I may generate content later tonight. Then again, I might not.
I didn't generate anything. I don't think it's a great idea to tell anyone what I really think. I'm still thinking it over. Thoughts so far include: no one who listens to my content is allowed to contact me.
I haven't gone to Bellgab. I saw the font and I was out.
I have a complete shutdown of all motivation except staying as blasted as possible for the next 30 days. After that, the EMERGENCY might be over at any given time; once that happens I'll be facing the possibility of a sudden visit by Law Enforcement. (A real thrill for a Sourceror.) Sure, they could come over anytime--twice today, in fact--but I fully expect it could become a more common occurrence next month.
It's only a matter of time, really. I thought about moving forward in time via dimensional jumping or through simply buying an attorney to speed things along. I don't think it would work Nine grand. That's a lot of money, it seems to me, in order to be shrieked at sooner.
Maybe. And I'd get another person to tell my story to. *polite hurl*
Whomsoever shows up to live here next it is unlikely that they will be tolerating my daily of non-stop vaping and swilling beer. I caught a glimpse of a sunbeam coming in through the east deck--it fell into a visible ground cover of vape fog, hovering in the air above my mother's dining table and looking like a reboot of Carpenter's
The Fog. Except in daylight, you dig? Like reverse
film noir.
I have not done one single goddam thing at this house since I came back March. Four months of loafing about, doing nothing at all. Seven months ago was Christmas. It all seems so implausible what I am saying. I don't even remember what I was going to do before you all sent me to the briar patch. I hope you like what I do now, which is get blasted as much as possible without making it too hard to wrap things up by the time I am exonerated at trial. Even if I am not and I start another deep cycle of waking up and immediately cracking a beer (if you've never tried it, I highly recommend it) again, I'll have to pause on the consumption if only to spare the drain on my wallet. Beer is expensive now. I have classy tastes. You can tell by the way I have a completely overgrown garden, dying out in the sun, left untouched since I ran them off.
Someone asked me about the flowers today. If they're poisonous, can they pick some, is that a fuschia? Lady--you're lucky I can even spell "fuschia," fuck if I know about the rest. Oh, that, is that what it's called? Yeah, I guess it is big. Someone used to know about that kind of thing. I wonder who used to landscape this place? It was nice before. Now it's still nice.
It's so overgrown that to imagine myself cutting it down is a completely ludicrous notion. I would have no idea where to begin, besides cutting something beautiful the wrong way. I've been in this situation before. I know nothing of landscaping. I would just as soon use a flamethrower. It's an option. I have a propane burner. I could set fire to all this crap in a jiffy. I somehow do not think this is a viable plan. For one thing, I don't care about mowing the lawn, and that goes double for the fuschia. Besides what am I going to do with the plant material I cut? Put it in a pile and burn it? It's already in a pile. The entire place is a pile. So we're back to fire again.
I could have talked about all this on the microphone and uploaded it to YouTube and posted a link on Twitter. Instead I'm writing this here. I don't really need anyone to hear what I sound like right now. I am not in the best of moods. The last two days have been stupid and consumed by shenanigans that were as transparent as they were valuable. Not that I am disappointed by my time being wasted but I rather thought that entrapment was no longer something that these pricks were not likely to do any more of. They probably don't know what else to do, and I don't either. Every day is another page from the playbook with no name. This does not drive creative output. The only things on my mind are messages to people I cannot converse with. This is why I don't have a patreon. I am unable to commit to a regular schedule of anything. And I'm infuriated. Can't you tell? Oh, I can.
Carefully laid plans have been thrown out the window and until they return--for I loved them--I'm not doing anything that doesn't appeal to my basic, animal nature. I'm also not going anywhere. Leaving the house unguarded is not desirable. It is also unavoidable.
I might haul the garbage away. It's semi-unlikely. It's been four months. I don't even know if I have garbage service. I remember that being a matter of some importance. That was back when Internet service was a topic of discussion. I can't be bothered with that now, honestly.
I've only got one shot at this. I don't know when The Vessel will be picked up (it's... uh, full) and because reasons, I don't have to take it anywhere. It'll just be harvested, or something. I don't know the details. I'm being retasked as it would seem that there won't be any reason to take it somewhere else and then come back. The somewhere else appears to have come back here.
I hope you enjoyed the wormhole. I didn't really know how long it would last, but I rather thought it would last forever, and I guess it did; but the other end of it vaporized with the rest of the joint. Imminent heat death became manifest, I guess. I have no idea, really. Some of this chatter really seems like it was written by a ninth grader. Does it even matter? Well, I guess, as I'm happy to have less work to do and if anyone was wondering if I would be gone long, well, no. I'm not going to have to go anywhere now.
I will just wait here.
