I’d rather be lonely, I’d rather be free

What began as scattered rumblings, isolated disquiets, has become a din. The mob is at the gates, bristling with torches and pitchforks.

The insatiable masses, they cry out with one voice. Pleading. Demanding. Threatening.

Post, they say. Post!

And so we shall post.

Much has transpired since we last spoke. The world turns, heedless of us all.

I am twenty four now. It hurts to say it. I feel every second of my near-quarter-century.

I own an electric guitar now, courtesy of my friends. Undoubtedly the coolest, most thoughtful, most heart-rendingly beautiful gift I’ve ever received. Give a man an AC/DC album, and he will rock for a day. Give him a Fender, and he will rock for a lifetime.

Give me a moment to dry my eyes and compose myself.


What else, what else… Oh, South Dakota banned abortion today. Well done. That shit shouldn’t be illegal in South Dakota, it should be mandatory.

Is South Dakota even a state? Isn’t it still a territory, or a protectorate or something? I mean honestly. Idiots. They think they’re being good Christians or some shit, but banning abortion is not what Jesus wants. With abortion you can terminate babies who might be homosexuals, or of mixed race. Did you ever think of that, you savages? Everybody knows Jesus hates the gays way more than he loves babies. You may as well partake of those horrible sins you’ve denied yourselves for so long, like premarital sex or voting Green Party, cuz there’s no way in hell anyone in South Dakota is getting into heaven after this fiasco. You guys are fucked.

When I’m in power, representation in the House will be determined not by population census but by how many professional sports teams your state has. Too bad the Pierre Fightin’ Marmots aren’t good enough for the NBA, right?

Tards. Well I guess it’s not all bad. With the Midwest’s incredibly high degree of teen pregnancy and terminal stupidity, in 18-22 years there will be plenty of strongbacked Dakotan yokels without the skills or frontal lobes to do anything other than join the Army, which should help with our current recruitment deficits in Iraq. Which will still be occupied, of course.

Enough of this. Talking about current events is so 2005. All the fashionable people know that the only two topics of discussion acceptable this season are A) How much you hate Bode Miller and B) Project Runway.
I feel obligated to explain my long absence.

Once, once in a great while, a man in struck with an inspiration so profound it can only be called divine. The idea takes hold of the man the way that crazy ass demon took hold of Linda Blair, consuming the person until the divisions between Art and Artist are fuzzy at best. A man becomes less and more than a man simultaneously. He becomes a conduit. He becomes a superconductor for the Idea. For Greatness. For Beauty.

I am that man.

For the last 27 days and 5 1/2 hours, I’ve been working on what I can only describe as My Masterpiece. Late one night, somewhat disoriented and in strange circumstances, I had an epiphany. One does not have an epiphany the way one has a drink, lightly and with class. One has an epiphany the way one has a baby, with much shrieking and sweating and clenching of unfamiliar muscles. I left whatever horrid bar I was at at the time (the name of the place escapes me) and ran to the nearest Office Max where I purchased a 30 pack of ballpoint pens and five reams of green graph paper. I stopped at 7-11 for Doritos, and some Sparks. I knew, somehow, that this was going to be intense work. Locking my door and wedging a chair beneath the handle, I sat down to write the first true Epic of our time. The New New Testament, as it were. I sat down to write (and please, this is still a working title):

The Stars Over Mars, subtitled Total Recall – The Musical.

I worked on it for eleven days straight without sleep or nutrients, peeing into my little waste bin and resting my eyes only briefly, slumped over my desk. I cranked out all the dialogue, most of the set design, and about half of the major musical numbers in this explosion of hard work before slipping into a coma. I awoke three days later, on Valentine’s Day, to find my room in a state of inhuman filth, my body severely weakened. I had also been fired, and contracted scurvy. And ringworm.

The petty concerns of Society and Propriety were completely behind me, expunged by my inspiration as it were. Rent, hygiene, my outrageously overdue rental of Hustle and Flow from Blockbuster, these trivialities meant nothing to me. I ate a PB&J simply to survive, racked with guilt for each moment I spent away from My Work.

Adapting Total Recall to the stage, adding heartwarming music and inspired monologues, somehow even these monumental tasks didn’t seem enough. I wanted to add my own flair, my own spin on the timeless story…

As those who know me best can attest to, I’ve always been fascinated by Victorian England. The society, the poofy clothing, the pasty women…

Some might say (some without creative vision or any sense of art, beauty, majesty, or grandeur) that changing the time period in which Our Story is set is a bad idea. They complain, as naysayers always do, about stupid details. Fine. If we’re going to split hairs, yes, there was no colony on Mars during the Victorian era, and so from the exceedingly narrow-minded perspective of “chronological accuracy” it does not make sense to portray Mars as being filled with buggies and hoop skirts and frilly collars. HOWEVER.

In my defense, or rather in The Work’s defense, I say this:
Shut up.

Enough. I have revealed overmuch about my grand design already. There is still much dancing alien choreography to be mapped out, and several of the more romantic numbers need reworking. I shall say no more.


Destiny is a horrible thing.

The idea that success, or happiness, or achievement is a sort of unavoidable eventuality…

No one is destined for greatness. No one is destined for anything. The gap between eventualities and possibilities is a much bigger one than many realize.


Also: Fuck the DMV.


I am beset on all sides by ease and simplicity. Lord, protect me from my own weakness. Atrophy is despicable.


Also: I’ve taken up smoking for Lent. Seeing as how I already lie, cheat, steal, gamble, covet, swear, drink, download illegal MP3’s and movies, dance, blaspheme, and tear the tags off of mattresses, smoking was really the only on-again/off-again vice I could think of to take on for these forty days. Now I can say I’m doing my part to balance out archaic Christian rituals in the scheme of things.


[HotSauce]: I was talking to this hot girl today
[Me]: Did you meet her or did you find her profile on MySpace
[HotSauce]: I met her
[Me]: Are you lying?
[HotSauce]: Yes.
[Me]: Of course. Did you send her a message?
[HotSauce]: Yes.
[HotSauce]: No.
[Me]: Are you lying again?
[HotSauce]: …… Yes.
[Me]: You need help
[HotSauce]: I hate you


I have much to attend to. I’ll check back in later.



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