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Ah, my adoring public. Let me count the ways. Fire, drowning, autoerotic asphyxiation, stoning, lethal injection, slow consumption of internal organs whilst you are immobile but conscious, leprosy, chickenpox, cancer and sin. Just starting people off on one of their feet.

I am hungry, though. For mortal food. Will Actually Leave This Apartment at some point that I might come across real food. As opposed to cuponoodles, which are fine and scrumdiddlyumptious, but I'm not in the mood. Furtherly, my heart is beating, my fingers are typing, my brain is collapsing in on itself, soon to form a black hole from which not even light itself can escape, I am evolving plans for the successful termination of all those who I have reason to believe might at some point have considered wronging me, and my fingernails are lengthening. You can watch them grow, if you look carefully enough. They seem to draw one of two reactions: envious fascination and immense disgust. Good reasons to let them grow right there. Plus they're good for opening canned beverages, not to mention for *CENSOREDCENSOREDCENSOREDCENS*.

I shouldn't be typing this. I should be working. A little buzzing busy bee. But, alas! I am lazy. Which is both the reason, the excuse, and a pithy analysis of all that makes up meness, outside of the large constantly moving mass of disordered thoughts and twisted urges.

I can see into the past from here. I see remnants of days long gone by. Vanished empires. Forgotten myths. I see emails from weeks ago that I can read _any time I like_. I am a god here. Fear me. Fear my wrath. No, don't fear my wrath. I lent it to a friend for the weekend. Once I get it back, then you can fear it. Until then, fear my nervous twitch. (New word: pedewrath. Abuse it as you like. I'd suggest something to do with small children and berserk psychopathic fits, but it can mean artichokes should that be your leanings. Go with it. A gold start goes to the most inspired definition, and the creator of said definition gets to spend a week in Dr. Kramer's Shack O' Luv, located out in the woods where the cops can't find it or me. I'm being hunted. I'm actually a class at "The Academy". "Hunting the wild Alloni 101". Various instructors share their tricks and traps that have been used successfully in the past, with the notation that I'm only caught by any trick once, and the second time I simply stand in the distance, make mocking comments, moon the hunters, and disappear into the underbrush, leaving only a small mound of discarded Oreo shells. (It's not entirely true that I'm only caught once, by the by. I'm only caught by the same trick on odd-numbered attempts, and so far no one has attempted the trick the third time, as they don't appreciate my disregard for the environment.) I was actually the guest instructor there a couple weeks back. I recommended the use of attractive females that are likely to have an odd sympathy for me that develops into adoration and lust for my body as bait. I hope I hope I hope.

Note to self: must kill them all. They know too much. After food.)

Haven't been nearly amusing enough. Lessee. Must trot out surefire funny words. Ahem. "The Amish". Ha ha! "Weasels". "Suspenders". "Rotating knives". "Churn". "Martha Stewart is my lovechild." And so forth.

Eh. I'm dull today. More once I've recovered my native skills.