Pill-Grim Happy Funtime Life-Amp Simulator Version 3.2

I'm prolonging my jagger high with white wine, and dating Aki tonight. Aki proved to be a far more fascinating conversationalist than I'd imagined. I’d written her off as a bliss ninny. But she’s more of a bliss nanny, making sure I get my share, like the other kids who’ve been so lucky. Because she has ladles of oodles of bliss to serve up, washer-board style. A magic wand, and I have rock hard tasty abs. Yes, it’s my turn. She always had this smile ready, for every occasion, it bowled me over, I didn't know what to make of it. But tonight it rolled over me like fondling foam. I riffed on her, jizzed on her face. She wiped off my juice, sweet as you please. She’s my happy ball of fun. I don’t taunt her. This is all coming at the cost of my sanity, but I’m happy to go mad, sink into her smile, taste the geisha, feel her melt under me, become my mattress, she knows when to respond, like Now. Now I want you to rise to the occasion, you know where to go, girl, you know where I want to hear your glossolalia.

We told a story together, based on fragments of trips, and television shows, and shared mythology, and odd personal anecdotes. It was about two ninjas, except they weren't turtles. But mutagen was involved. She riffed on me, with me. It proved to be a real jam party.

This white wine tastes almost good. Blanc. The golden tint. It satiates the craving. A minute ago, I was jonseying for a beer - a beer, you can't buy beer this time of night, BEER, the designated drug of the proud working class, was not available on demand, in Nelson. But White Wine was. Another drunk jam party at Jonathan Deon's parents' house, this time with Aki. She makes everything better. It's the usual stupidity, in which I feel like I can do no wrong, or the wrong I do doesn't matter. I connect with my inner asshole, and it gets me chicks like Aki.

I'm drunk on weed. Imagining life as it should be. The proper regime of my aesthetic unit, my legions, sworn to defend the fatherland porch, a splint off faction that will spark the Canadian Civil War of 2061 to 2065. It just goes on and on and on, as journey observed.

Aliens look like Asians. Coincidence? They both have the same number of letters. Coincidence? Aki is releasing my endorphins. Coincidence? It's infuriating, how da bitchez and hos have that power over me. The Elf Tykes almost abducted me tonight, to make me face the trans-personal-oberfetus-starchild. They were going to ruin a Strauss Tone Poem for me, clockwork orange style, one Vic Sagerquist said contained the greatest five minutes of classical music ever written about fifteen minutes in, one I wasn't all that crazy about anyway. There are lysergic crystals coating the walls and DMT vapour in the air. It feels vintage. But it's older than that. It's ancient. And yet binding to modern synthetic molecules. It's the necessary prodigal perversity, to get into medieval mythology on your ass, and gnostic certainty. You don't know yet, but you will one day. You’ll snort it off a hooker’s backside, but you’ll never kiss her. Like those other deja-vu daze. The stock market will crash, and then magically rise, quasi phoenix, from the ashes.

The Quasi Phoenix at the Quackadero. You never would have imagined, Pill Grim. But run the emulation enough times, and your reverie will become reality. Like Aki. The moans you couldn’t imagine, the syncopated squeak that responded to your spontaneous maneuver that somehow allowed your body to squeeze more bliss chemical through the ancient monkey cock mechanism. So you is me, but there’s another one that I’m not. I will gather a motley crew from umlauted sickheads. I will fuck the help. I will make bastard babies. I will sow my seed, and not care, not share, never know where my genes are going. And I will grow a garden with Aki, in old age, retirement. It’s wabies will sabize the passerzbye. It will be.