The Great Prussia Comforts You ASMR … What color shirt should I pose in this week?
Hello, teenage girl.
Yes! It is I, the Great Prussia! But only in your left ear. In your right ear is the pleasant scraping of me shaving my spindly white legs over the edge of the tub.
You might be wondering what I'm doing interrupting your occasional practice of lying facedown on the carpet soaked in tears and Goldfish cracker crumbs for all of fifteen minutes because some Redditors said they got magic healing powers from meditation and you don't want to feel left out.
I know how you feel. Heaven is full of gatekeeping schnuzzmuffins. It's like every time I try to go up there now I'm met with an army of angry sock puppets with Fritz just looking embarrassed. He told me I won't be allowed inside until I can banish the Face Eater and "fix the schools." Which of course I can't do, but that's another story and a half for later.
Look — some people get all the cosmic awareness and superpowers and some people get nothing. It's like how some people have cool shoes and some don't. I'm eight-hundred years old and at least have to pretend I've got a mortgage. So don't get upset, because if you work the math right everybody's got an average amount of cool shoes. We call that consciousness, and we all agree that cute little birds exist and that there's no such thing as the real world.
…
Oh, please stop crying! The sooner I can figure out how to get the rest of my body back into the bathroom where my leg is getting shaved, the sooner I can try to ripple space-time in your direction and get you… an ice cream or something?
What are you trying to meditate to, anyway? Can I see? Yes, I can "see" what you're seeing even if you can't see me.
Why can't you see me? Because I just told you. My left arm is squeezed between the twelfth and thirteenth dimensions, and my head is getting pressed down very firmly under the fifth.
…
Why can't you see those other dimensions?
Oh, you're hopeless.
Aren't I hopeless too?
Yes. Yes. You're right. But at least I have a good attitude about being a hopeless undead hobgoblin. You have been going on YouTube and listening to cinematic vomiting sound effects so you can meditate your acne scars away. Ooh, what's in the Etsy cart? Chamomile lozenges? Those do look tasty. Don't worry, I'm just looking. I'm not going to steal your credit card information.
But I do know your credit card information. It's just that in these types of intrusive contacts I'm supposed to tell you I don't. For… legal reasons? Even though I have no idea what kind of cosmic jurisdiction you and I are crossing at the moment.
…
Do you ever think about how no one gives you instructions on what life is supposed to be like?
…
Like, last week I watched Italy steal America's Ford F-150 and dump it off a cliff into the Adriatic Sea. And when I asked him why, he said it was because he hates the idea of space travel. He thinks once humans live in space, then everyone will forget about Italy and pasta and Roman architecture. And he doesn't think America should have the power to pull a space shuttle with a pickup truck. Which… fair enough. I don't think whiny rich kids should get to record songs on the moon either. But what I've seen of space is pretty awesome!
But because everyone in Heaven is so pretentious, and didn't give any of us a reason to trust them, they won't give us instructions on whether we're supposed to travel into space or not. I wasn't told eight hundred years ago that my ultimate destiny was to "fix the schools" and confront some faceless version of Romano who still hasn't cleaned up the fissure in the real Romano's broom closet. (And he blames me! Can you believe it!?")
You're young. You have time to figure out what those instructions really are.
And if you don't like your instructions, you can just steal them from somebody else. Everyone has enough of everything. It's just a matter of who you steal it from. Like cool shoes. That's my best advice.
…
I think I should steal some cool new shoes. Right now all I have is a pair of transmuted oven mitts. They look and feel just like shoes, but when they hit the ground they sound like oven mitts.
…
Can I steal your shoes?
…
Oh? Oh! You're actually getting up off the carpet! Are we getting somewhere!? Good, because I think I just dislodged my right nipple from underneath the Temple of the Tenth, and both my ears know the Spirit of Sarcasm likes to hang out there when he's annoyed, so I'm really hoping he doesn't notice a nipple zipping along the tiles real quick, and… YES! My nipple has reunited with my leg! OH! That feels so much better! You wait until you're my age and you get to feel this too. Just… don't start shaving your legs and then accidentally shave off all of your body into the place you just sucked the toilet plunger out of…
…
You can tell me to leave anytime you want, you know. I don't understand why you keep listening. Unless… you like my rasp? Is that it? Look, I'll rasp to you all night long. I'll tell you about the wiener dog I saw at the pharmacy when I was picking up some menthol patches after America wanted to prove he could lift his entire Ford F-150 into the air with just one buttcheek.
That was after I fished it out of the Adriatic. I needed the menthol patches because Romano found out the F-150 wouldn't remain on the sea floor until it got continental-crushed and he punched me.
See? Even The Greatest Man Who Ever Lived and Never Died needs menthol patches. It's a lot more satisfying to eat a menthol patch than it is to meditate and spread your wiggling bony fingers and channel divine energy right into your ass.
Am I cheering you up or not?
Oh. You were just going to refill your bowl of Goldfish crackers. And… a rice crispy-flavored marshmallow peep?
…
No, I don't want one. You know I'm marshmallow vegan. If I eat marshmallows, I turn into one.
…
Let's see… can I reach the menthol patches from here? My lips are… oh, they're cold. Where are they if they're cold?
They're—
"HOLY CRAP, PRUSSIA! WHAT ARE YOU… DID YOU GLITCH OR SOME CRAP!?"
"No, America. Some lonely chick is trying to meditate herself superpowers and I got summoned because I shaved myself into that hole behind the plunger."
"YOUR LIPS ARE ON THE SINK!"
"And your ass was on the toilet all night after trying to prove your superior nation metabolism could digest a menthol patch. You are still a flesh and blood nation. I am a marketable product of pure imagination. I am the Unknown."
…
"Dude, you should teach me how to meditate. I wanna be able to dissociate and rub the back of my knees with the back of my elbows."
"I AM IN GREAT PAIN RIGHT NOW, ALFRED F. JONES!"
"You want me to feed you a menthol patch? Is… where's your stomach?"
"IN SOME OTHER GIRL'S ETSY CART! 'CHANNELED VISION OF YOUR DESIRED SIGNIFICANT OTHER'S BODY, $9.95!' OF COURSE THEY'RE GOING TO MANIFEST JUST MY ABS AND NOT THE REST OF ME!"
"Didn't know you were still that popular a character. You're not even on the Sexyman roster anymore. I guess these days you gotta be more clinically unhinged than classically."
"I LITERALLY CANNOT DIE."
"So girls pay psychic mediums on Etsy to summon a vision of your abs… but not your ass."
"My ass is too expensive! The psychics need to open their fifth eye to see it!"
"Lol why? 'Cause you need to eat more peanut butter? Bony ass Prussia."
Aawwwwhwhhghgh… you see what I have to deal with? All because Fritz and Plato and all those guys won't let me into Heaven? Ach, I'm sure it's not even that cool in there. What do interesting people even have to talk about? Their Space Ferraris? What shade of yellow the eternal light is today? No, you just listen to me, now. Meditation is what they use to trick you into wasting hours of your life not being productive and fishing an F-150 out of the Adriatic so a fat, hairy Italian will give you money for menthol patches this week. Would you rather be lying on your carpet or at least trying to argue with the sock puppets?
…
Okay, listen very carefully to what I'm saying in your right ear, teenage girl. Ignore what you're hearing in your left, which is me shaving my legs and also America stuffing a menthol patch in my sink lips while his phone is playing funny Family Guy clips spliced into soap cutting clips.
You are loved.
Someone loves you.
It's not me. I don't love you. I'm not your otherworldly boyfriend. I don't even know who you are. You're kind of creeping me out. But someone loves you, if that makes any sense.
And who knows. Someday you might get lucky and die while eating breakfast in front of an iMac G3. That is the only proven way to gain insight from your higher self, and even then, you only get weird powers. Not cool ones.
Are you motivated now?
…
I understand. The most exciting place you get to go lately is Walmart. Not the moon or the Tenth Temple or your own armpit. So you think meditation can make your life more interesting.
Well… do you think I'm interesting? I—
"WHY DID YOU BITE ME!?"
"Get your fingers out of my mouth!"
"I'm trying to stuff this menthol patch in!"
"You just have to drop it in like I'm a wastepaper basket! Num-num-num!"
"Well, now your lips are gliding down the cabinet to try and get back to your leg. Which I'm not gonna get near because then you'll kick me."
"I won't kick you, America."
"You kicked me last time."
"When was that?"
"When your leg was the fridge door."
"I turned the fridge door into my leg. That was not literally 'my' leg."
"Oh, fooch you, Prubo! Go back to Germany and kick your own brother in the nipple if you're gonna be like that."
"Germany won't let me use his bathtub!"
"Then cough up yours!"
"I will turn you into a bathtub, you ungrateful egg powder!"
If you meditate enough, you get the power to turn your platonic roommate into a bathtub.
You can also lay eggs that hatch into miniature bathtubs.
But that is a story for another time.
Oh… you fell asleep crying. Well, I suppose I can just let your dreams take over in giving you nonsense, then. I'll just be hanging out in your room until America figures out where my lips have gone and can help me un-decapitate myself… along with un-de-leg-ifying myself.
I'll be quiet.
As quiet as I can be.
Those chamomile lozenges are starting to sound really good right now.
~N~
What do you mean I left? I will never get tired of writing about where Prussia's nipples ended up today.
Also those Etsy listings of "channeled psychic messages from your other world boyfriend" or whatever the fooch are so stupid I have to keep looking up pigeons to get them out of my feed. Only I know what Prussia would REALLY be like, so I decided to write it. XD
3/17/2024 by scrivenernoodz on FFN.