The Edge of the Internet

I woke up in a sweat, my head in a fog and my body aching. I remember Jeff knocking on my door in that knuckle bashing way of his. I remember that high falsetto voice I only posses when I’m startled awake thanking him for calling into work for me. Today I played hooky from life. At 3pm I dragged myself out of bed, the bed sheets were tossed about, vague dreams and nightmares were laughing at me through the fog. I’d been running in my sleep again. Sometimes I’m pleased that the creaky gears of my clockwork brain don’t remember things correctly all the time. My hair was twisted about trying to strangle me and push down my throat to choke me simultaneously. I stank of disease and sorrow.

Grumpy, dumpy Bill staggering around his cluttered room, sneering at useless flotsam and jetsam, books assaulting toes, boxes bashing knees. Oh, right I wear glasses.

Twenty minutes in a shower just to feel human again.

My computer called. I should do something constructive with my time. I should not go outside and spread plague and pestilence. I’m depressed. It’s like adverts you never really notice them till they interrupt what fun you’re doing. This little girl who I know I should not be infactuated with asked me to write her letters, she doesn’t have time for chatting with me on msn anymore. She doesn’t have time for me. A scratched gear in the back of my head tells me that I always knew she didn’t have time for me. I’m just being foolish for caring about a girl again. I should stop silly, stupid emotions from upsetting me clockworks. Write something happy. Write her a Dear John letter. Laugh your ugly chuckle as you spill loathing for her lies onto electric paper with a poisoned tipped keyboard.

Tyler pops up on my msn and invites me to go to Wrapped in Grey, I’m feeling malevolent and cancerous and he’s happy friendship.

I understand the depressing bits, go enjoy your evening and cheer yourself up. My thoughts are with you my friend, I'll see you again.

Bloody happy Tyler, ruined my perfectly grumpy day. I shaved and fled my computer and house.

I strolled through the park by our place, smelled some wild flowers and smiled at children in the playground. Office Depot printed Bevan’s book for me. 85 pages written with skills I can only mimic for maybe an hour. It’s good, not cryptic, delightful characterization, could use some tits, Ninja and explosions though. I look forward to seeing how it ends.

I retired like a British Noble in the heat of a Bombay sun to the local to sip Passion fruit lemonade over ice. I smoked too much and now sound like Bogart wooing Bacall, and delighted in reading to the happy murmur of grandparents over photo’s of their children’s children. I worried about nothing, I have no schoolwork, no household problems, I adore my friends in all their incarnations… except happy Tyler, I was enjoying my grump. He made my lower lip tremble in the warmth of his friendship, the bastard. There was not a care in the world nagging me. I sat in the sun wearing my favourite shirt jotting sad blue ink notes to Bevan in the margins of the manuscript. My feet weren’t even bothering me.

I finished reading this book: The Arcanum by Thomas Wheeler

A fun little jaunt into that silly world where real people are fictionalized. A Scottish Explored found the book of Enoch. Konstantin Duvall a spy and mage meets with Czar Nicolas, Rasputin in tow, King George V, and Kasier Wilhem II. Duvall brings a member of the Arcanum with him to act as secretary for the meeting to discuss what is to be done with the book. Who is this man? Why it’s Arthur Conan Doyle of course. Time passes and Duvall is killed fleeing from his secret lair in the Royal British Museum, because that’s where all the best lairs in England are to be found. Sir Arthur now suffering from writers block since his son Kingsly was killed on the Somme receives word from a backbencher in His Majesties government named Churchill that Duvall is dead, so off to New York goes the Detective, because as we all know Doyle possesses all the powers of his greatest literary creation. Why New York you ask? Well that's where the other members of the famed Arcanum are to be found. I mean seriously if you’re going to create a super team of occult hunters to aid Sherlock Holms… I mean Doyle who else but H.P. Lovecraft, Harry Houdini and Marie Laveau will do. Adventure and hilarity ensue. Crowley even rears his beastly head to aid the hero’s in time of need and reading about Houdini breaking Lovecraft out of Bellvue hospital for the criminally insane by walking the two of them across a telephone wire while a gorilla sized guard chops away with a fire axe is just silly enough for me to forgive the predictable plot. Still the Lost Angles in New York was only worth a chuckle at best.

The books you read need not be high literature and you need not be pretensions about them. Books are not just about passing information on, they can also be about escaping for a time the dreary of your life. The children on the Bookshelf off the BBO need to be bitch slapped into remembering that I fear. Elitist snobbery about your literature doesn’t make you cool it makes you the chump in the corner no one talks to.

I wasted an entire day doing nothing but reading for the sake of reading.
Please don’t cry Navi.