By the time you read this Cityslikr will be tucked comfortably away in seclusion, recuperating. Recuperating?! you bellow in concern. Recuperating from what? (Or maybe you’ll be thinking, finally, the bastard got what was coming to him.)
Either way, he’s fine, just a little wound.
We came into the office late last night, figuring to grab him for a quick drink and bite. Not to drink or bite him, we mean. That’s not how we roll around here.
He was hunched in front of the computer, staring crazily into the screen, shivering and muttering in what Acaphlegmic thought to be Farsi although, I’m not convinced he’s as well versed in languages as he likes to think he is.
Cityslikr wasn’t himself, let’s just say.
We gently coaxed him away from his desk and led him to his current place of repair.
Here’s a brief excerpt of what we found him to be working on when we entered:
What if they’re right? What if everything I was led to believe is wrong? What if unicorns can fly? [Note to self: Were unicorns able to fly? Or am I thinking dodos.
Dodos couldn’t fly. Could they? Note to self:] It’s the Ford family that is mythical not unicorns.
Take a letter, Maria. Send it to my wife. Say I won’t be coming home. I’ve got to start a new life.
Forget it, Jake. It’s Chinatown.
But you know, it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that lower taxes can buy subways. [Note to self: It’s not beyond the realm of possibility, is it? I mean, stranger things have turned out to ture. Not true. Ture. IT IS SO A WORD!!!] Should I strike that last Note to self out? What if I were to die right now and somebody found that just sitting on the computer, staring out at them… staring out at me. WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT, ETHERNETS?
You know, the last words Elvis Presley’s ever spoke were, I’m going up to do some reading. I read that in a newspaper account that’s on display in a Memphis police station.
The King died on the throne. It is the biggest open secret going right now. That and the suppressed fact pressure cookers are the leading cause of death in the home. Did you know that?
It was the palak paneer, people!
I too fear dying on the toilet. It’s why I never lock the bathroom door. Remember that when you next invite me to your house for dinner.
Ana Bailão can’t really vote in favour of a casino, can she? Troubling, troubling.
So it went for pages and pages and pages.
Let’s call this a little time out, shall we? A healing process. To get his shit back together. Cityslikr’s officially on the DL.
For how long?
We’re not sure. Acaphlegmic, who claims to have witnessed and participated in countless numbers of these emergencies, says Easter’s not out of the question. Definitely, for sure the April council meeting. Politically induced madness is almost always temporary here at All Fired Up in the Big Smoke.
— nursingly submitted by Acaphlegmic and Urban Sophisticat