So She Speaks
(clearing throat)...Words say it all, indeed.
Dear Lester,
I thought this letter may be of use to you. When he lost his blog, I had the honor of receiving his letters directly. Every day. He never has to worry about pageviews this way. It's no use calling him self-seeking. He's married himself over there.
The Girl from Ipanema.
And what's this?
Dear Babe,
Hello, my deer. I miss you deerly. Today I was reminiscing on a bug, those days I'd awake to find I had been yelling at you all through the night. It brought a bittersweet smile to my face. I know you love me still. Let's get naked. Alas, my health is failing. After years of abuse, due fully to my decisions, depravity, and nerves, my body has broken down. I had planned to wrestle Lester, to decide the fate of all my blogs. I am willing to give it all up now, all my letters to you, my sweet ramblings and...and...and the research, the marathons...if I cannot pin him. Oh babe, he'll beat me so bad. I miss you. What's your social security number? If he challenges me, with my pride, ego, and self-absorbtion, I cannot decline. And he'll win. He'll iron me. Lester is really virile, an agile magnanimous cow. Once he has all my blogs, he'll be a bull. There will be no stopping him—An Adonis with dentures. He'll never have to squat again.
Those who remain around me, who know of my lessor hobbies, they say give it to God or seek therapy, but first have coffee with me so I can bombard you with suggestions. I want to bombard you with my kisses. Sorry I ruined your credit. They impose their will and guise it as another's. The psychologist is greedy and inept, the real goat; and God wouldn't waste his time, not for a goon with a shin splint.
I will forever write you,
EatKhash
(as long as Lester doesn't pin me)
"Dear Lester"
What's this? Well, it is what it is! (composing himself). Excuse me, I let myself go there for a moment. I, for one, am rarely...(clears throat)...seldom glee escapes me, for I am bigger than my emotions...(mutters) like from not getting pageviews. I hold, in my hand, a letter from the brownpaperbag P.O. Box, addressed, to yours truly—Not no Khash! (composing himself). Excuse me. I knew I could clean up this blog I just didn't know this new! I just made that up! Surely it must be acclaim for my poetic and spiritual inclinations. I almost know how the chump must feel. Again, excuse me, I, for one, am above that, for we all know how people of this world feel about love...some audience participation, perhaps? Yes! You there?
Correct! They are for it. And I am on that side. Clearly my first feedback will reflect the purity of this new spirit.
Allow me to share my first letter with you fine wholesome folk...(clears throat)
The cover reads, simply, Dear Lester.
Now for the best soup, the adoration!
"Dearest Hello lovely Lester you toothless greasy old goat I want my"—the chump! Vile serpentine! The gall on the bugger! Chump...Chump! Chump! Chump!
I must go now...Over there, somewhere. Exit stage now!
Posting #2
Lest I may be tongue-in-cheek, I have composed a set of lines. (clears throat):
Take away fear, anger, and envy.
Fill my heart with love.
Let time,
be my only enemy.
- Lester Sullivan
Oow some more hate mail for the chump!
Dear EatKhash,
I understand you're a fan of the weather. Here's a photo I took of some owls. It's in HD.
Yours,
Crystal Egger
Dear EatKhash,
You need to feel useful in life. It pains me to see you this way, brother. If you muster up some energy to look outside of yourself, you will identify ways in which you have been selfish and self-seeking.
I hope you get your jokes back.
Your friend,
Javier
Not bloody likely. I won't have it.
P.S. Maybe one day you can buy me a drink and we'll see what I do with your hard earned money.
Oow, I liked that part—the masterbating buffon!
Posting #1
Now then, I shall proceed to present my name. I will do that right now. Very well, my name is Lester. I am not a lesser-than version of any man. Here two bulletpoints emerge. Bulletpoint
A : A picture of my character. I am qualified in the Maths, as evidenced by my use of the applicable humour.
"...not a lesser-than version of any man."
May I get some audience participation? You there?
Yes, a greater than version. Clearly, we are building a rapport.
B: The question of manhood. Our hero, was by all means and definitions, less than a man. Clearly, you took pity on him, for as the years got shorter, he lived in a way counter to species survival. And if you think the word, species, is a bit insensitive, I take it you haven't seen the imbecile at work. I, on the other hand, have been in talks with various dating sites, and just today, upon gazing at a real life woman who fit my fancy, a gazette, I immediately walked up to her and revealed, "I am not a serial killer." That quickly shows her I am a man of power, but do not require too much power. And women find that balance of power, quite relieving.
That is all for now, I am still rummaging through some of the chump's paperwork...and what's this? From the P.O. Box, some hate mail, surely...
Attention
May I have your attention, please? For those of you who may still be here—maybe even perhaps now only listening from a distance—this is to announce that from here on out, this blog will take on a direct and somber tone, as a show of regret, lamentation, and dignified self-loathing. Being a serious person now, I will no longer the effort make for any sort of wallowing, for that is below me, and I am rigid. Along those lines, there will still be love to be found, as always, but a general love, nothing sappy. That kind of nonsensical love that found its essence from impossibilities, and what eventually materialized was shown to be nothing more than a fraud—drunken boasts from a pervert.
In an attempt to salvage what's left, and express a general and direct form of gratitude, I will leave below a voucher, that I hope you may see me worthy some day, that you may call upon. You will notice that I am laying the voucher before you below. You will notice that now:
i.o.u.
I have decided to take over from that clown, the dandy, as a tune-up was needed to a project and spirit that owes everything to you—of course, I will not resort to dramatics like my predecessor, he left with his tail behind his legs. Oh, of course, "Between his legs." Funny, where that voice came from. There will be no more jokes now. More, I have often very little need for the kind of colorful language you unfortunately witnessed me stumble over. Even more, when in need, I've purchased a book of obvious cliches that I run my finger through. It is called as such, such being, "The Book of Obvious Cliches." I guess I would have saved more time if I just said the title outright. More or less, it is more preferable to our purposes here than the—the...well, "The Book of Subtler Cliches." I found that superfluous to our needs; and after all, how long are we going to be raising a giant baby? I will not cry over stats.
Any talk of masturbatory actions, or impulses, excessive subconscious imagery, or bemoaning time spent saving things and running out of time before watching them, not being able to concentrate as a result—I will not be bemoaning. Let it be known, if there is a word that's identical to the word starting off the next, well, word, I will go ahead and trudge through it. Sure you got it out of him, and you'd think that if he started talking about it, there was a chance it would clear up, but each time you look up, persistent bugger's at it again! You tell him he's a genius to lift him up, he starts becoming more of a genius. He tells you he's Tom Cruise, and the next day he's dancing in his underwear. The man's a sexual terrorist.
That is all for now. You are at the end of this correspondence. Oh, I don't have to say that? Oh, well, that's all right. Hmm, that voice again.
I am exiting the metaphorical stage now. Oh, right.
ok that's her
that's a woman with pussy lips
which is odd, because they're just her lips,
and that's batman, but babe don't have her shirt on and she is happy...
like naive girls always are—
ah, you romantic! go up and take your prize (i highlighted that to show me talking to myself)
she's happy like she don't expect the virgin mary or some cereal killer to come through
i shouldn't have said the naive thing,
stick to the zoo and we will give you a bananna
I know you can't trust me.
Well, I'm just going to come out and say it, I want to ask these guys if they're talking about me. I wander around...so timelessly, doing nothing but what I want, and—he's yawning, his arms stretched into the giddiest part of his lethargy, I wonder if he wants me to hold his hand; their words materialized at the right moments in between the sounds—the sounds of that rap music—my head would fill their air; they're the silent keys in the tone of my dreams, evoking that moment of nostalgia you can't remember you even met, before it got jaded like deja vu—what it felt to discipher life, as nothing but air, figments, magic, the dignified calm of delusional thinking, everything you could just brush off, like the sound of this black boy's cloudy melody, leaving you before the air. Clouds they don't make it—they hand it to you, but there it was
after a dream, you hesitate
I sat behind them, hovering
with cautious glee, i tried to fall into their space,
my feet would slide off the stool
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