Mike, what the hell is going on up there? I come back after you e-mailed me the password to this account, and told me that you were gonna be heading down to El Paso so we could end this shit tonight, and I bust my ass to get a ride in the company of those terrifying drug suppliers that you so conveniently shacked me up with after we split from San Francisco, going all the way from Mexico City to that dinky little shithole of a town, and then I come here and read your blog expecting to see the meet-up point plastered all over your front page, and you tell me you've "already been there" and found absolutely jack shit? You're quitting, now, of all the god damn times, when we've got leads and we know where the fuck Dimlight is housing this creature? What in the name of dear Jesus himself are you doing, you stupid motherfucker? Who the fuck is this Sage guy?
Why is the...thing back, and saying you're fake?
God damn it, we both know what we experienced in San Fran wasn't just some isolated little delusion. A few million people don't disappear overnight, and the Golden Gate Bridge doesn't keep people up in the manner that we saw when that monster was hot on our heels. We both know that whatever that thing is called almost drove us off the deep end, and we both know I almost fucking died back there by being stared at to death! Why aren't we murdering every blowhard between here and that Dimlight facility who tries to stand in our way, Mike? Why did you start exploring before I got to El Paso, before we could cover each others' backs?
Or maybe you didn't go to El Paso after all.
So, that's the real reason behind all this incessant nettling you're giving me to move around all the time. Is this how it's going to end, Mike? Are you just gonna crumple me up, erase my memories and chuck me in la basura, like you did to Lucy when she started experiencing these exact same fucking symptoms a few years ago? Just fuck off back to Newark and retreat into your own little violent gangster fantasy world of drugs, guns, and dime piece sluts ready to ride your dick? You think that'll make that doe-faced, goat-bodied son of a bitch evaporate into the ether of legend? I'm terribly sorry I'm not a person with a attitude suitable for your fuck and forget type of camaraderie, you over compensating son of a bitch, but I need to live my own life, not be subservient to yours while acting as that wonderful side-kick who always brings home the Oscar for "Best Supporting Character". But that's all you want out of others - support, because you can't hold yourself up on your own weight. Is this Sage guy gonna replace me, like Newark replaced Lucy's love for you? Do you really move through life-long friends that quickly?
I suppose we'll have to see.
Oh, yeah, to all you supporters of "Snore-de-Bliss" currently reading this entry, these CRAZY PARANORMAL EVENTS aren't actually so out of the blue as they seem. That's all I'll say about that, because I'm an individual who values the promises some men make. But you, Mike? Feel free to throw off the condom of my friendship and go fuck some new ass raw. You're not the careful type, so I'm sure you'll catch a special form of AIDs eventually from expecting all that dick riding to substitute real help, from real friends, in your real life.