deep thoughtz 005: frequently asked questions + lost chapter!1!!

whats good suns it's elvis in dis fiat just sortin thru the fanmail n loveletters n deth threatz n i just wanted to address some o the more common questions/concerns yall might b having about me n my methods of enlightenment. on that note welcome to deep thoughtz 005!

today we have three primary objectives to accomplish, the first one being this new Boris album that must be listened to

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DFXhts6UIjI

so sick, these guys never miss. gettin a more crusty feel around the edges of this new direction they're takin, can't say i hate it. anyways second task is i gotta address sum elephants on da innanet that ppl have been sendin to me, and i always welcome open communication between the masses so let's rollit

dear elvis, which star wars movie is the best in the series?

revenge of the sith. stone cold stunna of a film. in no other star wars movie do we get such a memorable script combined with such a tasteful color gradient and cinematic vision. 

i'm going camping and need to know which natural laxatives to b on the lookout for. can u help me?

coffee for breakfast, watermelons + v8 the rest of the day, you'll b fine. 

favorite scp?

scp-1004 is so fuckin sic and i dig sic shit, but scp-823 is the one that captured my imagination as an ar-tist. jenny nicholson gotta do one o those documentary crew dive ins to one of those haunted theme parks.

most valuable possession?

my aunt's collection of VHS disney princess movies

best song to go rollerrinkin to?

buttermilk biscuits by thee sir mix-a-lot

and on that note i've got a third little treat for u readers at home. i'll admit that the previous chapter uploaded was a bit o a rush job, and looking back i've written a part that i wish i included with the chapter. not that i think it'd improve the rest of it, but it does set up some things that need to be established for later things to happen. on that note have a good day and i luv u

White light poured from the ceiling and the windows that adorned the entrance to the food court. Bright enough to keep your sunglasses on indoors, just the way Tommy liked it. The pigs who owned this cafeteria put extra power into the ceiling lights so people wouldn’t lean with heads over the chair and feet on the table. They hadn’t accounted for the light-resistant aviators that hung off Tommy’s large ears and round nose, all imported goods from the Eastern hemisphere. 

The set of alphanumerics that adorned the flesh of his wrist said it was Christmas day, yet the parking lot and fields outside were still in the middle of their autumn. The seasons were shifting further forward every decade and the only solution was to adjust your expectations accordingly. 

Releasing a cloud of blue vapor from his throat, Tommy leaned further into the metallic chair and tapped at his wrist. The blistering rhythm that filled his skull became louder and consequently the grooves ran deeper, the urge to move to the music became stronger. He compensated by tapping his slip-on sneakers together like a pair of claves, producing an obnoxious clack to all who couldn’t hear the rest of the instruments. People walking by would stare with a harsh look, but they’d do it even if he wasn’t tapping his feet, vaping overcast weather upon his table, dressed in cream orange robes patched together from old shirts and sportswear, and holding his hair in a braid wrapped around his head. They stared when he was smaller wearing a tacky school uniform, when he obeyed all the rules and didn’t speak unless spoken to. They stared all they fuckin wanted anyway. 

Tommy grimaced as he lost himself in the thought of their eyes; it was the lowest of the low who thought so highly of themselves that they believed they could change what they didn’t like simply by staring. Once in this very cafeteria he spat at the shoes of a nosey bitch walking his spawn on a leash, teaching them to stare like he did. The only memorable thing about them was that they were all sunburnt like lobsters. The man didn’t do anything but scuttle away, pushing his kids into a semi-fancy jetcar and flying from the confrontation. From that day forward, Tommy realized there were no real men anymore. When he got back to the commune that day he wrote a poem about the event and called it White Flight. 

From the haze of the crowd came a figure in similar dress and demeanor. She wore deep red robes with plastic shoes, and her face bore a pattern of white finger paints. Tommy’s feet were shooed off the table and pleasantries were exchanged before she began their lesson. He listened intently to the lessons of maximums and minimums, of experience and asceticism. The exact words they shared were long forgotten, but he remembered the frivolous embarrassment he felt messily slurping pho while the woman sipped water and miso soup. That embarrassment was what he was learning to let go of. 

He remembered the woman more fondly than he’d ever admit now. The ideology and organization they represented belonged to a world that no longer existed, and in the coming years they would regard each other as enemies in their thoughts, but she showed him kindness where she didn’t have to and it was a virtue Tommy couldn’t ignore no matter how hard he tried. When they walked back to the commune they were accosted by a vagrant, an old man wounded in one of the old wars. Tommy remembered the suddenness with which his jaw tightened, how quickly he found himself speechless in anxiety for violence. He remembered the woman’s rough hands that patiently pulled the paper money from their alms bowl, digging once again when the man demanded more, and pulling her shoes off when they got home to show Tommy where she kept the real money. This was before the digital economy, where every penny spent could be traced and giving money to the homeless could end with your name attached to a narcotics deal. He remembered that she cried when the new laws were passed and several of their flock were arrested to be made an example of. It was years later, when Tommy was far away from her and who he once was, that he learned enough about life to cry for all the strange sour people on earth. He had begun his first true steps.