When I first heard the word suicide I thought it was a gas. Like carbon monoxide. I was about nine and I was walking across a concrete bridge. It was cloudy and I imagined a light grey smoke slithering down my throat, making it harder and harder to breathe until all I wanted to do was sleep and sleep.
Fuck sex.
So anyway...
The very idea of it makes me want to puke.
Hey kids.
Sure I'm not speaking with a great deal of experience here.
Attached you will find part 1 (of 3) of Simon and the Museum; a complete and utter piece of shite I wrote about four years ago. And I'm not being self-deprecating either. Upon re-reading this literary nightmare I was appalled at (a) how bad the artwork is and (b) the disgusting misuse of the English language. Apparently I had only just learnt of speech marks... and still didn't know just how to use them. So don't worry. Only another two weeks of this and then I imagine I'll unveil my brand-spanking-new literary project. Planning on getting the thing totally finished before I let any of you see it. So as I don't get behind on it. Hey! It's just like Frasier! When the new series is ended they show 'classic' repeats. Which is just like what I'm doing this week. Only Frasier repeats are actually funny... Hell, you want some good comics, go read Transmet or Preacher. You read this e-mail, you suffer accordingly. And so as you can understand what it is that is being said, I've also attached a text file as a translation. Humperdido.
I hear it's a fine and wonderful thing.
Buggrit.
Having sex / making love / whatever.
Without my deep and meaningful rants I am nothing.
But the idea still makes me not feel too good.
Or at least I can't think of much else to write.
So fuck sex.
In case you were interested, the bad stuff's still going on.
On a lighter note.
Nah, we all know the real reason these broken lines are here.
I was standing on the path, talking to people I imagine, on Friday afternoon.
It's so as I can write a whole load of 'secret' white text.
And I'm bored so I scan the crowds.
And not have you guys any the wiser.
You know, all the people walking down to their buses.
Damn I'm smart.
And I get that whole eye contact thing with this girl.
Ooh! Deep and meaningful (ish) rant!
And it's like an electric shot has gone through my eyes, down through my feet into the earth.
I mean, this really should be white text...
And neither of us look away for a few seconds, so it goes on.
But that's all taken up right now.
I don't like making eye contact with people I don't know.
And most of you don't bother reading this thing anyway.
So she probably just thought, "Why's he looking at me?"
Hey! I remembered the question! The one I was going to ask you all a few weeks back!
But that matters not.
Why did I remember? 'Cos it's only what my rant was going to be about.
Damn, there's no point to this white text.
But, alas, I am at present feeling alienated from (on account of me not knowing most of) you.
I'm just telling of stuff that's happened.
And so shall not tell you what it is.
It's too hot. Humid as well.
I may be prepared to discuss some things.
So you probably all cringed a bit.
But not all.
Sorry 'bout that.
So maybe one or two of you will get an extra special bonus (AKA personal) e-mail from me, alongside this one, in your inbox this week.
A rather kewl wallpaper is being made.
So please respond to those.
If you want to be in it, simply send me a photograph of yourself.
Else I'll have asked for nothing.
I'll send it out in a couple of weeks.
For those of you who don't; don't worry (as I know you do). It's just a little bit of something that's been on my mind for a while.
That'll give you all some time to respond.
Hey! Should any of you e-mail me, asking what in fudge's name I'm gibbering about, I may just tell you!
Praise Allah.
So long as you ask.
Since I've been wearing that necklace thang (scan attached) my skin has got a whole load cleaner.
And I trust you.
Less spots etc.
Can you feel the suspense?
Pretty gnarly.
That should be enough for all the rest.
Could be that I've been washing more...
Tell me you don't want the next part of Simon and the Museum and I shall happily not send you it.
Nah.
Later,
Caleb
Who's rather scared.




satm1.txt