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.