There are two ways to think about Q -Bert. Or not. Maybe there are an indefinite number of ways. Look at all this punctuation.
"Punctuation," the word, always sounded to me like the name of some creepy camp in Pennsylvania, like the one, not the one next to, but the one next to the one next to Crystal Lake.
( ) : ; look at that shit.
You and I, we aren't from here. I know I am not anyway and if this whole universe including me turns out to be a harsh game, well, consider my imagined heart crushed and my fictional breath taken totally away. What a beautifully cruel thing of unimaginable definition and color this place is. What incredible aberrations; what perfect anomalies. I sure as hell don't know what the fuck I am doing here and I am quite certain that you don't either. In fact, I can't recall the nothing I was before. I wonder what the nothing will feel like later. That's how I can do whatever it is that I [...]
I remember the light of the sun shining straight lines of rays through the hollowed-out space above the street-and the dark shadow in the bulky concrete shafts of bleh that rose to the side. I also remember pain. Total pain in my fucking heart and mind. Total static…. It was the end. Manhattan was meant to go cheesecloth and me butter-like the oil of eternity through the laugh track of a commercial in outer space where a mop dances with Fred Astaire and he accidentally drops a sardine off his cracker and says, "Oh dear, summer plums, I have spilled my hors d'oeuvres." Then a bunch of spiders crawl from [...]
I have been reading a lot of stuff about the crystal skulls. Also some stuff about people unearthing a bunch of very tall skeletons. Now I don't know about giant skeletons (people say they are fake-see chupacabras) but this crystal skull stuff is amazing. They even made the old person Indiana Jones movie about all this. They exist. They're… blah blah blah.
It really feels like the end of the world. In science magazines there are articles about colonizing space and other planets but we won't ever do that. We're stuck on the hot rock full of water waiting for the inevitable asteroid. All you have to do is look at the moon-that fucking thing is covered in cosmic ACNE and those craters are made by things flying at 13 miles a second. Somebody get Bruce Willis on the phone. He can handle anything.
Possibly I feel this way because I am getting kind of old. I am slightly narcissistic/self-obsessed so the whole fucking universe needs to be in trouble [...]