Get Outta Here!

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Spoonfreude

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I'll Miss You, Puck

I'm Back

Privyet, moyi drugi. I'd better start by explaining why I am here. I rose from the dead last week; I don't know why. Don't care, actually. I'm here, and you'd better pay attention.

Being reanimated sucks; let's just get that out of the way. I'd been enjoying a peaceful rest since my death in '85--in fact, the last few moments of my life allowed my subconscious enough precious seconds to construct another lifetime of dreams, which gradually became more and more lucid, until, in my world, I had indeed become Pharoah, but of a renewed Egyptian empire stretching from the Americas to the Nile to the farthest reaches of Siberia, Ra be praised. Enough of that for now, however. Waking from the Beyond is hell, folks. Imagine waking up one morning after a night on the town in which you ate a loaf of five-clove garlic bread, drank not one but two fifths of Pepe Lopez tequila, smoked ten moldy Costa Rican cigars, and had a salsa-bathed liver-and-onions sandwich for desert. Now imagine that morning breath. Now multiply that by 1,000, and you have something of the idea of the taste that was in my mouth for the first week after I awoke. Bank tellers, Jack-in-the-Box employees, heck, even the man at the liquor store begging for my change all thought they were pretty witty when they all made virtually the same joke: "Hey, did you just rise from the dead or something, poop breath?" Well, yeah, I did. Big deal, wanna fight about it? I've tried mints, brushed my teeth until my gums bled, and rinsed with extra-strength Scope (and I don't recommend doing those last two back-to-back). Nothing helped until I found a 7-Eleven employee who was willing to let me gargle with gasoline. It deadened the taste of death (pun intended), but it's a sonuvagun to blow out candles anymore. Oh yeah, the electricity in my old house is off, so I'm using candles.

Am I boring you? Give heed, reader, for you will be mine, like my dog, or my horse, or my falcon, except that I shall love you more - and trust you less.

Rub my head for good luck

Then go visit Spoonfreude. The city that he builds shall bear my name; the woman that he loves shall bear my child. So let it be written, so let it be done.