Where were you last night?
There were no posts.
So? I take time away.
You don’t. You have no life.
I do. If you have to know, I had a date.
No. You have a better chance of getting that dog-sized elephant you want than getting a date.
You are aware that I’m you, right? I’m not a separate character like Elvis or Red Metal Stool.
Or Sleepy Batman.
KNOCK IT THE FUCK OFF WITH SLEEPY BATMAN!
He’s a fan favorite.
I’m ignoring you. You didn’t have a date.
Why do you lie?
Tell the nice people what you did.
Nothing. Literally nothing. I stole the Phish show, read The Sun & The Moon & The Rolling Stones by Rich Cohen, and went to bed at 11:30.
That’s, like, seven hours before your normal bedtime. How do you even do that?
Don’t worry about it. But now I’m good. Back on a normal schedule.
And by “normal schedule,” you mean “fucking around until three in the morning and then–just as you hit a good stride with the sentences and whatnot–the sun coming up and you recoiling like a dracula?”
Gotcha. So why are you procrastinating by talking to me?
I thought you were me.
We’re a biune god. Answer me, damn you.
Well, I was nervous that I couldn’t write anymore. Hadn’t done it in, like, 38 hours. Maybe I pissed or shit out my genius.
Not a thing.
It totally is. Francis Ford Coppola did it in ’81. Huge meal of rotelli and bocceballica and scaramucci–
Not actual foods.
–and the next morning: boom. Shit out every last good decision in him.
Do you have a point, or are you just wasting the nice people’s time peering around inside your own ass?
Third option! Picture of Oteil and Amir!
You think people won’t know that you’ve been staring at that picture for a week trying to figure out one of your little skitches for it and couldn’t come up with anything, so you’re just dumping it here in the middle of a bunch of time-wasting bullshit?
Why are you a fucking snitch?
You’re see-through. You’re a living wet tee-shirt, and your soul is the nipples. Everyone can tell what you are.
I’m gonna kill you and make it look like a suicide.
OF COURSE IT WOULD LOOK LIKE A SUICIDE, YOU FUCKWIT! I’M YOU.
DON’T TELL ME WHO I AM!
“Guys! HeyYAAAAAWWWNguys. Could you keep it down?
That better not be who I think it is.
Hey, Sleepy Batman.
“Sup, bro. Can you keep it to a dull roar?”
I hate everything about this.