Kthaahthikha

So I was drifting along the road of life in my anti-gravitational way, sipping a lemon sherbert and wishing I was more like my idols, instead of my fetishes, when up pops a man named Gerard whom I've only ever met in dreams and margarine advertisements.

'Hey there, cat', says Gerald with a style, or rather said, but this is all in idiom. 'Hello, Joe,' I replied, slapping him a high five and then wishing I hadn't - his hands are made of iron. The reason is a rhyme without sensibility, or something, which I am adverse to reciting due to the unfortunate limitations put upon myself by the greater Cook Islands Off-shore holding company, which is renowned for the numerous embargos which it enacted against itself in protest in the late 1980s. The success was mixed, as where the cocktails, the cause of the entire disagreement that had begun when a young lad tried to sell a molotov as a martini, and it was declared that vermouth was officially a leathal weapon. Despite several attempts to reinvigorate the night club scene with fluffy ducks and a host of publicity stunts by Daniel Glover, it came-out in passing that the Vermouth embargo was actually being master-minded by Terrence Delacroix, and that my good friend Gerard was in some way entangled in the whole nasty liquour-smuggling mess. I'm quite proud of finishing this paragraph without a pun, as it would cheapen the spirit of the proceedings.

So anyways, after I applied some dettol and got a tetnus shot, Gerard and I swung round the club in the hopes of picking-up a few chicks, although our success was mostly limited to golfballs. We slid along (he considered my drifting pretentious) and came in time to the hall of records where several dozen Bowie whitelabels were gathering dust behind a stack of INXS. Pushing Mickey's corpse aside I grasped the ultra-rare remix of Warszawa done by Tobe Hooper and Timothy Leary whilst on a drunk and hopped-up on several forms of East Indian toad bladder and anogramatically-powdered tishcafed mushrooms. The result was a four-hour long sojourn into strange regions of the mind best left undiscovered unless you're in the habit of bringing a magnum along on your reveries. I always take two, along with a concussion grenade and a box of thumbtacs, so when I encountered my own personal bugbear it was short work to put several rounds through its chin and pin it to the side of my frontal lobe. Sitting there, Gerard wandered up, and sat down beside his double with a supercillious smile. Seems that I was by the real one and the dream one at the same time, the one and other both being the same, and that the new one was actually Gerard's self-image, wandering through from Gerard's sub-conscious on the way up to the next astral plane.

We split cocktails, scratched our heads, and I steap back out through my remeniscences and climbed the lengthy stairway to the rectangle of light at the end of which was the world, and a smallish computer monitor that hapily whizzed things off into the aether to recirculate them through a few more consciousnesses and get all tangled-up in the spiderwebs and cherry trees of dissatisfaction.

Also, Perfect Dark is a truly-great game.

good to know ure alive.

That occured to me the other day - if I died, none of my internet friends would ever know.

Yes, it's a scary thought.