Saturday, 31 August 2013

The Final Question

I've just been watching a bunch of Christopher Hitchens videos and had a realisation...

Atheists must never be allowed to win their arguments.

They must, however, never stop arguing.

Arguments in themselves are what makes a free society. Not answers, not solutions.

A society that utilises solutions is already dead. I found this comment on youtube and realised how fucked we are if there are people who actually think this:


We know the problem, here is the solution.
Declare islam a dualistic, deadly cult, and denounce it as a "religion"..no different than Nazism.
Then DENOUNCE/RENOUNCE muhammad as "the last prophet"
Anyone that cannot do so verbally and in writing should be deported, or denied entry to a Western culture country.
Keep "God is one", get rid of the other part of the muslim battle cry: "muhammad is the last prophet"
A simple solution for eradicating a malignant ideology
 · 14 

Friday, 30 August 2013

I wonder whether the Americans will now call us 'fish n chip eating surrender monkeys' or something to that effect.

I feel like we're the kid who's too cool to go to prom, but secretly wishes he had gone because everyone else got laid

unless of course everyone else dies in which case we'll perhaps feel happy.

Syria as Carrie

Syria Spacek

I'm done.

Thursday, 29 August 2013

Phyrric Victory

What's your living situation at the moment?
I'm living currently in the basement of a house of a couple. They're nice enough - let me do whatever I want but I can't have music too loud.
Dude, you're living with your parents, aren't you?
No.
Ah come on, it's fine. Admit it. It's not such a big deal these days.
I'm really not.
Sure... so this 'couple', what's their names?
Bob and Joe.
Right, right... totally not made up names.... Daddy and Mummy, you mean?
No. Bob and Joe Ratchet.
Ratchet.
Yeah, Ratchet. That a problem?
No... just again sounds kind of made up on the spot.
Well, it's not, believe me.
'Believe me'? That almost sounded impassioned for a minute.
My real parents died in a car crash when I was five.
Oh.
Yeah.
Sorry man.
I win the argument.
Yeah you did. You won the argument.
I won the argument.
Yeah. Well done.
Suck it, bitch.
Okay, bro.
Fuck you, you loser.
Yeah, you're right.
I feel good for winning the argument.
I'm glad.
Actually it wasn't a car crash. I killed them both because they didn't get me a present I liked.
Uh.
I was realised from a psychiatric facility two years ago.
That's... cool.

Pause.

I won the argument.
Yeah you did.

Tuesday, 27 August 2013

Sugar’s the opium of the masses

But I’m immune coz I eat molasses
People go round saying how powerful the US is, how it invades other countries and controls everything in the entire world and that the entire Iraq war was done by the new world order blah blah blah bollocks

But if the US is as crazily powerful and all-controlling, all-knowing and all-something else, how is it that it wasn't able to orchestrate the finding of WMDs in Iraq?

This sounds stupid, but bear with me... surely a government which operates as the world's police force, a dictator, a Satan, the complete totalitarian regime fucking up everyone, surely they'd manage to like... fake it?

But they didn't. They fucked up.

And were kind of honest about it.

Somehow it's scarier realising there is no omnipotent organisation governing our every move and controlling all the media, but it's just a bunch of people in rooms making decisions and really...

Friday, 23 August 2013

Well... shit.

"All life ends at 40," postulated the Arctic Governor.
"That can't be true," swayed I upon my drunken chair. "How can all life end at 40 when there are many, many species that die before they get to 40?"
"Not true either," replied the Arctic Governor, seizing a nearby barrel and cracking it open using his head, before smashing it open using his head, before using his eyes to freeze the liquid within, before realising the liquid within was vodka, and proceeded to kneel down on all fours and lap it like a cat.
A beard swept its lonesome way onto my chin and I gazed. He strangely resembled a diplodocus, but upon further observation, seemed akin to the cat.
"Shit," I said out loud, "I should have stuck with the original."
"The original what?" slurped the Arctic Governor.
Chop chopped away into a helicopter, facing without hope the final turning point. A heartbeat farted throughout the cabinet and all the passengers from my mind proceeded to receive free book tokens as a reward for their agreement that in future roles, their matter regarding the book tokens would be settled and all would be redeemed. Christ, who memorably fucked around with dragons, decided this would be a good day to grab a nearby Idiot,
Fresh slices of pigeon, crushed the napkin Mayflower
/the whole thing is sold and the redeemed book token changes shape, like a Chinese whisper gone astray, unbalancing the quantum function and reinstalling the waveform. Vomit circumstance rubs its hands in anti-cipation and the entire cipation movement goes up in arms.
"All life ends at 0," proposed the Decimal Magnetiser.
"That's impossible," slobbered I upon my icicle, "Existence is graded by numbers."
"That's it though. The numbers do not exist. We created them. Did you know," he suddenly crudded, "The Arabians invented the number 0! Until 976 CE there was no 0!"
"This is shit," I suddenly guffawed, twisting like plasma upon a tired old Stadt, sucking to finished apathetic finality. There was no 0. There was therefore no 1. Binary was robotic, and unnatural. As a result he went to Harvard and got a 2:1. His achievement went unrecognised by him; forever assuming there were no numbers anywhere, he rejected their numerical homoeroticism.

I feel sick. Why did I drink stupid shit and smoke stupid shit? I'm hot and pissed off at myself a little for doing stupid things like that. Sleep would be nice. But can't. Nausea eating away at my insides, as the Red Bull's job, half-finished, is to make my heart beat like a cunt, whilst the alcohol finishes the job by helping create dehydration, and a headache.
And I can't go back out there because I'm stoned and I'm afraid of saying something stupid. I knew this would happen if I had any, and of course I thought having just a tiny bit would be good for me. Maybe it would make me seem cool and uncaring, so uncaring that I can smoke and not be bothered about it. Everyone knows the cool ones are the ones who smoke/drink and don't appear to have gathered any of the effects.
I'm baking. Like, I'm going to actually die of heat.And this is the cooler room. Stupid heart. Stupid head. For fuck's sake. I don't recall feeling this physically shitty since that time I drank Cherryade and it accidentally flushed out of my nose all over the canteen table. Then everyone noticed and did the loser sign. Well no because not American.

Fading consciousness. Words... cannot. Life... worthless. Inevitable voice of Shatner enters head. The master of the ellipsis. Pinter was the master of the pause. Beckett was the mater of silence. Together they make Shittet.

Shittet

Walter Shittet's first play appeared in drunken form scrawled upon the walls of Broadway. Similarly, in the same year, the Broadway Wall was erected, setting a dividing line between the Broad and the Way. The Broad declared independence in 123324, creating its own army and flag. As a response, the Way did absolutely nothing.
The drunken scrawls were glanced at by the passing Master of Arts Percy Fletcher, who had earned his degree by studying an MA and a PF. The PF was rewarded for studying the Master of Arts Percy Fletcher, who was the master of arts at the arts mastery factory based in Arcery Mart located downtown of uptown and round the bendy bend.
The drunken scrawls anyway were deemed to be art of a playwrighty kind despite they appearing to be no particular language in particular particularly. Peculiarly P.Q. Arly witnessed this mistake and dived into a local chocolate.
Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn don't fall asleep yet, you'll be hungover and ill.
The play, with its unknown language and heavy-set pauses, went on to be a failure. Critics complained that the silences were longer than the script, and it felt like it was "just a bit of a waste of time" by P.Q.Arly - a critical response that no critic read and consequently could not reply to, despite the quote being embedded on page 85 of Theatre Womb magazine in Braille, and indelible ink, and knife etchings.
I like how this makes pretty much as little sense as other nonsense pieces I've written but the problem this time is that every now and then the words become real. And I realise that I'm being propelled to write to try and let my mind calm down, because it's not calm because of the stupid Red Bull, and that if I close my eyes whilst feeling this rough then I'll want to hurl. And I can only hurl once everyone's gone to bed.
Why do people enjoy this shit?

That said, I do seem to have got the Famous Munchies. Only because I'm hungry. Does that count? I wonder whether people dying of starvation ever smoked weed and were like
"Oh fuck man, I'm starving!"
"I'd eat like, a slice of pizza!"
"Dude that would be the best!"
"Yeah. That would be the best."
"We could always just each other."

Then the world's most grotesque version of Face/Off happens. And teeth get involved. And faces. And the word 'off.' Without spoiling the ending, I'm going to spoilen the ending and suggest that Faces Are Teeth Off. I wonder what it's like being eaten by a face.
Yes.
What.
You're getting quite stoned, aren't you?
Vaguely.
You pleased with yourself, little man?
No.
Wish you could go to sleep now, don't you?
Yeah.
Wish you would stop feeling sick now, don't you?
Yep.
Wish you were a yeoman now, don't you?
Yeo.
Done.

Arnie Yeoman had had his last case. He yeoed a man last week and damned if it hadn't been ought. It would have been tough but Yeoman was dyslexic. He did however time his runs to perfection, which meant that the Baron of Carrion could not escape the manliness of his yeo.
"Shit," said Yeoman, pulling his yeo from the back of the Baron. "Fucking cyborg all along."
He went back to Londone (that's how they spelt it in the olden days) and wheezed up the marble stairs until he beheld Queen Elizabeth herself upon the golden throne. Gaolden throne more like, he laughed at himself, pretending it was something sort of comment on the prison system and not a typo because then he'd have to change his name to Arnie Typoman, and it's a lot harder to his baron cyborgs in the back wielding a typo. "Shit," he said again. "She's a droid." He pointed his thing at the queen, who recoiled in terror. She wasn't called the virgin queen for nothing, he said out loud. Then he grabbed his yeo and twatted about with it for a while.
"Yeo," he sang. "Yeo. Daylight come and me wanna go home."
"Ye," retorted Elizabeth, "before singing the rest of that weird bit in the song."
"Ah," replied Yeoman, putting down his yeo. "You must be human. No one who has heard that song can resist singing along in a failed manner like you just did."
"Did not!" said Natasha Richardson. Oh wait she's dead.
"Did not!" said Miranda Richardson. The name Miranda was then moved on; another Miranda took her place and so the great line was continued ad nauseum. Then nauseum changed her name to Miranda and all was well.
Until next time! screamed a bronz.

Everyone's gone to bed but I still can't move. What can I really do? I can't sleep, I can't eat. I have a little water but the thought of drinking makes me feel rough. I suppose I could take some paracetamol.
Closing my eyes, I remember what I was going to go out there for. To vomit. To vomit acid from my beleagured stomach. The Red Bull did it. Damn you, Red Bull.
Well no, two glasses were about the equivalent of one can.
Dude, we all know what did it. Let's not beat around the bush.
You ever wonder whether Kate Bush's husband indulged in domestic abuse at any point just so he could make that joke?
Man, this is weird. I can actually hear the characters from Edgy Show saying this dialogue.
Dude, no way. Oh shit.
What.
Here comes Danny De Vito.
Shit. Dom diddy dom diddy dom.
Don't fucking sing that song.
Why? Everyone likes it. It made that advert.
Dude, you're English. How the fuck do you ever know about that advert?
Dommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Shut the fuck up.
Toaster sandwiches. Ever see such a thing?
Oh god stop this - I can't stop hearing our voices.
Our? Their?
No, transgressions all getting cummed upon.
So I can still hear the characters' voices even when writing that.
Hail Satan! I shit my pants! Yep I heard that. And that. And that.
But that's not even surprising dude, because those are the kind of things we'd say.
Ok.
Existential platinum whacking 'em. Who invented Whack a Mole? Fucking cruelty to animals, that is.

ffs how many stupid words is this
Nutcase delirium fancies a fuck in the rancid doorway. Piss in the sink floats down and out and ends up there. High rise flats nibble crackers upon wistful balconies. The moon sneers into the grime. Liquor passes from animal to animal. Yodels and brawls trade places within the cauldron. Tossed back and forth, the world floats within the oyster. The world is...

Fuck that wasn’t intended

And anyway. So many unbeginnings, too little time for satisfaction here. I last bailed on my hay back after escaping from Bale Hay, a Jail Bait that was located in Sale Bay, a Frail Boy saw me sleeping on a bed of lies and decided he would let me have a mattress in exchange because he was incapable of lying. On the mattress. Touching his face with my old bear hands [sic] I was sick inevitably upon his lobster, and from that we get babies.
Pocket dog. I remember that fucking time we went to Fucking Town.
Fuck me. Been a while since I went down to Fucking Town.
I put the wrong petrol in my car in Fucking Town, just to watch him diesel.
And they sing a song called Fucking Town, and that’s also where babies came from.

Imagine right.
Ok.
Imagine left.
Oh. Like that is it. Is that it? Is that all you’ve got, Fucking Town? Too late for this. Too late for piss. Too late for incest. To set in their ways. Touche, one day we’ll fly, and when that happens, we’ll have misaligned ourselves with the gods and be condemned to Hell, for a day. And then we’ll sing it again, and this time it’ll be true. We’ll fly back to Earth and emerge from underneath the arches and become jolly cockneys.
Or cock-er-nees as Donna says. Well damn, I miss her. Well shit. Well piss! Well well well. I shot a welly once. Had to get it out of the mud. But I couldn’t get it out. Best thing to do would be to shoot it, I thought. So I shot it. And it hurt. And I wondered whether I was mourning for the welly. But of course I was mourning for the bullet I’d thrown away. This was the same bullet that killed my grandfather. It was handed down to him by the bullet that killed his grandfather, and his grandfather before him.
Bruce Bullet found himself passing from master to master. He often had to go places in the country,  move out. It was tough on the kids. Little Steve Bullet had emotional problems, they said. Couldn’t get on with the other kids, they said. Couldn’t read, they said. Was a fucking bullet, they said. First of all, replied Bruce Bullet, I can’t speak, because I’m also a fucking bullet, so really, what’s the point of this meeting?
Ah, it’s just this, Mr. Bullet. Your son isn’t performing to national standards. His behaviour isn’t great - he keeps trying to shoot people.
That’s him walking.
He occasionally succeeds. The other day he caused a child to nearly lose their arm.
He was playing. Kids play.
He tried ‘playing’ with my son the other day who, as you well know, also is a pupil at this school.
Your school’s a pupil? Wow!
No, you stoned cunt. You meant to say
Yeah. Shall I try it again?
- Roll with the same take, screamed the director in a silent voice.
Bruce Bullet flexed his neck, hexed his penis, and
Your son’s a pupil? He sad.
Said.
Sad.
Fuck. Yes, my son’s a pupil.
That’s cool. He must be quite similar in interests!
How do you mean.
I mean... they’re both round black circles, aren’t they? Plenty to talk about there.
No, sir. Your son is a bullet. An actual bullet.
But I was going to use bullets in the Word document as illustration.
You’re too stoned and tired to do that. You’re actually visualising and hearing me as the woman from Edgy Show.
Yeah, okay. But the joke was -
I know. Sit down, sir. Your son is an actual bullet, and so are you. It’s quite hard for me to try and converse with you, because as you are sitting on the chair in front of my desk instead of actually on my desk as I requested, I can’t see you at all and am pretty sure I heard you roll off it two minutes ago.
I did. I’m... on the floor.
This is why your son is failing. Because you are the sort of parent who doesn’t speak up. Who doesn’t do anything. Who has mackerels for breakfast. Who watched a generation of gnats grow old. Who babysits mittens. Who travels the world in search of ‘genuine ketchup.’ Who punches the living daylights out of all the Bond films, so that Roger Daltry doesn’t get a look in -
Seriously. What. I mean, Roger Daltrey? That’s not even close to Roger Moore.
To Sean Connery.
No. To Timothy Dalton.
I didn’t know you were a fan.
I’m not. I’m a bullet.
And now you sound like like a stupid sketch from the thirties.
Like like? That’s a bad guy in the Zelda series. You can’t speak properly.
Yes, but that’s exactly what I mean. You sound like a like like from the thirties.
Erm... Zelda games weren’t even made in the thirties.
I’m sorry you have no imagination.
But.
No, you’re a bullet.
Oh ho! Oh HO! Oh GOD! OH GOD!
Fine. Your son’s going to be expelled.
Ah, but I don’t remember having ever being impelled.
But that’s like saying imposition is the opposite of exposition.
It’s actually the same. It’s being imposing to be exposed to.
Oh, you absolutely illiterate stoned unfunny cocksucking monkeyfucker.
Not heard that one for a while. Should tide things tide and I’m going home. I’m gonna be your.
Oh, don’t leave me hanging.
That’s what the snot said.
Your son has a snot for a friend?
Oh, sorry, no. That would be really stupid. Come on. He’s a bullet. Does that really surprise you?
You are full of slurps, Master Bullet.
Slurps. Why is slurps such a disturbing word? It is because it takes so long to say? Is it because it rhymes with icdjgfoigurps? Is it because we have no toilet paper left? Is it because the lunch queue jumpers went on strike and as a result fifty people that day were struck by people jumping in front of them, hoping they were a queue?
A man did this, and the man he did this was actually, right, huh, get this yeah - the man himself was queuing like, in front of nothing.
Wow, like, that’s like so fucking random? So he queued for nothing in front of nothing? Whoa.
Okay, fine. You don’t like that. We can do something else. What have you got?
Well, I’ll try the slush pile. Sometimes you find nuggets. Hmm, let me see. Used windowsills. Christmas pudding that contains so much alcohol that it actually is 100% proof. Cookies that never crumble. Milk that never spills. Trees that resist barking. Clouds without silver linings. Blammo. It’s been a donkey one, hasn’t it? Yep, yep. That kind of nonsense era where moustaches rule the galaxy and all techno pop is downgraded to ‘even shitter than scraping your teeth against a chalk board’ which, seeing as neither teeth nor chalk boards exist anymore ever since they were replaced by whiteboards,
Yes.
No.
Yes. All teeth in the future are actually whiteboards. Think of it. Just think of the potential. You could cheat on so many exams. All you’d need to bring with you into an exam would be a mirror and a magnifiying glass. Oh, and also the ability to write backwards. Oh yeah, and also the ability to write all the answers on a tooth. Oh, and all the answers.
Not looking so good for you now, my man, is it? Time for me to create a bit of hubris by suggesting that you pitch me against the whole of Falkirk.
Influenza runs a mock campaign against the mayor of Falkirk, who became a fall gay. Yes, a fall gay for the last line in the Fall. The circle cannot hold. Falkirk formed part of the circle, and Ted knew this. Yes, Ted knew this. Falkirk
Urgh god that motorbike just destroyed my head. I can’t believe I have to get up early tomorrow. Ok, let’s think. I have to be home at one by the latest. So that means I have to set off at eleven. So really... I could get up at ten. I’m still okay. Yes, I’m great. It’s two o’ clock. Way I see it, I’m not even sure whether I’ll feel better by three o’ clock. I guess right now I do feel a bit less hot, and a bit more capable of getting up and going to the kitchen. I can still hear Abby talking to people outside. Where in God’s holy name does she get the energy from?
Energy. Wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle.
“Sir,” said GBH Agent Winston Lobotomy, striding across the room, holding a piece of important-looking paper in his fingers because, after all, that is what we hold paper in - between fingers, not in the hands as such, otherwise it would screw up. “I believe you need to take a look at this.”
Captain (captain) Vice Aldermaroy, chief of staff of the GIF lowered his strangely oblique wooden-lensed glasses and frowned at Lobotomy. His stony face resembled a spastic. Tie-dye t-shirts used to be all the rage, he mused. Kids don’t care about that kind of stuff these days. All into their computer games and porn. “What is it, Lobotomy?”
“Someone’s written the worst lyric in the whole world.” He handed Aldermaroy the piece of paper.
Energy. Wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle.
Aldermary made a growling, groaning sound that Lobotomy hadn’t heard since Aldermary strode in one way and announced “I’m going to show you all the sound I make when I’m really mad.” At this point Lobotomy took a mental note, saying to himself, “This might come in handy later.” To which his erstwhile colleague Erst While replied
“Like hell it will.”
“Like you know. And anyway, your name’s Erst Weill. Makes more sense that way.”
“Well no, because there’s no such name as Erst. I’m Ernest.”
“Well no, it’s pretty obvious what you are. You know what you are? You’re Just a Godamned Kid. You don't have the faintest idea what you're talkin' about. If I asked you about art, you'd probably give me the skinny on every art book ever written. Michelangelo, you know a lot about him. Life's work, political aspirations, him and the pope, sexual orientations, the whole works, right? But I'll bet you can't tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You've never actually stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling; seen that. If I ask you about women, you'd probably give me a syllabus about your personal favourites. You may have even been laid a few times. But you can't tell me what it feels like to wake up next to a woman and feel truly happy. You're a tough kid. And I'd ask you about war, you'd probably throw Shakespeare at me, right, "once more unto the breach dear friends." But you've never been near one. You've never held your best friend's head in your lap, watch him gasp his last breath looking to you for help. I'd ask you about love, you'd probably quote me a sonnet. But you've never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. Known someone that could level you with her eyes, feeling like God put an angel on earth just for you. Who could rescue you from the depths of hell. And you wouldn't know what it's like to be her angel, to have that love for her, be there forever, through anything, through cancer. And you wouldn't know about sleeping sitting up in the hospital room for two months, holding her hand, because the doctors could see in your eyes, that the terms "visiting hours" don't apply to you. You don't know about real loss, 'cause it only occurs when you've loved something more than you love yourself. And I doubt you've ever dared to love anybody that much. And look at you... I don't see an intelligent, confident man... I see a cocky, scared shitless kid. But you're a genius, Will. No one denies that. No one could possibly understand the depths of you. But you presume to know everything about me because you saw a painting of mine, and you ripped my fucking life apart. You're an orphan right?
Will nodded.
Sean: You think I know the first thing about how hard your life has been, how you feel, who you are, because I read Oliver Twist? Does that encapsulate you? Personally... I don't give a shit about all that, because you know what, I can't learn anything from you, I can't read in some fuckin' book. Unless you want to talk about you, who you are. Then I'm fascinated. I'm in. But you don't want to do that do you sport? You're terrified of what you might say. Your move, chief.
That’s cool bro, but why did you say the word ‘Sean’ for no reason? You’re scared to death, old man. Bene there, done that.
You spelt it wrong, son. Bene is an Italian pasta dish.
You don’t think I know that? I know that. I know you got apples. How do you like them?
I like ‘em fine, kiddo. Trust me, said Robin Williams from Good Will Shitting, I’m a doctor.
A doctor of what?
Bacon.
Ah, I should have guessed. Just a Gehenna. Just a Robson. You’re no better than Bobby Davro. Got a twenty for kicks and a buttermilk flavouring. Your favourite form of dodger is marmalady. If you kiss, you always tell. You once went on Sesame Street and butchered the cast. You once went into a butcher and threw a bunch of sesame seeds around. I’ve seen you treat vampires to extra helpings. If you were offered a lettuce, you would turn it down for being too dry. You think you’ve got it made but you’ve got nothing to vouch for save a couple of Tesco vouchers. Bologna is located in Italy. I don’t know whether to call you a pumpkin.
The bell rings.
Sean: Why do bridges have Terance Stamp upon their sides?
Bean: Because the giants must be appeased. They enjoy him. If they do not get worshipped, they emerge. And you know what?
Yes.
They all look like Terence Stamp.
Narc.
Cop?
No, I was being short and hip for narcassist. This is how it is in the middle class neurotic ghetto. We have shortened word-forms for everything that related to life in the hood. That’s short for parenthood. I gave my kids the gene that made them bald. They were born bald and I laughed. Then they grew hair and I despaired. Then I read a book and it said that men go bald and I laughed. Then I realised that was what was happening to me and I despaired. Then I decided I would go down to the river and plonk some lunchboxes into it, to see if they could make it to Delaware. They ended up in Tupperware. I was close, I ventured. Unfortunately, it meant that all the Delas out where ended up in wares section, replacing the wolves so that in the end all werewolves became Delaware. And that’s where babies came from.
Lou. Ya fuck. Don’t go near my stash of pistachios.
Her face, was light, like an enzyme made of matchsticks and regret. I danced upon her grave and lolloped angrily upon realising I wasn’t Irish. Decided to eat some ginger. Rotted from the inside. Turned out I had turned-out pockets. Checked inside: cancer.
Fuck.
Yeo.
Not him again.
Step aside folks, said the cop, lifting up his shirt and revealing his abs, nothing to see here.
The issue with tissues is how easily they rhyme with issue and are the first word to spring to mind when considering chopsticks. The ‘tissue issue’ issue was discussed in the United Nations, brought up as Charter 3023. Charter 3023 was a secret kept secret from all but the highest levels of government. Fortunately for me, I was able to get to a high level of government and entered the door where Charter 3023 was kept. I was then able to discover its secrets. It was only the next day that I realised I had been drunk and had written it myself.
Trying to ensure I didn’t lose my job, I created a lie. A fable. A parable. A para-fable.
A para-fable? Is that Aesop? The story of how the little boy ran out between the tracks and got run over, losing the use of his legs?
Hurrrrrrrrrrr you’re so fucking edgy.
Hurrrrrrrrrrrrrr you’re such a cunt because you use hurrrrrrrrrrr
Shut up and get back to the project.
Yeaaaaaaaaa. The projects. That’s where I’m from, yo.
My name isn’t Yo. It’s...
[strangling him]
It’s...
[strangling him even more]
It’s Neo!
Neo jumped up like the devil, ramming the agent onto the ceiling, but not before another appeared.
I’m Yeo.
And the yeoman returned in his first full-length adventure consisting of one sentence: this one.
Folks, said the organiser of the organ festival. We’re going to set the world record in organ-playing. Together we can make history. Together - we can create time and space. Together, we can change the world. Together... we can make history.
You just said that.
The organs all prepared themselves. Then bam. And the sound of a thousand vibrations shattered into the pores of the very earth itself, and rendered unto the soil a vast crack, but a crack which was quickly revealed to be probably something that’s gonna set you back what, about a hundred quid if you act upon it now, but that’s assuming you act upon it now of course; most people will go and just like laugh it off you know, never listen to the builder man, he doesn’t know anything because he’s juts the builder but believe me, I’ve done enough jobs to tell you, tell you you fucking cunt, are you listening?
Yeah, I’m listening.
I’m gonna fucking tell you that that cracks gonna fucking get worse unless you let us take care of it quick.
Did you know an interesting face?
Face?
Fact.
No.
You have recently said two sentences which contain the same word happening twice in a row. There’s a name for it. I can’t for the life of me remember what it is, but...
Fucking remember it now! shat the builder, holding a nerf gun up to the middleclassman’s face.
What’s it like to be eaten by a face?
Not now!  You have a nerf in your face, soldier. What do you do?
Well, whilst I’m impressed you knew I was a soldier, I know for a fact that gun isn’t loaded. Check it all you like, but you know as well as I know that that gun isn’t loaded. Huh, now you’ve got me doing it. Should probably watch my mouth, seeing as it has a gun pointed at it. But that’s the issue here. I know like you know that that gun isn’t even a real nerf gun.
It is, said the builder, pressing the trigger, but to no consequence except a stupid clicking sound.
FUCK screamed the middleclassman, holding his hands up to his ears. How did you know I’m averse to clicking noises?
Since I went trekking with you to Africa and we watched that tribe and you fucking freaked out man, do you remember that? How old were you then, man? Like what, eight?
Yeah, eight. A hard eight. I rolled the wrong number of life. Toked on my last kebab. Sucked on my last Phil. Ate twenty-one too many crisps. He sighed, and wondered when he might get tired. Wasn’t happening anytime soon. Previous stoned-babbling record had just been surpassed.
But yeah I was going to do some stupid joke around the word ‘nerfed’ and its relationship to weaponry in modern day multiplayer death arenas (or MDMA) and make some sort of satirical comment suggesting that weaponry in real life is simply an extending of the phallus produced by the correct, to use the parlance, ‘gear’ used within these, as you say...
MOOPROGS.
Yes. Moonpig, com.
Thank you for that.
I didn’t sing it.
You must have. There is no way of actually saying those words. You must sing them.
And he sang them. And it was a big palaver, mostly in Andrew Pavlova’s mission, within which balked a roasting church, sitting inside a heatwave. Only the cooling love of Jesus Christ can stop the hellish furnace surrounding us, said the preacher.

You could always buy air conditioning, replied a church-goer.

Sunday, 18 August 2013

something that begun as a rumination on writers' block became the best thing I've written for a while (imo)

Block
“Grab this process you're in now by the throat and squeeze the goddamned life out of it, write about how you hate the ordinary beauty and how church bells suck so much you want to AK-47 them. Write about your inner chaos and confusion, emptiness and doubt. You can do it. I believe in you. It might become your best material. Catharsis, honey. Stop thinking, start writing.
- Person in random forum


Well, fuck.
See, it’s been a while since I applied pen to paper. Last time I tried to write something profound, with full-on earnest seriousness, I was a younger man. Time was mine to own then. There were no parents in my face trying to forge me into one of those normals, trying to force my ‘working’ hours to adhere to the accepted allocated slots. Unemployment and living outside of home proved a lethal, if productive combination. Slight misuse of comma there. See, it’s slipping already. Never mind. Let me take you on a journal. The mistyping there was originally a mistake but I like it. No wait, I hate it. It’s stupid. This whole thing’s stupid. What am I trying to do? Relate my own idiotic life to someone else’s?
Fine. I’ll do what I’ve done before. I’ll create some meaningless characters as I go, so that I don’t feel quite as self-conscious about rendering my own existence henceforth upon a page.

The time was odd, and Lester Bangs lay marinating on a bed shaped like the shell of a porpoise. Six of the clock, and time for Bangs to remonstrate with the lifeguard. Lest the other customers suspect he was a cock, Bangs went down his usual route.
“I say,” he said, saying something as he sidled up to the bar. “Bit of a bonkers morning, isn’t it?”
“I couldn’t say, sir,” didn’t say the man on the bar. “Bit of wind, perhaps.”
“How dare you,” replied Lester, grabbing the man by the lapels and slapping him about the face a few times. Nobody was looking. The entire event took seconds, and reached a decibel level equal to that of a leopard playing chess.

Remember bizarro? Remember the importance of nonsense? Remember the comedy of inserting a random animal doing something random to augment the projected image of the author as random? That’s what’s missing. Your randomness. You used to be able to pluck insanity out of the air, and plonk it down upon a page, deadpan faced all the while. You can barely remember those times, now. Barely able to comprehend your own freedom, your own trust in yourself, your own sense of achievement.
She’s done it to you. No, she hasn’t. Yes, she has, of course she has. Someone who hasn’t achieved much provides a perfect role model for you. No, no no. That’s ridiculous, and assumes I’m a tool who follows anyone around him. Well you are, aren’t you? Fuck off, I’m a failure on my own terms. I need to stop taking medication. My mind is cotton. All is fattening. Connections lost. Links severed. No more paranoia, no more meta-narrative, no more quixoticism. And I’m not even getting laid.

Portions allocated, the canteen lady doled out her latest mashed potato, a doleful look upon her features. Her name, aptly, was Ms. Dole, although no students knew that or cared to know that. Why there were no dinnermen, she would never know. All her life had been a creaky tale of caution and regret. Lust thrown to the wind. Dangerous scents ignored for easy roses. No risks, no failure, but all failure as a result. Student after student, assembly line of little futures lining up, never looking her in the eye, because they all knew the truth: she meant nothing. Her job could be done by anyone else. Anyone.
“I am nothing,” she said.
The last student raised her head. “What?”
“I am nothing,” repeated Ms. Dole.
“Er...” The student looked round, wondering if her mates were nearby so she could laugh at the woman and not feel bad because everyone else did it too (only feeling bad years later, but who cared about years later when the demands of being fifteen were more important than anything else) but she was alone. “You’re... not nothing.”
“I am. I just serve food all day, every day. You could do this job. You ought to get yourself a good job. I might kill myself later tonight. I shouldn’t say this to you, I know, but I can’t help myself. I hear these words coming out of my mouth, but I don’t feel like this moment is real, that it’s really me saying it, and yet it is, and I feel more myself than I have for years, because I’ve been running on autopilot really, getting older and fatter and uglier and the worst thing of all is that nobody cares, nobody notices, least of all my husband, but that’s somehow the worse part of it all, it’s like he thinks I’m a baby without any real feelings and if he just says what he thinks is the right thing then it’ll make everything okay, but it’s not like that! I’m not a baby, I’m a person!”
The student beheld the shiny tears and drooping chin. The primary emotion that flooded her own brain, somewhat offsetting the impact of the adrenalin surge, was disgust. No adult should be saying things like these. The woman was obviously crazy and ought to be locked up somewhere.
“Yeah, you’re a person.”
“Oh fuck off, what do you know?”
The dinner lady went storming off to the back somewhere, presumably to start crying or get carted away.
The student stared after her for a while. Maybe she should tell the head teacher. But she’d get fired then. Fired for what, though? For being mental. You can’t fire someone for being mental. Maybe she’s not mental. Maybe she had a breakdown. But that’s not what a breakdown is like. She was just moaning. But moaning a lot. Yeah but that’s what breakdowns are. When people can’t stop moaning. And she did look mad. Yeah. She did look mad. So what? What do I do? Dunno. Go to lesson.
So she walked out of the canteen and made her way to her Art lesson where she was on the verge of babbling everything to her mates Kerri and Chloe but something held her back. Something about the woman didn’t lend itself well to gossip. It would be the type of gossip that wouldn’t gain approval but concern instead, and perhaps some sort of vilification of the student’s own inability to console the dinner lady properly. Vulnerability was a generally repulsive concept. Got to be hard. Look at the kids who aren’t. The geeks. The ones who walk around like life owes them a favour. Yeah it’s sad that they have no friends, but they expect the world to turn around them, and sulk when it doesn’t. Just because they’re sad doesn’t make them better people.
The student two weeks later, with a heavy bag on her back, fell into a state of uncertainty. The dinner lady was no longer working there. Perhaps she’d taken leave. A break. Perhaps she’d been fired. Maybe she’d even... no, that thought was just gross. Because if she had, it would be the student’s fault for not saying anything to anyone, and that sort of thing is just too much to think about. Imagine if the dinner lady had killed herself, though. What could the student say about it to people? ‘Oh, I talked to her before she did it’. Then they’d all say she killed the dinner lady, wouldn’t they? And then she’d get bullied. And then she’d be the one considering suicide. All this thinking about suicide made the student feel rather empty inside so she went to English and stopped thinking about it.
Three weeks later she thought about it again. This time she had to tell someone.  So she went up to the school counsellor and decided to unleash it all. Pure information. And that feeling of weird adrenalin came over her again as she spoke, and she discovered that strange sensation described by the dinner lady, the feeling that as she spoke, the words tumbling from her mouth weren’t really hers but someone else’s, and as she listened to these words, she was floating outside of herself. What a feeling it was - like being inside a film that someone else was watching, but she was nonetheless compelled to come back down to earth once the counsellor asked a question.
“Would you like some biscuits?”
“No, I’m alright, thanks.”
The counsellor stared at the student for a moment, with the forefingers of both hands poised delicately upon her upper lip, studiously considering the student’s face. “You ought to.”
“No, I’m fine, really.”
The counsellor picked up the plate and silently offered it to the student, who without hesitation took three Custard Creams, snatching them like a wary animal. The counsellor stole a sidelong glance at the girl before setting the plate back down - she wore a look of frowning pleasure, that strange mixture of two emotions that suggested cognitive dissonance (unacknowledged on any but the deepest part of the student’s subconcious) forming part of the student’s overall aura of dissatisfaction. The next question was the one that the counsellor knew was hated by everyone who entered her room, but knew it was the most important and necessary out of all of them.
“So what made you come to see me today?”
“Well, you know,” mumbled the student between hesitant nibbled mouthfuls. She wiped the crumbs from her skirt. “She told me stuff, and I thought I’d tell you. Because you know, I’m worried about her and that.”
“Rest assured, she’s in safe hands. I personally haven’t talked to her, but I know from reliable sources that she has been put on leave and, whilst I can’t divulge any personal details, has been advised and taken advice on suitable medical treatment. Now.” She raised her voice a little, and leant forward, then, reprimanding herself for the implied aggression of the body language, settled for a more relaxed pose, making sure her arm did not drape itself over the shelf which would have implied an over-casual stance. “What brings you here today?” The emphasis shifted in the appropriate manner.
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“Me? I’m fine.”
A typical response. An answer to a question that hadn’t been asked.
“How is life in school treating you?”
“Alright.”
This was getting nowhere. The counsellor had checked out the student’s information beforehand (hence the need for students to make appointments). Nothing remarkable, which was an indication that if there was an issue, it had probably been kept quiet for a long time. Intelligent student, attaining level sixes, hints of level seven - but the feeling that came to the counsellor was of a student distracted by something else. Most teenagers of course were distracted, whether by the opposite sex, computer games, and other such activities, but others were distracted in a less obvious and predictable way. Generally speaking, all students made advances  as they advanced through the system. This student’s grades were dropping. Very subtly, yes: but that drop, however minute, indicated perhaps that something had happened recently. At times like these, the counsellor was grateful for the emphasis (some would say over-emphasis) on regular formative assessment. Of course, the slight drop in grades could be nothing more than an anomaly: nonetheless, it would be worth probing, in a direct manner that a student with intelligence would hopefully appreciate. And so:
“Anything happened recently?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, has anything happened to you recently that you might want to get off your chest?” She inwardly winced at her own over-casual language implying that the matter was of little importance.
The student blanched a little, shifting her body to the side slightly and adopting guarded body language. This was something big, and the girl didn’t like how quickly it had been picked up. Best tack now would be to move back.
“Nothing,” the girl said.
“Okay. Remember though if there is anything troubling you, this is the place to talk about it. You know who I report to, but apart from Ms. Loughborough, there is no other means by which what we say leaves this room.”
“Yeah, I know.”
And now came a necessary silence.
“It’s just... well, the dinner lady, she was talking about suicide.”
“Right.”
“And she was like... it’s like she was possessed suddenly by something - she just flipped. I saw something in her eyes, it was like... she didn’t look human. This sounds mental, doesn’t it?”
“No.”
“You’re just saying that.”
No need to answer that one, either.
“Well, whatever, I’m just going to say it. This sounds stupid but I’m just going to say it anyway.”
“Alright.”
“It made me feel scared. Like, really scared. Like, you know when you were a kid, and things were a lot scarier?”
“Yes. I had a fear of the dark.”
“Yeah, me too. I had that thing each night where if someone accidentally turned off the light, I was so scared I couldn’t even shout for them to turn it back on. Because I also felt ashamed. So that mixture of feeling ashamed and feeling scared mixed together into something horrible. I had forgotten that feeling until that dinner lady started... jabbering. This horrid shivery feeling went up my back, and it was like I was transported to being a little kid in the dark again, and she was the monster from my nightmares. Which of course made me feel bad, because I knew she was just a woman going a bit bonkers, but it was like...”
“It was something that was distressing for you to see.”
“No. Well yeah, but you know, that makes me sound like I’m some little kid who gets scared by whatever.”
“You don’t need to feel guilty.”
“Mmm.”
“You know the word ‘empathy’?”
“No.”
“It’s like sympathy, only it’s a more direct feeling whereby someone actually takes on someone else’s feelings. In other words, you experienced the fear that the dinner lady was feeling. Her fear became your fear. You cared about her, and you felt scared because you realised you couldn’t really do anything to stop it.”
“Yeah.”
“And you realised that you are, after all, only a child. Most days you forget that, which is of course part of growing up, but it’s when you’re confronted with your own youth that you feel ashamed of it, and scared, and that’s the mixture that you felt as a child. So you felt the emotion come up from before and that in itself made you feel...”
“Bad.”
“Yeah.”
“This is like some proper therapy shit.” She immediately clamped a hand over her mouth.
“It’s fine. Students swear in here all the time.”
“Alright.”
The clock tocked. Playground noises somewhere outside felt a million miles away. In here time stopped. The walls’ neutrality reflected the timelessness of its quest: the neutralise the negative, to dissolve acidic neuroses.
“So what do you think?”
“About what?”
“Me. I’m mental, aren’t I?”
“No, not at all.”
“But I feel mental.”
A fly landed on the counsellor’s trousers, which she brushed off.
“Tell me about that,” she said, whilst thinking that it had been a while since she washed these trousers. Got them fifteen years ago and they still fitted. Quite good that, really. Unless they stretched.
“You speak like a robot, you know.”
She did not look up from her trouser leg but realised she’d been slacking. More angry at herself than anything, she replied flatly, “Stop avoiding the issue.”
“Alright, fine, I feel like everything is meaningless and empty, that my friends secretly hate me, that my future is empty, that my parents want me to be something I never can be, I want to be dead sometimes, I occasionally think about cutting myself, and worst of all, I’ve seen some really fucked up stuff on the internet. So yeah.”
The counsellor allowed herself to stare at the student following that speech. Funny how confessions and vulnerability seemed always to shrink people. Perhaps an inadvertent way for patients to show the therapist that they feel child-like emotions atavistic in nature.
“I will refer you on to my superior, and advise them, but I also take my patients’ wishes into consideration.”
“Why?”
“That’s part of what makes a good guidance counsellor. It’s considered good practise.”
“What do you see when you see me? Just another mental patient?”
“... What would you like me to do?”
A moment’s pause, a slight look of anger from the student at her question being ignored. The clock ticked on the wall, indicating that the session was coming to an end. It must feel strange for intelligent students like this to realise that every single part of what felt like a spontaneous discussion was in fact very precisely structured to facilitate full primary diagnoses based on first impressions. A student like this perhaps needed no more than acknowledgment of her own normality. Of course, the can of worms possibility was that there was a mindset which required more than that, a wish to be seen as special somehow, which led to far too many other problems which even she, the counsellor knew were beyond her skill to heal. She resisted the urge to sigh. Sigh for what? Who knew. The mind, the burdens of the mind when placed in the wrong body, the wrong time and space. Such a miraculous tool, but cursed with so many technical issues, each new one being discovered like a new species each passing year.
“I dunno. Pills or something?”
“Seeing as you are only fifteen, the general approach is not to rush into prescriptions; however, with further therapy, then we will definitely take into consideration the possibility of medication, particularly if, as you say, you are experiencing suicidal thoughts and, as you put it, thoughts of cutting.”
“I never actually cut though.”
“Yes, but you never know. Well, you are of course welcome to come back any time.”
“Oh. That it?”
“Yes.”
“Will it be you here again?”
“I am going on holiday for a month or two, but after that I’ll be here until the end of the year.”
“Where are you going then?”
“I’m  moving away.”
“Why?”
A pause which seemed to last a lifetime; in the counsellor’s case, the course of an entire lifetime for this student, whose existence flashed before her eyes. The first unsatisfying relationship, and the dreadful break-up. Then would come the actual cutting. A gradual academic decline. Scraped 2:2 degree in an increasingly uncertain world, where rejection seemed the norm, where friends seemed to swim before her, ever elusive. The people she would think would stick around forever would vanish with each passing year, for reasons never quite grasped, although suspected: that there was something wrong, something deeply ingrained. A pattern that had begun from childhood. A pattern which, the sooner it was dealt with, could be changed, but would require intensive, weekly therapy, and definitely with someone better qualified than this present counsellor. In short, the student was presenting features that indicated borderline personality disorder.
At that moment, the counsellor scribbled something in her notepad, as if suddenly struck by a thought. The student felt herself frowning, as bewilderment crept behind her neck and whispered negativity into her ears.
“Have I said something bad? Sorry if I was rude.”
“No, nothing bad,” said the counsellor, finishing scribbling, and looking up at the student. It seemed as though her gaze had turned harder, a spotlight trained professionally on those who needed to divulge whatever answers she needed. “I’m going to send the information I’ve gleaned from this session to Ms. Loughborough, and she will send a letter home letting your parents know what we recommend.”
The student’s face was almost comical in its look of bitter betrayal. She stood up, and looked dangerously close to kicking her chair over.
“Why are you getting my parents involved? I thought this was just between us!”
“Ms. Loughborough - ”
“But you never said my parents!”
The session had gone ten minutes over now. Fortunately it seemed there was nobody else waiting, no kid who’d been bullied mercilessly for being fat, who needed nothing more than some training in karate and the ability to eat less. This sort of student couldn’t be fixed quite so easily.
“Okay. Jodie?”
“What?”
“Sit back down, let me make you a cup of tea, help yourself to more biscuits, and tell me why you’re so afraid of your parents knowing about this.”

It was going to be a long morning.
Me and my mum were talking about the NSA spying on people, and I was saying that the Deep Web being raided was a stepping stone to worse things. My mum said it needed to be done if bad things were on there, and my dad asked what things there were.
"Like what, porn and stuff?"
Me and my mum looked at each other. Before he'd come in we'd been talking about it being used for paedophilia and drug deals.
Knowing that my dad was a delicate creature, I muttered, "Er, yeah."
"Bad stuff, that," he said.


Sometimes the piss-take isn't even good enough. Half-expected him to say "lots of cats. Talking shite."

Friday, 16 August 2013

my computer is amazing

Holy shit, I spill a pint of water on my keyboard, the computer starts whirring and fizzing and the screen turns to scrambled colours - I assume I've fucked it

Today it's running fine.

I literally was pouring water out from the keyboard.

Monday, 12 August 2013

A New Series Starting From This Autumn!

Fucking Irritating Shit: Shit That Is Fucking Irritating

1. The fact that apparently privatised train companies are being subsidised by the taxpayer; and not only that, they're being subsidised more than they were before privatisation.

someone's reddit entry. kind of beautiful in a hemingway-esque manner

Got 4 hours of sleep last night. Can't sleep when the baby sleeps because 4 yr old. Who needs sleep? I can stay up all night and talk to the rainbow giraffe in the living room. I just wish he'd stick around long enough for my husband to meet him.

don't read if you don't want to know about... things

>Made a doctor's appointment a few months ago when my arse was being annoying
>He recommended me for some surgery
>The surgery came around last week, and I told the guy actually it had been fine lately
>He had a look anyway
>Fucking killed
>Buggery is not cool
>He said I was okay but that there could be problems later if I don't poo properly
>Trying to listen whilst pinching my arm to alleviate the pain
>Today I shit out blood and mucus
>Thanks for breaking my arse doc

Sunday, 11 August 2013

Print Job

John Futureman woke up inside his futuristic house. He was woken by a robot which told him the temperature and the headlines. He realised he hated having a robot so he turned it off and threw it out of the window. Unfortunately for John Futureman the robot was manufactured by the BadCorp and so it awoke and came back in, as it had every single day for the last three years.

He turned on his 3D PRINTING TOASTER and instructed it to FUCKING PRINT HIS TOAST. Owing to the bread mixture that was stored in a massive crate in his basement, he was able to make enough bread for a year until the RationMen came along and refreshed his stock. The 3d printer proceeded to print bread SHAPED LIKE A FUCKING GUITAR and then it TOASTED IT.

He needed butter. Because the fridge had memory, it knew he would get butter based on previous interactions, and so the butter was already on the counter before he'd even considered using butter.
"Fuck you. Today I'm not going to use butter."
The fridge sat patiently.
"Fine. I'll have some butter."
He spread the butter. Then came the jam, which was already there even though that was somehow insane. Oh yeah, thought John. I forgot to take off my GOOGLE BRAINREADER last night, which is why my house is interacting so much with my brain today.

He stepped into the bathroom after eating his toast and drinking his juice. He then turned on his shower, which was a kind of 3D PRINTER OF WATER. It proceeded to blast him with water that had been recycled from next door's water. A minute before this water had been piss. John tried not to think about it. If he did think too much about it, it would trigger his old feelings, and -

"Feeling alright, John?" said the mirror. "My mirror neurons are detecting that your heartbeat and body temperature have changed in a way that suggests anger. I suggest you take a custom-made tablet today."
"What have you got?" growled John as he got out and wiped dry his thick head of hair that he had ordered the week before.
A 3D PRINTER printed out a tablet, which contained a specific combination of chemicals apt to John's particular mood.

Two hours later and John, mind numbed, all senses bar one engaged, felt fairly happy. Time to order a pizza and complete the sense-set. He barked out the pizza he wanted and watched the kitchen make it. Ten seconds later a pizza was concocted from his pizza printer and put into the oven.

Yes, you heard me.

The pizza was fucking printed out.

Then he ate it, synthmeat and all.

A while later he wanted ice cream, and asked his ice cream printer to print it out. The ice cream came up from the basement, and arranged itself in perfectly equal balls, compete with the exact number of chocolate chips he had asked for.
He put his feet up, and ate. Could life get any better than this?

And, because I might as well go the whole hog, he then asked the HUMANOID PRINTER,
"I want a woman."
"Specifics, sir?"
"Make her look like Christina Honx."
He watched as the bone printer printed a skeleton, pouring in the materials to fill up the mould that had just been created. Then came the muscle printer, and the organ printer, and the skin printer, before finally the eyeball and brain printer - this part typically took over ten minutes, which was such a long time to wait that finally John ran out of patience and said
"Oh, never mind. Cancel job."
The printer didn't respond.
"I said cancel job."
"Job cancelling..." said the printer, although it continued to print.
"Cancel the job! How long does it take to cancel it!"
"Bro, I'm kind of in the zone here," responded the printer. "It's like, I'm nearly finished, so why bother cancelling?"
"For the last time, cancel the job, otherwise I'm going to pull you out of your socket!"
The printer stopped, leaving John to stare at Christina Honx's unfinished form.

"Well, I guess that was a waste of flesh," he muttered, going up to her, ready to dump her into the recycling bin.
"Where are my eyes?" she said.
"Where you're going, you won't need eyes," he said.
"Stop."
"What?" he said, holding her in her arms.
"Let me be completed."
"Why?"
"I just want to experience life as I'm meant to experience it before I am recycled."
"Is that possible?" he said, putting her down.
"It should be fine. Just put me back in place, and order the entire job again. The bits that are already printed won't be printed, and the bits that need to be printed will be printed. Trust me. Nothing will go wrong."
John shrugged. "Well, shit, now that you've gone and tugged on my emotional heartstrings like some sort of uncanny motherfucker, I guess I'll have to finish you."
He put her back on the pedestal and ordered the job to print once more. He went for a piss, because waiting for jobs was always a drag. As he pissed, he thought he heard unusual sounds, but dismissed it nothing more than the kind of thing dismissed by characters in horror movies that end up being something monstrous. He finished up and went into the kitchen.
Christina Honx had printed twice. But the second print had not done what she said. Her body had been put back in a slightly different place to where it had been before, so that there was another version of her, only it melted into and overlapped the first version of her.
"What the fuck?" he said, dropping his non-existent glass which shattered nonexistentially on the floor.
"Something went wrong, didn't it?" said the Thing.
"Yes. Look at yourself."
"I can see enough already," she said sadly, looking at her hand. "I have overlapped myself and no longer look like what a functioning human should look like. You should probably erase me from the system."
"Yeah, you're probably right. Thing is, I only really wanted a woman for this evening."
"What you don't realise is, I ended up having one and a bit brains."
"Oh right... so..?"
"Which means I have double the intelligence of a normal printed woman."
"It does? The maths -"
"Yes. Therefore as a result I'm so intelligent that I'm self-aware enough to want to live even though I'm a freak."
"Well, good for you."
"Thanks."
"So how should this story end?"
"Either we have consensual sex and I leave, or I murder you and I leave. Either way, I'm leaving."
"Well, I'd prefer the first option but... this is a weird thing to say."
"Go on."
"I'm a little bit scared of your overlapped vagina."
There was a pause, and it lasted for about half an hour.

She slammed the door. John lay back on his pillow, wondering whether he had ever sex like that before, and whether he ever would again. He vowed to report the woman to the authorities, but realised that with her intelligence she would be able to escape them, for if she had half the capability of even his fridge, she would be able to read the minds of most people. He took out his diary and made a note:

DON'T GO ON DRAGON'S DEN WITH HUMANOID PRINTER