Chapter 1 - Meet the Protagonist
It was a sunny, warm day in November, and the clocks were striking eighteen. A man was writing a surrealist novel. Wait a minute! That man was ME! It must be because my father beat me as a child. Hm, or was that vice versa?
Suddenly I drop the pen and paper, shut off the typewriter and start swabbing the inside of my ear with a boiled French fry potato. It is covered in lard and mustard, but it tastes so good in my cavities that I can hardly stop. Then, there's a knock at the door. It's the Jehovah's witnesses, as usual. They've had a flat tire.
"I'm sorry, but we've had a flat tire outside." He points at a broken down black van parked in the street. It has a flat tire on the back. "Do you have a phone I could use?"
"FUCK YOU, GOD AIN'T REAL."
So I slam the door in his face, but not before pushing him off the balcony. Now the tire is the least of his worries. I've already solved his problem.
I go back to watching intramural bowling on cable. Tonight is the semi-finals so I have to be prepared. I already have my chicken mask sewn together, a fresh bowl of stew cooking in the bathtub, and a needle full of Dr Pepper between my legs. It's gonna be an awesome match.
I live in Buffalo, New York, home of the turtleneck sweater - on the first floor of a dank, dingy, pink painted apartment building in the middle of downtown. I was born to a single mother who worked in a tortilla chip factory on the outskirts of Cincinnati. We worked hard for everything we had, and scrimped and saved, so we were able to afford the classiest vittles this side of the Rio Grande.
Every Saturday I would walk by this building and say, "you know what, future me, who can remember these thoughts? I'm gonna live in this goddamned building one of these days. And I'm gonna bone my landlord too."
And I did. The first part, not the second. My landlord's name is Sandy. He's a dude, so you know. I know you can't tell by the name. Some girls are named Sandy. Not this one though. This one's a dude. He does like dudes though, but I don't. I like girls. Even girls named Sandy. But I've never boned a Sandy. I boned a Jo once. In fact, I think she once had a penis. But science can do some magical things, and inverting a penis and making it pretty sexy is one of those miracles of modern technology. Life is awesome.
I decide I've had enough of writing for one day. I go outside to my pool and have a swim. A bird walks by.
"Hey, ain't youse that famous writers?"
"Who, Thomas Pynchon? Yeah, that's me."
"Oh. Awesome!"
Then he flies away. I bet he's eatin' worms right now. And thinkin' 'bout rockets. Well, I sure as hell ain't.
I do have a raging boner though. That girl I shoved off the balcony had some huge knockers. Except that was like a week ago that that happened. I'd still hit that though. Then I'd explain how there's a lot of scientific evidence that the world is a lot older than 4000 years and how it's not going to explode and then reform and catch all the good people at some point. Then I'd prolly suck her nipples for a while. Then some more rational debate about the origin of the universe, then I'd totally show her this novel and she'd probably run out of my apartment screaming about all the torture scenes I wrote in here.
I know I haven't done that yet, but this novel is more than two pages you know, and she can read fast. Probably not fast enough, but that's a personal challenge to tackle and I think she's up to it. Aren't you, sweetie?
After she runs out, I start fantasizing about how my life is going nowhere. It's almost like some dumbass with a laptop is just spewing out some stream of consciousness bullshit and expecting it to make sense. No real sense of purpose or flow. No idea where the story is going. Just writing for the sake of writing. Getting it done, out of a sense of obligation. Not creativity. I bet my life is just some dumb divine stream of consciousness. Wait. That might be pretty cool.
There's this blonde girl I saw in the grocery store the other day. I would totally have sex with her, given opportunity and if I had gotten to know her fairly well and made sure her ideas and beliefs agreed enough with mine for me to be emotionally attracted to her plus physically attracted to her knockers. She looked kind of tired but I bet my soul mate gets tired sometimes and could still be a raging fox in the bedroom. Not that I'm into that weird animal stuff it was just an expression. Sorry. I'm more into robots. Not underage robots or like robots with circuits hanging out and talking about taking over the planet or anything that messed up, just like grown up girl robots with realistic facsimiles of human girls and like not many emotions but like way more intelligence that a regular dude is allowed to be wanting to get with in this day and age. And also the artificial knockers.
The following is a fragment. Consider revising.
The best part about an artificial mate would be designing her to your specifications. I know it's contrary to Neil Young's famous song indictment of artificial sex robots "Sample and Hold" but you could make a robot that would be your perfect match and like if it wouldn't ruin the species or whatever you would probably be really happy. I think people like to say that if you had something perfect you wouldn't be happy and it's the imperfections that make life just because they don't know what perfect really means and because they've never had anything in their lives ever be perfect. Sour grapes; they don't want to admit what they can never have is what they really need.
Then suddenly a truck crashes through the side of my pool and I'm left standing in an empty blue piece of plastic in the middle of a graveyard, holding a foam green pool noodle.
"YOU MANIAC! YOU'VE KILLED ALL MY HOT WHEELS! OH MY GOSH! GUYS ARE YOU OK??? GUYS?!?"
Eh, f that. Cars are for pussies. Just wake me up when December ends. God save Queen. And pass the mashed potatoes.
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