Author: zornog

take the photos down. we’re leaving. this is the end of the road, you understand? no more of this, no more of any of it. we’re leaving. get the pictures, get your clothes, and let’s get the fuck out of here. i’m telling you, this is the end, there is no more after this. we have to move or we’ll be killed, we’ll stagnate, we’ll die down here. that’s the end of our lives, do you want that? do you want our lives to end here or do you want them to end out there, in a grassy meadow or at the base of a tall mountain, with the sun in our eyes and the grass between our toes … that’s where we deserve to be. we can’t hide anymore, we can’t hide. we can’t. so get up, get the pictures, whatever you can stuff in your duffel, and let’s go, before they find us. andy, come on, get up. get up goddammit! this is not the time to be morose. the world is out there, just beyond those soldiers and tanks and guns, and if we just, if we try, if we work this out we can be free! don’t you want to be free? don’t you want to smell fresh air and not have to travel through abandoned subways anymore? that life is out there, right now, we just have to move. peter gave me news of the troop movements, they are so far away from this position right now, it would be easy to just slip out right now, it’s dark, it’s empty out there, we can just run and run and run. come on, andy. you know we can do it. just get up. just get up, andy!

way to butcher the scene, man. way to go. really. i would applaud you if i didn’t need my hands to be pristine for the modelling shoot tomorrow. but really, strindberg’s hard and you really fucked it up. you and harriet brought absolutely nothing to the table and made a mockery of a legendary playwright, who also happened to have syphilis. i would give you notes, but my notes would have to be “how to act,” which would mean you would be taking a class from me, on how to act, and how to deconstruct a scene so it makes sense in front of anyone, and you’re already taking a class where we expected you to know all of that already. i hope when you go home tonight you really think about how terrible that scene was. i hope you call harriet and the two of you talk it over, because … what are you even doing here, you know what i’m saying? why are you taking an acting class at this level? i’m not kidding when i say an actual orangutan could perform that scene better than you, man. it’s a mockery of everything acting. thespius’s bones are rattling, shakespeare just laughed at your futile attempt so hard he farted a little bit. i can’t believe it. you spend a thousand dollars on this class! one thousand dollars! why would you do that? you could’ve bought, i don’t know, an ipad or something. it’s just, it’s embarrassing, man. you were embarrassing. all the other students were cringing so hard, ladies’ picked their feet up off the ground they were cringing so hard. we were all in fetal positions in our chairs. please re-read the play and talk to harriet and in two weeks you’re going to do it again, and if you’re that bad next time, i’m going to have to drop you from the class and move you into the remedial acting course. which i don’t want to do, because that class is the worst. don’t make me do that, man. don’t make me do that.

your heart is like a gondola that i ride in, that slowly pushes me through the crowded canals of venice. everyone is looking at the architecture and nobody thinks about the fact that the city is sinking into the water that makes it famous. the gondolier sings a sweet italian melody, something we’ve never heard before but is so classic that it immediately sounds familiar. and each heartbeat is a little push down the canals of your bloodstream. from far away everything looks like something distinct but the closer you get, the more it’s the same. it’s all the same, just tightly packed atoms and a weak electromagnetic repelling force that keeps your fingers from becoming part of the desk. that force is prevalent throughout the universe, it is a fundamental force that you would never think about, that mankind never thought about for thousands of years. no other creature thinks about it. only us.

your heart’s atoms repel the atoms around it, to keep it from literally beating out of your chest. your hands repel the desk. your body repels the atoms in the air. these atoms coalesce around large gravitational bodies like the earth, otherwise, in space, they are few and far between. but they exist, always repelling until they find what they want to bond to. that’s the tough part. finding what fits.

i’m never at home anymore. it’s a symptom of the job. you understand. i’m constantly jaunting abroad, to and fro, never a chance to sit on the expensive couch i bought. i watch netflix on my phone as we fly over the atlantic. thought i would miss it, and maybe i do, occasionally, in that moment when i step into my hotel room, brush my teeth, shower, that little time alone before i sleep. sometimes i lay in bed and just stare at the ceiling, to get my bearings, my emotional bearings, my mental bearings. i should read a book or watch TV or call you, but instead i just stare at the ceiling. i don’t think about anything, or anyone, i just … stare, until i fall asleep or until a creeping self-aware melancholy seeps into me, until i feel guilty for doing nothing. those nights, i tend to cry myself to sleep.

darling, i don’t say this to make you upset. it’s just my job. it’s what i do, it’s my life. you are my life, and it is my life. please don’t make me choose. i am hollow sometimes in dark hotel rooms whose minibars i’ve raided, but at least i have an endpoint, a goal, a place to be, people to talk to. without work i have only you and please, please understand, you mean everything to me, but that hollowness … it is not filled with love. i’m sorry. i’m sorry. it’s not filled with love.

brennan, come here, honey. light the candles, i want to get a look at this wound. it feels bad. oh, god, it’s all pus and it looks infected. does it look infected to you brennan? christ almighty. i feel weak, my life is being drained by this wound. no, no, stay there, don’t you move. the last thing you need is to die out there trying to save my life. not going to happen. just stay here, let me talk to you. let me be with another human being before i die. we’re among the last, brennan. the last human beings on earth. when i’m gone it’ll be you and … who knows. someone else has to be out there, right? i’m sure you’ll find people. i’m sorry you’ll have to go alone. you know you can’t carry me anymore and besides, i don’t want to be carried. i want to die with dignity, die next to my husband in the warmth of this cabin, not out there with those things, or frozen in the cold. i want to see your face flush with warmth, next to the fireplace, and feel your warm, rough hands against me. that’s all i’ve ever wanted. and then, then i can die in peace and you can just leave me here, seated in the armchair, staring at the dying embers of a dying fire. sounds morbid, i know, but it’s the most beautiful way i can think to die. i love you, brennan. i know you know that, but … i do. i couldn’t have picked a better man to spend my life with. and … when you find … our children. tell them i miss them, so, so much. oh god.

yesterday i described my depression to my therapist as “prismatic.” this is lately, after the vitamin d, after the months of therapy aimed specifically at my depression. she, my therapist i mean, described the prism from a frame of reference perspective: specifically, that during my depression i saw only the light entering the prism, but after, i saw the colors. i changed my frame of reference, in other words. which i guess is true. but to me it’s more like, there is a prism there that filters light, except the light is thought. for a while the “light” was gray and all i saw was fog and numbness. now, the light is brighter, and i am experiencing a reaction to stimuli that i didn’t have a year, two years ago. it’s the different colors of the spectrum, so to speak. the prismatic effect. i receive a stimulus and respond to it with actual, if a little muted, emotion, rather than a broad numbness (or sadness) that basically represented my life the past couple of years. peppered with some laughter. thing is, funny is funny even when you’re horribly depressed. it’s such a weird phenomenon. you can laugh like crazy and then you’re done and you’re just as numb as before. laughter, humor, is like this weird switch that turns on and off. which is why when you try to cheer someone up by making them laugh, it may raise their spirits a bit, but it’s not because of the laughter itself. it’s the connection.

but anyway, my response to stimuli is different. better. more clear. i react to negative thoughts better than i did before. they don’t sit in me like they use to, they don’t fester and grow into terrible thoughts. i get mad at ex-girlfriends rather than get depressed and feel like i’m worthless. i’m worth something! that’s a wildly different feeling than i’ve had lately, and i’m very glad i have it.

you wanna know how broke i am? here’s how broke i am. last night i scoured the pantry–and when i say “pantry” i mean a tiny cupboard that i keep food in in my hovel of a studio apartment–i scoured to try and find anything that i could eat, and i found something: a packet of dry gravy mix. so i ate it. i actually took a spoon and was going to add water to it to make an actual gravy, but i forgot the water was turned off because i haven’t been able to pay the bill. no electricity, no water, nothing. i’m scrambling in the dark to find this gravy packet, and when i find it i take the spoon and the little plastic bowl my mom gave me and i head outside under a street light, because the water doesn’t work, right. i go outside under the street light and i spit a few times in the bowl to get some liquid, and stir the gravy packet in. my mouth is so dry though, i can barely get the spit to spit into the bowl. in the end i had this like gravy ball, this gross gravy ball, and some powder on the edges that didn’t get mixed in. and i ate it. i ate the gravy ball made out of my own spit. tasted alright, definitely tasted like gravy, like, like a condensed gravy. like if you opened one of those freezer cans of condensed orange juice or something and just drank the condensed version. except it’s dry gravy. really salty, really, really salty. i ended up walking for an hour to downtown just so i could use the benson bubblers to get a drink of water. that’s the last thing i’ve eaten since yesterday, and i don’t know what i’m going to eat today. that’s how broke i am. now you know.

[ted cruz is alone in his bedroom. he is wearing pajamas with cowboys and indians on them. he is kneeling by his bed with his hands in a position of prayer. however, in between his hands is a futuristic communication device, which he speaks into quietly.]

blazzflorp, this is krobbletok. blazzflorp, this is krobbletok. all hail the mother orb glorbenstein and her limitless abominations. today i have joined with the woman who i once fought against. i have chosen her to be my “running mate,” which for the american humans is like the high title of yagglegreik, except with less yaggle. i have been pursuing the american “presidency” for many klarbs now, too many it feels like. every day i struggle to maintain the precise variables required for my human body to stay alive. living my days and nights in a meat bag is curious. i miss my multiple genitalia; male humanoids have one set of genitalia, a thin rod which, when excited, becomes engorged with their own blood. they also have to round orbs held within sacks beneath this rod which contain the proteins necessary to create life, which they impregnate the women with … it is all very disgusting. human women have slimy openings which my engorged rod is meant to enter into, to deposit proteins deep inside of her for proper incubation. unfortunately i cannot just enter them and deposit the proteins–no, human males are forced to thrust this rod back and forth multiple times until they “come buckets.” the human males seem to enjoy coming buckets, and the human females tolerate it.

my human wife requires sexual intercourse because she believes it to be healthy and natural, and my excuses to refrain are becoming harder to justify. i have reams of literature as to why humanoid sexuality is gross and unnatural, but it would take me decades to translate it into humanoid languages. my human wife suspects, i think, but i must maintain this facade, and so, unfortunately, i was forced to come buckets inside of her last night, while wearing a small rubber tube on my rod so as to not actually impregnate her. i know, i know, none of this makes sense. the human’s concept of “pleasure” is profane and blunt, and after a few thrusts i found myself shouting “oh my god” and “i’m coming,” phrases stored in my human host’s memory. the second phrase is strange–“i’m coming”, and yet, i am already there. stupid humans. my human wife raked her nails down my back as i came many buckets into her, a feeling which suddenly made me wary of her affections. why was she hurting me? was this all an elaborate ruse? was this sexual encounter a trap, and now she was going to rake her claws and tear my precious flesh suit away from me? i did not know what to do and i was stuck in post-coital pleasure zone which felt wholly cheap and not nearly as pleasurable as the eight-genitaled sexual intercourse we give to ourselves on glorbenstein, yet still incapacitated me for many, many hours.

she said it was the best sexual intercourse we have ever had. that strikes me as a very disappointing comment.

either way, today at a political rally i announced my “running mate,” a human woman whose name my tongue cannot pronounce. at the end of the rally she touched my flesh grappling device, or i touched hers, and it became very awkward. i believe this is perhaps because, prior to the rally, i suggested we actually mate before the announcement. she was unhappy about that, but i told her how i had mated with my human wife and she said it was the best intercourse we have ever had, and i thought perhaps this woman would also like to experience it, so that i could make her happier, and so i could get a second opinion on my sexual prowess. she said she would not like to experience it. i am displeased about her attitude, but very pleased that i do not have to have sexual intercourse using my primitive human male genitalia.

blazzflorp, i hope this communication finds you in good health, and that all your joggles are clornfled. krobbletok out.