AN: I've been doing a lot of unusual moves that don't really set me apart from the pack as much anymore. A Harry Potter/SPN fanfic, for instance. A High School AU. Here, I do what may be my most bizarre story yet, complete with an easily discreditable story maneuver that will make itself clear at the end of the very first chapter. It's risky, but I really hope it pays off for you. If not, I am glad to have disappointed you, and I hereby offer you a bear hug as a reward for reacting correctly.
Logic? I don't need no stinking logic! Sanity-free storytelling, that's the order of the day from me!
R&R and enjoy!
New Born Bliss: An Extremely Mind-Screwy Tale of Hyper Music
Too Weird To Live, Too Rare To Die (and Very Much Proud of the Fact, Thank You Very Much!)
Everyone has experienced something that makes them wonder if they are even in the right universe. Sometimes, you fear your life is fiction and you're just putting on a show for millions of aliens somewhere in the ether.
I've had more than my fair share of these experiences myself.
When I was eleven, I accidentally walked in on my 'rents having sex. Even though I knew full well what was going on, I found myself feeling the need to feign complete ignorance, and to that effect I told my sisters, "Whatever it was, it looked like Dad was winning." Seemed funny at the time, yes, but as I look back I really realize how stupid it was to say that.
A year later, I went to Disneyland and was somehow just barely tall enough to ride the Indiana Jones ride.
More recently, my mom has insisted that I'm too young to see The Walking Dead. Um, what universe is she inhabiting? I'm fourteen and perfectly capable of handling gory zombie violence and a foul-mouthed bunch of southern apocalypse survivors.
All these events have conspired to tell me one thing - I must be living in a sitcom. This may well be the only explanation for the odd subversions of seemingly normal rules that keep happening in my life. I guess it's okay, it's pretty much par for the course for me anyway. I've never really felt like I belonged in this universe anyway. I'm cursed with a degree of self-awareness that most people can't imagine, so I've long devoted myself to playing dumb and acting dumb, if only to taking my mind off things for a while.
Take Sunday night, for instance. I've just finished Walking Dead with Dad and gone up to my room for the night. Too wired to sleep, I open my laptop and stare at the screen. There's the faintest hint of an idea in my brain, but it doesn't seem to want to escape. Only after I plug in my earbuds and put on the YouTube video with the complete audio of Too Weird To Live, Too Rare To Die! does the idea bleed out my fingertips, metaphorically speaking of course. It starts a little something like this:
"I am dead inside but that only makes me livelier. I have been variously accused of being a plagiarist and a lazy quasi-goth bum. The last one is not quite true. I am a hybrid of pretty much every 'alternative' subculture around - goth, emo, punk, indie boy, skater, everything. Stories crawl into my brains and escape through my fingers. There's always a major traffic jam, though, which is why I am hardly functional as a human being."
And it just builds from there. Soon I've got a fully fleshed fictional character sitting in a Word Doc, and I've had enough of writing tonight. Cutting off the audio in the middle of "Nicotine," I save the Doc and close the laptop.
"That's it?" says a lazy, slightly slurred voice. "You're not even gonna explain the origins of my lazy quasi-goth bum-ness? That's a fucking drag. What kind of writer are you?"
I jump out of my bed in shock. "Who the hell are you?"
"You should know, dude," the voice's owner says. "You just created me, didn't you not?" He cleans his black rectangular glasses and jumps into the air a few feet, then just hangs there like he's on wires or something.
Reopening the laptop and the Word Doc, I read a bit before my mouth drops open. "Holy no way. You're-"
"That's right, buddy," he says. "Gabriel Seraph. Wow, did you really have to create me with no food inside me? Now I gotta go get some fuel. Where's the bloody kitchen in this place?" Gabriel descends to the floor, opens my bedroom door, and starts going downstairs, not really troubling to keep the noise down. God, his footfalls are ridiculously loud.
AN: Before you go on with this story - or, more importantly, before I go on with it - you should be aware that this is, in fact, entirely fictional. The only place these events are happening are inside my brain. And also, in case you're wondering, I am not now nor have I ever been drunk, stoned, or otherwise under the influence. This should therefore give you some idea about how I operate when I'm sober.