A brave morning

Up, and it being a brave morning, with a gaily to Woolwich, and there both at the Ropeyarde and the other yarde did much business, and thence to Greenwich to see Mr. Pett and others value the carved work of the “Henrietta” (God knows in an ill manner for the King), and so to Deptford, and there viewed Sir W. Petty’s vessel.... So home, reading all the way a good book, and so home to dinner, and after dinner a lesson on the globes to my wife, and so to my office till 10 or 11 o’clock at night, and so home to supper and to bed.

In bed I tossed and turned all night. I woke several times to find something peculiar. It seemed that I was not in bed at all, but in the back of a stagecoach, speeding down the county road, bumping and sliding in the mud and rain. We travelled all through the night until we reached Staffordshire. Mr. Pett was waiting for me here. He instructed me that it was of grave urgency that I be reprimanded into his custody for the remains of the day. Unwillingly I succumbed to his advances and agreed to the surgery. It was a gruelling experience, but one that left me pondering the meaning of a life such as mine. It seems that I am in fact more suited to living 600 to 1000 meters below the sea's surface. In a place that humans cannot go. For I am Mr. Pennyschmidt. The one and only. I resemble an eel, but am much more like a shark. And so home to supper and to bed.

A life!

You! You're lucky you've got a life! When I was your age we didn't have a life! No! That's where the saying, "Get a life!" came from. The lucky ones who had lives would say to us, the unliving, "Get a life!" It was a real insult, 'cause we had it tough! Oh yes, we did. When you're not alive, you don't exist. And it takes a lot of bloody hard work to do something, anything at all. None of us ever succeeded—we just continued not to be there—but we tried! Oh yes, we bloody tried. You lot, you count yourselves lucky!

—Pancreas, the Unliving

Death by Envelope

I tried to post you all my blob, but it won't fit in the envelope.
It's gelatenous shape and texture does not conform well with the size of the package container.
I tried at least 17 dozen times but it will not fit in.
The woman at the post office was extremely aggitated with me. Really. To the point if lunacy.
I said I was trying to post my blob, and she kept screaming at me.
It was insane.

I was just trying to join in with you all. With your funtime internet parties that I never get invited to.

I really get frustrated with the internet, but this time it is really pissing me off.
I hear about millions of people and thier blobs. It's on the news. It's in movies. It on morning radio for god's sake.
But I have no freaking idea how anyone could post such a messy fucking thing.

Is this fun ?

Thanks for the invite !?!

#@%&

Spleen

London calling

Thass roit, mate. Oi went t' London. Wassit t' you? Oi picked me up a London attichude, Oi did. Coss me firt'y quid.

London bridge was indeed falling down, as is its perpetual state. The municipal authorities are constantly racing to keep it from collapsing, reinforcing the uprights and pylons, and repairing the deck. It's a massive 24-hour effort that has been going for four centuries.

I was sick of bangers and mash by the time I left London. It is the standard currency, there.

I picked up a lovely London tailored suit for a dozen bangers and two-and-a-half pounds of mash, but it unfortunately became sullied in the transaction. They offered to clean it for me, and will only charge me a banger and a tablespoon of mash.

Apple studios is made entirely of apples, and I can't understand how anyone ever recorded anything there. I always thought it was just a name, but—nope—walls made of apples, floor made of apples, mixing deck made of apples. Actually, it's just a big pile of apples. Somehow they make millions out of it, and some good music, too. I bought an
album made of apples for two bangers and a quart of mash.

Happy to keep you informed.

August 1 and August 2

August awoke, beside himself. Literally.

In the night, something happened such that he was divided into two identical selves.

August leapt from the bed, panicked that someone wandered into his room and fell asleep next to him in bed.

August woke in fright when the bed suddenly shook from someone leaping out of it.  He startled across the bed thinking half-asleep that someone wandered into his room and fell asleep next to him in bed.

August standing gaped wide-eyed at a wide-eyed, gaping August in bed.

"Who the hell are you?" they accused. And then bam—the moment they both were completely freed of sleep, they recognised themselves. Their eyes actually grew wider. It was a long, long time before they finally chimed:

"You're me."

Slowly, August the first looked around, searching for signs in the room of some weird trauma in the night, not knowing what signs weird trauma would leave. August the second joined him. When the room seemed in order they moved onto inspecting themselves. No cuts or bruises. Then a very black thought: Were they mad? They didn't think so. They felt fine.

"Well, I'm me," they said.

"So am I."

But in the end, he wasn't himself when he killed him.

Crack is back!

I have graduated to crack. So you weren't at my graduation and I was pretty disappointed at that. I wore one of those black square mortarboard hats and smoked a crack pipe in front of my whole job department. Or something like that. I was pretty out of it.

Business news

Folger's Coffee has expanded its business into broadcasting, and to promote the new radio station the company has distributed thousands of cardboard radios to Columbian peasants. Reception from Marxist rebels has been muted, but once peasants removed their hands from the radio speakers reception was reported to be clear.

The new radio station has been met with skepticism by the Spanish-speaking population, who view it as a propagandist effort to promote the views of Janet Folger, who is not affiliated with the company. Folger's in turn has assuaged their concerns by packing the radios with cocaine and flying them into Barbados in crates.