Wake Me Up, Jesus. I Want To Go Back To Kansas [a blog] #whatiwrite

Realistic to the touch skin, and four working holes!
Realistic to the touch skin, and four working holes!

Sometimes I think the entire universe is some sort of fabrication, Matrix-style, designed entirely to annoy me, because the computer masters who use my body as a power source have found that I produce a higher quality of energy when I’m enraged by stuff. Do you ever think that? Of course you don’t, because all of you are just part of the simulation. It’s my universe, not yours.

Take that whole Courtney Stodden/Creepy little man from The Green Mile thing. That never actually happened, right? That’s just the mechanical overlords being bored one day, and just making implausible shit up. That girl was not 16; she was at least 46, or a Porn 32. And I can’t even picture him in my head, the simulation is that shoddy. I close my eyes and all I see is John from Ally McBeal, saying ‘D-d-d-d-d-dead m-m-m-an walkin’!’ And Ally McBeal? That never happened either. Women can’t actually be that skinny and still live. You’re an idiot if you believe otherwise.

How about professional soccer? Is that real? Are people with a reading age of 6 actually earning £200,000 a week just to run around in shorts on some grass, and call people ‘nig-nogs’? NO. Stop living the lie, as that guy from Fame Academy once sang, before disappearing into the ether, because, like everything else in my fake universe, Fame Academy stops existing when I stop thinking about it.

Katy Perry? That’s not a real thing. I think Russell Brand justs exists in my imagination, to amuse me and give me a role model for trouser tightness. And one day, ol’ Imaginary Russ was having a particularly vivid wank about Zooey Deschanel, and lo! Katy Perry existed. Look at her! That can’t be real. That’s a rubbery fuck doll, with organs stuffed into it. Basically, she’s a Sex Haggis.

Justin Timberlake? COME ON. Think about it logically! So, N’Sync existed, did they? Were they before the Backstreet Boys but after the New Kids on the Block? You can’t even remember, can you? Because it never happened. And the little curly fucker was the best one, was he? And he made an album where actual black people respected him enough to collaborate, and then he became a SEX SYMBOL? Women actually wanted him inside their parts? And then he gave it all up to become a film star? Remember that time DAVID FINCHER made a movie about FACEBOOK, with a soundtrack by TRENT REZNOR? And it won all the awards? That was when the computers stopped even bothering to make it believable, as far as I’m concerned. At that point, the dream became lucid, and I was completely aware.

Maybe it’s just me, though. Maybe, because you’re all part of the illusion, these things don’t dawn on you at all. Maybe you think nothing strange about there being television shows about people from New Jersey, or Essex, where we’re expected to believe those people are involved in a ‘scripted reality’ show. THOSE PEOPLE CAN’T READ. Jesus. Or how about that whole Chris Brown/Rihanna thing? That was a clear glitch, where the computers got a showbiz romance mixed up with the code for the Bonus Round in a Street Fighter game. Chris had already scored Maximum Points before anyone realised that Ri-Ri’s face wasn’t a pyramid of old beer kegs. For shame.

Remember the eight years of George Bush? Are you shitting me, Morpheus? I’m pretty sure that the Blue Pill I agreed to take was a dud, because I’m starting to go proper Leah Betts. I’m fairly sure the whole thing is collapsing now, Inception-style; because every time I look at the news, something else in America is exploding, or Tony Hart from my childhood is being accused of bumming toddlers, or Amanda Bynes is just, well, Amanda Bynes.

Honestly, if it wasn’t for my unflinching belief in my own exalted birth, and my confidence in my ability to bend will, time, and the fabric of the universe, I’d probably start thinking I was schizophrenic.


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