Blast from the Past

Alright, make sure to keep quiet about what I'm about to put down here. Oh, yeah, yeah, sure, this is the Internet, everyone and the media can get in on this if they wanted to, but I'm hopeful that the 7 or so people following me won't recklessly mention everything posted in this blog . Unlike most of the other folks who roam around the world and hook up with every supernaturally involved individual like a gaggle of Donald Trumps and Martha Stewarts playing Speed Dating: Slender Man Edition, I'm not one to spread myself out and try to co-mingle in order to grab more attention or stylistically up the ante and show people how SERIOUS situations have gotten. I'm honestly only posting now in order to chronicle my thoughts and leave an imprint in case something bad happens, to me or to the world at large that renders me unable to communicate any longer.

Bad. How terribly vague a word.

I kept digging through the entries posted during my disappearance (there are actually 8 of them, "Gearing Up" is my very last one), and I noticed a strange pattern. One, two of them have a hip-hop tie-in - one of the tags for the "Pete rock And c.l. smooth...Y" entry is "danny take me away", which refers to Mobb Deep's "Drink Away The Pain" off of The Infamous. That leaves me with a number of messages, most of them unsettling. I can safely assume that it took someone away. Possibly to its realm. I've been there before now, I realize. Those dreams I mentioned in the posts before? Involved this thing. I just forgot when I came back. Came back. So I left? Possibly. Although I'm not sure myself.

The other is the Slick Rick one, talking to Frap during the time those demons piloted his body. The song "Indian Girl" from The Adventures of Slick Rick starts off with "Davy, Daaa-vy Crockett, king of the wild frontier" before Slick Rick goes on to chronicle him and an Indian girl having sex, with the consequence being a crotchful of crabs (yes, THOSE crabs) as reward for Rick's recklessness. But what's sex got to do with this? Zilch. Nada. Nothin'. It's a red herring. Then the other part. The Wolf is the Slender Man? But he's not anthropomorphic in the slightest. He's just a guy, not a guy-animal. Well, as much of a guy as a supernatural horror can alter himself to be.

But that last entry, the very last one before I woke up. That's something familiar to me. Someone recited those very same words a long, long time ago, back when I only dreamed of wild, vivid fantasies and didn't conjure them into reality. An old friend of mine, a novelist who goes by the alias Marley Manhide. That was an excerpt from his book, A Coo for Mollycoddling. And if what I'm reading is correct, I need to go talk to him before our ephemeral, enormous White Castle manages to lure him inside its seductive walls. After this, I'm going to hit the road and scoot over to where I last heard he resided, hopefully find him safe and sane. Hopefully reconnect with a friend for once.

You know, I wish I could revert everything. My life, my story, my profile's aesthetic. It's an awkward memento of a time less than a week ago I desperately need to forget. A time I don't want to keep with me, because my carrying capacity for all sorts of baggage is already taxed four times over. My one bit of advice? Lay low, people in danger, lay low like cobras hugging the asphalt for a sliver of warmth in the frigid, bitter survival seasons, because that sliver sometimes differentiates between life and death in this wild, cruel blue yonder. And could someone in that Angora Chat tell me what happened, or give me a log of who said what? I unfortunately missed it, and perusing that would make for a fascinating way to waste the time while I wait for Mr. Manhide. But adios, mis amigos! I shall now exit stage left.

A blue dude in a blue mood,

Snore-De-Bliss

Addendum: Found the Angora Chat Transcript. Looks AB-SO-LUTELY CRAAAAZAAAY. Glad I missed it.