A solution to the censorship issue:

I think life is like that old saying:

'You're cursed by aliens if you do - You're possessed by the devil if you don’t - Either way you end up with a cool story to tell'.

Like most sayings based on undeniable truth, there is a lot of truth in this saying, wisdom even. But this saying makes it seem like those are the only two options, when what you really should be attempting is to make the aliens think you didn't, when you kind of did, and make the devil think you did when you kid of didn't, and if you get the timing just right you can end up in the possession of an alien possessed by the devil, and those are worth some serious coin on the black market (there are too many taxes on the regular market).

The point is that here at David Tieck and his Fleeting Forever we normally stay away from social and political issues. This is for a very simple reason - debate is healthy, possibly even necessarily, to help maintain a vibrant society capable of sustaining a diverse spectrum of differing yet valid opinions on a multitude of issues with constantly morphing factors that persistently shift the dynamics of problematic reasoning - and typically when I throw in my two cents that all goes away as people say stuff like 'oh of course, Dave's one hundred percent right, debate settled, all hail our messiah'.

Ok, thanks guys, obviously I'm proud of being a messiah, but just because I'm one hundred percent right there's no need to end the debates, watching people get infuriated by semantics is entertaining. Plus people saying really, really dumb stuff? Hilarious.

Having said that I think there is one issue we need solved right now. I'm ready for my two cents. I'm ready to end this right now, I am of course talking about how it's really, really a teeny bit annoying that various spellchecks think when you type 'fucking' that you actually meant to write 'ducking'.  NO I DIDN'T!

I've already talked before about the damage this type of thing is doing to the kids, and because I'm not someone who complains about something without offering a solution, I solved it with this video right here:

But this only flawlessly solved one aspect of the problem. The insignificantly annoying censorship remains (and insignificant is a long important sounding word). Well, I am not one to complain about something without offering a solution, and I say we need to fight this miniscule annoyance with absolute brutal carnage. 

I think as a world, just to fight spellcheck assuming we meant 'ducking', we should agree that 'ducking' now means 'cancer raping pedophile victims'.

Boom.

Oh you don't want me saying ‘fucking’ spellcheck? What would you prefer 'cancer raping pedophile victims'? You sick bastards.

Take that minor censorship; you can stick your judgment up my ducking ass!

Today's blog proudly brought to you by ‘Devil Possessed Aliens’ - buy one today from Messiah Online.

The Lonely Doormat

The lonely doormat was lonely. 

'Hi, I'm a doormat and I'm lonely' it would often say.  

It didn't get used as often, or as nicely, as it used to, was the reason it was lonely. 

'The man of the house comes and goes via the garage entrance mostly these days, the lady of the house wears something called "heels" that friggin STAB me, and the teenage girl of the house seems prefer leaving the house in the middle of the night out of her bedroom window only to return home an hour or so later with a mysterious gooey substance running down her leg' the lonely doormat would say, as to why it was lonely. 

'Also my name is "the lonely doormat" it's a bit of a prick of a name to be born with, hard to escape, just like "Sally the Sociopathic Scorpion Sending Simpleton" of course she would end up being a little simple. You got to be more careful when you friggin name stuff people' it would say as to why it was lonely.

Sometimes the lonely doormat would cry. 

Sometimes it'd cry at night. 

'Wwwaaaahhhh look there's the moon waaaaggghh' it'd cry.

Sometimes it'd cry in the day. 

'Wwwaaaahhhh look there's the sun waaaagghh' it'd cry.

Sometimes it would cry at in-between day and night times.

'Wwwaaaahhh look there is low light lots of color in the sky plus I can see the moon, only its a pale white and not lit up waaaaaggghh' it'd cry. 

All hope seemed lost for the lonely doormats hope of one day hoping not to be lonely. 

'Waaaaggghh I can't find my hope, maybe I left it in my other pants waaaagghh' it'd cry. 

But then then it met a new friend - the cheeky bathmat that had been dumped on the porch by the lady of the house after the man of the house kept getting pee on it, seriously is it that hard to aim? Grow up! (You're welcome ladies). 

'Hi I'm the cheeky bathmat, I lived in the bathroom till I got covered in pee, I guess I'm just the type of thing that everything's ATTRACTED to' it would say trying to show off how cheeky it was. 

They had a whirlwind romance, although they prefer to call it the more technical 'tornado romance' - seeing as it was literally a tornado  that blew them together - lifted em up and slapped them together like a square of cheese slapping on a wet kitchen floor.

Just a big moist slap. 

SSSSSLLLLLAAAAAPPP. 

It's lucky they liked each other - because once they we're blown together they basically had each other's fronts utterly covering, consuming, and engulfing one another. 

Sure, if the attraction had not been reciprocated someone could have tried to peel them apart, but let's face it both these mats had all sorts of gross stuff on them, pee, particles of dog-shit, a saturated flyer from dominoes pizza that had also gotten caught in the wind, half a slug. 

'Is that half a slug crawling around between us, or am I just happy to see you' the cheeky bathmat said to the lonely doormat, being all cheeky 'oh it's actually half a slug, sorry, that's right, we're mats, we don't have genitalia' It added, being slightly less cheeky. 

But then one day the man of the house found a teenage boy climbing out of his daughters window and upon first sight the man just had an awful thought 'that boy looks like when he arrived here he probably was carrying a mysterious gooey substance in his body somewhere, but now he looks exactly that amount of mysterious gooey substance lighter!' 

The lonely doormat now lives in a shallow grave in the forrest wrapped around the leaky brain segment of the corpse of a teenage boy who had been shot in the face by the man of the house. 

His beloved, the cheeky bathmat, lies adjacent to him, balled up around the teenage boys nose, which had been shot clean off his face and ended up comically stuck to the teenage girl of the houses window, glued on with both blood and some mysterious gooey substance. 

And the lonely doormat and the cheeky bathmat mat lived happily ever after.

Well until sniffer dogs found them and they were separated into air tight 'evidence bags' but that was days away, which is a long time in the life of a mat, so meh. Plus why do they deserve lasting love more than you or I, right? Fuck em. 

The end 

Did the world end?

Things I think I'd think if I hypothetically accidentally slept till 1020pm:

- The clock says 10:20 so why is it dark out?

- Fuck my clocks broken. 

- Ok my watch says 1020 too. 

- Could both be broken?

- Oh, wait it's just still 1020 at night I can go back to sleep, thank fuck. 

- Wait, I didn't go to bed till 3am, it can't be still 1020pm.

- But it IS 1020.

- This makes no sense. 

- Is it just still dark at 1020am.

- What time of the year is it?

- Did the world end? 

- Or just the sun? 

- Surely that'd make noise?

- What's going on?

....

- Oh holy hell. It's 1020pm the NEXT day. 

....

- That's, fuck, what the hell?

- That's pathetic.

- No one can EVER know. 

- Fuck, I just want to go back to sleep and pretend this day never existed. 

- Which it basically didn't. 

- Fuck it. 

- Ah man, but I have to do my daily blog. 

- I can't think of anything. 

- I could write about 'this'. 

- But no one can ever know.

- Can I later pretend this is just a 'hypothetical' situation so I don't feel so embarrassed.

- Yep. Done. 

- Boom. 

Totally Tastless

I think if you were ever going to pretend that one of your senses didn't work so that you could secretly listen in on lots of conversations, the best one to go with would be your sense of taste!

Think about it:

- It'd be easy to pull off because people hardly ever randomly microscope your tongue.

- You'd never get invited to dinner with friends so they'd feel free to say things knowing you're not around to hear them, conversations you could easily bug.

- You couldn't go on dinner dates and with zero social life you'd have time to listen to the tapes. 

- The tapes would be interesting because without eating yummy food for ages you'd lose weight so people would be talking about how slim and sexy you look. 

-  And by being all slim and sexy you'd get probably get to find out about all the awesome dates you could be getting if you weren't a no taste loser. 

-Even if someone did randomly microscope your tongue, that's not how you tell if someone can taste or not. 

Oh, so let me guess, you're thinking that if you want to secretly listen in on stuff then my plan is clearly awesome and flawless, but still why wouldn't you just pretend you couldn't hear, and therefore just listen in on people right in front of them?

False! 

Think about it:

- To pull off making people think you were deaf you'd have to speak like deaf people speak. 

- Which could be perceived as mocking.

- Get ready to have your mind blown...

- And mocking deaf people is totally .... TASTELESS!! 

Wow. 

The crate was full

The crate was full. 

Oh, not of things. 

No not things.

For things are boorish.

Things are stationary.

Things are selfish.

Things are standoffish.

Things are stale. 

I mean there WERE things in the crate.

I'm not denying that. 

Just that they are not important.

Things rarely are.

Until they are.

Upon which time.

Importance is thrust upon them like a seal eating a banana. 

With its feat.

It makes no sense.

But why should it.

Other creatures dietary habits are none of your business. 

Unless you're a professional animal feeder. 

In which case it's utterly your business.   

There was a receipt in the crate. 

For a staple gun. 

Yet this crate was not at the hardware store. 

A clear sign that the receipt was put in the crate before the crate arrived at its current location. 

Clear signs being something else you can purchase at the hardware store.

But only big ones that seemingly sell everything. 

Big stores that seemingly sell anything that is, not clear signs that sell everything. 

Which would be super cool.

Except neither would sell the one thing you really need.

Which is love.

And respect. 

And opportunity. 

What, you thought the one thing you really need would be a hammer?

Well the hardware store definitely sells those.

So unless you have nails that are currently not inside wood and that this scenario is holding you back in some significant way then you do not 'need' a hammer. 

Maybe a paperclip. 

But I won't judge. 

The crate held a solution to the mystery of time. 

Or as they're commonly known - a 'time telling device'. 

Or as 'THEY'RE' commonly known - a friend who owns a watch. 

It's a big crate.

I perhaps should have mentioned that. 

The crate also holds a hair.

A brown one.

Straight.

Which is more comforting than a curly one. 

But less comforting than a hair with seven miniature societies at war with reality on them.

Relative size being something we are all comforted by.

Save the one whale who eats the billions of plankton!

Being a common war cry.

Or is it krill?

Does anyone really know? 

The answer is yes.

This is a big crate.

But it did not hold a whale.

Not because it's not big enough for a whale.

But mostly because making it water tight would require an internal membrane of leak proof glass.

And membranes are icky. 

No the crate was not empty. 

Not of things. 

But the crate was empty.

Of non-things.

Which are often more important than things.

Happiness brought on by a new relationship with a new car that was purchased by a new boss who has a new relationship with a new corporate credit card is not a thing.

Neither is sleeping with your boss.

But both involve grunt work.

Which is also not a thing. 

At least not a physical thing.

Which are the easiest things to point at.

'Check out that thing' for example. 

Yes the crate was full. 

But not of things. 

Oh no, not things. 

For things are common.

Things are misinformed.

Things are inanimate.

Things are quiet. 

This crate was full of non-things.

Like possibly.

Like opportunity. 

Like stale stench of a boss exploiting his position of power to be generous in exchange for generosity. 

That's pretty sweet. 

And icky.

Like the membrane that's absence killed the whale.  

This will warm your heart

What I think I'd say if I was asked to address a room of people on the issue of feeling cold in your home but at the last minute told 'oh, and please don't offend anyone'. 

Hi everyone. One way I've found in my life that I can deal with coldness, or the issue of coldness is to put a quilt on myself. I have a nice warm quilt on my bed, but I'll pull it into the living room from time to time, if the weather demands it, and say I want to watch a film, so I know I'll be there for a while. Yes quilts can be nice and warm. 

Not that quilts are your only option. There are things you can use as a quilt if you don't have access to a quilt, which would be sad. Because quilts are awesome. Especially if it's cold. So I'm not denying that sadness. I never would. Nor am I saying there definitely is sadness. It might not be cold where you are. Or you may also have a quilt. All I'm saying is that if you currently wish you had access to a quilt but you don't there are alternatives available to you. Well maybe they're not available to you. I don't know everything you have available to you. Just that there are options. 

Also some people call them Doonas, or Duvets. And reserve the word quilt for a traditional patchwork creation which may be ceremonial or artistic and potentially have community or family connections, and possibly even sentimental value. And I'm not saying you should pull one of those down from the wall, or out of your safety deposit locker at the bank, just cause you're a tad cold. Or a lot cold for that matter. Nor am I saying that your current feelings of coldness do not warrant this type of drastic action. Not that it necessarily is a drastic action. I am sure your grandmother would prefer your family quilt handed down through the generations to keep you warm than to be locked away while you freeze. But I don't know your grandma. Perhaps she values lasting tradition more than anything. Perhaps sacrifice matters to her. Her section of that quilt may represent life going on after she lost your grandfather in one of the world wars. Perhaps being cold and looking at that may be a way of remembering the past. I don't know your family history. Maybe your ancestors were on 'the other side'. I don't know. Then again there is something to be said for the beauty in past war enemies being friends and allies only a generation or two later. Not that there is ANY beauty in war. Well there is. A soldiers hand reaching out to save a lost child and reunite her with her parents she thought had perished. But then that isn't necessarily actually part of the war. Just cause something is happening in the same place and time as a war doesn't mean that it's part of that war. And maybe those parents are assholes. There are bad parents out there. That's just a fact. So if you were once estranged from your parents and no soldier reunited you I'm not saying that that was necessarily a horrible thing. It may have been. Maybe neither option was good. There isn't always a good or better alternative. Sometimes we have to choose between two or more bad options. And I'm not saying there are always options or alternatives. Sometimes it's ok to face something hard just by dealing with it. There is pride in that. Not that being proud is all there is. Some people don't have anything to be proud of right now. That's sad. But it's true. And if that's your case it doesn't make you less of a person. It's just the situation you're currently in. That's all we ever have. Now and this. It's not any of our duties to judge or commentate on other peoples here and nows. Or our own. Some people have mental illness. They don't choose it. These are just realities. Not that this means you should just give into them. They can be fought, they can be managed, they can be helped. Not that you are any less of a person if you face these battles and have not yet found the will needed for the fight. It's not your fault. Maybe it's hereditary. It could be your parents fault. Or they may have done all they can. Parenthood is not a science, nor is it an art. Not that if you take an artistic or scientific approach to parenthood that you're doing it wrong.

Look, blankets! Fucking blankets. That's an alternative to quilts. Fucking blankets. Although technically a quilt lives in the umbrella of the blanket genre of bedding and linen-ware. Not that I'm an expert. 

Ok, look, I don't fucking know why I was asked to give this speech. Confession - I have a space heater in my apartment. That's how I deal with the cold. And if you don't have one then it's not my fucking fault, stop fucking expecting other people to solve YOUR fucking problems. You fucking assholes. 

Powerfully Persuasive

I like to think that if I was a Sheik who loved hardwood floors but had accidentally told my aids to floor the entire apartment with tiles having mistakenly thought the wood panels on floors were long thin brown tiles, and I didn't to embarrass myself by admitting my mistake, but also didn't want freaking tiles on the living room floor like a bloody bathroom, 'I mean my god, guests might end up pissing on the humidor thinking its a fancy cat box for humans', I'd try and psyche myself into 'changing my mind', probably while blaming my dad (no one really likes him anyway) and getting the hardwood floors I desired in the first place, by looking in the mirror and saying the following: 

Look at you. Standing proud. Tall. Sexy. Not at all pathetic. Proud in fact. Not that you have anything to be proud about. But you don't let that stop you. Do you. And that's something to be proud about. 

Look at your satisfying amount of armpit hair. Not too much. Not too little. Some hints of roll on deodorant chunks still not dissolved. Showing cleanliness in an unclean way. Just cause Sheiks traditionally have beards but yours is too patchy to look at all decent is nothing to feel less of a man about. Armpit hair is fine. And yours is swell. No wonder you're not wearing a shirt. Although probably should put one on before you tell Ahgkmad about the floors.

No no, we're not there yet, confidence please Glen. Fuck, why did my dad call me Glen, it's so unsheiky, that fuck, and that's exactly why it's perfectly ok to blame him for this floor fiasco. I mean he bought half the cigars in the humidor so it benefits him anyway. Also 'that's so unsheiky' sounds like a pop song one of these modern pop stars would sing, them and their arrogant 'I'm not even completely sure what a Sheik is, and therefore this might be offensive' ways. Those fools. 

Look at you getting off track like a trackless track star. If your body wasn't so amply unbuffed in a sexy sort of 'I'm too powerful to need to be buff' way, you could totally drop a tracksuit on it. 

You're a confident, virile, important man. Look at that bulge. I bet even if the threat of beheadings wasn't in the air all the wenches STILL wouldn't complain about that. 

I wonder how hardwood floors handle beheading blood? The bathroom tiles sure are perfect for it. So easy to clean. I guess it wouldn't be all bad if they were in the living room too.

No Glen. That's not what you want. Hardwood floors please. 

Look at you confident. Strong. Handsome. Important. Manly. You always look so great in this bathroom mirror. You look good with white behind you. You should have that all the time. Wait those are tiles. Shut up. I don't want tiles in my living room. 

Do they actually have human cat litter box things so you can piss in your living room? That'd be pretty sweet actually. Plus the wenches will be impressed if I'm always whipping it out in the living room. 

Aggh. They love everything. They're required to. Just once I'd like to be told no. To not get everything my way. 

Look at you Glen you're pathetic. You're trying to talk yourself into 'wanting' the tiles, because you're too much of a pussy to admit you made a mistake, and to look stupid for not knowing that hardwood floors weren't tiles. And you're going to succeed in doing it because you're a brilliant powerful man who could talk anyone into anything so of course you'll talk yourself into this.

Plus Ahgkmad is scary. 

So it's settled. Tiles it is. Can't wait to behead a wench in the LIVING-ROOM! I'm going to go for the very next one who laughs at my patchy beard. 

It's just so relaxing

Sometimes you have to just sit and think things. It's just so relaxing. 

Sure standing and thinking things is good too. I'm even partial to a hopping on one leg while attempting to balance a glass of sarsaparilla on my head and thinking from time to time. But I feel like the very nature of sitting brings up things that standing or hopping and balancing can't possibly bring up. In fact I think it's the superior way to think. So right now I want to sit and think.

Here I go. 

I am now sitting. 

And well, right off the bat, how about the feeling of your butt on a cushion incased in faux leather? It's lovely. And that's not something you often think about when you're standing. In fact I think I most likely exclusively think about my butt on a cushion incased in faux leather when sitting. And that's comforting to think about. Yep this is a sitting comfort and it's comfortably delightful.    

And yeah, also how about having your knees bent and feet on the ground? Pretty damn sweet. You don't get that when you're standing, feat on the ground? Maybe. And yeah sure your knees bend while you're hopping, but usually only one, and it's usually not the one that's on the ground. Nope, two knees bent and two feat on the ground is its own sensation. This is a sitting sensation, and it's sensationally awesome. 

Oh, and you're NOT standing or hopping. People really don't think about stuff like that enough. Not just 'this is what I'm doing' but also 'this is what I'm NOT doing'. That can be powerful stuff. 'I'm currently having a picnic' yeah, that's nice. Possibly even romantic, but how about taking a moment to think 'I'm NOT having heroin injected into my eyeball by a man with elephant man disease' that shits important. Cause I yell ya, there's a bunch of people out there with that horrible disease, and at least one of them is currently injecting some poor sap in the eyeball with heroin, or maybe a smallpox imuination, I don't know, I don't judge.

Wait, and while we're on stuff we're not doing, you're hardly ever sitting while also being chased by a heard of stampeding elephants. 

In fact if there is an elephant involved then sitting probably isn't involved. Unless you're sitting on an elephant. And if you are then that's badass. So I think we've pretty much established that sitting kicks ass. And thats ass kickingly kick ass. 

And I'll tell you something else, it's very hard to have your ass kicked when your ass is in a chair! 

Yep. Sitting. Yay. 

Ok sure, you have to sit though most of school, and even school exams, while sitting and that shit sucks. But you can't fucking blame sitting for that. That's a school administrator, possibly even PTA decision. Frankly sitting would rather you be daydreaming, or even nightdreaming, than learning. 

And ok, you may well be sitting anytime someone has bad news for you and tries to prepare you for it by saying something like 'I've got bad news, you better sit down'. 

And yes, you're normally sitting when in the back of a cop car having been wrongly arrested on suspicion of pedophilia. 

Or wrongly accused of sexual assault of an adult. I don't judge the thing you've bee wrongly accused of, that's not my job, that's for the public at large to condemn you for. The point is that it's not sittings fault. 

You know what, I'll just fucking say it - life is a rollercoaster, that's a fact. You sit on rollercoasters, that's a rule they all have. Therefore life = sitting. I didn't want to play that card. But you basically made me. And, plus you fucking sit when you play cards, so deck the halls, storm the castle, and reinterpret the hidden message hiding in every hide club, I fucked you all hard in the fucking ear, you and your motherfucking 'I'd rather stand or hop while balancing a glass of sarsaparilla on my head to do my thinking' fools! 

Yep, sometimes you just have to sit and think motherfuckers! And we can change the world!...

Plus it's just so relaxing. 

Brought Knives

It was a dark dark dark dark dark day that day.

Or perhaps someone had just forgotten to turn on the lights. 

That happens you know. 

I'm not aware of that being the case on this particular day.

Only that it was dark that day.

Dark dark dark dark dark to be precise. 

But the no one turning on the lights thing isn't just some scenario I fabricated from thin air.

Occasionally someone will plumb forget.

And a sea of people, possibly even a whole room of them, will think that their lives have been thrust into darkness.

Because of the darkness in the room they're in.

As it turns out that those lights I speak of had the purpose of illuminating this room. 

I felt like a merry-go-round that had forgotten that essentially it's merely a bunch of horses.

Plastic ones. 

Which even though are easier to wipe down than real horses.

Still often are covered in way more germs.

Holy fuck. 

I just googled 'horse diseases' so I could suggest something that plastic horses have less of than real horses.

To make them feel better seeing as they are essentially disease cesspools. 

Why do you think they're always going up and down?

It's the oppressive itchiness.

The worst type of itchiness. 

Anyway there are a bunch of diseases like... 

Abocoises of the hoof. And..

Blister beetle poisoning. But then..

'Born without anus or rectum'. 

Thanks a lot Google, I didn't want to picture that with my mind, I just wanted to see some horse gangrene or something, you sick fucks. 

I felt like a kid in a candy story.

Ok good, back somewhere wholesome. 

Although fuck you spell check, I did literally want to write 'good' but I accidentally hit 'food' and it corrected it to 'good' but 'food' is a real word ok, and one I may well have wanted to use while speaking about candy, so don't correct me you sick fucks. 

I felt this way partly because I was literally a kid in a candy store.

A metaphoric one.

I mean I was literally in one.

But I had no money. 

Which makes the kid in a candy store scenario teasingly tedious.

I mean I was rambunctious and naughty in spirit. 

So I could have stolen a candy. 

But I also had crippling fears of capture, punishment, guilt, stealing a candy that some other kid had already fondled, panic attacks, nuclear war, getting pencils driven into my ear with a hammer, having butter rubbed into my acne suspect skin zones, getting a maid who would turn out to be sassy, hysterical blindness, accidentally taking a night time cold and flu tablet during the day, and getting my hand stuck in jars of candy and having to break the glass to get it out ruining the delicious candy with my blood. 

I felt like a polygamous person finding out that embracing the poly lifestyle was first popularized by polyurethane. 

I felt like a guy who's long disliked his old man sounding name 'Arthur' who's just found out this whole time he could have gone with with an awesomely cool name like 'Art'.

I felt like a shy boy who thought a girl had propositioned him for sushi and sex, but who had actually said 'shush the fuck up'.

I felt like the teenage girls I seriously just overheard talking about 'like the brawl' they went to on the weekend, and how 'like it was awesome, cause like some cunts brought like knives, and like there were like cunts bleeding everywhere, and like it was totes rad, but like some cunt brought some cunts who like ruined it by calling the cops' and how 'like anyway, we better to get to school, don't want to get in trouble'. (You hear the most amazing things when you have insomnia all night and decide to give up and go for McDonalds breakfast). 

I felt like it was a dark dark dark dark dark day. Because it was a dark dark dark dark dark day that day. 

Because someone had forgotten to turn on the lights.

See I TOLD you that's a real scenario. 

It actually happens. 

Whether you are aware of it or not. 

So don't doubt be again and everything will be all food. 

Oh fuck you spellcheck.

You sick fucks. 

Something was wrong

There was a log on the fire. 

A wooden log.

That's the first thing that made me think something was wrong. 

The second thing was that the fire was in the living room.

On a table. 

A wooden table. 

We were already at two things that made me think something was wrong. 

But thinking is not knowing. 

The third thing that made me think that something might be wrong was that there were seventeen people around the fire chanting 'kill the resident, kill the resident, kill the resident'.

Seventeen adult people.

Which is the oldest category of people around.

Unless you count sub-classes.

The forth thing that made me think something may be wrong was that I WAS the resident.

Now I know what you're thinking.

'You didn't know that you were a resident before you heard that?'

Also 

'You noticed the log on the fire before you noticed the seventeen chanters?'

Well I have a powerful response to that. 

The fifth thing that made me think something was wrong was that I observed that my noticing things was a little off. 

Wayward even. 

The sixth thing that made me think something was wrong was that if I observed that my noticing things was tad off, wayward even, then clearly my observation skills were as strong as ever, so perhaps I was being a little judgmental of my own skills. 

There was ambiguity. Ambiguity isn't knowing. Why feel bad when the thing you are feeling bad about isn't even definitely true?

The seventh thing that made me think something was wrong was that there was a noose hanging from the rafters.  With three bloody slain goats hanging around it with the blood dripping into a giant pit in the shape of pentagram. 

'Seriously you noticed the log before you noticed that'? I hear you asking. 

Well I have a powerful response to that. 

The eighth thing that made me think something was wrong was that the fire had given off smoke, and some of that had gotten into my eyes, which were now a tad watery! Which although was unpleasant, was a bit of a relief as it was another sign that there was a chance that while my noticing skills were a tad askew, wayward even, my observational skills were still potentially fine. 

Less of a relief however was that I now had eight things that made me think something was wrong. I have a stern rule in my life 'while thinking is not knowing, if there are eight signs of something, then it's ok to get worried and/ or excited, depending on the nature of the thing in question'. 

I don't like getting worried so I chose to get excited! So I joined the chanting, and we hung a rat which was also a resident. It was tough because they have little necks. But his final words were pretty inspiring: 

'I'm ready to go, all the cheese is melted anyway, and I prefer mine raw'.

So it all worked out in the end. Other than my half my house burning down, and them all leaving it to me to clean up the pentagram. But on the plus side, goat and rat kababs for everyone! With MELTED cheese!

 

Into the eye

I delved into the eye of the bubble storm. 

Conjured by The Bubble Storm Conjurer!

A man who's only dream was to be named after something that he'd literally done.

He was a success. 

And despite the happy laughing playing children. 

He was not actually evil.