I mean, this is the easiest to write into format perhaps because of its ability to merge the multiple methods, Medium being a fun little jump around puddle hopper perfect for Hillary Clinton and the likes of The Daily Show, but me, I’m continuing to chronicle, chapter after chapter, posts connected to each other, documenting the way things happen with me, such as the roommate next door laughing as a loud fart escapes from my shitting ass. And me telling you that it’s fine. It being good for them. Lets them know that this apartment is filled with absurdly real people. Let’s them get a deeper understanding of Musette’s and my accepting love for each other. Lets it develop within them the wish for such salty glory as this.

It’s just like those other neighbors in their rooms set up within the complex which I along as sweet Oona discovered for them, for all of us. Chitter chattering all day and night such trivialities as beer runs, Sims mods, examination distress. I am obsessed though, being so totally taken in by the conversations of they mine enemies as they obsessively converse over mine, theirs. The left and the right, engaged in a war for the minds and souls of those as well existing here within this time span that’s all fun and games until you find the skin such as mine which is currently on display in town square, crucified, the constantly resurrecting nativity, with my face a head upon the fence post and my name now a battle cry, a religion.

Cutting as close to the cream of the cranium as we can, inserting that special sort of satellite into the hottest connection we’ve yet uncovered, working our hardest to bring you that live streaming limbic action. Pulling you back into the story every chance we get, like as though each page is the first page of this great masterpiece. I swear it to you. Just keep reading, he says. It gets better with age, like some fermenting pot of hot pockets, capturing as much of a moment’s magic as I could vampirically pull from the socket of electricity we’ve managed to circuit directly into the meaty walls of inertial plaque that block this free flowing stream of consciousness, directing it more cleanly and smoothly through our chakra network, spinning the spheres more in step, that sweet rhythm of the right and left, back and forth, the rank reeling of our fingered feet, etching up the dance floor, like bone beneath the saw, emitting that pollinating puff into your personal devices, succulating the jungle fog of war.


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