Crushlink have done it again. More hints in this wonderful game of life. As well as that, there are now two of 'em. Two,  lost souls on this planet of deception without real direction or diction. Diction being the more important of the two. Now, the evidence points to it being the same person. I think. Or maybe not. The point is, I really have absolutely no idea who it is. I haven't given it a lot of thought, but even so, I can't think of anyone who matches either sets of hints. So, my conclusion?

That there is a random computer generated person out there in love with me. As disturbing as I found this at first, it's actually quite comforting. My first reaction to this almost blatantly obvious realisation was that I'd download some kick-ass  Anti-Virus software and destroy the fucker. Then I realised that in my highly incompetent state I didn't know how to. Much like that time I tried to design a perpetual motion machine, and for that matter, the time I tried to hijack a plane with a toothbrush. I was left then, with the prospect of either facing this imaginary stalker and embracing her digital love, or running away and joining the circus. I thought for a moment. In one hand, lay the half eaten donut I'd started but never finished, in the other, a pamphlet describing the horrible process people go through during a full body cavity search. Suddenly, I was at the circus.

Clowns, elephants, tigers, lions, they were all fake. The RSPCA wouldn't let them keep animals anymore. The only things left at this circus worthy of a mention were a bearded lady named Joe, and drunken transvestite who had changed teams so many times she didn't know where she'd started. It was too late though, I had made my Strawberry Daiquiri,  and now it was time for me to skull it. I had to join the circus. The circus master was named Jameson. Kieran Jameson, and he was above all other things, the most defective son-of-a-bitch I'd ever met. Well, he wasn't a defective son-of-a-bitch, so to speak, he was perfectly, well, perfect, son-of-a-bitch, his said defectivity lay in his ability to comprehend social norms. He was both defective, and a son-of-a-bitch. I just wanted to clear that up.  

   Mr Jameson sat on a majestic throne which propped him up several feet above everybody else. I looked up at him, his nose was the shape of a squirrel and he'd eaten a peanut butter sandwich earlier in the day. I could tell because there were remnants of peanut butter scattered along his lower gums. His mouth, gaping, his eyes, closed. He looked so peaceful. A cold, wet, stream of drool was trickling from his mouth, down his neck, through his collar, and out the sleeve of his shirt like a trail of ants scurrying back to their nest. It came out his sleeve at the wrist and dripped off his fingers into a pre-placed cup that sat on the floor. It was all very well done. Suddenly the peanut butter on his teeth groaned like a bear awakening several hours after being shot with a tranquilliser gun. I could see the particles of brown scurrying around against the off-white giblets that were his teeth. Then his lips creaked and quivered, yet froze momentarily, the way soon-to-be road kill does before before the Pajero. Then he spoke, "Listen Sonny-" - his voice was old and was reminiscent of Shotgun Pete - "I've got all this here peanut butter, buts I don't have any Salt and Vinegar Chips".. Then it hit me. I was fuckin' stoned.

It's a few hours later. I only just realised I never made a second entry. I can't do anything about that now, can I? I'm kinda confused. This whole, being loved by a computer generated ideology is kind of weird. I've been in relationships with abstract nouns before - my fling with depression comes to mind, and the little stint I had with vindication - but this is a semi-abstract, almost  futile luvvin'. It's almost impossible to contact them. It's as if I don't exist in this engagement. As though I'm living my life to be loved by a figment of my imagination. I can't find the words to describe my current state without using the letter e. Which was my aim. I am but a fly on the wall of loom.

Note the lack of the letter e. 100% Truth too.

Not really, I feel pathetic to say the least. I can't find love in the world of reality, and so I turn, almost immediately to my imagination. Creating these digital icons of love. I call her Sharona. She is My Sharona. I am The Knack. It is not my inability to find non-imagined friends, or loves, it the speed and willingness with which I blindly -ineptly- turn to the surreal, to escapism. Shouldn't I be able to deal with my impotence? Be a man. Well, if I'd done that I wouldn't have had this problem in the first place now would I?

So anyway, I now have 6 clues on 2 'different' entities of computer generation. Enjoy The Feast!

+Hing ---> Out
May I have this Dance?