Five Days in Hell (1/5) (2009-04-29)

CD5K > FU > DWB > fab > 5dih_1

Eighteen chapters of craziness for your reading pleasure.


Context: In English class, we had recently read through a novel, written as if it were the journal an autistic British boy. Our end-of-year project was to write something about our lives, perhaps in a journal format similar to the book. The requirement was to write at least 1500 words, which I promptly laughed at as I turned in a final draft containing 5100 words.

Consumer Warning

This journal-type project thing contains wit and satire. Any and all odd and out-of-place elements were added for emphasis and entertainment purposes. If, at any moment, you genuinely believe I need psychological help, it is advised that you stop reading immediately, count to 30 whilst taking deep breaths, and try your hardest to not think about the economy. That sound behind you just now was most definitely not me breaking into your house brandishing a machete. You're just hearing things again. It was only the house adjusting to a change in temperature. Probably. Deep breaths. Whew. You're OK. But not for long.. By the way, nice kitchen. Wait, what?
Essentially, everything in Italics may be safely disregarded as fictional information.

4-29 A: It Begins

The writing style of Mark Haddon, although written as chapters, is very similar to a diary or journal format. Keep a diary of your own life for a period of one week, including information about your daily activities and/or thoughts. You may also include illustrations.

This aptly-titled assignment is a journal-like recollection of five days in my life. Each day is a chapter, separated into three sub-chapters. Much like my thought process, these are A, for mornings and explanations; B, for afternoons and tangents; and C, for night-time and dreams. With any luck, this will provide some insight to my thoughts and dabblings so that a mental profile of me may be built after the murders begin. I'm in your house. Welcome to Satire, formerly known as Misanthropia, [REDACTED], and the Throne of Lost Sanity. I am your (somewhat) benevolent host and overlord, the one and only [LOLLERCUPCAKE]. Behind you! That's "[REDACTED]" and not "[REDACTED]" or whatever other weird-ass pronunciation you had in mind, simpleton. There is only [DATA EXPUNGED]. Don't forget that.

Before we begin, I will briefly discuss my views on creative writing. To me, creativity is the ability to create something new without relying on previous inspiration, ideas, or restrictions. In my books (There's a whole libraries' worth in here.), creativity is not doing something clever within restriction; that's ingenuity. It is possible to be creative while under restriction, but that sort of thing generally relates to the medium to which an idea is being applied and if the medium has a definitive standard to it; 'haiku' is an easily defined (and fun) format of poetry writing, but 'school project' in itself is more hopelessly vague without additional information than you could ever hope to be in three lifetimes. Has homesickness set in yet?

The below chapters recall various tangents and visions in the cavalcade of mediocrity that is my life. They are all separate and unique instances united by a single common trait: I have had involvement in and experience with all of them. Enjoy.

4-29 B: Good Boy

Context: In Speech class, we had run out of things to do, so we just started watching movies. I was already put in a bad mood by the rest of the class choosing Disney's Bolt over Transformers: The Movie (the 1986 animated feature), and then double-enraged when we started watching it and this happened:

Bolt. At first, it seemed like a parody of every action movie produced throughout the 30 year span of 1970-2000, but this assumption was quickly shot down after it was revealed that the entire production was literally an act. The story then transitioned to what seemed to me to be a rehash of one of Disney-Pixar's earlier movies, Cars, just with talking animals instead of talking vehicles. This isn't to say that the movie wasn't enjoyable, but it felt like a genuine "I should've seen that coming" moment before I stopped caring.

What is it with the movie industry and animals lately? Madagascar, Happy Feet, Ice Age, you name any vaguely cartoony looking release that's got a fur-bearing star cast, Disney-Pixar's probably behind it in one way or another. I realize that Hollywood has been doing talking animals for a while now, but they've usually been a bit more unrealistic and humanlike before the advent of 3D animation which started around when Toy Story was popular.

Perhaps worse than their productions, though, are their flatterers. I must be trying to disassociate myself from my childhood, because I can no longer stand the drawing styles that used to appear on shows once popular on Cartoon Network, Nickolodeon, and the Disney Channel. I recently saw a fully CG music video from a group named "Sonic Boing: Intergalactic Funksters" that infuriated me the most because they combined adult and childish character styles. Said characters were a fuzzball with ridiculous eyebrows on drums, a smiling one-wheeled robot on synthesizer, a pantsless bass playing alien whose neck would snap under the weight of his enormous head if realistic physics were being used, and a more realistic green skinned fanservice girl in a skintight suit who, obviously, had a big chest and a bigger backside. I don't know why this sort of thing drives me up the wall, but I won't rest until such lunacy is stopped.

4-29 C: Punish me, mistress!


I like dreams and having them. It is said that when we dream, our minds venture to insanity for a short while because it is safe to do so. I believe that, mostly due to the contents of my own dreams.

I had a strange dream on this night which inspired the title of this journal. Through whatever course of actions, I had died and gone to 'the other place'. I'd obviously been there a while, or at least long enough, as I had long hair and was subservient to a succubus to the point of being afraid to refer to her in the second person or myself in the first person. I was known to myself only as "mistress's servant" and I had become slightly masochistic. This led to an incident where she got annoyed with my constant rewording sentences to avoid referring to her as you or myself as me and, after requesting that I stop mincing words just say "you" or "I", she began to whip me every time I refused. This progressed, with her demanding and me refusing, until I felt like I was on the brink of a second death. I grabbed the whip as it lashed at me once more and yanked it from her hand with a furious "STOP IT!" before collapsing on the floor, drained of feeling.

A long self-contained inner philosophical debate about the meaning of afterlife then ensued. When I next awoke, I had become an indifference demon, uncaring about all things, including following orders. Mistress's next attempt at punishment didn't go so well; again I grabbed her whip and made it my own. My internal conflict converted to rage and I ended up punting her into a stream of superheated lava, ending her existence. None of her other servants were around to come to her aid as she sunk and eroded away, screaming. Crossing a bridge, I then came to the question of why I prolonged my existence there, followed by the decision to throw myself into the stream. I was genuinely pleased with this one; unlike most of my other dreams, the alarm clock didn't wake me up before it got or while it was interesting.

[Part Two]


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