Tyler Withrow Unhinged

Kids, don’t do drugs. An interminable 40 hours a week in the office will feel like 20 minutes.

Although it was a Wednesday night and I had work the next morning, (if you can call what I do work anymore), I had screwed up the entire Cyramid.

For those who have not seen the You Tubes, (how the fuck did you find out about me?) the Cyramid is a pyramid of Rubix Cubes. 60 strong and something no real man can live without.

In the vacuum, solving cubes is autonomic and instinctual. Did I tell you how fucking smart I am yet? I don’t get the enjoyment out of it that I do when I’m moderately high and can giggle when I’m holding a solved cube that I didn’t remember picking up.

But it does help to have 60 unsolved cubes in the vacuum because it can help me to regain my lost sense of time.

I sit there and think whatever high thoughts I can, or I black out until I start to fiend for a cigarette. If I have solved ten cubes while in the abyss, I get to go smoke. If not, I will solve the remaining cubes…very quickly. When I want a cigarette, I want it immediately.

The funniest thing about the vacuum is the cigarettes. I look down, see my ten cubes, then I blink and it’s time to start cubin’ again. I search my wondrous mind for some memory Ingram, some recollection, some nostalgia, anything to prove that I had that cigarette.

Usually, I can remember five or six seconds of having a cigarette, but mostly it comes down to the ten cubes no longer being on the foot of the bed. I push them off before I go out to smoke.

When moderately high, I rebuild the mighty Cyramid as tribute to my ancestral past. When in the vacuum, that shit goes on the floor and when I stumble out of bed 10 hours later, I see them all there. I don’t pick them up.

I just acknowledge that not one of the 60 cubes escaped my grasp and then go to work so I can stumble in several hours late with no explanation. Then I spend the day either writing, like I am right now, or downloading pictures from the Playboy Cyber Club…like I am right now. I’m good at multi-tasking.

Then when I get home, I weigh my options between watching a couple of episodes of Star Trek: Voyager or Battlestar Galactica. After I get my nerd on, I determine how many cubes I would like to solve, based on how stressful the day has been.

The day following the warp-core breach, I once again launched the Enterprise for parts unknown. This was on a Thursday and I was supposed to be at work 12 hours after I started. I’m supposed to do a lot of things.

Once more there was a breach. (Or should I say, “Once more unto the breach!”) Once more there was the pungent smell of burning plastic. Once more I was plunged into the abyss. As opposed to stopping at one, I decided to see if it was a chronic (pun intended) problem with the dilithium matrix.

Chronic was another term for KB. Although I’m sober, (meaning I shouldn’t be saying any of this shit to a worldwide audience), I couldn’t remember the third term. Puns can be your friend.

There was another breach and this one created more smoke than any three bowls I’ve smoked combined since I joined the Federation. The rest of the night was basically the same, but I was doing 20 cubes between cigarettes instead of 10, because the real world was too far away to think about tobacco withdrawal.

The vacuum is an eerie place to be lost in. You look at the clock and it says 9:43. You look at the cube which has somehow been solved. You look at the clock and it says 11:31. Did it take that long to solve one cube? If so, why are there two dozen solved cubes at the foot of the bed?

Kids, stay out of the vacuum. In fact, never use a vacuum cleaner.

So close yet so far. I will launch this goddamn thing, but I’ve got bigger problems. Legal problems. No, not because of the fundraiser. No, not because of the Gecko vs. Nul-Coon thing. Fuck you, Al Sharpton. Get off my jock.

I can’t talk about it. But I do have a question. Why do people keep comparing me to Tyler Durden?

I don’t know how to feel about that at this time. Fight Club is both an exceptional book and movie, so I’ll take that as a compliment. For now. Although, being accused of creating nationwide chaos is not helpful, even though it is technically true.

I tell the people the idea for the fundraiser and I get, “You’re going to get sued.”

“No, it’s legal. I can prove it.”

“You’re going to get sued, Mr. Durden.”

And do you know what’s really fucked up? Half of them don’t even know my name. I say, “I’m going to pay for the education of a kid who has my name.” And then I tell them the idea and they call me Tyler Durden. Or they say, “Operation Chaos” or “In death his name is Bob”.

They never say, “Have you seen Fight Club?” Or, “That reminds me of Fight Club.” They don’t say the words Fight Club at all.

I want you to think about this long and hard, my thousands of non-commenting friends: They are treating me like I am actually Tyler Durden. What is the first rule of Fight Club? Anybody?

That’s right. You don’t talk about Fight Club. What is the second rule of Fight Club? Yes, you in the back.

Correct. You don’t talk about Fight Club. Gold star, you little pillow-biter.

I have at no time brought up Fight Club. My fundraising idea draws nothing from the book or movie, and there is nothing to tie it to the book or movie, even tangentially.

And yet, seven out of ten people that have heard the actual idea have made references to Fight Club and to me as Tyler Durden…while following the rules of Fight Club.

You met me at a strange time in my life.

High, all. That was not a misspelling. Actually, since high is a regular word it would be an improper word usage not a misspelling.

God, this is going to take forever. I type 70 words per minute and that last sentence took an entire 3:44 second song to type. Then I had to look up the length of time and report on that, so I’m sure I’m down about forty minutes.

Yeah, okay. I’m on the weed. But it is medicinal and to that I say, “Fuck you, Mitt Romney.” Governor, I’m not full of shit when I talk about being a savant in political science. A lot of people dismiss me because I am a drug addict, but that is to their determinant.

I’ll get to that race-baiting darky at a later time.

What’s that? Yes, I did say darky. Do you know why? Because that miserable cock-sucking failure keeps calling me a fucking racist!

I talk a good game, but this is the first post I’ve written while directly under the influence of narcotics. Oh shit, that’s not true. I had the edibles at work. Okay, this is the first time that I have inhaled smoke and typed one.

Dagnabbit, that’s not true either. I was taking hits with the one hitter and then went back to my desk. Okay, I’m going to smoke again and see if I can get this right.

I’m back. I was only going to take one hit, but I smoked two and a half bowls with Across the Universe. That’s my water-pipe, (wink), and it is a beaut. It’s one of six bongs, (no wink), that I am currently…no that is not true.

The Battlestar Galactica has fallen. FRACKIN’ CYLONS! I put it on the back of my car so I could dance and it fell off. So many souls lost.

I liked that one.

Anyway, okay I’ll finish the political shit. Mr. President, you go to colleges and tell kids that the evil Republican’s want to double their tuition, (it’s the interest rates, but who am I to split BLACK hairs), and yet you keep threatening to veto the bill that those racist pigs in the GOP submitted to stop the rates from doubling.

Because their bill would divert spending from your…deficit neutral healthcare bill? Mr. President, I am baked like a muffin in an incinerator shaft, but even I can see the flaw in this. If your bill was really deficit neutral, (which is the only thing you said more than acussin’ me of hatin’ those dirty Nulcans), then wouldn’t that mean that it wouldn’t divert money from existing programs?

I am so high. I went from song three on my IPod to song fourteen and I can’t name any of the songs in between. And I’ve been doing this for over an hour! I’ve typed 486 words in an hour?!

Barack, you go to schools and say that the Republicans are the problem. Now you are going to double their interest rates so people don’t see the real numbers in that bill and your budget. You miserable Nulcan Monkey.

See if I can get the NAACP up my ass for that shit.

Mitt, you are an insurance salesman. I’ve worked with them for over a decade. Forced smile, ill-fitting suit and something akin to bloodlust twinkling in your eyes.

I’ve got to do this more often. I’m going to smoke up again and see just what I end up with. From here, expect a lot of typos.

How did that take 28 minutes? Okay…hold on. Okay, I was listening to White Horse by Taylor Swift and it was bringing up too many emotions for me to think and type.

I can’t tell you the name of the pipe I used because I forgot it. It was the newest one. I remember the conversation I had with myself about naming it, but not what the consensus was. Oh yeah, Mitt Romney.

I read a story about Mitt where a cancer patient or something else, all I know is they were in a lot of pain, asked the Insurance Man what he thought of the medical dope. Mitt’s response was, “I don’t support medical marijuana.”

The story didn’t specify whether or not the Republican Nominee slapped the questioner in the face before leaving.

Buzz-kill-a-rino. May I call you Mitt? You are very kind. Mitt, what the fuck are you thinking here, bro? I have done no research on why your local State Farm Agent is opposed to me not being in pain, but I will offer theories as well as my rebuttal.

1: It is a gateway drug.

Response: THAT’S BECAUSE YOU HAVE TO GET IT FROM A DRUG DEALER, ASSHOLE!

I’ve written about this before, but I will again so that the Geico Gecko…I’m sorry, lightning just struck. Mitt Romney will be known henceforth as Gecko, keep up with the Blews…understands the issue that he has made up his mind about, without thought or evidence.

I’m so high and I’m so smart.

Do you realize I test off the charts in everything? I solved the Rubix Cube after a bottle of vodka and I never drink. I’m going to learn Origami. Back to the post that I managed to not only finish, but split in half despite seven bowls.

Make that nine, champ. Someone had to edit this. Want to go for ten?

Not really, I’m probably going to catch a beat-down for this as it is.

Come on man, you know you wanna.

I think I’m good.

This isn’t a question.

Oh my God, put the gun down.

You got a pipe in your mouth, or you gots a gun in your mouth. What’s it gonna be, bitch?

I’ll go, I’ll go. Just don’t hurt the girl.

What girl?

This one.

And with that, Tyler flung himself at his assailant. The two sparred vigorously and until one…was…dead.

Gecko, I have a Medical Marijuana Card. Please don’t send your thugs after the Big Mac and Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese that are all up in my fridge.

That means that I can walk into these magical stores, where pixies tickle cherubs and fairy dust wafts through the breeze, illuminated by a majestic rainbow with all the creatures of the forest singing songs and telling tales.

Well, apparently I like to go to dispensaries. I’m going to smoke again and see just how much it takes before I can stop writing.

Black people really like Coors Light. I just heard two commercials where they had brotha’s doing slam poetry about the frosty brewed refreshment where the mountains turn blue. That shit was good too. Right on, black beer drinkers.

I smoked out of Chester. I love Chester like a brother, but the killing must stop.

Where was I? Ah yes, the dispensaries. Governor, I would have broken my jaw. By the way, I know I was doing a possible reason why he would be opposed and my response thing, but as Chester’s darkness enveloped my soul I realized that the gateway thing is Gecko’s only rationalization.

If you say it is addictive and/or could be abused, you are full of shit. Every painkiller is one or both. Hey Gecko, do you want the old woman dying of cancer to be without morphine because she might get addicted to it? Hmmmmm?

So Gecko, the question is did you want me to break my jaw? Here is where I mind-fuck the reader. Fair warning.

I didn’t get my fundraiser launched because the only person I’ve ever loved almost died…on my birthday. Combine that with the fact that I had to stand there and try not to scream as the people who made me complicit in a crime, put together a chain e-mail of hate that culminated in a coworker threatening to physically assault me and sending it to me five times, (she did get a stern lecture so it is alright), and four other pages of shit like that, sang happy birthday to me.

Then…the list just goes on and on. That was on my fucking birthday, Gecko. I saved my friend’s life instead of launching the fundraiser that will determine mine. Do you think maybe, juuuuust maybe, I could torch a blunt in my garage with no inclination to drive or even open the garage door, because I made that kind of sacrifice…AGAIN?!

My stories are true. You don’t believe them and that is cool. But, as this continues to expand, you should know that I will do worse and worse things to you until you believe. It will be legal and entertaining and, I just realized something.

Gecko, you can be anti-weed all you want. Do you know what you can’t be? Anti-Withrow. I shouldn’t be. And yet, here I am. You can’t stop me, Gecko. And you can’t stop me either, Porch-Nulcan.

Hey Jesse, I capitalized it just for you, baby. Always just for you, young-blood.

Oooh, shit. I think I’ve smoked too much. I get so angry about that race-baiting shit and when I’m high I just can’t stop it. Here’s what I’ll do: I will go smoke out of Hulk and throw a little earwax on there.

Gecko, earwax is some sort of strange hybrid puddy mass. You don’t want me to have it. I’m in pain. I can’t say that shit enough, and no I don’t want to save 15% on my auto coverage!

Yeah, so I’m going to do that and maybe it will be too much and I won’t be able to post this. I couldn’t find Hulk, which is funny because it is 36 inches tall, so I went with Buddha. The jolly deity was very good for my soul.

I can’t believe I’m still typing. I’m hovering over the keys like the Mothman.

Yeah, so Gecko. Just so I’m clear on this, you want me to live with the things that have happened to me. Things that no one believe even happened, when they are part of the fucking story, and not only do people think I’m making it up, they think I’m insane.

Is that what you want, Gecko? I have documentation of every goddamn thing. Oh, that reminds me. I quit my job, but I’m sure you’re not interested in that. I work from home now doing this. What I’m doing right now. This is my job.

I haven’t made any money. Not one cent. And yet, I am optimistic about my future. Bit queer if you ask me.

Anyway, I wrote a book in the last 48 hours. Start to finish. Wrote myself a book. It’s good too. Neo told me I need content, so I’m just going to start cranking that shit out. Psyche majors across the country, I am handing you your degree.

And hopefully I will be able to pay for it. It will work. I just couldn’t get the damn PayPal right.

This is where life has put me, Gecko and Nul-Coon. I’m sorry, I’ve had to listen to a shit load of Barack Obama shit because that’s one of the books that I am writing and he is a vindictive race-baiter.

What’s funny is that this shit will get 10,000 hits. Wait until I start my business…bwa-ha-ha.

Kids, don’t do drugs. Unless you are a genius. We get all the drugs we want.

People keep asking me why I don’t just smoke up in my living room. Why would so many people ask me that question with the implication that to do so they would have to know I commit a crime every night? It’s because they know. EVERYBODY knows.

This plays into what I call the existential crises or Ex-Cri’. The Ex-Cri’ is a recent development. It has been going on for years, but I didn’t notice it because I was always trying to save my life or the life of someone else.

It’s about priorities when you are a stoner savant sifting through 23 straight years of emotional destruction and impossible events.

There will be a very in-depth analysis of the Ex-Cri’ in one of my books. Most likely the Backstage Pass book, because Tommy Knockers (not affiliated with Toastmasters International, all rights reserved) was where I figured it out and I gave a speech about it that definitively proved I was right.

I like this genius thing. I didn’t know about it until August of last year when I had (at best) 5% of my mental faculties left after the dog situation and yet a woman with a Masters Degree in Psychology said that I could have been the next Freud or Einstein.

That is some heavy shit to dump on a stoner being beaten to death while taking care of his paralyzed dog. The full tale of my new found genius is in the speech, which is in the book.

Give me money. If you do, you will get me out of this fucking job and get to see what I’m truly capable of. The world will never be the same.

Although it is anathema to my super-human intelligence, I have to finish the story with the old bowl of the Enterprise: That explosion negated any need for further smoking, which I did anyway.

It smelled like burning plastic. I checked around the garage to make sure that I didn’t light anything on fire. I was in the clear on that so I smoked a non-Ultra Light cigarette. I took a whiff of the Enterprise and the overwhelming stench of burning plastic made me throw up again.

There is a three foot by four foot section of my garage floor, (in front of my smokin’ chair), that is caked with a layer of vomit that is about two inches thick.

That answers both the question of why I smoke in the garage instead of in my house, as well as why there has never been a girl in my house, pretty or otherwise.

I was in a high place that I call “the vacuum”. Like an alien abduction, when you are high you suffer from lost time. You’ll turn on a movie, the movie ends. What came between is something that you did not have the right to see.

You’ll look down at a plate covered with hot dogs. You are covered with ketchup and crumbs. The hot dogs were eaten, but were they eaten by you? Once more, this is classified information.

The smoke explosion that I dubbed a “warp-core breach” plunged me into the vacuum of space unlike anything you pussy-wannabe-smokers could begin to imagine.

Kids, don’t be a pussy-wannabe-smoker. Oh, I mean don’t do drugs. Yeah…don’t do drugs.

Still no comments. I don’t even get cool spam anymore. I miss the black lady that called me a sexy white boy.

I hoping the Fund will be launched Friday. I take full responsibility for the delay. I had one step left to do, (PayPal), and I fucked up hard core. Neo is on the scene and he’ll make things right.

All other overlords of the internet that may or may not be assisting the cause shall remain Anonymous.

Today’s my last day at work. All the insurance fraud and psychotic abuse does take its toll. I wanted to wait until I had money to leave, (instead of an extra $3,000 of debt from starting a non-profit high), but circumstances made me jump out of the plane early.

I’m wearing a backpack. When I pull the string, am I going to get a parachute? Or am I going to open it and have a bunch of camping gear fly out as I plummet to my death? That depends on whether or not you give me money.

I can muddle through if this doesn’t work. I am a genius after all. But I’ve got a white Barack Obama mojo working. I want to develop a cult of personality through masturbation jokes, public humiliation, (both mine and yours), and the occasional psychotic break.

One spam comment accused of stealing material from another author. If you’ve read any of my shit you know that I wouldn’t do that. I get that comment a lot on the Scholarship Fund posts, but that is because I get more traffic on those than the long island expressway.

If it is true that another Tyler Withrow has been writing about setting up a NPO to pay for the scholarships of other Tyler Withrow’s, I’m not aware of it. I will say this to any Tyler Withrow that is sippin’ on my Kool-Aid:

Bro, I spent $550, (that I do not have), to get every domain name in existence from GoDaddy. This is my bit and you can go fuck yourself. I’ll still pay for your college, but get off my jock.

The “Tyler is a thief” spam comment of today was on…Don’t Date (like) Tyler Pt. 5.2: Fondling Myself.

To be honest, I pray to T-Rux that someone else is writing about a woman in their office building thinking they were jacking-off during a conversation about nicknames. One nice thing about going national is that you find like-minded people who are accused of public-masturbation because they were scared talking to a pretty girl and were clutching a lighter in their pocket.

I think that has happened to at least 2% of the population. If I did steal that bit…the other author can have it. I don’t want that shit. Her expression is imprinted on my subconscious and I literally see it when I close my eyes.

To any other blogger that writes about that: Own up to it. I will do a story on you for my Newsletter, which I have yet to set up because of that goddamn NPO.

I’ll see you on Friday. God-willing, it will be with the launch of my Foundation. If not, you get the latest segment of the Blews Report from Earth Pi. When you find out where Earth Pi is it will blow your mind.

I know it blew mine.

Kids, don’t do drugs. Just don’t. Stupid fucking kids.

Back to me smoking an eighth a week: I had been doing it so much that when I peed into a urinal it was like a bong-rip for the poor soul who used it next. Then my Bro-hizzle at the time got some Medical MJ. Not a lot. Enough for one hit from a one hitter for each of us.

Even with KB, one hit from a one hitter would have given me less of a buzz than smoking an Ultra Light Cigarette, which was available at the time. Not with Medical.

I thought it had been laced with PCP or Angel Dust or an equally devastating real drug. Nope, just straight dope.

That is how powerful that shit is. I fell on my ass…literally. It hurt. Since I was only 19, I was too stupid to get the food first. My now very abusive father, (maybe this is why he is beating me to death psychologically these days), had ordered the pizza.

My friend and I were to pick it up, take it home, and eat it. I really should have waited to take that hit, but I didn’t know it was going to be like shoving cocaine into my urethra.

After an hour of trying to come down to the point I could drive safely, (I was repeatedly dunking my head into a punch bowl filled with ice water), I had to come clean to abusive McGee and say that I was too high to pick up the pizza.

That was an easier conversation than it should have been. If I was too high to even walk over there to pick up the goddamn pizza, then I was way too high to give a fuck what dad thought.

He had one of his dissociative screaming fits, (which is a daily occurrence now), and then he got the pizza.

The rest of the night has been wiped clean.

I couldn’t pick up the pizza after one hit. Let’s talk about what I’ve been doing over the last year:

I got the Enterprise on 4/22/11. The non-purchase of it has been detailed in the PSA’s and if you don’t remember, either go back and read it or stop doing drugs because there is a good chance you already have read it.

Kids, don’t try to remember things.

What I haven’t chronicled is the Dark-Lord. The bowl that the Enterprise came with wasn’t much bigger than a one hitter. If you don’t think that will do the job, then you don’t understand the power and majesty of the Enterprise. It can sustain velocity at Warp 9.97 and has taken on everything from the Borg to Romulins.

When I relapsed again after my father caused me to bite through two of my teeth, there was a malfunction in one of the plasma manifolds. I would be sucking on that thing like the WOB at a bus station, and I couldn’t get it to fill with smoke.

I kept sucking until it felt like the Enterprise was going to blow a load of Wonka Frosting into my hungry belly. My thought was that it was clogged and rather than take the time to clean it out, I would just suck the flame through the bowl and burn away whatever the obstacle was.

All of the sudden, there was an explosion of smoke and I coughed so hard that I threw up all over my garage floor. This is a daily occurrence for me, whether there is a smoke explosion or not.

Kids, don’t do drugs. Try not to throw up on your garage floor and never, ever use a urinal after me.

Hello to the thousands of readers who won’t leave a fucking comment.

The Scholarship Fund is going to be six days late, but it should be here on Wednesday 5/2/12. I take full blame for the tardiness. Who would have thought a drug addict would fail to launch a non-profit organization on time?

Oddly enough, my pervasive drug abuse has nothing to do with my inability to click three buttons on PayPal. I hit a wall and I hit it hard. But I got back up and we shall proceed as planned.

Anonymous.

I’ll explain that at a later time. Expect that word to come up a lot. Johnny-Law…I dare you.

I’m making plans and scheming until my tortured brain can scheme no more. I’m not going to tell what I’m planning, because I want to confuse, frighten, and titillate you if you are reading this for the first time when I have a million dollars to give away.

Also, you didn’t leave any comments of support. I wouldn’t have hit the wall if one out of every ten-thousand of you fuckers had just said “Go get ‘em, Ty-Grrrr.”

But, oh no. I tried to focus on my genius status and you choad-suckers just had to focus on my insanity.

Savant in four fields. I’ve been tested. Also, I’m typing this in my cubicle and not an asylum, so I’m sane enough to game the system.

Remember this. Remember this moment when you see pictures of the first cash prize recipients giving you the finger. I will make them flip the bird in those photos and I will pay a thousand dollars per person to do so.

All you had to do was leave a comment. That is all you had to do. Are you afraid of me? You should be. I’m holding back until I get the money.

Then I will give it away and you will see that the true power doesn’t lie with the President or Congress.

It belongs to the hilarious-genius-psychopath who shows up at your school and starts handing out checks.

You will all be happy to know that I did not spray my face with spunk since the last time we talked. I learned to lift the shirt to protect me from the blast as the pig-squeals.

I just realized why you won’t comment.

Long story short, the shirt has been perforated by my WME, (Weapons of Mass Ejaculation), but I no longer have lacerations and bruising on my face, so I’m glad that the shirt was willing to make that sacrifice for the greater good.

I hope Former Tyler Withrow #1 is still reading. If not, it is going to be unbelievably awkward when I try to mail him a check for five grand.

“And we’re back.” Tyler, traveling at 100kph leaned forward to shout through the open area where the windshield used to be.

“Burn in hell, Larry!” He screamed. “From Hell’s heart, I stab at thee!”

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The already battered pie truck crashed into Larry so hard that it created a shockwave, demolishing the several buildings in proximity that had survived the quake. A sickening sound of crumpling metal followed and Tyler was catapulted forward and through the window of the one wall of the quaint French Bistro that was still standing.

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Tyler plucked glass and pie crumbs out of the scratches on his face that always seemed to accompany flying face first through a window at high velocity. Then…he laughed.

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A deep-throated maniacal laugh, that sent the buzzards picking at the corpse of Sir Frogginton into the sky, panicked and alone.

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When he had once more removed shrapnel from a pig that was starting to miss talking about politics, Tyler shook his head to clear it and then walked toward what was left of the exit to urinate on what was left of Larry.

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He stopped, dumfounded. Larry was standing there eating a piece of the truck, happy as a clam.

Had Tyler not been the one to crash the vehicle into him at 100kph, he would have been fascinated that Larry could eat metal as easily as pastry.

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“What the frack were you thinking, Tyler?” Marisa said storming toward him. “You could have been killed! Larry could have been killed!”

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“That was what I was going for…” Marisa slapped Tyler hard across the face.

It echoed like a thunderclap up and down the crumbling street. Tyler held his palm against the blood red imprint of Marisa’s delicate hand on his chubby cheek.

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“I…I…” Tyler, for once in his miserable life, was at a loss for words.

Marisa too was speechless at her crime of passion. She would give anything for Nanna to help her travel back in time to stop herself from doing what she had just done.

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“I didn’t mean to…I’m so sorry, Tyler.” Her voice was small and distant. She didn’t mean to do it. It just happened. “I was worried…I care about…I’m falling in lo…” she was floundering. Why couldn’t she find the words?

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Tyler knew that she was going to tell him that she was falling in love with Larry, or Skyler 2.0 or whoever the hell else had won the beauty’s capricious heart this week.

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“I need to be alone.” There was no emotion in his voice. He simply walked around a pie building that had been split in half and sat down.

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He stared at nothing specific. He didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to be here, in this world of Pi made of pie, or even in the same universe as Marisa.

‘She didn’t mean to’. He thought to himself. There was a tremor beneath him. ‘That doesn’t change the fact that she did.’

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At this thought, there was another quake and the park bench made of pie that he was sitting on fractured and collapsed beneath him.

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“Tyler, this is Nanna in the Newsroom of Earth 1.”

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Tyler didn’t acknowledge his grandmother. He clinched his jaw and continued to stare forward without seeing anything.

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“This is very important, T-Bag.”

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“Frack you, Nanna. I’m tired. I’m tired of punching my pig in public. I’m tired of being brutally beaten.” As Tyler spoke, the sky above the pie world turned grey, then black with ominous storm clouds.

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“I’m tired of being lonely. I’m tired of working with a beautiful and amazing young woman who thinks I’m nothing but a deranged pervert that jerks off to open an Einstein-Rosen Bridge. I’m just tired.”

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With that, a cold hard rain began to fall. Tyler didn’t try to hide underneath a still intact pie overhang a dozen feet away. He didn’t stand up or even acknowledge the downpour as it fell upon him.

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“I don’t give a scat if you are tired or not, you whiny little kitten.” Nanna’s words were harsh and her expression matched. “Tell me, genius boy, do you know where you are?”

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“I’m on Earth Pi waiting for my grandmother to make an oral sex joke.” Lighting flashed. Nanna bothered Tyler more than he would admit to anyone, even Marisa.

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“You are on Risa in a coma.”

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“No. I’m on Earth Pi. Here, I’ll show you.” Tyler ate some pie. “Oh yeah, that’s some delicious wordplay.”

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“Think about Marisa.”

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“I’m not in the mood for your bull-scat, Nanna.”

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“Think about Marisa or I will come in there and kick you in your junk!”

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“Fine.” Tyler thought about Marisa. He thought about Larry on top of her. Her smile, her moan…a deafening boom knocked Tyler off his feet as thousands of bolts of lightning crashed into the city simultaneously.

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“Good thoughts, moron!” Nanna screamed over the din.

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Tyler tried again. He remembered the first time he met her, naive and fresh out of journalism school.

He thought of Earth 5,724 where he picked a flower for her and it bit her finger.

They laughed every time they talked about that, and the fact that they skipped out on the medical bill for the blood transfusion by going to another world.

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He thought about…everything that is Marisa. Skyler said that Tyler is full of fancy words, but there aren’t enough adjectives in a Thesaurus to describe that woman.

He smiled. The first genuine smile that he had since the demon possession had caused them both to be lost in the multi-verse.

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He was in love. He knew that now and he wasn’t afraid. Tyler is allowed to love someone and be loved in return. He had to go to her. He had to tell her…everything.

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He walked back to the remains of the French Bistro. He was so happy that he began to run toward her. Toward the future. Toward…Larry.

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With horror Tyler watched Larry kissing her. Grinding his fat body into her perfectly sculpted form.

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Then he saw nothing but an abyss and did something that he really, really shouldn’t have done.

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Alright, I got something resembling sleep last night and I am changing this post. If you read the original, I blamed PayPal because I hadn’t slept in 97 drug-addled hours and couldn’t figure out the system.

There was some good stuff in the original about me masturbating high and my inability to get the PayPal links being the same thing as me being pregnant. Don’t worry, I’ll throw it into a book somewhere along the line.

PayPal, your automated system is shit. The girls that you have working there, (ten calls and I never talked to a dude), are friendly and knowledgeable.

Talking to your computer woman for twenty goddamn minutes and then getting disconnected after I used a “one time code” is infuriating.

In the last three days I’ve spent over two hours talking to your computer bitch and every time I get an actual person I suddenly lack the cognitive capability to hit the three buttons necessary to have done this on my birthday.

This isn’t the Enterprise and that computer woman sure as shit is no Majel Barrett. If you want to make things easier, start off by saying “You may press 0 at anytime to speak to a customer service representative.”

You should listen to me, PayPal. I’m a small business owner now. I can’t believe how fucking far I’ve taken this bit. The girls that work there are very nice though.

Fear not, America. The scholarship fund will be launched in the next couple of days. I’ve got a tech-genius and equally powerful Anonymous Bro-Hamsters out there who want to see me mind-fuck the world through charity and I will not fail them.

I should use some of the original blog because it was written on my actual birthday instead of this shit which was written the next day.

Fuck it. I’m just going to throw some shit at you with no context:

I’m late. I will have the baby and you will man-up and pay for it. When blood runs down my legs you can go live with your whore, but until then start painting the fucking nursery.

I gave a speech on this ridiculousness about an hour ago. The speech sucked because I hadn’t even read through my draft before I got up there. Then I lost Best Speaker on my Birthday, (even I didn’t vote for me), and charged out the second the meeting ended.

Or you told me the correct thing and since I haven’t slept in 97 hours I misunderstood. And I’m on drugs. And I don’t know what I’m doing. And…look, this isn’t about me.

Look I’m 30, I have no scholarship fund and I’m bitter. I’m not going to fuck the sky. I’m going to do what we all know I’m going to do, which is get high and masturbate.

Who is an attractive man by the way. Just sayin’.

Everybody thinks that I’m in my car crying because I didn’t win. If I wanted to win, I would have read through the fucking speech before I got up there. I didn’t want to win. I don’t give a fuck about that group or this job or anything else in life that doesn’t have the words “Tyler Withrow” and “Scholarship” in it.

It will be up. I know you think I’m full of shit and right now I’m fine with that. I won’t call you chumps or choads, because I am both. I am a chumpoad. I was so goddamn close. I’ve got a tech genius on it. All my ducks are in a row with the Secretary of State.

When I’m on the rag and the fund is dripping into my granny-panties I’ll let you know. Until then, I’m going to drive home and kiss the sky. Literally. I will smoke until I’m making smoochie faces at the air above me.

A lot of smart people did a lot of smart things and I just needed to get it done by midnight. I came back to the office and let the group call me a fag-douche and burn me in effigy, (I know they do that), and I couldn’t get it done.

And then I will pull out my pig. The air becomes electric. I thrust harder and harder. The air moans…quivering as it reaches climax.

Next day addendum: No wonder there are so many people worried about me. I have serious problems.

You will all forget that when I start handing out the money.