So, time for a proper entry. I'm on three hours of sleep thanks to my new kitten (pictures forthcoming, once little Chaos Poe's conjunctivitis clears up) and misanthropic and hungry.
time to blog. So, here's a bit of a new thing I'm working on, something I started while I was in New England, a couple days after I took up smoking to self-medicate for my mood swings and panic attacks.
Focus.
The world is a spinning mass of probability and corrlativity and causality that even the best computers can only guess at the workings of.
Focus. They gave you a brain made of worms that feed on human anguish so you could see the transneurological machinery behind the mental landscape of society.
Focus.
Champ took a long, noxious puff off a stick of fiberglass they called a cigarette, more for the grating feeling of fiberglass in his lungs than the nicotine and menthol that were supposedly in there. It was like giving the worms a raise and an android sex slave that pisses espresso. It helped him focus.
The doctors had brought him the cards again. He never understood why mammals were always so fascinated with little bits of stiff paper. Maybe it was because they didn't know how to use their entire skin as a single sensory organ.
This was all before the government cut off the funding, before they started peddling his sea-serpent genes to the highest bidder to pay for their equipment. He'd been sitting in the library when they brought the cards.
The library was a small room with a coffee pot, an ash tray, a cabinet full of snacks, and a bookshelf full of H. P. Lovecraft and P. K. Dick. This was all the fiction, all the entertainment, the doctors allowed within the facility. They were like a cult with a special effects budget.
The cards were all pictures of blackened limbs and robotic vulvae and chitinous phalli, natural forms rendered unnatural with a slight change of color and texture. The doctors thought they could augment the workings of his parasite-nexus and give him insight into the world, as if mammals were complicated. They want to move around and tire themselves out and have sex and shit everywhere. It's not rocket science.
But the doctors are asking nicely, and the pictures are mildly amusing, so Champ places one on the center of the table and begins to focus.
time to blog. So, here's a bit of a new thing I'm working on, something I started while I was in New England, a couple days after I took up smoking to self-medicate for my mood swings and panic attacks.
Focus.
The world is a spinning mass of probability and corrlativity and causality that even the best computers can only guess at the workings of.
Focus. They gave you a brain made of worms that feed on human anguish so you could see the transneurological machinery behind the mental landscape of society.
Focus.
Champ took a long, noxious puff off a stick of fiberglass they called a cigarette, more for the grating feeling of fiberglass in his lungs than the nicotine and menthol that were supposedly in there. It was like giving the worms a raise and an android sex slave that pisses espresso. It helped him focus.
The doctors had brought him the cards again. He never understood why mammals were always so fascinated with little bits of stiff paper. Maybe it was because they didn't know how to use their entire skin as a single sensory organ.
This was all before the government cut off the funding, before they started peddling his sea-serpent genes to the highest bidder to pay for their equipment. He'd been sitting in the library when they brought the cards.
The library was a small room with a coffee pot, an ash tray, a cabinet full of snacks, and a bookshelf full of H. P. Lovecraft and P. K. Dick. This was all the fiction, all the entertainment, the doctors allowed within the facility. They were like a cult with a special effects budget.
The cards were all pictures of blackened limbs and robotic vulvae and chitinous phalli, natural forms rendered unnatural with a slight change of color and texture. The doctors thought they could augment the workings of his parasite-nexus and give him insight into the world, as if mammals were complicated. They want to move around and tire themselves out and have sex and shit everywhere. It's not rocket science.
But the doctors are asking nicely, and the pictures are mildly amusing, so Champ places one on the center of the table and begins to focus.