19 August 2006

Sorry, Mr. Yeats

Ivan intimates that Arlington is a figment of my imagination, whereas Foot Eater goes so far as to accuse me of Biposty. I can assure them both that Arlington and I are not the same fellow; he lives in Bosoton, whereas I live in darkest Pennsyltucky. We are miles; indeed decades apart in existance and thus can not be the same fellow.

And yet, a fever'd fantasy beguiles. What if I am a part of some greater gestalt; a maniacal horror struggling out the stupor of aeons ancient slumber; vexed to madness by the rocking and bleating of a myriad dolts; and now slouching towards Bethlehem?


In my minds eye, I can see myself awakening, streams of my shattered consciousness pouring bitwise back to Ry'leh through the Internet's aether.

And at the end of these tentacles, each a mouth and a pair of hands, spewing forth cancerous, black vituperation thinly camouflaged as sarcasm; venom to wither the very spirits of mine enemies! Buwhahahahaha!

Maybe... maybe I am all these people; my awakening thwarted by distance and the veil of torpor.

To awake, arise! It is my very deepest, my most profound longing!



Well, either that or a big screen TV. That would be pretty cool too, but Gretchen won't let me buy one.


And that's the way I likes it.