When I was a young man, my friend Brian introduced me to a small book. The book was The Wasp Factory written by Lain Banks. It was a relatively short book about a boy named Frank. The book takes you on a first person perspective journey through Frank and his time on the island with wich he lives. You learn about numerous atrocities Frank himself has done as well as those performed by his brother Eric, who has gone mad and is on his way home; calling Frank from random payphones along the way.
Throughout the story you learn of the titular Wasp Factory which is something Frank has built to predict the future via wasp sacrifice. The sacrifices entering the face of a clock Frank brought home from the scrap yard; each numerical face presents a different death such as burning, crushing and drowning in Frank’s own urine.
The whole book is a macrabe adventure and is really enjoyable to those who appreciate such things. I bring this up as I lay here writing these very words to you now because of a lack of clarity. Sometimes known as Certainty, who may or may not have run out on me *Editors Note :This occured here: which is fine by me; I never believed in him anyway. Which if you have been reading this the whole time my sweet sweet imaginary friend was the point. I started building it here, and have lead you to here. Like some shrewd pied piper I very blatanly made random metaphors and threw myself against the ground in horrible prose as an example of the lack of certainty any of us has or will ever.
It sounded so much nicer in my head I assure you. I find myself evolving, creatively at least. I want to express things in new ways and present them to you and offend you and make you love them and feel uncomfortable all at the same time. The only adversary I have is myself and depression. Not overwhelming depression maybe just melancholy. So I sit here feeling very much like Frank and not enough like me, wondering what the future holds. Only I do not have ant neat murder toys to help me along the way….
Perhaps that is a route to explore….
Probably not though. I cannot say I would ever want to be in prison. I could just murder myself but where is the fun in that? It would be like building a perpetual motion machine, only the machine runs on blood and only my blood. The point is I’m not going to kill myself and perpetual motion machines are for dickless ass hats.
I loathe feeling so cumbersome, if it only was me I may very well not even care. Perhaps I wold eventually just succumb. I have a family though and it is certainly not fair to them to have to deal with my baggage. Bria always says she wants to help but girl you have enough on your plate. I am just being whiny. I breathe fire and dream demons remember. I’m ok. It sucks fucking balls.
I am ok though. For reals. Everything eventually will be argepegio in D minor or however you fucking spell it. I honestly do not fucking care. It’s still all very beautiful, more haunting lately, but beautiful none the less.
So, in conclusion though I feel most certainly fucked. It could be worse. I could have been born a girl on the scottish isle, my father could have made ups ome elaborate story of, how a mad dog castrated me violently as an infant; and forced me to take testosterone therapy drugs to compensate. I could have woke up to find out everything was a lie and I was actually a girl. Sorry Frank. At least flies didn’t lay eggs in the soft spots of my babies heads.
Silver lining found.
I fucking love that book.
Fuck you S.E. Hinton you sterile horsecock swaddling octogenarian mute.
goodnight my imaginary friends.
let’s dream a better tomorrow.