That would be a good last line for this diary. “The Aristocrats!” I would write, and someone would read it and laugh, and I would have brought a little bit of mirth into the world. It’s an old joke, The Aristocrats, it has an history to speak of. I don’t know when it was first told, but it should have been a blast to behold such a pivotal moment for Anglophone humor.
This makes me wonder if jokes could have a sort of taxonomy, much like living beings do. Can you imagine it, being able to lump the joke your aunt tells at Christmas with a random one you see online, to be able to even quantify, somehow, how closely related both jokes are? It would be amazing, I think. A work worth doing at an academic level, analyzing every minute detail of the jokes to determine where of the tree of laugh they belong.
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I have been thinking about the skulls, and why was I lumping them by sex. Wouldn’t it be more useful to sort them by size alone? Skulls can be cut in half to make bowls or plates, they are pretty round and, except for children, the sutures of the bones tend to be strong enough. The teeth could be used for construction, like the little rocks thrown in when making concrete. Well, maybe, I am not sure if the chemical makeup of dentine and enamel is compatible with cement like that. Another use could be to make some sort of big grained and rough abrading mixture. What for, I don’t know, but the possibility is there. Skulls, skulls, how useful are skulls when you spend a while thinking about skulls.
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My first dog was called Óxido, and he was a black and copper Yorkshire Terrier. He had been born some years before I, and I grew up in his company, with the dog slowly becoming smaller, at least to my mind of a child, over the years. One day, some time before my sixth birthday, mom told me he had escaped during the storm of the previous night, and for years I held the hope that the dog would find his way back home on his own. It should go unsaid, but what really happened is that the little creature suffered a heart attack during that noisy storm, and, while I slept and watched my morning cartoons, my father took the cadaver out to bury it in my uncle’s house, a drive half an hour into the suburbs, where I wouldn’t find the grave until many years later. I miss Óxido, he knew how to give a paw, sit, and lick my face on command.
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I need more buckets for the barf, or at least to wash this one. Ugh, the very smell makes me want to throw up again. I am getting hungry, but I cannot keep anything down. Why has my stomach to be such a stuck up bitch?
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Lick my face. That sentence sounds kind of like the word avoidance, and avoidance is a word in three acts. A, void, and dance. A void dance. A dance of void. A dance of nothing. How can nothing dance, how can nothing… can? Avoidance, what a …curious word. Can avoidance be avoided, wouldn’t that be avoidance, too? It would, it would, it surely would.
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Face it, disgrace, face it alone as the man you are supposed to be!
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I have opinions about pit bulls I cannot express elsewhere but ranting about them here would consume the diary and I don’t want to do that, the diary is a sort of life support for my mind, like the life support toddlers often need because mommy adopted a badly bred dog from the most reputable crack dealer in the neighborhood. Hey, silver lining, the crack was cheap and as good as crack gets. The dog could have been just a dud.
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FACE IT FRANCISCO GOD DAMN YOU. FACE IT WITH A PARODY OF BOHEMIAN RHAPSODY IF NECESSARY, BUT FACE IT, LITTLE BITCH.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
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Jillsenbane refuses to kill me. I tried to gut myself, but the edge that can cut through rocks and armored lizards without a single issue goes blunt when it contacts the skin of my belly. I tried to beat myself to death with the golden pommel, but it decelerates before striking my head. When I try to hold it still and head-butt it instead, the metal seems to be as elastic as it needs to avoid damaging me and recover its shape afterwards. I feel trapped in a comedy, in a slapstick cartoon world. I have considered suicide by other means, but they would be unsanitary. I was sure Jillsenbane would be the fast and painless option. I don’t want pain. I don’t want to suffer anymore. A suicide that causes me pain would defeat the purpose of said suicide in the first place. That is, Avoidance.
The positive thing is that I realized I don’t need the mad me, because I am becoming it, filling its niche like an invasive species after killing off the local populace that used to occupy said niche. Rabbits in Australia, and all that. It’s not a losing of my grasp on reality, however, it’s more of a consistent denial of it. Systematical, that’s the word I was looking for. Systematical denial of reality. It’s easy to do, some people back home, in Earth, do it often, so it cannot be that hard. In the face of evidence, you simply dismiss it and go on as if nothing had happened. For example: I am in this cave out of my own volition, I got here during a fever dream, don’t know the way back, the bear never existed, and neither did dragons. How could dragons exist? Aren’t they too heavy to fly in any capacity? Dragons are a hoax. See, easy peasy. The dead people and the shower made out of babies are… they are… they are there because of the chemtrails. Aerial drops of poisoned corpses.
My god, I should not write after two sleepless days and nights. There are more important things to ponder. If I ever had joy of experiencing another play-through of Persona 5, which girl would I go for? Chihaya, probably. She’s a goofball. I know, I know, controversial opinion. Go fuck yourselves, haters. Makoto sucks ass.
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I think of Lady Scarlet’s gradual superimposition with Abeline each second of each waking hour, and writing about random topics is doing anything and everything but helping. The dragon kissed me, and that’s not the problem: I’d be immunized to such simple yet revolting things, being this far into this game of torture. It’s not that I don’t mind about what they do to my body, it’s that, well, it is what it is. The revulsion comes from her robbery of Abeline’s facial features, and out of my weakness in that moment. Abeline is more than her face, than her gestures, than her voice. Abeline is more than an ideal, even if, in my psyche or heart or however you may want to call it, she lives as one. There’s Abeline, the crucified angel that inhabits the illusion, the one that called me a finely aged traitor. Then there’s Abeline, the necromantic abomination whose defiled form I refused, and still refuse, to behold. And there’s Abeline, the nymph that visits me in dreams where we are again in the beach, enjoying the breeze under peeking moon and stars, one and other and another time and makes me wake up with a short-lived smile in the rare occasions where I can get a good night sleep. Last but not least, there’s Abeline, the promised one, the one Lady Scarlet can gift me to have for myself for eternity. The first is Abeline, disguised, hidden behind make up. The second is Abeline, broken and roughed up, dead and hopeless, but Abeline in the end, Abeline at the very core, Abeline in the flesh. The third is the Abeline I fell for and I am still in love with. The fourth is the Abeline that could belong to me if I were to give up the first two, the one I can kiss, caress, and speak with without external reprimand.
The Abeline that should not be, the Abeline that is, the Abeline that it should always be, and the Abeline that I wish never was but cannot wish again. Four Abelines, all of them beloved, one of them despised.
For Abelines, and the only moral way out of this is to renounce to every single one. To unmask the angel. To get her to rest in peace, spared form her eternal torture. To snuff out the flame of her memory in her honor, lest I tempt myself to fantasize something more than a kiss. And to kill the goddamned, foul-breathed, death-dressed, eye-eyelined, hated, loved, needed, parasitic, dragon!
Four Abelines: for Abeline, not a single one should remain.