tbwaf

Had a drink. Now I can resume the story, the story that is happening right now but is also narrated in the past-tense. As I was saying:

Thoughts raided my head like the raiders of a much-raided raid-y place, thoughts such as "u fookin wot m8 ill fookin do u" and "r wii nowt s bayad s dem nao 4 dewin wot wii dew." I felt the compulsion to punch myself in the face. Of course, as we all know, that's impossible because I have no fists.

THE BLOG WITHOUT A FIST, PART THREE

I had to concentrate. This was too much for me. There couldn't be a community writing stories about the slender man; I'm Slender man, and they're spelling my name wrong! Their stories made me out to look like some Meyer-written faux-epistolary eldritch abomination of literature, with constant references to some crazy love-crafting going on? I don't craft love! I'm not like that! I solve cases, not war peace death love! These stories weren't even getting the love-crafting right! They better resembled the offspring of stories who had once heard of the craft of love but ignored the central message. Not that I would know. I write blogs, not tragedies comedies saint jimmies that's my love-craft.

This really was, as mentioned in the above paragraph, too much for me. Who was I? What if they were right and that I was the fanfiction?

The twirling dawn of an apricot awakening caressed my skull, but Dawn (I still wait for my god) would not take me into her underwomber wat this day (despite the self-help of my faith).

Who was I?

Who was I?

Who was I?

Who was.                                                               I?