Hi people. I am alive and well--hope the same is true for each of y'all... Been writing a lot--been getting inspiration hard-ons from stiff breezes. Again, I hope the same is true for each of your word penises. It's winter and we're stuck inside because it's cold... So write! Been jamming on this little number, it's unlike anything I've ever written, dipping into the absurd and almost irrational. I think I'm going to expand it a little. Let me know what you think. And keep writing as always!
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I just killed myself for the sixth time this week, which really strikes me as quite odd because we’re only midway through Tuesday, way ahead of schedule. Early this morning I woke myself up, the first sign of trouble. I put on a shirt and followed the noise into the kitchen. You can imagine my surprise when I walked in on me in a stolen pair of my underwear making toast and jam. The both of us sat down and had a chat about the whole thing and agreed it was pretty fortunate Gram was still asleep. It was simply too early in the morning for white lies, and we shook on it. After smothering myself I decided it was a good idea to clean up the mess I had made in the kitchen, and there were runny gobs of peanut butter mixed in with the jam jar. This is the third time this week, and now there were breadcrumbs too. I don’t know how much more I can take. It’s getting impossible to live with myself.
Just the other day, Gram asked me if I smelled cat fur burning too. I ran into the kitchen and smoke was pouring out of the oven. I asked myself why he was baking at three in the a.m. and he responded by asking me to turn the oven light on please, and to check if the food was finished yet. That was when the smoke alarm started to scream. I flipped on the oven light and bent down but there wasn’t any window to look in at. I opened the oven and Gram was very pleased to hear that I had only burned the last breakfast fish fillet and Mr. Cookies was alive and well somewhere out back.
Keeping the garage from Gram is becoming somewhat of a challenge at this rate. It’s really a nasty thing to do, hiding an old woman’s glasses under the sink, but this way more than one of me seems normal. And the ladder that gets you into the garage is much harder to climb that way. I made a very cozy landing spot there at the bottom with a few pillows and blankets just in case.
On that note, as part of my will, I’d like to solely entrust the entirety of my garage, including all of its contents, (which to the best of my estimations should be worth somewhere in the ballpark of seventy-five thousand U.S. dollars at the highest, or, at the lowest, enough to buy food to keep both Gram and Mr. Cookies alive for a month as well as life imprisonment) to my biological sister Lisa Edith Cunningham. Also as part of my will, this delicate piece of information should be passed onto my biological sister Lisa Edith Cunningham solely, and no one other than my entrusted lawyer Jerry Allen Wood or whichever Good Samaritan should first discover this note and deliver it to her promptly: go to hell, and 48.52, -111.85.
At the current time of writing, Gram seems very content. And I’m pleased to report Mr. Cookies is just lively as ever, even one hundred and twenty hours after accidental exposure—it isn’t uncommon at all to spot him running off on another adventure. That goes double for me. Unfortunately, I myself cannot report the same feelings of light sedation. The stress of direct exposure is beginning to wear on me, and the cashiers working graveyard shifts at the gas station are giving me funny looks every time I come by to get cat food for Mr. Cookies. Nothing is right. I can’t help that Mr. Cookies has a sensitive stomach.
After the kitchen was clean I climbed up to the garage and checked over Gram’s station wagon for any damage. The lock on the trunk was busted. I tried simply tying the thing shut, but in the end, I couldn’t allow myself. Then I let me climb out of the trunk and stretch his arms. He told me to check the kitchen because he was very hungry and had a tray of breakfast burritos in the oven. He wanted to know if they were finished, and he seemed very busy so I checked the oven and brought the food out to him on a plate as quickly as I could. After that I shut the door and let him get back to whatever he was working on. I had some lunch, tuna and rye, and then suffocated the me I found in the garage. I never did find out what he was working on.
Aside from the broken latch on the trunk the station wagon seems to be functioning fully, two hundred eighty-eight hours stable after most recent diagnostic check earlier this morning. That makes fifteen known duplicates, sixteen if you count earlier, although I’ve yet to visit the backyard. Replication rate seems to be increasing steadily since initial exposure. Self-diagnostics check came back clean at two hundred eighty-seven hours post exposure. Duplicates are emerging hungry and are responding well to suffocation procedure.
Just now Gram said Mr. Cookies dug up one of my fingers out back. I’d better grab a shovel and take care of that. Before I go, finally, the entirety of my property (excluding the garage which I’ve previously stated goes solely to Lisa Edith Cunningham) should be endowed fully and unconditionally to my Gram Jeannette Marie Keener along with her very sweet twin sister who just moved in earlier this morning.