeah, I'll talk about it. (“Pull it.”) I'm going to need a moment alone with my boys, girls, fucking a lucky fucking mom (1) or two (2). Holy Shit.
Hi, I'm Jack. I've been using this name for quite a while and I'm actually getting sick of it. However, I don't think “Mikestar” sounds very good. What would that even mean? Like, a star for Mike? I don't understand. Oh, I see it now. A microphone. For a star. Well, that might seem kind of useful but it does seem kind of objectifying to my character, and I'm not really a star here on that microphone like that I mean, I guess I'm kind of okay maybe but I've got a long way to go before I'm willing to say that I could tap into shoes like that of say Larry King or... yeah, Rush Limbaugh, but he's dead. So sad. And, I didn't like him anyway. Toteseven, totessadder.
Another thing about it, I think I'm going to save “Mikestar” for future use, one day when MV is blowing me. That's probably going to happen. I don't know why he would, and at this point, what difference does it even make if anybody ever does it again or not at all. Once was enough, I don't know why I would want anyone to anyway, and twice was really pushing it. (Thanks, Babe) But what the fuck does whatever I might happen to desire, have to do with anything at all anymore? Frankly, I can't believe I haven't yet been tied down, Boy, and had my fucking kangaroo tied down there with me and Maxwell’s silver hammer just to make it happen with a thumping beat yet. (Boot to the
head portside anchor shaft.) It was probably supposed to happen last year but, I dodged a lot of chain link lassos in my time, I haven't quite been caught up in The Sweet Life just yet.
Odds are pretty good, this is coming:
Fifteen Forevers Fromforthwith JackstarObviously “3FJ” is a great acronym for branding. Not sure I can relate that to “KU3” without feeling like a cross between an otaku and a KMFDM roadie.
Either of the pair might be my new cover story next week for all I fucking know. You think they tell me anything? NO THEY DON'T. And this whole fucking thing is just completely off the fucking charts. Oh, wait, this whole blanky thing is just completely off the blanking charts. Yeah, come on, you know, this isn't going to work.
Psychic decoy, sidekick butler, & a War Master of The Han Dynasty, brought forward in time, so my mommy's lawyer could hire hire him to organize my luggage. Look, I'm going to need a
partner, period. If for no other reason, than that I refuse to throw these carrots out of the fridge myself, like seriously: let the rabbits wear glasses.
I ain't lifting so much as a goddam finger around this place. Period. Not that I don't want to, I would actually enjoy that, or rather, I would have enjoyed that, if I had not had my taste for the place somewhat rent asunder when I saw it become a living diorama/crime scene/totally haunted ancient ancestor burial ground, with attached abandoned gold & silver mine.
Like,
damn. I wonder how nice the other ones are! Well, you know me: you know how I am: if I get anywhere near within 500 ft of Reese Witherspoon’s fanciest & most favored tulpa, that's it, hit the bricks, sit your self down right there, that's all she wrote: no second chances.
That's what she wrote. (She can
write? What? Like with a
pencil? Maybe she has people for that now... and I don't see Any People here, so, they all got to be somewhere. Frantically and frenetically filling out more and more pages of forms. I can just imagine it... and when it comes to Grapefruit’s correspondence, I have to use my imagination. I don't think she's had a conversation with me that made any sense or gained any traction since well before Doom Wednesday), so for my own part, this is what I wrote: “I'm waiting for the new leads. *click*”
I mean it, too. Like, what was it, that was supposed to be my sense of urgency here? Whatever it was, it has faded, and now I am full to bursting with happiness, a mindful awareness of my immediate surroundings that does not bring about heart palpitations or burst eardrums, and Mrs. Paul.
At present bottom line is it's so much has happened and enough of what I haven't told to the world is so well put together and revolves and involves so many other people that there is really no way to continue to make reportable updates about my life and its environs in the way that I have up until very recently. I've no wish to embarrass anyone, I don't seek to break any laws, and that's... well,
helpless.
I'm thinking of calling up phone sex lines and piping the audio back through my computer to record me talking to strange women, while giving them money, and then playing that as my podcast because it's really the same thing except... I don't know, actually. I'll have to try it and find out to see what is different about— wait, wait. I can't do that, that's ridiculous. For one thing, I don't want to have phone sex, and for another, I've been led to believe phone sex is expensive.
So I was thinking about just going to get some coke and whores, turn on the recorder, and let it rip. Undecided.
I can do anything, anything at all... and somehow, somebody took away every single person in the entire world that I was supposed to do things with, leaving me with none. No people I was
supposed to do things with, anyway.
So it looks like I'll spending most of my time alone, still, & I wouldn't want to get in trouble by spending time with people I wasn't supposed to spend time with.
Oh, one (1) more thing: I can't leave the State. This dramatically alters The Sourceror's plans. If I can't leave the State, then I can't leave the House. And, if I can't leave the House, well I reckon, I guess, I'll just... have to burn it all down.
Got a light?
