207

This will be typed. And then it will be deleted. If you are reading this you are clearly a haxor and have used your 1337 skillz to recover data that was meant to be washed down a virtual toilet. More accurately, meant to be virtually recycled, because no one wants virtual waste. And this document could be reused if it is recycled. How much better would it be for all of us if it were simply reduced?

This is not a question we will answer. Not straightaway at least and not in good time unless I run out of bad time to discuss.

I will NOT be reasonable.

And this document is not what you would call a blog. It is not a journal or a diary. Once this is done and these words have left my fingertips they are meant to go away, not linger to be found years later by a new me or an old me or a new lover or an old companion or Hitler or any number of ducks or geese.

This is not something I pretend to keep secret but in fact actually want found out. This is to be on-the-real secret. The very nature of diary is to lie and what we’re going for here is the truth. And like most truths I’ve found it is not to be concealed it is to be destroyed so thoroughly that my enemies will be able to convince you wholly that if these thoughts ever existed at all they were lies.

And, yes, I do have enemies. And, yes, I have named them. Or not me, they were named by men and women far greater than me. Singular is better here. More accurate here. Though not single so much as double. And not double so much as coupled.

A couple named my enemies. I had nothing to do with it. Though, truth be told, and it will be, I like the names just fine.

Though it’s fair to point out that there are no names and only name.

If these enemies weren’t my enemies based solely on their name they could be my friends. Or if not my friends my friend. But for that to happen they would have to be different people. Different person.

As would I.

And this is not a diary and this is not a blog. I keep a blog but I am under the watchful eye of men and women who would LOVE to be my enemy because that would make them important and so that blog is very much a diary inasmuch as it contains only lies. Even facts presented in this blog are lies because that is all they can be. Strive all they might, and they don’t, even my facts are lies everywhere but here.

I am watched by people who are not my enemy but not my friend and just annoying enough that I notice them. I notice them just enough that I’m never really me and in being always someone else I am capable there and everywhere but here of lies alone. And I would hate them, I would, but I asked for them. I begged for them and they are my fault. My creations. And I cannot hate what I have made.

I can simply disdain it. Disdain them. Respectfully.

And if I cannot do this respectfully than I will not. I will simply do this and it will be done and that will be all that matters.

If any of this matters. And it does not. Because no one will read this unless they are a haxor come to steal my megahertz. And who would believe this haxor over a person like me?

I would because I would be lying but you wouldn’t know that.

And, yes, I’m going for honesty here, but that’s precisely why you who are reading this can never read this. You are not reading this because to do so you would be reading truth come from hands that are allowed only to weave lies.

So even if I don’t recycle this, and even though it has never been reduced you, the reader, can never ever read this. Because it is true. Truth from lies is how I make my living but it’s not real truth, just the illusion of truth. Only the best lies.

This is truth and I am only a liar and it cannot, therefore, exist.

In less than two pages I have managed to save myself the trouble of recycling this and I have saved this document the hassle of existence. In less than two pages I have done this and that is something to be proud of, I feel.

This is a fine accomplishment and worthy of one more drink. Though it should be said that I do not drink and am not drunk because I would have to first have been sober at some point in my career as a person and this, it should be said, has never happened. Never to the best of my recollection which it should be said is not very acute since I am so often drunk off my ass.

The rest of the time I am drunk on my ass.

Sometimes I poop.

When I find myself in this situation sometimes I take a little poo or a big poo and in these times I hope often that I am sitting on a toilet and often I am.

Sometimes I find that I am not on a toilet but very near a toilet and I call this a draw.

When I poo but am nowhere near a toilet at all I am probably nowhere near any of you so there’s no need to discuss this any farther except to say that you don’t know any of this because you aren’t reading this because it doesn’t exist because it can’t.

Of course.

The strangest thing about this story is that it is not a story at all. And it is not fact and it is not opinion and it, as we previously discussed, is not a blog or a journal or a diary or any of these things.

Maybe we don’t yet have a word for what this is. Or maybe we do and I don’t know it. Or perhaps I know this word but I’ve forgotten it. Or maybe I remember the word just fine but I’m being coy.

Maybe we should just call it a story because really that’s what it is and that was a fine name all along.

I like names.

I like the name Alex but only for girls and I’ve never actually met a girl named Alex but I’m sure I wouldn’t like them based only on the gender identity issues that would surely arise from having a boys name all your life despite your breasts and other naughty pieces.

I don’t really care for the confusion that comes with girls named Alex and have decided that I don’t really like boys named Alex either and therefore do not like the name Alex.

And in the end I’m not sure I even like names.

So let us not name the girl that this story is about and let us not even admit that it is a girl because really this isn’t even a story because this doesn’t exist and you who are reading this cannot read it.

Anna works at a bookstore. She’s a girl and her name means gracious. Had her name been Annabella her name would mean grace and beauty which is a better meaning but a far worse name and one I expect died along with the old south and slavery and wooden battleships.

I actually quite like names, and I like girls and since this doesn’t exist there’s no reason whatsoever to pretend like I don’t when so clearly I do.

I also like boats and the south but I don’t care for water or people of any kind.

Though I far prefer their company to horses. Horses are a dreadful bore who despite their name are wholly terrible at any form of the game of basketball.

This, it should be said, is why they so rarely play. It’s not that they abstain on moral ground, they, like most white, Mexican, native America men and all women are just awful at the game.

It is a silly game, though, and one hardly worth the time of a majestic creature like the horse.

The bookstore where Anna works is called Nobles and Barne though that is not the real name because even though I will tell only the truth I don’t want to get not sued for the lack of slander that never was in a document that you never read because it doesn’t exist.

It should also be said that what this should be that I would be getting not sued over is liable but since none of it ever existed it hardly makes a difference unless you are a horse who, while bloody awful at basketball are really quite brilliant at proof reading.

And as if it weren’t enough of a failure to simply work at a bookstore Anna works in the music department of a book store which is not a department store and not a books and music store but instead just a book store with a music department. Applying for a job selling books and selling Sugar Ray records while looking around constantly at the people deemed worthy of selling books should be a catastrophic blow to the ego of any sane or sober person should it not?

And Anna works at Nobles and Barne and please do not try to decipher my code, it is impossible and I am far too clever to be beaten by the likes of you.

To be continued.