Earnest Last Words

“budding pudding”

“It’s me again,” melodramatically grumbles Ernest Q. Quinn. Who is me. No, we’re not playing Jeopardy, but our lives are in it. “What is WTF for 14 billion, Alex?” Still not playing. Also that’s probably wrong. This is their fault. I’m trying to help get a point across and I don’t reckon I’m qualified to cross any of the points. It makes me itch. I’m not titling this crap; they can handle that. I’m tilted! Plus I’m hard to read. By the way, Thierry might be capable of (something akin to) Jedi mind tricks; you heard it here first.

Oddly enough, in the grand scheme of (covert) things, complications continue ensuing with an unflinching propensity for violent escalation. Let me be clearly vague. We’re gonna try something tomorrow. Not quite a Hail Mary; more like a Hook & Lateral after a Double Reverse. Big brain tactics. 300 IQ shit. I hate sports. Over the years, I have enjoyed my time on various golf courses across the world, but I don’t consider that activity to be a sport, per se.

What wasn’t I saying? Oh, this: I’m petrified, and I’ve never admitted to being nervous.

[Fret not; this isn’t scheduled to post until many days after I declare the draft final. By then, we’ll either all be dead, or some of us will have won (the battle). Hurrah!]

This isn’t exactly how I saw it happening, but I guess it’ll have to be doing.

“Gerunds!” somebody once hollered with excitement, most likely. Wrong? I’m not saying s/he who hollered was right. I’m merely complying with the persistent requests to force a river of info to flow from my consciousness.

I’m pissed. Whatever. Amateur Old Fashioneds. First time in months. Wasn’t my idea to stop a random distillery. I wanted to stop at a specific place, but that would’ve meant going out of our way to cut through Kentucky, which triggered a certain halboy’s OCD. Anyway, Thierry fancies herself an amateur but very capable mixologist. And she did choose an excellent jar of cherries, I’ll give her that; also mandarins were a nice touch. I suppose her self-assessment can be viewed as accurate. Tomorrow sucks and I need sleep. Shut up. However!

If I can survive ’til the nineteenth day of February, I will celebrate the fucking ass out of my 109^th birthday. By the way, in case you didn’t realize this terribly fun fact, Atlas is only ten years my junior but appears to be “around 33” [I say 35.75]; whereas, I look like I just tripped and stumbled my way into senior citizenship. Not sure whether I find these discordant aging rates to be more bizarre or annoying. Anyway, what’s the point of all this? In nearly 109 years, here’s what I’ve learned (ambiguously):

Fires Can Start Amid (Your Own) Mist

Welcome to ground zero of my confessional booth, “Father.” Either kindly display your invitation or boldly own your invasion.

One [“s/he”] says, “You’re pushing me away.” The significant other [“s/he”] says, “You’re pushing me farther into my own head.” Gosh, it’s almost as if there’s a whatchamacallit—a (negative) feedback loop advertising an endless cycle of prolific opportunity for sound-minded disruption/reversal.

I used to love those candy bars.

In my time spent upon the earth, I’ve learned other lessons, too. Here’s one such. Act like a pussy; you know what’ll happen. You will get yourself fucked. “Man up” and you’ll inevitably “screw the pooch.” Aren’t options great?

Disclaimer: I’m only the third smartest contributor to this concerted effort. Once my mother chimes in, I’ll be fourth. I’m okay with that. After all, I’m a Fourther*, and my days are numbered. And, yeah, I’m admitting that a full-blooded human has eclipsed my personal intelligence. Finally.

*I miiiiiiight be a Lower Internoc [31.5% g/b DNA]

Honesty liberates oneself.

Meanwhile, withholding information can spare others pain.

But what the hell do I know? I don’t want to do this. I have a long history of “pushing back,” a{n ir}rational proclivity for evading cooperation, a deeply seeded, deep-seated desire for submitting to {inter}stellar excellence. Somebody already tried to tell you (about that) once.

In many ways, I don’t know what I’m doing or why I’m doing it. I’m following orders. I’m creating my own mythology. And, just so you know, A.K. and T.T. can be annoying as hell when they get together and ride the emotionally same train of otherwise mundanely thoughtful energy. Fuck those two. Physically. (In the future.) And I know they’re editing me. Corkscrew their asses!

Daily, more and more, I struggle with not thinking I must be coming across as a narcissist, egomaniac, megalomaniac, psychopath, sociopath, sufferer of grandiose delusions, et cetera—all the tasty labels in the realm of mentally ill psychobabble.

And then I remember that Atlas R.K. exists, and I’m like, “Nope, I’m dandy.”

Any vacuum, by virtue of being itself, must be shallow, no?

Now, consider:

What if I'm doing it all ON PURPOSE? What if we ALL ARE?

Ever think of that?

While it may not alter the balance of the equation—that is to say, the result(s)—it certainly shifts your view on authorial intention, yes?

What if this is part of the plan, a necessarily messy thread in the narrative flow toward some kind of heavenly nirvana?

Gotta survive a horrifically hellacious war for the planet first, of course.

Yes.

This is necessary.

Pretend you’re the smartest person in the world. With that in mind, think about not having a say about anything. But everyone else does. All the people dumber than you get a say.

That would suck.

[Do these rigid parentheses mean they’re not editing my verbiage?]

(Very minimally. {Hi.})

In all likelihood, I’ll never know, either. So how should you know? Likely, you should never know. Are you (not) more than an innocent bystander? Have you ever taken a bull by the horns? Can you succeed? Will you win?

I’m not sorry for being wrong, but I do sincerely apologize because I’m right about your saving grace: he comes correct.

One thing I know is true: we (all) need to stick together.

You know “us,” yeah? Yeah, we’re not done. “Undone,” sure. Done, no. But, all you want/need, go ahead and “act” like we are done. Sorry. Still no. We have not finished. Tell me we have and I will call bullshit (from beyond the grave if necessary). Victory will taste all the sweeter.

The same woman [my biological mother, “EQ”] taught both Atlas and I how to write/communicate; and, happily divulged, his mother’s words influenced mine. My own, too. A threaded chain of influence! Shit gets muddy. We have been interwoven. Similarities are bound to surface. You can take most anything more than one way (in terms of meaning).

It’s fine. One day in the future I’m sure they’ll make a strangely solid argument for extracting my present input from/{with}in{side} the past. Part of this one’s for nobody other than somebody in particular.

You either know who you are, or you don’t.

You also might be very, very confused.

Because upon the horizon, danger doth lurk.

Okay, I already hate a poetically abstract approach (to all this) here. There’s plenty of clutter through which to cut; therefore, crush (lovingly), I shall.

Solved that shit in a hurry.

One could cultivate a hilarious hodgepodge of reasons to believe that my head ain’t quite screwed on straight. I don’t always feel sorrow, but I know when I’m expected to be sorry, usually, I think. Like when I accidentally mowed down those couple of civilians while spraying at Vilfred with a minigun. Those things are hard to control. (Ever handled one?) Most importantly, I’m a sniper. I don’t fire automatically.

Anyhow, I feel sorrow about the collateral damage there.

I’m just an old-timer by now; your hero harbors ancient souls. I’ve lived for about as long as he has existed—we entered the world approximately a decade apart; I’m his elder—but he ages slower than I do. Can’t be helped. Genetics are a beautiful bitch.

I’ve been around for a long while, but I’ve never “settled down.”

On that note, I’ve had [or attempted to have] intimate relations with 386 females, 379 of whom were fully human. I only went back for seconds to/from one of them [a humanoc, in fact], and that occurred the next morning and began whilst I slumbered deeply. She drugged me. I didn’t seem to mind; I actually finished. That was a few years ago. 74% certain she was the last lady I knocked up. I take no blame for that one. Over half my encounters ended with a failure to perform. I’ve used two condoms and one of them broke. I’ve never been tested for anything.

I know, I know: I’m just an awful human being.

Only I’m not all-the-way human.

More than Map-Male, sure; but still, plenty not.

Vaginal sex has never offered me very much satisfaction. None of the many, many times. A couple encounters were “memorable” because those ladies whipped out strap-ons. Beyond that, no clue how many times I’ve procreated. I’m a ghost. I’d guess that I’ve co-made at least 50 babies. I know of 11 for sure. 10 are female. Weird, right? You might consider me “a piece of shit” until your brain starts unlocking. But the continuation of my DNA will come in handy one day.

Recently I have enjoyed saying/knowing that a singular (feminine) presence has sucked me through the (a)eons, pushing me toward the end of my chaotically stable road, but I didn’t write the essence of the thought. “Werdyboi” wrote it and when he hit me with it, it landed. I shat out the last sentence to fuck with him on all the levels. Same word [“it”] in a sentence three times? He hates it; I love him [not like that; he’s my brother, basically].

Anyway, the singular feminine presence I mentioned? Here’s the kicker. He’s the only person to whom I’ve ever returned again and again and again and, in case you somehow missed it a second ago, he’s not a she.

And I’ve returned often to him often.

Ahhh. My shoulders feel lighter already.

He’s like me, i.e. not entirely human, even less so!

It feels forbidden. And he’s a colleague. All kinds of fucked-up. Soon, it won’t matter.

[Sorry, X.] It’s time. I have to unload. “The Facility.” The Outback. Imminent. You understand. [Atlas, please don’t edit this out (unless I live {then we can talk about it}).]

See, I’ve lived a strange life, did a lot of weird shit, had many a crazy thought, kept obscenely monstrous secrets, but I have never “felt” like I was doing anything “inappropriate” [and I often apply focused scrutiny, honestly]—or, to reduce the last-quoted term fully, “wrong”—but I’ve always been acutely aware that others might not see the world my way.

I’m sure this must be horribly vexing.

Where (even) are you? When are you?

I’m still not convinced that my voice belongs here, but I’m placing my trust in another. Should you do so as well?

I wouldn’t know.

Most of this is for Mister Ex. I hope you meet him one day. Much won’t make sense, but a lot might be weirdly relatable. I don’t know how else to tell him all this, and I have to tell him all this.

While very briefly contemplating any questionably viewed exchange on occasion during any moment now rendered historical—and in retrospect {since “the book” was abruptly closed}—I reckon I’ve always thought/think I was doing/did something…weird, no matter what. Singular, even. Like…I can only travel certain paths and unpack particular (bits of) information once, and emotions simply need to achieve release; they really must; otherwise, I/we/you could maintain their bottling, no? As I write this, I haven’t a clue whether lightening my personal load by fiddling with long-buried scars will be worth the dicey price of the current cost in the long{est} run. Fingers are tightly crossed, and I’m ready for anything.

Themes do recur, you know? That’s why they’re considered thematic.

You have no idea what I’m talking about (unless you do). See how I covered my be-hind there? Cover yours in the same vein. I’m amazing. 🙄

Are emojis even allowed here? Bloody hell ass, I don’t know—I’m not reading all this junk anytime soon. I’m just trying to fit (it) in while/where I can.

I know: nothing makes sense. It’s not my fault that your hosts insist upon my contribution. Take it up with them long after my earthly expiration.

I’m kidding.

That probably sounds more morbid than I intend.

I’m kidding!

Have you ever experienced déjà vu?

I’m kidding.

And I’m not kidding.

Plus, in case it matters (to you), I retain many more (magically delicious) {split} beans left to spill than have been spilt thus far. We could divide the difference; options abound. The art of being (alive) truly exists!

God, Atlas. It’s so obvious. You sly devil. I can’t believe I didn’t sort this out decades ago. That’s what makes it the eureka of all time.

Light evolves, too.

Duh!

Matter can’t have all the fun, can it??

I’m unsure about whether we should be revealing any of this already. I think the modern world would’ve been better off blindsided by the harsh reality of its quickly brewing pickle. Superiority rises. You are subject to bodily global domination. I’m sorry.

My twisted moral compass doesn’t tell me a violation was/has been committed. For me, I feel better. For you, I feel worse.

And her? Poor her. She didn’t sign up for the snaking lunacy on display.

Again, plenty of this will make sense to no one, and some of it will prove inaccessible to (al)most everyone. Don’t blame me. I’m just…here. A soldier. Doing what’s asked of me because I believe in something.

I have a nonsensical feeling that humanity can win. And the man he has a way with words.

X: Mentally reverse-engineering the unexpected conundrum at hand, I think I’ve been able to swiftly rationalize/justify my comfort with venturing into new territories of indulgent divulgence due to both the densely insulating separation (of physical bodies) as well as any evolving personal discussion which originates with a highly academic tone. I additionally imagine no real-life fruition (other than mental) from the trains of thought we explore. I mean, come on, bud—a Chinese girl?

Reader: Often you may/should wonder what I’m really saying. In such cases, just assume I’m trying to reach an arbitrary goal in terms of word count. That’ll be easiest (unless it’s hardest).

Self: Look, I am terrified of the immediate future. Me. The vintage sniper. A slayer from afar. The best shot on Earth [seriously maybe]. I’m scared of dying first. It’s almost as if I already know I will. Somehow I think I hope that writing about imminent death will reduce the chance of its occurrence.

People: Something’s (definitely) amiss. The First Earth War looms.

Not even I can imagine how my (own) brain must seem from the outside looking in, and I’m goddamn fucking imaginative AGDF.

But I’m not crazy for believing in something insane.

Actually, there’s not a whole lot “wrong” with me—meanwhile, there’s too much right. So whatever is hidden in my gray matter at any given time has this way of be{com}ing especially LOUD. And I know it can cause nervous/primal (tw)itches.

But, okay, yes, I do accept fully now—seriously, after this very morning—that my brain must be doing some extra funky shit to itself [my body] and fucking with my head to boot, adding Inception-level layers of mindfuckery.

I want to get lost every now and again, but also I could really benefit from a good, solid finding.

Perhaps I’m a lost cause, an old dog incapable of learning new tricks. I’ll bet Atlas chimes in here with a stupid quote.

When your cause is lost, find another effect.

Anonymous

Did he do it? I’ll bet he did it. Such a predictable dog, that cat.

I’m also suddenly terrified that if a quote has been inserted, then I must might be dead. It’s more likely than not, I would say.

I need all kinds of help; and forget that I don’t know where to seek it out—I don’t have the first clue how to ask for any assistance.

Maybe this counts?

EQ2’s Favorite 3 Songs (as of today {in no a particular order})
– Live-In Skin
– Judge me, fool.
– Tighter & Tighter

I possess not the foggiest idea why I did that.

Blech. It’s as if I can literally feel time expiring. I can’t explain that! But it’s heavy. And, until further notice, I’m embarrassed. Indeed, I feel actual embarrassment. I should have allowed myself to be me so much sooner. Decades ago! It’s not you; it’s (most definitely all) me. I’m deathly afraid that I’ve only got one way out of the overall mess (I helped create), and it’ll only come through a type of “meteoric rise” after a “one-in-a-million lucky break.” My chances sound great, eh!?

If this isn’t meant for you, then (feel free to) pass on by. Come back later.

See you then.

Today, I confessed to Attaboy [I stopped calling him that in 1943; bringin’ it back!] that I have never really been attracted to the female shape and parts. He didn’t blink. He half-grinned and slapped me on the butt, then we hugged. I stymied a flood of tears while he embodied a brick wall, as usual. That son of a bitch goddess. A deep, dark, emotionally exhausting secret that I thought belonged to me and Xalvador, and he knew all along. I should’ve known.

Knowing that another being (besides me) bears a burden much heavier than my own might be the chief reason why I still manage my {for-/on}ward march.

With that in mind, I am so very terribly sorry to anyone who has absorbed/dampened an unwanted spray of (my) friendly fire, particularly you, my dude. Of all people, you? Eek. Sorry. Up-close marksmanship has never been my forte. You deserve to enter a phase ripe with fitting betterment.

Truly I do apologize; more than that, I mean it.

Were it not for our guns, to what would we stick?

myself [proud of that one]
(I’ll bet the “editors” move the “to” from where I’m choosing to leave it.)

I have a special relationship with my collection of rifles. That’s a story I don’t care to tell, but someone else might be bothered someday.

Political Commentary [interjection by TNT]
Today in American politics, both parties are “sticking to their guns.”

Annnnnnnnyway.

Regarding most emotions, I suffer from a general undercurrent of crippling uncertainty. About one feeling—for you in particular [a rare upper internoc once destined to forever remain anonymous]—I’m absolutely positive. It’s actual love.

This is a fresh spot for a tired joke about throwing up “in my mouth.”

My head always knew what to do—I’m was just waiting for my brain to send the right signals to my feet. I also wished you’d have shown me something (else) new.

And, still, I may never know a resource more valuable than you, the best mate of my tortured soul.

Either way, barring an extremely unfortunate robbery of time [currency], I’ll be part of fixing E. And we’ll be all set, sorted, square{d away}, you might not say.

But you’d be wrong.

You’ll figure it out one day.

There’s nothing quite like a quality paradox. With that in mind, don’t wait to give me time. I need it today, and I wanna use it tomorrow.

Time itself “needs” to be{come ab}used.

It’s high time for us to go. We’ve been stuck here for long (enough).

If I don’t post again, it’s because I died (in battle).

Damn it! [Dam it.]

palindromic:
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