CHAPTER I: IF A MIND IS CROOKED, LET IT BE CROOKED
…I came to this morning with blood filling my groins. I felt myself in love.
This truth that my groins were pulsing in hot red and lustful had nothing to do with my being in love. That’s just how I found them, earlier to rising, compelled to swell up whenever my body’s in slumber. What did have something to do with these such lovely feelings, however, was this sudden resistance I felt towards draining myself—to bleed out the limb in a back-and-forth fashion. Why shouldn’t I?
“No,” comes the head, “You can’t do that now. It’s not proper.”
To resist succumbing to these urges had never happened to me before, not since I’d bloomed into a big, hairy one following my fourteenth year. I’ve always been quite content to start off the day with a drowsy pull on myself, whether it be considered “proper” or not. And yet here I lay, arms tight at my bedside, overcome by this notion that it’d be crude for me to milk one out—
“Please,” says the head, “The slightest bit of patient, self-discipline to ridding yourself of this urge might do you the same relief, with no resulting shame.”
Shame? But what shame? It’s only a natural urge! Inborn, innocent, harmless fun, and it’d rid me of this morning’s discomfort. So what’s this new opinion, of shame on me for masturbating?—
The head slumps in defeat. Or maybe frustration. It turns to look about the room.
Ah yes, I’m seeing it now… It’s all coming back to me in a hot flash below the hair—
I must’ve not come to remember it all so well upon first awakening, these happenings that’d surpassed in only the last few hours here, but seem to spill out and spread across the dawn of all time (how long was I under for?—) But I remember it all! Yes! That I, Stephen Joseph Wack, in my own snoozing power, had just given birth to an entire universe of my own—that it might now under present circumstances, yes, seem in bad taste for I, some all-knowing all-powerful ever-present Creator of a universe to be gripping at himself, especially so early in the morning.
I felt myself in love with my child, but in no ways like a pedophile. In paternal love with my universe, this very one to subsist deep in my own sleepy head. A much better universe than this one here, outside my sleepy head so I sought to just stay asleep, to be a little sloth of a God and forever stay safe in this heady place of my own—but not truly my own, no. A universe is no real place for isolation. I was in much company there, in much love with much scenery. From a distance it was abstract art. Childlike. A simple flick of a paintbrush sent a scatter of infinite planets and stars, colorful across a bright backdrop. Suspended globs of muck, and water, and plasma, each and every one crawling with beautiful little creatures, my child’s children—
Sometimes my child’s children would become curiously friendly on whatever glob they inhabited. So they’d call out into the empty expanses of space in search of other creatures inhabiting other mucky globs millions of light-years away, and they’d ask: “Is anybody out there? Can you hear me, hello?” And since it seemed in earnest that my children were really just out there searching for a playmate, with nothing that echoed of self-interest or violence or lust—sometimes I’d let those earnest words ripple and dip into the space-time continuum to produce a wormhole between the two planets for easy, boundless travel—
And you know… it’s a shame, somewhat, that sometimes these creatures on their globs would find themselves feeling helpless, or unloved, or alone. So they’d call out to me personally: “Is anybody out there? Can you hear me, God, hello?” And I found myself gutless, without formal response…
Was it shyness? Fear? A lack of care?
No, I don’t suppose so. It was self-doubt, distrust of myself to provide adequate guidance to fragile children who needed righteous, powerful words… Hell, maybe if I’d even my own head on straight I might’ve mustered up a few words. And sure it was a sad thing to see. All those seeking nothing more than a little self-assurance that they weren’t so alone. But what could I really do? It would’ve been worse, much worse to let them hear me speak.
There were some creatures, of course, without their own heads on straight. And they claimed to hear me speak to them anyways, instructing them to do things in a “test” of their faith. Can you believe it? Numerous crackpots all across the universe had fashioned artillery out of the simple muck, water and plasma on their planets. They’d put explosives to landscapes, pain themselves and others. Denounce another fellow’s way of life just to prove their own undying love for me, thinking such acts might make me proud. Sure, such things might only be expected in a place crafted of my own. Sheesh… who the hell did they think I was? Some vicious, scheming egotist?
To hell with those creatures. Do you believe me when I say I never felt flattered by such? I’d never asked anything of them, especially not such horrors. Very rarely I might’ve done something in my all-power, like snap my fingers, so to speak—to crush those insects right out of existence. Otherwise I’d just let them be. I figured their lives would pan out whichever way they were meant to go. I’d heard it said before: “if a mind is crooked, let it be crooked.”
It’s a good lesson to be learned. That sometimes bad things happen that are both in and out of one’s control. What can you do?
Thus inevitably, bad things would sometimes happen to those creatures of undying faith. I’d hear them from time-to-time in private, questioning my methods (the words “forsaken,” “mysterious ways,” and “test” came up quite often.)
But keep in mind: my leaving them be to fend for themselves was never, in any way, some means by which to test or punish them. In truth, I didn’t care either way. They seemed like bad admirers to be loved by, anyways. So some bad things would happen to them, alongside some good things. Life needs both, and it had nothing to do with whether or not I was listening or watching over them—
In fact, if this memory of mine is comprised in this same infinite dream: I’d one been watching over a planet whose entire population was made up of millions of identical copies of Roy Orbison’s—yes, I’d been watching and listening over Shahadaroba at the exact moment when, seemingly apropos of nothing, the entire planet and all its beautiful, singing inhabitants exploded into trillions of salty tears, vanishing into space forever.
You see? It really made no difference whether or not I was an active participant in all my children’s life. No true harm caused by my leaving these dogged creatures to just be. Hell, they seemed to punish themselves enough as it was.
(Plus, in total truth, all that talk of faith and devotion really just annoyed the goddamn piss out of me.)
Something interesting to note, though, was this rather ingrained notion apparent across all these infinite globs of muck and water residing in this universe: that I, some all-powerful all-knowing ever-present being, might be something to exist, despite the fact that none of these creatures had ever been exposed to this idea of “all” or “infinite.”
Hm. And while some sought to speak to me indirectly—to construct monuments for me, to write books about me, to pay all this tribute to only the possibility of I—yes, in spite of this, it appeared that perhaps the most contented of all my creatures were those on planet Anaridia, who were merely happy to exist amongst others who were likewise happy to exist.
(Though, if total truth be told once more, there was certainly another reason that I kept my existence hidden from all my faithful children—)
Yes… it was because I never wished for my children to really know me—not personally, at least. Since amongst all this worship, and devotion, and speculation from those who thought quite highly of me, and didn’t allow it to compromise their character—I began to find myself more and more embarrassed for who I truly, truly was: nothing more than a dirty, ugly, sick old man.
It was a true fear that they’d all utterly crumble to bits if my children were ever to unravel the real, underlying disturbance of my person—that I was a lonely man, who’d set aside his grocery store receipts in order to have something to dump his semen onto in the early mornings; a panicked man, who had a fear of strangers hearing him shit in public; a lustful man, who’d manipulated the brain’s of many women with recited words of sweet emotion he did not really feel, if only to convince them for long enough that it’d be a good idea to allow him to shove his dick inside them; an idiotic man, who believed it was more impressive to manipulate and shove his dick inside multiple women rather than just the one good one—a mentally sick man, who would sometimes forfeit brushing his teeth before bed, would awaken in the dead of night to the acrid taste hugging at his tongue of the gelatin shell that encompassed his substance that he’d kept hidden from the head, buried deep in the back of his cheek—the pills that with a splash of stomach acid would burst with the chemicals that his pathetic brain did not make enough of naturally—and so this sick man was forced to ingest drugs: two blue pills, one hour before slumber every night, or else suffer another night of endless delusions and fits—
No. I never ever wished for my children to discover how goddamn horrible their Creator was, lest them start to look inward at their own manufacture and rip themselves apart…
Thus, the cycle of life carried on: children growing up confused, and without a father.
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