For five long, lonely, dark and terrible years, the dim-lit halls of Waspinator for President have kept time with the sickly slow beat of my beleaguered soul. The underground bunker, resonating with the staccato drum of the surrounding earth (well, that and the nuclear generator), have steadily harmonised with my own internal, infernal pace. As I dwell underneath those I despise, so too has my heart sunk down beneath; as I tunnel further in my quest for renewable energy sources, so the less renewed has my own hope for renewal become. My dulled and despairing thought, ever below, has long found itself mirrored not merely in the unquiet mere of my noisome heart, but also in this my surrounding architecture: a bunker outside my self almost as massy and impenetrable as the bunker within.
For five long years have I marked off time along these walls, in scratches of chalk and chalky blood. For five years too long have I marked off time on walls as grey as graves, with the promise of graves, with the malice of graves…but no longer. No longer will I accept this state in which I’ve locked myself. No longer will I walk in a prison of my soul. No, dear reader, because this time, this time is my time. And there’s only one thing I want to do with this time that is also my time. And that thing I want to do, my dear reader, is ask you a single very important question.
Would you mind helping me redecorate?
Thanks.
Notes:
1. So what I’m doing in this latest clever blog entry is to compare the state of my soul with the state of the Waspinator for President underground bunker. And what I’m doing with this comparison, you see, is drawing attention to the fact that they’re both a bit bleak, although I suppose the underground bunker is a little bit more bleak, given that it is in essence entirely fictional. My soul, despite a great deal of compelling moral evidence to the contrary, is not entirely fictional.
2. So having made this comparison between the bleakness of my soul, and the bleakness of my fictional bunker, what I then did was to ask you to help me redecorate. Perhaps, now that I come to think about it, some light pastels would be nice. Well, look, anyway, this is all clever and also funny because what I should have done, really, was to ask you to help out with the bleak soul issue, whereas what I actually did was to ask you to help make the bunker look snazzier instead. And that was the wrong thing to say in context, and hence an unexpected outcome, even as it was also very expected, but also that very sense of expectation was probably interesting to you.
3. So as usual I’m having to provide a commentary on what I’ve been doing because otherwise, to be quite honest, you probably wouldn’t get it. But also, you see, I could actually be asking you to help redecorate my soul, rather than the bunker. So it’s a joke that’s also a metaphor that’s also simply true, which makes it very different from all the other blog entries here and really quite smart when you think about it and not redundant.
4. So also, this blog replaces one of last week’s promised titles, ‘This Pleonastic Meme I’m Currently Experiencing Is A Bit Pleonastic’. You know, unless I decide to repeat myself.
For five long years have I marked off time along these walls, in scratches of chalk and chalky blood. For five years too long have I marked off time on walls as grey as graves, with the promise of graves, with the malice of graves…but no longer. No longer will I accept this state in which I’ve locked myself. No longer will I walk in a prison of my soul. No, dear reader, because this time, this time is my time. And there’s only one thing I want to do with this time that is also my time. And that thing I want to do, my dear reader, is ask you a single very important question.
Would you mind helping me redecorate?
Thanks.
Notes:
1. So what I’m doing in this latest clever blog entry is to compare the state of my soul with the state of the Waspinator for President underground bunker. And what I’m doing with this comparison, you see, is drawing attention to the fact that they’re both a bit bleak, although I suppose the underground bunker is a little bit more bleak, given that it is in essence entirely fictional. My soul, despite a great deal of compelling moral evidence to the contrary, is not entirely fictional.
2. So having made this comparison between the bleakness of my soul, and the bleakness of my fictional bunker, what I then did was to ask you to help me redecorate. Perhaps, now that I come to think about it, some light pastels would be nice. Well, look, anyway, this is all clever and also funny because what I should have done, really, was to ask you to help out with the bleak soul issue, whereas what I actually did was to ask you to help make the bunker look snazzier instead. And that was the wrong thing to say in context, and hence an unexpected outcome, even as it was also very expected, but also that very sense of expectation was probably interesting to you.
3. So as usual I’m having to provide a commentary on what I’ve been doing because otherwise, to be quite honest, you probably wouldn’t get it. But also, you see, I could actually be asking you to help redecorate my soul, rather than the bunker. So it’s a joke that’s also a metaphor that’s also simply true, which makes it very different from all the other blog entries here and really quite smart when you think about it and not redundant.
4. So also, this blog replaces one of last week’s promised titles, ‘This Pleonastic Meme I’m Currently Experiencing Is A Bit Pleonastic’. You know, unless I decide to repeat myself.