There once was a boy, a multifaceted anomaly spelled Lovecraft L-I-T-E, who did juxtapose a young dad's jest-- and you do jump at your dead Jason's Argonauts, ally yeah?-- damn joker attacks yksi-kolme-kaksi-viisi/kahdeksan. Watch out, tellytubbies: 8ere Comes 5verybody, ripe from the finger-licking marketplace of the xtra living (plurability? noyeplural. Night Owl.) dadelus (flew close to the son). Yeame, the shame's lamely the same. Q: When will it won't? A: Welles en wants.
WTF?
I jest, told ye.
Wtherecropolis?
Ooh ooh ooh(e he he), have I got a story for you. Welcome to the House of Spiders and Mold, where the juveniles conggrevate and the why's always wed. Second in a line of neverbefirsts, fifty-seconds several beers later, this house eats those it hits. Heh. Ahalftop the hill of haves and halfnots, yerquired to hike no way batta batta Witchler's Walk. (Witchler's Walk? Member of the social club a good squonks ago, we had argoselves a janiral lighthousekeeper inna World Wrasslin' In Ignum, innit? Orwell he marched 'til April or sosheses, allways atop dem stairs. Beef ting man janiral 'twere nonther'n Witchler umself! Least a lookalike.) Fine ally you are, 8ere Come 5nter! Up t' stars, up t' nawth, nowt nawth near nosir! G'luck t'ya PREmetheus, derections abound. Enter the moldhaus and lemmingbee M-A-T-K-A-O-P-A-S (ulysses in a sentence? finnish it yerself): Nada in kitsch least ear less at now pas, upstarrrrs to upparr you'll sees Daddy Long-Legs (the first of any evils, phobic represenstation jest nordinaryvil N-titty) rusting in pieces livingstone I PREsume (spotting the ash-plant yet?). Really, that's as Farr's torn notebook can go. Wassat? Tshaw, you want to mourn. Ax ke$ha-anns, meselse.
Hobo Who?
Long story to that! There's a guy, and he's named Teleporting Fridge, and his high scrawl the time traveler. Thank Gog for dat. Ancientennantal dickscurvies later, we meet Harold Saxophone, brother from another belover, an' their lights(rollsound) camera(mastermix) action!(record!) begrieve a belittled binormalty of the ages! Thank Magog for mut. Come in, at least soon, tothema NeAr YoU (heheh, jest kiddin'). Orson fi want, nodear. Union depository, god I'll say there's "Hella Dancing" for ye if this groundhog can hardwire his sonnics in the M-O-O-N that smells soon! Thank Begorra for sat.
Alwhyty?
Ah! Now we get too juicy to see. Of rats and hers, I could and redwood tether your sortal code unto Annawoken oblivion (plurabellum?) in same time and space, buut hoo needs thaat? Readwood if that's your game! In sit stead, we've got a supeniturinal exasplanterntation revolvering this moldhaus. So shit comfortifiably, daodidancess!
Every house has a democracy to foretell. Some are jest more unholy than others. So spoketh Charliethustra, sayeth throth Toy Story. This particle manure (O wot a goriffic illusion o' PREtense) house happens to be filled with the blood of Others (staining the beds of the headless), an adhesive layer o mould (old mold w/ black dots, wart can ye tall me o dat?), an' an antruitive antrusion (spiders fucking spiders fucking spiders all day erry day). Youse studying PRE duncepts mayor 5cogneyes dese dem dere as rePREsent, Inc. of Her Salmacious Majesty's Semeotyces Unquisition Brigadiade colloquially and formally noneas "The Read Cape," "The Chore," and "Tea-n-trushon." I have acquired posmission to also formally inform you of the PREsence of such notions as "Teddy Ingman," "Umpire Sitty," "The Woodshop Gal," and "Ate" (which, between the buried and myself, doesn't exist).
At haus and Jardonn-ay noose, may now I'f been handled a blog. Godot read it, wait here.
- He asked me about therapy today. He didn't know that I can't have any more until late November. He also didn't know I had a flashback last night until after I'd yelled at him. I said a lot of things, some of which I regret, but truthfully most of it I was honest about. She was there, and she didn't speak up-- she agreed too much with what I'd said and didn't want to exacerbate things. There's never a fix; there's only ever a hole and how far down it we can go. That's the way of this house.
Starts en MIDIas res, unsure if interested.
- Of course I remember the city. Going in was my decision and my decision alone, even if I may have been influenced by stress and a desire to get far away from here. But obviously I came back. I had no choice, if memory serves me right (heaven/hell? depends.), but what's done is done. I'm back. Back in the rat race. Or maybe I'm still trapped over there, maybe the damage is what's done and this is my mind in pieces. I certainly can't say I'm wholly whole.
Holy whoa, what a PREtentious git gens wonts. Summon muslim!
- I have two distinct memories of how it happened. Both feel as real as the other. In one, I close the door and stay to look for my fallen brother. In the other, I leave and drink myself dry. But everything after that's a blur, that's after either. And I have no trouble believing two contradictory things may have happened. That's.. my mind for you. I'm torn in two, red white and blue, trapped in this house of spiders and mold dying until I get old. The spiders keep me obsessively centered in fear; the mold keeps me depressed and confused. I can't get used to it.
Say, are there any rivers in Crimea?
- Anyway, all I know is that now I'm stuck with.. my house. And things might have gotten better, for all I know, but the flashbacks keep me psychologically awake. My memories make no sense. They're all like that.. set of two. There's multiple memories for everything, many of which were supplanted by him. He does very well at that. Anything to keep his emotional security high, damned be my sanity. Maybe he isn't responsible for it at all, maybe that's another hallucination of mine. It's hard to tell. But I had to start writing again. I had to address this. I think I'm living with a mental illness that gradually gets worse. I've already finally started crying again, and I kinda hope it stops. I don't want to be broken.
Eh, he's not shaken, but he'll do linguage. Now down the chute! Talltelling sum'thing, I was (world ulyssesning?). Aforefath publigain can beginn, there's an utter democrap: Wat zijn angsten? Warl, anglicans (otherwise post-grammatically forthwith intrinsically referred, rearounded, represented, reheated, and reprehensively reapplied to as Planning Ramming Equipment) are-- I kid jest lunk ya heads to the page (page wino papyrus? Dads kese thays!) buttocksy the dinnerplates in yer eyes-- munsters in the form of Lars Ulrich (the finding: it's as easy as E-A-T!). DOW down 5 points for the Griffin family? NAW dance 2 bits for the beer, my toes.
Rightway up 9 points. Its representative for this match is The Word (how misobelistik!). The Word speaks no Sybls. A-one, too, tree, Farr kid postundulate a treason in tharbour, dunno if can be arsed, o' summary like a frayed mythos. Remember what happened to us? Yarr, happenstance. Warl, 'tappened t'her. Cor, shudna left nawth.
Oh? Where you off to?