Newtext

New text. February 28th, 1998. New word processor. Brand new, piece of shit right out of the box. Prints in ten different colors all derived from only two shades of shit brown. I will pour into it the little pink clippings that are left over from the pruning of my soul. I cannot see in this room. I have no desk, and my only chair sits too high for me to lean out of and type. So, like a suffering and repentance filled saint, I type this on my knees. I press on.

Yesterday I jumped into my fish tank and devoured every last bit of algae I could find. Dying due to lack of oxygen, water filled lungs, and a violent allergic reaction to algae, I floated up out of my body and into the room of the man who lived above me. I floated through a half eaten and cold hot dog. I noticed it’s coating of the neon yellow squeeze bottle jism. It surely had been squirted onto the hot delicious steaming and “splitting at the seams from over-microwavation” wiener in a sick inanimate sexual ecstasy brought about by the sensual pinch of some housewife’s soft and innocent fingers.

I floated up into the midst of an artificial conversation. One in which my neighbor, a multi-tattooed biker, sat at a computer furiously typing. A special program on the computer would then speak the words he typed, in that wonderfully human 1920’s t.v. robot voice that early 90’s Macintoshes speak in. The computer would say something, to which James the biker would answer in a borderline panic, and then vigorously type in what was to be the computer’s response to his statement, to which again, he would respond. In this way, the artificial conversation between a fat biker and himself via computer continued for quite some time until I realized that my ascent had halted. I guess heaven can wait for gossip.

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