The Countdown

No one ever reads anything I write here, and I can't withdraw any of the money they owe me, and I can't get an email response from Vocal, and I'm waiting for my suspension at X to either be resolved or send me packing, and I was banned at Facebook for unknown reasons years ago, so this is the only recourse I have left...whew! Sound like I have to put up with a lot?

I'm some controversial guy, I guess. Fortunately, 100 percent accurate and fair AI moderation exists at all of these social media sites to ensure even non-entities such as myself can be crushed beneath a ban hammer for simply writing fairly innocuous comments while, meanwhile (redundant?), actual fckn vulgarians and really dangerous people are allowed to operate freely and monetize. But I'm not bitter.

I am, however, through being on anyone's side about anything. There's no percentage in it. Never have an opinion; it doesn't pay.

The only philosophical position I'm forced to take is misanthropy. There's no use being overly concerned with a gaggle of insectile semi-monkeys who all expunge fetid brown coils of filth from their dirty, hairy anuses in a manner I find most unseemly. But critics and my Loyal Readers (all two of them) will wail, "But you shit in exactly the same manner as everyone else," to which I might provide the rejoinder, "True. But still."

I'm not feeling charitable this morning; hell, I'm really not feeling much of anything except a gnawing sense of dissatisfaction and a monstrous, heavy boulder in my lower abdomen, waiting, like so much, to be expunged into the porcelain bowl which serves as a visual representation of man's place as a sore-besotted creature crawling the face of a damned Earth under the ever-watchful Eye of an Inscrutable God.

Life ends suddenly. It could end for me, like it ended for Elvis, while I'm sitting and straining on the bowl this morning; not that I'm comparing myself to Elvis.

Elvis was much fatter.

337

That's a mysterious, inscrutable number, with rare and wonderful occult significance, I'm certain. (I'm not certain I want to pick my mental nose in an effort to unlock said significance presently. But I assure you, it's there.)

There's a glitch on this keyboard I am using presently that loads strings of ggggggs in my typing, intermittently. I bought a new keyboard and should rectify this forthwith and posthaste. This morning I am beyond caring.

Really. I just couldn't be bothered to give a shit.

422

That's how many words have crept forth from my Word Horde (to borrow from William S. Burroughs) to stain the digital white this morning, as an act of defiance to anyone and everyone and everything and everyone who/that has ever tried to silence me. I just find it so hard to take any of it or all of it very seriously.

You see, Bubela, no matter what significance you give this hairy, horny "life" as you know it ("It's life, Jim, but not as we know it," intones Spock, as James Tiberius leans over the deck of the bridge, a long, tall shadow of command navigating the spaceways in his Galaxy Class Star Cruiser, in this, the Next Generation of parenthetical digressions), the lights can blink out faster than you can say, "Doodles Weaver," Doodles Weaver.

559

I have just forty more words left to convey to you the existential horror of Earthly existence. Now, as I look down at the bottom of the screen, I realize it has crept to ten. Ah, five. Aw, now just two.

I can do it in Number Two:

Plip-plop.

(That pretty much encapsulates the totality of my worldview at 5:40 on a Wednesday morning. Shalom.)

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