I have this fear of eternity. Did I tell you that? You can only sit on grandpa's knee for so many centuries before he begins to smell bad. I'm afraid God might love me forever, Tim. He might want me to sit on his knee over and over again. He might love to play Monoploy. I'm afraid God might love me. I could maybe stand it for a millennium or two, but it's the eternity part that sends chills up the back of my neck.
I can't think about forever because I start to panic. If I can't stop the thoughts, I get more and more insane. Sometimes I drop to my knees trembling and I whisper over and over again "Please, God, Please, God, Please, I don't want to know, I don't want to know".
Having no boundaries makes me crazy. What if the universe doesn't end? What if eternity is eternal? How can something not end? I need boundaries, Tim. Everywhere I look, I see infinity. Then I get this terrible fear. I get chills. I start weeping and trembling. I need a hug, Tim. I need edges. I need framework. I need foundation. I require walls that box in my sanity. Without a ceiling, the self evaporates. I need my boundaries, Tim. My self is disappearing.
Uncle Joe said I need to find myself. He said if a young man wants to discover who he is, he has to go looking for himself someplace where there is more light and oxygen than in an attic. Uncle Joe said I shouldn't make up my mind about God and eternity until my mind grew to adult size. He said I should ask around about the universe and boundaries. He said I should get the hell out of Detroit.
The part I keep wondering about is the creation of the Virile Bastards, the Neanderthals who eat sushi and smoke Cuban cigars, but who have no sense of awe, no quaking fear, no awareness whatsoever that the universe is eternal. They don't get it that God loves them and they have to exist forever. What kind of pleasure can you get from a hobby where so many of the pots are cracked and ugly? Why would you want to live forever surrounded by cracked pots? What the hell's wrong with God's head? Or his taste in art?
No wonder I stood up on the breakfast table and demanded salt. Bland oatmeal is for Virile Bastards. I am a sensitive novelist with a taste for herbs. "Listen, assholes, I asked you a question. Where's the fucking salt!? Up with the revolution! Down with the Virile Bastards! Oh shit, get the soap!"
A God can get bored over eternity and needs a hobby or two, so that part is understandable, but what I don't get is why God would make something like the human brain over and over again and require it to exist forever. What's even stranger is why he would declare infinite love for his craft; I mean, some of the work is pretty shoddy.
I can't remember sometimes if it was dad or Uncle Joe who talked with me about life and hard times and needing to find myself. Dad and Joe are twins; it kind of runs in the family, the twin stuff. The family tree is all knarled and funny looking because of twins marrying twins. So, I can't remember who told me that I couldn't be a great tailor because I didn't have any material. And about my needing a larger collection of emotions besides in-your-face bitter grief. And about my needing some character to go with my impulsive self-absorption. I think it was one of those days when dad decided he should be honest and tell me the truth. He was worried about my swearing in front of the relatives, and my "irreverent disregard for religion." I felt real swell when I realized that dad had the opinion that I was a weak, bitter, characterless, ego-driven wimp with no creative talent and no spirituality. You got to love that honesty stuff. It's a real rush.
Justice Jester here. Please don't squeeze the toilet paper. Pie are squared, plus direct light, divided by wedge shaped Feinman figures, equals The Unspeakables. Are you going to eat that sandwich? The monkey is photocopying his butt. Invest in the Googleverse. What has no brains? Nothing left but chips, chips, chips. Everywhere you go, we know. AssFlack, insurance for the chronically depressed.
Time for support group, Tim. Hard to believe it's been a whole week. Dr. Plutus is having his coffee enema today, so Nurse Nancy Darwin is here again. No one is disappointed at this news. I frantically flip switches and try combinations of code so I can see a little deeper into her blue jeans. She is still wearing lead underwear, but today I can see something pink.
Crazy Chuck is tied to his chair, but he manages to bounce around anyway. He is whinning about the radiator noise.
"B flat! B flat!" He screams, pointing with his head.
Marvin is moving his head from side to side like a pendulum. His mouth is open and drool is dripping from his chin.
Sydney is making animal noises.
Gordon has his left pinky finger up his left nostril and his right index finger in his right ear. "Can you hear it?" he asks me.
"Sure, Gordon, I hear it."
Charles is wearing only a white t-shirt. He is gripping his penis tightly with both fists.
Psycho is clutching a leg from the dinning room table. His glasses are still blacked out, but somehow he can sense the hostility coming off the furniture.
"We're starting with Charles today. Are we warm enough with just our T-shirt, Charles?"
"Poopy!"
"Please be quiet, Sydney. I'm talking to Charles."
"Poop! Poop! Poop!"
"Are we done Sydney, or do you want to wear the head bag. What will it be? ....... That's better.... Okay Charles, why you are clutching your penis?"
"They took it."
"You can't remove a penis, Charles. They're attached."
"It was gone!" For a week!"
"No Charles. As we explain to you every day, you have a Mann viris. It's called the Jester and it plays little tricks on your perception. The jester is messing with your mind, which you might recall, was partially melted by a hot nanoblade."
"It's wearing a rain coat!"
"No, that's just a water proof bandaide. You rubbed the poor thing raw."
"They killed my brother."
"That's wrong Charles. They killed Tim's brother, Tim. You only have a mother and pet frog."
"Where's my frog?"
"Never mind the frog."
"You put my frog in the stew."
"It tastes like soap", I told him.
"Where my cockroach!"
"You don't have a cockroach, Sydney. Sit down. Right now!"
"The bitch killed my cockroach!"
"Okay, that's all for today. Back to the pen for you lunatics. Get you hands out of my personal space Timothy. Stop that. Guards!"