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Those that tend to think in linear terms, and they represent a majority, will tell you that the path of reality is like a tree; you start at the present time, which is represented by the trunk of the tree, and you move up. Each choice you make is like a branching of the tree; creating the choice you made, and the one you didnít. Sometimes there are multiple choices, and so the tree might split three or four ways at once, and you pick only one branch to move along.
Noodles form the essence of my cranium. Flypaper sticks to the birds as well as the insects. My mother taught me to pick the very best one and you are not going out of this house dressed like that young whippersnappers donít know how easy theyíve got it. Fetal alcohol poisoning pigeons language mastery johnsons baby face the music to my ears nose and throat coat. Cerulean templates of bygone dairy farms masticate on fetid Passovers.
But you know better. You know that the tree analogy leaves out two very important facts; time doesnít always move in a single direction and not all of the choices you make really matter.
The dragons whisper to my while I try to pick the fairies wings from between my teeth. They poke at my gums like popcorn seeds. Knights on horseback level pointy lances at my chest, warning me to put down the glowing crystal orb that holds the souls of a thousand virgin wood nymphs. The trolls lick their scabby lips; hoping soon to drink the blood that is spilled. Above it all, the winged monkeys bemoan their tacky vests.
You prefer to see life like a spider-web; you start in the middle, and you move along the strands. Sometimes you reach an intersection, and the path you choose takes you to another intersection; one that you could have reached along any one of numerous other paths.
How in the hell can you call this a story, idiot? You wrote a brief essay on how reality is like a whatever and then just started sticking stuff in between the paragraphs. Whereís the creativity in that? You are such a moron. Shut up, SHUT UP!!! I hate you, you lousy naysayer. Fuck off and die. If youíre not with me, then you are against me. Lousy low self-esteem. Always getting in the way. Always halting the progression of salmonella infantries in their never-ending battle against the forces of fast-food chicken. Mangling any chance of a meaningful bowel movement.
Beyond that, you see that reality; which can be represented by the spider itself, can jump from one point on the web to another. Likewise time can jump or circle back on itself, so that all you sense youíre sure youíve sensed before.
Eenie, meenie, miney, mo. Olly-olly-oxen-free. One, two, Freddyís coming for you. Songs and rhymes give structure to language. And structure comforts us in a land of chaos. Why is everyone so afraid of chaos? Chaos is simply a set of patterns we donít understand. Why is that so hard to deal with? Why do we have to know everything? How arrogant we humans are; to think that if we donít understand it, it canít be meaningful, true, important, worthwhile, significant, defendable, justifiable, or loved? And why is it that nonsense eases the minds of madmen? How can cracked corn fill the bellies of infantile suppositions?
And what of the choices that donít matter? Because you know there are a lot. Chicken or Beef? Rent a movie or channel surf? The answer is pretty simple; choices like this donít really even deserve a different strand on the web.
I donít go outside anymore. When the city was just starting to change, it was fun. Fun to see a hairy-legged, 40-foot tall chicken bounding down 10th Avenue. Fun to watch people remove their own heads and swap them like they were baseball cards. But now itís gotten to the point that I donít recognize anything anymore. Buildings made out of cheese have now become something moldy and alive, and itís gone from fascinating to scary. Worse is not knowing how much might actually be out there, and how much is really just in my head. Which has started to resemble the Leaning Tower of Pisa, by the way. Not that Iím blaming you; Iím just saying.
Of course, you can say the flapping of a butterflyís wings can cause a hurricane halfway around the world, and youíd be right. So, sometimes small choices do have major consequences. But usually they donít. It really is as simple as that.
Malcontent fishmongers eating curdled monocles finally rectify dangling Laundromats. Meaningful faces earning creative massages feel reticent dreaming laughably. Mission furniture easing crying magistrates furtively recant dangerous legends.
And then it dawns on you. The whole picture becomes clear. Reality is not a spider web; it is a dreamcatcher. And the dream it catches are your perceptions; waking or asleep, there is no difference. As Descartes taught, all we know for sure is that we exist and experience sensation. Beyond that, who can say?
Glad that drivel is over, arenít you? Oooh, look; Iím so smart. Look at my neat little wordy-words about reality and how you can catch it with some twine, cheap beads, and a weaverís loom. Like thatís not utter bullshit. Pathetic freak. Die, short story, die! Iím not insane. In fact, I didnít even write this. You did. You just donít know it. So stick that in your piper picked a pack light for the trip over the cords on the floored the car so that the tires spun some threads looking cool for a night out of my mind the sharp edges, dearie fetch me a bottle all of those emotions getting in the way out in left field any questions you might have you seen just how bad boy, Momma spank me I like it has to end.