Story in progress...

2012-01-27 06:53:37 ET His parents named him Ernest because they wanted him to be honest so, when he grew up to be a fiction writer, they ended up disowning him. He moved out and, with the little savings he had, ended up living illegally in a rent controlled apartment that was actually occupied by an octogenarian named Arthur. Unfortunately, Arthur ended up dying of a heart attack the day after Ernest moved in. That same night Ernest dragged Arthur’s body outside and stuffed it into a nearby dumpster and, afterwards, told everyone that Arthur had become increasingly reclusive and antisocial and that Ernest himself would “deliver Arthur’s rent checks from now on”. So, yeah, it got a little complicated. His love life was no better. Everything he’d ever known about dating he ended up reading about in an old paperback called “How To Pick Up Strippers”. This ensured that all his trysts ended up involving either exotic dancers or acrobats. Though one time he did pick up a school teacher but he later found out that she did a bit of stripping on the side so it didn’t really differentiate her from the rest. The relationship (if you could call it that) was short and ended on a sour note when she had confided in him that she had fallen in love with one of her students who was named Joanne. Joanne was twelve years old. It was sort of awkward talking to her after that. Her name was Sharona, by the way, and Ernest always felt a little awkward calling her that. My Sharona. After she broke the news he went down to a bar and downed six shots of whiskey, threw up, and got into a fight. He lost and went home sulking and went straight to bed. When he woke up the next morning he stumbled out of the bed naked and dragged himself to take a piss and look in the mirror. That’s when he found himself the proud owner of a brand new shiny black eye which hung on his face like a misplaced areola. He smiled and said “Hello, nipple face.” Then he went back to his room, sat naked on a chair in front of an old and beat up typewriter and started to write. He thought he was writing a short novel about a fictional 19th century anthropologist (who just happened to be a dwarf) and was living with a tribe of cannibals somewhere in the Amazon. The tribe, having eaten all the females in their culture, were having trouble finding ways of reproducing and thus took to stealing jaguar cubs and attempting to teach them the ways of their culture. The working title was called “A Dwarf Amidst A Gang of Jaguar Man Eaters” but the novel was shit and ended up going sideways. So sideways, in fact, that Ernest found that by Chapter 13 the anthropologist (who is never named but is called “Igg” by the tribe) finds out that what he thought of as the jungle is actually a large nature “preserve” inside of an underground Martian zoo. Igg and the all-male cannibal tribe are the only human occupants and some of the jaguars are actually aliens. By Chapter 15 he had vowed to burn the damned book. By Chapter 20 he decided to change the working title to “An Exercise in Futility” and by Chapter 21 he gave up and went to sleep. That night he dreamt he was flying high above unknown cities amidst towering skyscrapers and bridges of copper and gold and massive highways on which strange and wonderful and futuristic cars moved silently and efficiently and fast towards strange vistas somewhere beyond. And Ernest, in the form of a giant, iridescent bird, did not take a shit on any of those cars because he was a good and polite bird and was not at all like those asshole birds in real life that will shit on your head just because they feel like it. “Fucking pigeons” thought Ernest and decided that, in his newfound aerial freedom, he should dive down like a swan into the blue depths of a vast ocean that lay beyond the shore of the wonderful dream city. He dove in and woke up, sweating, only to find himself swimming unconsciously in a mattress soaked with his piss. “Goddammit” thought Ernest. This was the third bed-wetting incident this week. “I’ve got to do something about these piss-dreams” he said to himself.

Unfinished. Possibly crap.

2010-07-15 16:34:11 ET There's something in my mind struggling to get out. I've tried imprisoning it with walls of thought and reason and, finally, fear. Still I can feel it moving inside. Growing. I cannot sleep anymore. I wander the dark alleys at night following the echo of my own footsteps. The streets are always deserted and, always, there is a slight rain that is my only companion. It hasn't always been like this. But what has ever been the same throughout the ages? Still, it's something altogether... different. I can feel it. Gnawing. Away. At. What. I. Am. I thought it was a tumour at first. I thought about getting it out. Sat there at my wooden desk with a mirror, a battery powered drill, and a bottle of cheap whiskey. Home workshop trepanation. I'd go to a doctor, of course, but that's the thing. There are no more people. Everybody is gone. That's how I knew something was wrong at first. Walking down the street, everyone I saw suddenly turned hazy. Like the picture on a television with bad reception. I thought I was going insane. I ran back to my room and slept. Hoping to dream it off. But when I woke up everyone was gone. And when I'd look out the window all I would see is their shadows co mingling with each other. Their shadows going about their lives. But those shadows were not attached to anything. After a while even the shadows went away. A day later I felt it. A dull throb in the back of my mind. Only not in the back. Inside. A throb that turned into a pounding. Constant, rhythmic. A beat. Almost like music. Constant. Overpowering. That night I dreamed. For the first time in years. I dreamt I was falling. And, when I woke up, I found myself under the bed. Cowering. But from what? I tried thinking it away. It seemed to work. For a bit. I thought how insane this all was. I told myself there is nothing in my head. Nothing in my mind. That I fell asleep and simply never woke up. And the beating in my head seemed to stop. And for a while there I sat there in the room thinking about what to do. And feeling sorry for myself. And after a while my eyes closed and I fell asleep. And I dreamed again. I dreamed of being human again. I dreamt of who I was and what I had. I dreamt of people. So everyday and commonplace and yet so very alien. Familiar yet foreign. Still, I felt relief. And comfort. And then. I was falling again. I woke up to find the throbbing back. I ran. Ran out of the room. Outside. Ran aimlessly. I barely noticed that it had started to rain. I simply ran and ran and ran and then, when I couldn't run anymore, I fell and cried. And then I became very afraid. I suddenly felt I was becoming somebody else. 1 comment

Vocabulary.

2010-04-07 04:28:44 ET Why are these terms all popping into my head at work? Turbosexual. Flipper penis. Vag badger. There will probably be more to come. 3 comments

My Head.

2009-11-09 07:23:00 ET You need to climb into my head one day See what's in there It's like an attic Things strewn about Chest trunks full of random memories Cobwebs and a gentle breeze And the smell of paper That's my head 2 comments

I have decided that...

2009-05-25 20:21:49 ET I need women. I need to get my head together. I need to get my life together. I need to write more. I need lots and lots of women. Also, I need money. And a boat. And an imagination. And a pet goat. That eats people. And that can swim. So that it can live on my boat and eat those people who I do not like. The women and I will watch. 2 comments

Guido Klingons.

2009-05-12 18:30:39 ET

Race Fumes

2009-05-12 17:03:43 ET [21:45] Sergey: I've got something we can invest in! [21:45] Sergey: http://www.racefumes.com/ [21:45] Sergey: It's RACE FUMES in a CAN! [21:46] Sergey: Supposedly it's air captured at drag races and such. [21:46] Sergey: They could totally branch out with this. [21:46] Sergey: For example, they could hit every women's restroom there is, bottle the air, and release it as SCENT OF A WOMAN! [21:46] Sergey: They can even get Pacino to promote! [21:47] Mitch: Hahah, something about that doesnt seem right [21:47] Mitch: Why not have other fumes as well [21:47] Mitch: Mortuary Fumes! [21:47] Mitch: Gas Chamber Fumes! [21:48] Sergey: Yeah, man! They could totally personalize it! Now you can smell your favorite grandpa FOREVER!!! [21:48] Mitch: Dangerous Levels of Carbon Monoxide Fumes! [21:48] Sergey: They can steal that Spaceballs idea and sell bottled (and canned) air! [21:48] Mitch: Which would be cheap to produce since it'd just be carbon monoxide in a can [21:49] Mitch: And carbon monoxide is odorless [21:49] Mitch: So you could just put normal air in there and nobody would know the difference [21:49] Mitch: Except when they dont die and stuff [21:50] Sergey: Yeah or just sell cans of compressed oxygen so that people will either get high or freeze their lungs or both! [21:50] Sergey: I'd totally buy Teriyaki Beef Jerky Spray though if they made it. [21:50] Sergey: I'd be huffing that shit day and night! [21:51] Sergey: IT'S LIKE I'M EATING AIR! AND I CAN'T GET ENOUGH! 3 comments

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