UnBooks:Stream of consciousness
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You see, stream of consciousness is just this thing, you know. It's just like, you spend your life working for something, trying, striving, reaching, and then it's just over, you know? It's like you try, and you try, and nothing ever happens.
I feel as if I need something, like something to eat, but there's nothing to eat here, because she's gone, and the last time I tried to cook I ended up burning down the house.
But God, it was a pretty fire, you know?
edit Chapter 1: A Caustic Point in Time
Stream of consciousness is how I felt today, as soon as I woke up this morning. I knew that she had finally left for good, that it was over, that I should just pack up my things and leave, that I should just gather up my coffee mug, my fluffy sweater and just leave. But I couldn't let go. It felt as if my heart were like some sort of weight that weighed a lot and that held me down. It sucked, but I knew I had to press on: The orphans needed me. I had no choice but to forget about her, because maybe we'll meet again in the next life, or at least, that's what I read in this article in the Atlantic Monthly last week. No, it wasn't the Atlantic, they wouldn't write such a shitty article.... So anyway, I felt terrible over the whole mess. I mean, I didn't realize she could see me in there, doing that awesome thing with her mother. I mean, how am I to blame, her mom is fucking hot. But it's still clear to me that the mistake was mine to make, the chess piece was a pawn and I moved into the corner of despair, like a washed up comic book superhero, or something. It was ugly. But man, she was everything to me, everything. She was all I had, except for the orphans, and they obviously don't count because they don't have parents. Maybe they count for half. Who can tell in this crazy mixed up world in which your girlfriend’s mother, 15 minutes, a shampoo bottle and a lot of aerobics can leave your heart feeling empty, cold, like a cold, empty refrigerator. I mean, it's not like I killed someone. Or rather, it's not like she knows I killed anyone, which is pretty much the same thing. It's really a pretty minor thing, I tell myself, but to no avail; the guilt just won't go away.
I look up at the clock and see '8:63', and I think, "What the fuck is up with that clock?" I also realize that I'm late for work, late for my job down at the orphanage, throwing the children nobody wants into the garbage. I know it's a dirty job, but it pays the bills, and sometimes that's what it takes. Why can't she understand that? It's not like I enjoy the job. Except for the sound the kids make when they hit the bottom of the trashcan; that soft thud is dear to my heart. But everything else about the job sucks. The looks I get from the strangers that judge me make it almost unbearable. I know I'm better than them, because I have an awesome girlfriend and I fuck her mom. Now that life I knew is gone, and my superiority complex is ruined. Whatever shall I do? It's as if a person's whole life can be dictated by a few simple words like "I know it might look strange, but I was only trying to help her put on her dress. You know how zippers can be". I don't know how she saw right through my lies, but she did. She read me like a book. Or rather, she read my journal, which was like a book, where it told of me lying to her. I shouldn't leave shit like that around, should I?
edit Chapter 2: A Virulent attempt at Vivacity
I'm going to do it: I'm going to tell that stick-figure whore of a boss what I think. I'm quitting my job. I have ideas, thoughts, talents I can bring to the table, and she just will not use me to the best of my abilities. For example, I think we should throw all the kids in the orphanage into the trash and turn the building into a brothel: We'd make so much more money that way. But my boss just looks at me and shakes her head. I told her she would be good at running a brothel because she already looks like a whore, but she somehow took offense to that. I meant it in a nice way, but I guess that what I mean and what I think doesn't matter anymore. It doesn't matter when you're dealing with a stuck-up bitch who can't appreciate brilliance, at least. Because let's face it, I knew a thing or two about whorehouses. I love whores. The whorier the better, I can't get enough of them. Maybe that's why she left me.
How unfair, how brutally unfair. It's as if a few mistakes can ruin your whole relationship. I just wish things could be like they were back when we were together, and I was a professional wakeboarder. But the injury took its toll; they had to amputate; I don't think they knew what they were doing though; I don't think removing my left testicle was necessary: I'm sure it wasn't; it wasn't.
edit Chapter 3: Into the Great and Wide Redemption
She had returned. She was back. The girl I loved so much entered the apartment, with a bag in hand and a smile on her face, tears in her eyes: She was glad to see me.
We embraced, and we kissed, and we made love. She said she didn't have a problem with my relationship with her mother.
I said "It's great to have you back Mother, I missed you."
And she said "I feel the same way Son, I feel the same way."
And then we fucked.
Alas, great alas! All was not meant to be in this, the land, the sanctum of my inner-most joys! It seems as if the police had caught wind of my fiendish plot to dispose of the filthy orphans and raided my home, while my and my dearest lovers were in Sex's sexy embrace.
They can lock us up, and scrape at our hearts, but they can never tear us apart! That's how I feel today and that's how I'll feel until the end of time.