Flash!
Part 1 - Drugs
Part 2 - The No Friends Curse
Part 3 - Politics
Part 4 - The Truth About Ella
Part 5 - Parachute Party
Part 1 - Drugs
Flash! Ella and I eat two Party Pizza's each and then Ella and I are driving to Sake's house and then Ella is going on about how she knows that Syd Barrow and I know something that we can't explain and about how she's talked about this "thing" with Barrow and about how she knows that I've talked about it with Barrow too and about how she even knows that I know that she's talked about it with Barrow but hey check this out she hasn't talked about it with me yet.
I take this invitation for profound conversation with a giggle. I'll take a rain check, Ella.
I'm sick of talking about this "thing". Frankly, there's nothing left to be said about it, and proof of this is repetitive ideals in musical groups and I just want to be at peace with my mind and not have to think about all this bullshit- which is really all it is because there is no "thing," but that's a whole new thing right there.
So Ella starts on about how me, her, and Syd Barrow should take a trip together and I'm hoping that Sake is even home let alone in possession of Uncle Sid, who always seems to be a bogus hookup invented by some random hippie kid downtown.
My train of thought that follows is one of don't curse yourself if you think he's not gonna have the acid he won't cause that's how acid works isn't it oh wait no it's not cause acid doesn't "work," no, you work acid oh wait a minute you can't explain tripping you've gotta be tripping for that and even then it's hard oh shit I wish I was tripping now.
We get to Sake's house and he is home but he doesn't have the acid though he will on Friday. "Bullshit," I think. Then: "oh shit, don't curse yourself." But Sake does have some Kenith Barbenith that he smokes with us so we get high as fuck and then we buy a quarter.
Anyone who associates seasonal acid dealers/annual pot dealers with "bad people" is an idiot of the pung sort. These wonderful dealers of our drug community are about as "good people" as you can get. Free thinking business oriented mind expanders with exceptionally good social skills and superpowers of sociopathic camelioconversational bliss.
Sake's house is first class entertainment. People come in and out of this place and they plop down on the parachute spread out across Sake's living room floor and they join in the smoke circle as they casually announce that they would like an eighth or a quarter or an ounce of Barbenith, please.
I start thinking about how once you've been to Sake's house more than 10 times (5 for the sharp) you start to realize that it's always the same shit. The same dialog. Some kid will come in and preach his philosophy of the week and some other kid will argue with him about it and then some other kid will say something to the effect of "it's all in your perception," and everyone will agree with him in robotic nods.
"I need out of the mundanity," I'll say to myself.
And just when my social surroundings begin to appear to me as characters of some sundance shimboo thats reviews mention "ironic black humor" someone interesting walks in and sits down on the pot smoking parachute and says hi to his friends and introduces himself to his strangers. (sometimes)
The interesting person can be a cynical free dude whose just gotten out of jail or a 17 year old stripper chick who's exceptionally good at chess or a conspiracy cukoonist who honestly thinks Big Bird is the new messiah. It varies. I pass the bong to Sake. I exhale. "Thank god for interesting people," I say. "There is no god," some kid says, attempting to steer the conversation into a religion debate. "It's all in your perception," another kid says. Everyone agrees with him in robotic nods.
"I need out of the mundanity."
Part 2 - The No Friends Curse
If you're one of those people who's jealous of people who have friends because you yourself don't have any, fear not. Everything I just told you was a load of bullshit. There is no Ella. There is no Syd Barrow. There is no Sake. There is only me, Borderline Brenda the IV, though I aspire to some day visit some drug dealer and declare something like "I need out of this mundanity." Some day. Until then, it's just me, myself, and I. It's not that I'm an unlikeable person, really. It's just that I have the No Friends Curse.
You can go ahead and think that's some more bullshit, and frankly I wouldn't blame you, but fact is- the No Friends Curse has infected my body; my vessel for as long as I can remember. You know what the shrinks call it? "Poor interpersonal relationships." Can you believe it? They can't even come out and say it. They can't even tell us that we have no friends. They've gotta use their fancy jargon and their cookie cutter recipes of professional pie. No, sir. I don't want a slice. No, sir.
It's this fucking curse here. Some chaos magician cast some spell on me because I beat him in an experimental debate on abortion. This dude was pissed, I tell you. Since then, nobody has returned my phone calls. Well, I've gotta look at it this way: the dude'll get what's coming to him. Times three. Have you not seen The Craft?
And maybe, just maybe, I made up that whole No Friends Curse thing and I really do have friends and I'm really just fucking with your mind, Reader of the Realm. Or maybe I'm not sure myself if I made that shit up because I'm much too fargone to differentiate between what's real and what isn't or if there is such a thing but who cares anyway, I mean what's the point, I mean please don't feel jealous of me if I have friends. Especially not after I've given a tribute to the friendless by inventing this No Friends Curse, you know what I mean?
Just because I'm eating pizza doesn't mean I don't sympathize with the lactose intolerant now does it?
Syd Barrow, who may or may not exist, walks in all political sounding and I'm thinking "oh great, he wants me to feel angry with him," though it turns out that he's angry because he's challenging the "chill" mentality so often preached among "us" circles so it's all good. If you're not objectifying your own values and mentalities, you might as well declare Hypocrite Housing for your domestic endeavors. Live by the code of The Codeless, Kitlings.
Now enough of this narcissistic word masturbation, this philosophical fluff of the fern, this swishy swashy boomified redundancy of the Dance Hall, The Game Cat wants to stop referencing unpop culture and start explaining why on earth this thing you're reading is any different from all the other shit that's exactly like this shit I mean shit I'm starting to feel lactose intolerant and shit and I'm realizing that all these other lactose intolerant shits who share my No Friends Curse have done this same shit as me, this writing of this jumble of this shit.
Well, you receive no explanation from Narrator Me, though you do get to come on an adventure with me and Syd Barrow, who may or may not exist, and you do get to watch us get all political.
So if you don't want to read this average assiny, this acidundrum dillidort, this atrocious display of disconnected uberwires, I do suggest you write some shitty poetry and turn it into indie lyrics.
If you do want to watch us get political, well, what's wrong with you? Seriously, why are you still reading this? Have you nothing better to do? Let me guess. It's the No Friends Curse, isn't it?
Part 3 - Politics
Syd Barrow and I are wearing matching yellow garbage bags and then Syd Barrow and I are going downtown and then Syd Barrow's going on about how The Movement of the Day shall be one of lollipops and beatnik brain chips and then I ask him where he gets off determining our daily political missions when this is suppose to be a team effort and then Barrow mentions something about argyle socks and then I call him a fascist.
Now we're all about to lecture The Masses on lollipops and beatnik brain chips when....
"Flash! Flash! Do you read me, Borderline Brenda the IV? It's me, Ella. Flash! Flash! Murder in the 3rd. We cannot survive this social set! We are The Directors!"
I bite my lower lip.
"Flash of the fallen! Do you read me? Can you see that you are broken? Can you tell that you are crying? You were just confused you were pissed, amused- you only wanted to break the curse you only wanted someone to to care you only wanted someone to understand so you so you so you you you created me and your whole world changed but I am not of them!"
"Huh?"
"Flash of the fittest! I transmit these thoughts to your mind, Borderline Brenda the IV. I am the last Synapse Secretion of The Glowstick Prophecy. I am Ella, your Typer fucking Durden, your Anterrabae of fucking Yr, I I I- flash! Flash! Flash! Can you spare some social change, mister?"
Syd Barrow is tapping me on the shoulder. "Wake up! he exclaims. "Are you flashbacking? Earth to Brenda! Is there anybody in there? Can you hear me?"
I nod. "They're talking to me again, I whisper to Barrow. He comforts me. "I know," he empathetically replies. "I know."
The rest of the day is a let down because I can't seem to be political because I keep getting these flashes and when Barrow and I try to enlighten The Masses on the joys of lollipops and beatnik brain chips all they do is ask us why we're wearing yellow garbage bags or if we're on crack or if we're ready to grow up and stop trying so hard.
This is all Barrow's fault. "This is what happens when you pick our political agendas without me," I angrily tell him.
"Flash! Flash! Flash! Flash! Over! Over! Over! Over! Finished. Finalio. It's over, Brenda. You have faced The Final Flash. There is no return. I am you. I have morphed. I have overtaken your body; your vessel and there is no turning back. Ella has come to play. Say good bye, Brenda. Say good bye."
Chapter 4 - The Truth About Ella
Ok, I admit it, Reader of The Realm. I was jerking your chain. Rearranging your inner file directories. Emptying your recycle bins of sensibility. There is no Brenda. There is no Syd Barrow. There is no Sake. There is no Game Cat. There is no Political Movement. There is no Flash. There is only me, Ella, the narrator of this average abriggifer you are reading. Me, myself, and I.
Or maybe I'm bullshitting you. For one, "abriggifer" is not a word. But did you give it meaning? If so, I present you with this frog. He is a very mystical frog. Do not harm him, please.
"I am a frog," the frog says. "But I am also a chaos magician. I once cursed a young girl who beat me in an experimental debate on abortion. The No Friends Curse, my curse was called. It involved a stew of menstrual blood that Old Granny Jibbins prepared. The curse was harsh. Harsh, I tell you. The young girl got so lonely that she created imaginary friends for her companionship!"
You look at the frog wide eyed. "I'm confused," you say to him. "I thought the young girl was the imagniary one. I was just told by Ella the narrator that-"
The frog jumps on your belly button. "Silence!" he commands. About five seconds go by. Then the frog jumps on your nose. "Ok, you can talk now," he spews. You remain silent. The frog sighs. "You want to know the truth?" he asks you. You nod.
"Fool!" he exclaims. "You incompetent fool!"
You shake your head. "What?"
"Don't you see?" the frog asks you rhetorically, his tone maniacally condescending. "There is no truth! It's all in your perception!"
"I need out of the mundanity," you think. You also being to wonder why you're being written about in the second person.
"Ok, I admit it, Reader of the Realm," the frog starts. "There is a truth."
"Tell me more," you reply Grease like. "Tell me what this whole truth thing is about."
The frog jumps back onto your belly button. "It's about Ella," he replies, hence giving the title of Part 4 a meaning. "It's about Ella."
Part 5 - Parachute Party
I am Ella, your Hagbard fucking Celine, your Jack fucking Kerouac, your Johnny fucking Cochran. You are The Reader of the Realm, my loyal fucking underling, my Dawn fucking Weiner, my Linkin fucking Park. As for the mystical frog and the switch to second person tense, consider those entities tablets of Project Mindfuckeif that you swallowed on your own free will by reading this masturbatory piece of self indulgent coquilli. Incompetent fool!
Moving on, I herby invite you and your friends, who may or may not exist, to a Parachute Party at my super sweet friend Sake's house tomorrow. It's gonna be the shit, yo.
Flash!
The End. Crucify, please. |
