Was It Worth It?

Well, I finally went and bought it. After several burglar break-ins, nonetheless, in which the thieves always stole all the furniture.
As I squinted at the small text in the instructions manual for the electronic lock system for the front door, it crossed my mind yet again how manufacturers always print small instruction manuals with even smaller fonts. Really, I had felt inclined to use the local astronomy centre to read the text; I had recently heard how the scientists had purchased an upgrade to their telescope, which they used to observe distant galaxies. Possibly, I had thought, it would also make the tiny text legible. However, I had decided against it; mainly because another burglar may use the opportunity to enter my house as I go out to read the small text. Thus, the security system would have been useless. Plus, I didn’t think the upgrade would be enough…
My thick, clumsy fingers ducked and dived as I struggled to bolt the door into place. To me, it had felt as I was performing brain surgery on an important patient: A stitch there, a cut there…darn, I was one millionth of a millimetre off! Now I am afraid your husband would be no longer able to twist his thumbs or deliver the state budget, which would be a shame, I am sure you’ll all agree…
Now, the wires were neatly tied and circuited, and I was in an annoyed mood. It had taken me ten hours to attach the security system to the doorframe, and another two to wire it up. All of this meant that I had missed my favourite TV show. Disaster! Tragedy! The world stops to hear a scream that would break all records! But I brushed my annoyance away, to marvel at all the time that the security system would save. From now on, the no one shall enter the main door unless I give them access. I felt safe, happy, almost joyful, as I turned around from the door. However, all that faded as I saw that:
1) A window above the stove was somehow open.
2) All the furniture was stolen. Again!
I had spent so much time hooked to connecting and fitting the security system for the front door that I hadn’t paid attention to other points of access to my house. And you could say that I had paid the price for that.

The Globule of Pus That Wells Out of A Half-Squeezed Pimple

Coachella awoke with a ringing in his ears, a sort of eeeeeee that floated in the back of his head, reverberating across the rear surface of his skull. Google told him it was tinnitus, and after further research he found that there was no cure. All the websites only addressed preventing it, and there wasn’t much on properly treating it. After a few minutes of mindlessly attempting the scattered home remedies, Coach admitted defeat and rose from his bed. Weaving through the clothes and various paraphernalia that littered his carpeted floor, a cartoon criminal tiptoeing over red beams of light, he made it to the bathroom. Coachella had gotten into the habit of brushing his teeth and urinating in the shower, a practice that he justified for the time it saved, but he actually did it for the wonderful sense of authority it gave him. Something about it just made him feel like the goddamn king of the world. But today, the paste and piss had floated above the shower floor, meshing and mixing around his feet. He halfsubmerged his foot into the waterpiss paste and attempted to push the concoction into the drain. The drain was one of those fancy square shaped ones, the type you see in 5 star hotels, the type where the water first flows in little creases in the ground before reaching the pipes underneath. An aesthetic purpose, most likely, it would be very un-5-star-like to allow patrons to see the innards openings of the water system. After all, the water system is only one step before the sewers, and hotel owners surely don’t want their well paying customers contemplating excrement in their morning routine. There was no such luxury in Coach’s bathroom, however, as his mind, still pervaded by that awful ringing, leapt to all sorts of unsanitary thoughts as he stood in a puddle of his own urine. The swishing and swashing and sliding did nothing to diminish the rising water level, and Coach imagined himself looking rather foolish, performing his little dance number. And so, he continued his shower, trying his best to ignore the mixture slowly approaching his ankles. When squeezing his facial moisturizer tube, its cuckolded contents burst out violently, splattering across his hand and into the water below. Coachella cursed. The lady at the counter told him to use only a tiny dab. The moisturizer wasn’t cheap, and the wasted product was unsalvageable, already combined with the rising concoction at his knees, the droplets sinking and dispersing through the mixture, splitting and separating with a certain weight just a bit too heavy, like diagrams of mitosis depicted on ancient projectors in first year chemistry classes. The water was now at his waist, and Coach thought it was about time to get out. As he grasped the door handle, however, he was suddenly reminded of the new bathroom rug set he had just purchased. He bought it at Beds, Baths and Beyond a month or two ago, but only recently remembered to place them in their appropriate positions. It prevents slippage, apparently. Opening the door would surely compromise his pristine fabrics, soaking them in this godawful liquid that was now rapidly reaching chest height. He tried to turn the water source off, but found the faucet handle to be jammed. He came across the same problem yesterday, and the day before, actually, a situation that he was only able to rectify after several gruelling minutes of knob jiggling. Today was the day he was going out to get it fixed, or call a plumber, or perhaps have a closer look at the issue, but by now, the water was already at his mouth, and Coach struggled to keep the foul mixture out of his own innards opening. A muddled collection of words bubbled up to the surface, and Coachella drowned in the shower. The cubicle sides convexed outwards from the pressure and water spilled out from the seams, onto the fine rug below.

What The Hell is Hypertext Fiction or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Jump On The Bandwagon


You think this is Ulysses? Pale Fire? You think this is hot shit? Well newsflash buddy. It isn’t. It won’t be, it won’t ever be. You’re sitting around, shirt off, arms extended in a slight curvature that is both subtle as it is unsettling. You ever sit and wonder how weird arms are? These weird, zig zaggy things that protrude out of the central meat piece? Central meat piece. Master of prose, weaver of narratives, conjurer of, I don’t know, synonyms? as you are, you sure do produce some real impressive stuff. Goddamn. What the hell is hypertext fiction? It sure as hell isn’t fiction using digital media, so what is it? That’s a rhetorical question William Lim, don’t answer that, I figured it out eventually, I think. I’m not sure if that’s a rhetorical question. Hypertext fiction, judging from the thing William Lim wrote, is something that starts as something and turns into something else, while being something else else at the same time. Master of prose. Fuck you spellcheck I meant that repeated word. Ha ha. This is far from brilliant. This is nowhere near as good as what William Lim wrote. I’m making William Lim captain next year, sorry guys who aren’t William Lim. I’ve written William Lim six times now. All those who want captaincy next year but aren’t William Lim, you can come to the newly formed William Lim fanclub I’m making and I’ll give you vice captaincy or something. it’s a consolation prize.

Suddenly, the weight of a thousand white whales descended upon the blabbering idiot on the pirated edition Microsoft Word, and he found himself drowning, drowning in his own sorrows and also water too, because I’m symbolic like that. He was a drowning pirate, who spells out his jokes immediately after he tells them in case people didn’t get it. I’m sure everyone got it. This unfunny guy thinks he’s pretty funny, but in fact he just hangs around people who laugh at everything. oh hey you see that tree ha ha ha. but I’m sure you get it. It’s surreal hanging around people who laugh at everything you say. Even when you’re serious, they’re still laughing. Eventually, you stop being serious at all. You stop telling the joke. You become the joke. Everyone around you is laughing. Stop laughing, you say, but that just makes them laugh louder. Those sons of bitches. You tell yourself: no I’m being serious, they don’t understand: but do you understand?: is what you understand what you understand?: do they understand that you understand, and is that why they’re laughing?: or have you stopped understanding altogether- maybe you never understood at all. Maybe they’re the only ones who understand. You’re standing under the bridge, and a group of homeless people are gathered around you. You’re a warm person, you emanate friendliness, and they huddle around you. You show them your palms, peacekeeper outwards. Stop. Don’t get too close to me, you say, it’s just a facade, You’ll get hurt. They imitate you, they understand. You smile and those protruding ligaments start snapping at the joints in dead spider angles weaving ghost webs and they snap so loud/you crackle and spark and shift and those toothless bums who aren’t your friends but laugh at your jokes rub their hands like hungry impatient fathers saying grace at the dinner table. You’re just there to keep them warm, that’s all.


^would you look at those lines. Hey mom look at me I’m using lines to divide the words I mean to write and the words I write about the words I wrote. Weaving of narratives as we speak.

This is a goddamn mess. A pile of steaming excrement that’s steaming not only because it’s fresh, but also because it’s out in the sun. It has literally no literary merit, and not much anything else merit either. I really shouldn’t put this up. Here’s an excuse, I wrote this in half an hour the morning I got back from speech night. It’s 0:38. Zero o’clock. My favourite time of the day. Patrick O’clachlan works down at the wristwatch factory. He takes the midnight shift, and as soon as the clocklan chimes Patrick, Zero punches out and heads down to the old bar to take a load off his back. I swear to God I’m not intoxicated. I promise. Scout’s honour. This is nowhere near as coherent and good as William Lim’s thing, but I told him I’d do a thing for this thing and now I am. Whoopee. I listened to Danny Brown rapping about how many prostitutes he has engaged in sexual intercourse with when I wrote this.

I started this and I didn’t stop until I was finished. Super pretentious, super gross, super fun to write. Editing is for losers. Peace.