http://www.impersonalelectroniccommunication.com/ (Sam Pink) answered my questions. I am training to be a journalist.
Question 1.
What the fuck is your problem?
my problem is that i want to climb a tree and sit on a branch until i die and i don't want anyone to touch me, i think starving to death would be the most painful way to die.
Question 2.
Why don't you leave me alone?
because i enjoy hugging your head to my chest until you pass out. you are my little lamb socrates. i want to walk around outside with you and do "science experiments" on birds and stuff.
Question 3.
Do you like it when I do this?
don't touch me
Question 4.
What rate of pay are you looking for per hour?
aside from whoever wrote "the indian in the cupboard" i am the best writer in the galaxy so i expect to be paid in gold, in diamonds and blood and bones and everything i deserve and i want to have at least ten kids with random women because i was destined by god to procreate and also to cut up little strips of the earth and throw them at the sun
Question 5.
Oh My God, You are Soooooooooooooooooo dreamy!!!
socrates, don't be cute with me. i will dedicate myself to ruining your life. you have no idea how fucking petty i am. i am the shittiest, most petty human, and i will dedicate myself to ruining your life if only to confuse you
Question 6.
How does it make you feel when you fail at something?
i always feel the same.
Question 7.
Why are you such a failure?
i always feel the same
Question 8.
Do you think you will ever succeed at anything?
maybe. right now, i am exercising a lot so i can just beat people up to reduce my anger rather than writing stupid "poems" and other shit to reduce it
Question 9.
Why am I such a failure?
because you forget to put your lips over your teeth while you are doing it
Question 10.
What are your influences?
hardcore drugs and cutting drugged people up in my basement with a box cutter and slayer and gummy worms and nice people and sitting on a couch in my quiet room with a big blanket wrapped around me and funneling a glass full of my own blood into my ass then jumping around until the blood foams and sometimes just having a hot cup of cocoa with some friends catching up on how much everyone hates me
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At the far end of town, where the grickle-grass grows, and the wind smells slow and sour when it blows, and no birds ever sing there, excepting old crows, is the street of the lifted lorax. And deep in the grickle-grass, some people say, if you look deep enough you can still see today where the Lorax once stood, just as long as it could, 'till somebody lifted the Lorax away. What was the Lorax and why was it there, and why was it lifted and taken somewhere, from the far end of town where the grickle-grass grows? The old oncler still lives here: ask him, he knows. You won't see the oncler - don't knock on his door. He stays in his lurkem on top of his store. He lurks in his lurkem, cold under the roof, where he makes his own clothes out of miff muffered moof. And on special dank midnights in August he peeks out of the shutters, and sometimes he speaks, and tells how the Lorax was lifted away. He'll tell you, perhaps, if you're willing to pay. At the end of a rope he lets down a tin pail and you have to throw in fifteen cents and a nail and the shell of a great, great, great grandfather snail. Then he pulls up the pail, makes a most careful count to see if you've paid him the proper amount. And he hides what you've paid him away in his snuvv, his strange, secret hole in his gruvulous glove. Then he grunts, "I will call you by whisper-ma-phone, for the secrets I tell are for your ears alone." SLUPP!!! Down slupps the whisper-ma-phone to your ear, and the old oncler's words are not very clear, since they have to come down through a snergally hose and he sounds as if he had smallish bees up his nose. "Now I'll tell you," he says, with his teeth sounding gray, "how the Lorax was lifted and taken away. It all started way back, such a long, long way back..." "Way back in the days when the grass was still green, and the pond was still wet and the clouds were still clean, and the songs of the Swami-swans rang out in space. One morning I came to this glorious place! "And I first saw the trees! The truffula trees! The bright-colored tufts of the truffula trees! Mile after mile in the fresh morning breeze! "And under the trees I saw brown barbaloots, frisking about in their barbaloot suits while they played in the shade and ate truffula fruits. >From the rippulous pond came the comfortable sound of the hummingfish humming while splashing around. But those trees, those trees, those truffula trees! All my life I'd been searching for trees such as these! The touch of their tufts was much softer than silk, and they had the sweet smell of fresh butterfly milk! I felt a great leaping of joy in my heart. I knew just what I'd do! I unloaded my cart. In no time at all I had built a small shop. Then I chopped down a truffula tree with one chop, and with great skillful skill and with great speedy speed, I took the soft tuft - and I knitted a thneed! The instant I'd finished I heard a GAZUMP! I looked. I saw something pop out of the stump of the tree I'd cut down. It was sort of a man. Describe him? That's hard. I don't know if I can. He was shortish. And oldish. And brownish, and mossy. And he spoke with a voice that was sharpish and bossy: "Mister," he said, with a sawdusty sneeze, "I am the Lorax. I speak for the trees. "I speak for the trees, for the trees have no tongues, and I'm asking you sir, at the top of my lungs," he was very upset as he shouted and puffed, "what's that THING you've made out of my truffula tuft!!" "Look, Lorax," I said, "there's no cause for alarm. I chopped just one tree - I am doing no harm. I'm being quite useful: this thing is a thneed. A thneed's a fine something that all people need. "It's a shirt. It's a sock. It's a glove, it's a hat. But it has other uses, yes, far beyond that! You can use it for carpets, for pillows, for sheets! For curtains, or covers for bicycle seats!" The Lorax said, "Sir, you are crazy with greed. There's no one on Earth who would buy that fool thneed!" But the very next minute I proved he was wrong. For just at that minute a chap came along, and he thought that the thneed I had knitted was great! He happily bought it for three ninety-eight. I laughed at the Lorax, "You poor stupid guy! You never can tell what some people will buy!" "I repeat!" cried the Lorax, "I speak for the trees!" "I'm busy," I told him, "shut up, if you please." I rushed 'cross the room and in no time at all, built a radiophone. I put in a quick call. I called all my cousins and uncles and aunts, and I said, "Listen here! Here's a wonderful chance for the whole Oncler family to get mighty rich! Get over here fast, take the road to North Nitch. Turn left at Weehawken, sharp right at South Stitch." And in no time at all, in the factory I built, the whole Oncler family was working full tilt. We were all making thneeds, just as busy as bees, to the sound of the chopping of truffula trees. Then oh, baby oh! How my business did grow! Now chopping one tree at a time was too slow! So I quickly invented my super-axe-hacker, which chopped down four truffula trees with one smacker! We were making thneeds four times as fast as before. And that Lorax? HE didn't show up any more. But the next week he knocked on my new office door. He said, "I'm the Lorax, who speaks for the trees, which you seem to be chopping as fast as you please. But I'm also in charge of the brown barbaloots, who played in the shade in their barbaloot suits, and happily lived, eating truffula fruits. "NOW thanks to your hacking my trees to the ground, there's not enough truffula fruit to go 'round. And my poor barbaloots are all getting the crummies because they have gas, and no food, in their tummies. They loved living here, but I can't let them stay. They'll have to find food, and I hope that they may. 'Good luck, boys!'" he cried, as he sent them away. I the Oncler was sad as I watched them all go. But business is business, and business must grow, regardless of crummies in tummies, you know. I meant no harm, I most truly did not. But I had to get bigger, so bigger I got. I biggered my factory, I biggered my roads, I biggered my wagons, I biggered the loads of the thneeds I shipped out, I was shipping them forth to the south! To the east! To the west! To the north! I went rigth on biggering, selling more thneeds, and I biggered my money, which everyone needs. Then AGAIN he came back. I was fixing some pipes, when that old nusiance Lorax came back with MORE gripes. "I am the Lorax." he coughed and he whiffed. He sneezed and he snargled. He snuffled. He sniffed. "Oncler!" he cried with a cruffulous croak, "Oncler, you're making such smogulous smoke! My poor Swami-swans, why, they can't sing a note! No one can sing who has smog in his throat! "And so," said the Lorax (please pardon my cough,) "they cannot live here, so I'm sending them off. Where will they go? I don't hopefully know. They may have to fly for a month or a year, to escape from the smog you/ve smogged up around here! "What's more," snapped the Lorax (his dander was up,) "let me say a few words about gluppity-glup. You're machinery chugs on day and night without stop making gluppity-glup. Also sloppit-slop. And what do you do with this leftover goo? I'll show you, you dirty old Oncler man, you! "You're glumping the pond where the hummingfish hummed. No more can they hum, for their gills are all gummed! So I'm sending them off: oh, their future is dreary! They'll walk on their fins and get woefully weary, in search of some water that isn't so smeary - I hear things are just as bad up at Lake Erie! And then I got mad. I got terribly mad. And I yelled at the Lorax, "Now listen here, dad! All you do is yap-yap and say bad,bad,bad,bad! Well I have my rights sir, and I'm telling you I intend to go on doing just what I do! And for your information, you Lorax, I'm figuring on biggering, and biggering, and biggering, and BIGGERING. Turning MORE truffula trees into thneeds, which everyone, everyone, EVERYONE needs! Then at that very instant we heard a loud WHACK! >From out in the fields came the sickening smack of an axe on a tree. Then we heard the tree fall. THE VERY LAST TRUFFULA TREE OF THEM ALL! No more trees, no more thneeds, no more work to be done, and in no time my uncles and aunts, every one, had waved me good-bye. They jumped into my cars, and drove away under the smoke-smuggered stars. Then all that was left 'neath the bad-smelling sky was my big empty factory, the Lorax, and I. The Lorax said nothing - just gave me a glance. Just gave me a sad, sad backward glance as he lifted himself by the seat of the pants. And I'll never forget the grim look on his face as he heisted himself and took leave of this place through a hole in the smog without leaving a trace. And all that the Lorax left here in this mess was a small pile of rocks with the one word, "unless." Whatever THAT meant, well, I just couldn't guess. That was long, long ago, and each day since that day, I've worried and worried and worried away. Through the years as my buildings have fallen apart, I've worried about it with all of my heart. "BUT," says the Oncler, "now that you're here, the word of the Lorax seems perfectly clear! UNLESS someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better - it's not. So...CATCH!" cries the Oncler. He lets something fall. "It's a truffula seed. It's the last one of all! "You're in charge of the last of the truffula seeds. And truffula trees are what everyone needs. Plant a new truffula - treat it with care. Give it clean water and feed it fresh air. Grow a forest - protect it from axes that hack. Then the Lorax and all of his friends may come back!"
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah
ultimately life-affirming
holy shit he just posted the entire text of "the lorax" let's get married and never do it
i'm pumped about the two minutes it took me to read this and feel sexual
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