A stupid thing I wrote (warning: it SUCKS)
Character-sketch time!
Under the influence of a terrible idea, I began to post my writing online. Soon, I had visitors in the dozens, every day. Every day I posted additional parts of my writing. Every day my audience grew. The autowriter failed.
I bought a new autowriter. It took three days of continuous work to fine tune it to sound like my own writing. The programming and such was difficult. A lot of heroin was needed afterward to enter my brain into the kind of coma necessary to fully recover from working so feverishly on the autowriter. I checked it. It worked. Good.
At least that's what I thought as I began to post online again. I named the website something truly ridiculous, foolish, grandiose, and most of all entirely mystifying. I am no Dave Eggers but I think I did a good job. I was going for a sort of pseudo-Proustian neo-Joycean feel to the whole thing. I am an excellent fine-tuner of autowriters and this was no exception. Soon the situation turned around and I was able to increase my output. I turned it on over and over, until at one point I nearly overheated it (the reader will note that an autowriter, being kept properly as mine is in a liquid-refrigeration unit, is almost impossible to literally overheat. Sometimes the prose is steamy though.
I turned it on one day but I wanted it to perform a school assignment. I thought the transmission had fallen out. The autowriter did not like my to make it do what I wanted to do that it was not accustomed to doing. It has, almost, a mind of its own. That's not good, I thought. It is evil. I thought about killing it.
As I thought about killing the autowriter I had several drinks. I passed out. The next day the autowriter had difficulty functioning. I am glad I did not smoke marijuana. That would probably make it freeze up. I had several drinks again the next day as I tried to decide whether or not to kill the autowriter. The web site suffered. My readership waned. I laughed bitterly to myself as I masturbated in the shower. The water was ice cold. I had several more drinks.
I was never drunk because I have seven artificial liver implanted in my back. They make me look somewhat like the baby of Leonard Nemoy and a whale like in Star Trek IV. I can drink anything. I can drink paint thinner. I can drink Sterno. I can drink rubbing alcohol. I can drink dog blood. I can drink menstrual blood and/or tissue with raw eggs and a punk-rock-kid's elbow scab. I can drink milk. I can drink old milk. I can drink ranch dressing mixed with peyote and not die. I can drink Starbucks. I can drink Mountain Dew. I can drink Olestra anal leakage drippings. I can drink anything. I know this for a fact.
I turned on the autowriter but it would not write. Masturbating in my freezing shower again was the only option. My next task was to fix the water heater. It frightened me thinking that I would get used to masturbating in ice-cold water and then become a freaky type of person you would probably find on Google Image Search. There was mold in the water heater and there was a rusted part that I fixed. The next month my water bill was a lot lower. I went back to the autowriter.
The autowriter stared at me. It has a screen that looks out. The screen looks out at you and figures out what to write. Looking out at you the screen figures out what you would write if you were in some imaginary situation and then it creates a written piece for you. But in fact it does not really look out at you, but instead it just feeds off the information you feed it. Through adjusting its parameters and programming it that is.
The smell of ozone wafted to my nose from somewhere in the room. The previous day I had carefully removed all other appliances from the room because the autowriter seemed to prefer being alone. The screen stared out at me but did not print a word. My fingers drummed on the surface of the screen. They drummed on the keyboard. They drummed on my chin. They drummed on five or ten beers that I drank in quick succession. I went and watched television at my mother's house because I could not go on the Internet. If I went on the internet I would have to see that four days had passed without a post to my website where I posted my writing that I had pretty much tricked myself into making a commitment to contributing to on a daily basis. The readership stream from my previous writing, which was well-reviewed and had won an award for grammar, was a stream that was drying up.
When you feel alone it is a very good idea to drink a lot. Drinking a lot makes you feel happy and not sad and I felt like it could be the case that I would soon be sad. Because the autowriter still would not go. I masturbated again, twice, first in tepid water and then, not feeling satisfied at all, in ice-cold water that had my lips turning blue. I bought a showerhead hose attachment so I could give myself an ice-water enema. When I got home the autowriter was gone.
I drank several drinks and passed out on the couch. My bed was empty of me because I felt like the autowriter was my friend. I threw away the hose attachment and drank many drinks and also took several barbiturate pills a good friend had sold me for only $35 each. They were aspirin, and I resolved no to buy any more aspirin from that friend or he would soon move down my friend list.
The autowriter returned the next day. It did not seem right. It could not concentrate on one topic for very long. It wrote a post about masturbation. It wrote a post about drinking. It wrote a post about having intimate relations with Chunks. This is apparently the punch line of a joke that in my opinion is not funny at all. The autowriter was on a hot streak. It improved with each piece of new writing that I wrote with it. I wrote each piece of the writing the autowriter wrote so lovingly that the readers could tell that I cared about them and they all came back and used PayPal to send me over seventy dollars in donations, which I used by buy one hundred and forty pounds of ice.
I closed the website. I drank about fifteen beers and also about a pint of tequila and a half pint of Talisker and a bottle of Thunderbird wine that a person had left at a party the previous year, when as I was digging through the garbage behind where I had heard the party going on the previous night I found the bottle. I put the autowriter in the shower and put ice around it to keep it from overheating while I gave it a problem to work on. I drank some more. The next day I was in the shower covered in the ice and shivering and there were stitches in my stomach and I felt pain in my back and I guess all of my livers had been removed. The autowriter ceased to function, permanently.
NB: The title told you this sucked, but no, you had to go and try to read it. I only wrote this down so as to purge it from my psyche; the purge works by inflicting it on you. Kind of like the the tape in "The Ring," but less likely to kill you.
Under the influence of a terrible idea, I began to post my writing online. Soon, I had visitors in the dozens, every day. Every day I posted additional parts of my writing. Every day my audience grew. The autowriter failed.
I bought a new autowriter. It took three days of continuous work to fine tune it to sound like my own writing. The programming and such was difficult. A lot of heroin was needed afterward to enter my brain into the kind of coma necessary to fully recover from working so feverishly on the autowriter. I checked it. It worked. Good.
At least that's what I thought as I began to post online again. I named the website something truly ridiculous, foolish, grandiose, and most of all entirely mystifying. I am no Dave Eggers but I think I did a good job. I was going for a sort of pseudo-Proustian neo-Joycean feel to the whole thing. I am an excellent fine-tuner of autowriters and this was no exception. Soon the situation turned around and I was able to increase my output. I turned it on over and over, until at one point I nearly overheated it (the reader will note that an autowriter, being kept properly as mine is in a liquid-refrigeration unit, is almost impossible to literally overheat. Sometimes the prose is steamy though.
I turned it on one day but I wanted it to perform a school assignment. I thought the transmission had fallen out. The autowriter did not like my to make it do what I wanted to do that it was not accustomed to doing. It has, almost, a mind of its own. That's not good, I thought. It is evil. I thought about killing it.
As I thought about killing the autowriter I had several drinks. I passed out. The next day the autowriter had difficulty functioning. I am glad I did not smoke marijuana. That would probably make it freeze up. I had several drinks again the next day as I tried to decide whether or not to kill the autowriter. The web site suffered. My readership waned. I laughed bitterly to myself as I masturbated in the shower. The water was ice cold. I had several more drinks.
I was never drunk because I have seven artificial liver implanted in my back. They make me look somewhat like the baby of Leonard Nemoy and a whale like in Star Trek IV. I can drink anything. I can drink paint thinner. I can drink Sterno. I can drink rubbing alcohol. I can drink dog blood. I can drink menstrual blood and/or tissue with raw eggs and a punk-rock-kid's elbow scab. I can drink milk. I can drink old milk. I can drink ranch dressing mixed with peyote and not die. I can drink Starbucks. I can drink Mountain Dew. I can drink Olestra anal leakage drippings. I can drink anything. I know this for a fact.
I turned on the autowriter but it would not write. Masturbating in my freezing shower again was the only option. My next task was to fix the water heater. It frightened me thinking that I would get used to masturbating in ice-cold water and then become a freaky type of person you would probably find on Google Image Search. There was mold in the water heater and there was a rusted part that I fixed. The next month my water bill was a lot lower. I went back to the autowriter.
The autowriter stared at me. It has a screen that looks out. The screen looks out at you and figures out what to write. Looking out at you the screen figures out what you would write if you were in some imaginary situation and then it creates a written piece for you. But in fact it does not really look out at you, but instead it just feeds off the information you feed it. Through adjusting its parameters and programming it that is.
The smell of ozone wafted to my nose from somewhere in the room. The previous day I had carefully removed all other appliances from the room because the autowriter seemed to prefer being alone. The screen stared out at me but did not print a word. My fingers drummed on the surface of the screen. They drummed on the keyboard. They drummed on my chin. They drummed on five or ten beers that I drank in quick succession. I went and watched television at my mother's house because I could not go on the Internet. If I went on the internet I would have to see that four days had passed without a post to my website where I posted my writing that I had pretty much tricked myself into making a commitment to contributing to on a daily basis. The readership stream from my previous writing, which was well-reviewed and had won an award for grammar, was a stream that was drying up.
When you feel alone it is a very good idea to drink a lot. Drinking a lot makes you feel happy and not sad and I felt like it could be the case that I would soon be sad. Because the autowriter still would not go. I masturbated again, twice, first in tepid water and then, not feeling satisfied at all, in ice-cold water that had my lips turning blue. I bought a showerhead hose attachment so I could give myself an ice-water enema. When I got home the autowriter was gone.
I drank several drinks and passed out on the couch. My bed was empty of me because I felt like the autowriter was my friend. I threw away the hose attachment and drank many drinks and also took several barbiturate pills a good friend had sold me for only $35 each. They were aspirin, and I resolved no to buy any more aspirin from that friend or he would soon move down my friend list.
The autowriter returned the next day. It did not seem right. It could not concentrate on one topic for very long. It wrote a post about masturbation. It wrote a post about drinking. It wrote a post about having intimate relations with Chunks. This is apparently the punch line of a joke that in my opinion is not funny at all. The autowriter was on a hot streak. It improved with each piece of new writing that I wrote with it. I wrote each piece of the writing the autowriter wrote so lovingly that the readers could tell that I cared about them and they all came back and used PayPal to send me over seventy dollars in donations, which I used by buy one hundred and forty pounds of ice.
I closed the website. I drank about fifteen beers and also about a pint of tequila and a half pint of Talisker and a bottle of Thunderbird wine that a person had left at a party the previous year, when as I was digging through the garbage behind where I had heard the party going on the previous night I found the bottle. I put the autowriter in the shower and put ice around it to keep it from overheating while I gave it a problem to work on. I drank some more. The next day I was in the shower covered in the ice and shivering and there were stitches in my stomach and I felt pain in my back and I guess all of my livers had been removed. The autowriter ceased to function, permanently.
NB: The title told you this sucked, but no, you had to go and try to read it. I only wrote this down so as to purge it from my psyche; the purge works by inflicting it on you. Kind of like the the tape in "The Ring," but less likely to kill you.
[17:14 post: Thoth]
2 Comments:
What? This is fucking AWESOME. You are my hero.
7 DAYS
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