I’m a sentient coffeemug cosplay. Japanese kissa with hand-painted Final Fantasy VII walls, past 6pm, quite the morning for my circadian cycle turned nocturnal and everybody around me is talking con con con as I’m wrapping my lips, nostrils, eyelids and headskin on the coffeemug, inhaling as much poison as possible to kickstart my brain into deviliciousity and fuckyou. I think I’ve also been appointed a co-editor for the Mondo mag now, turning the magazine concept inside out into more pages of gonzo, sarcasm and smiling cobra hate than I originally planned. So there’s this guy who sells these neon sticks they use at parties for waving around and we could even get some from him real cheap and you know, we could do anything, says my chief editor, a real nice guy with a shrug that translates into Absolute Party Helplessness, not really hellbent on glowsticks, though, apparently. Stop right there, I tell him, I will have a hundred of those. There is confused silence first, then, confused laughter. Tension breaks. We are all a family now with The Jester making his first move in half an hour after fiddling around with his telephone, setting up the kissa on Foursquare and talking to everyone about the midnight havoc. Fuck you all, this was serious. I need a hundred. Blue and red. And then there is confused silence again.
Such is [summer 2010] and it’s been a long time since I last drank glowstick juice. The glorious portrait above is the handiwork of Akos Stiller, I think, with his accurate depiction of me buying into the idea of living through another day without lightning hot motivation, lightning hot ideas and lightning hot porn. For apparent reasons, he was not around for the maniac mad scientist phase when life suddenly gets joyous and interesting. Reasons about his well-being and all that.
Well, yes. This is part of the Lesser Experiment, the one about tolerance, generally known throughout the world as Naga or Bhut Jolokia. It is evil and green and the three green points have a careful touch of symbolism and hidden meaning and whatnot. It also might have a few things to do with the HTC Desire’s phone settings but hey, don’t ruin the mood. We cut the first millimeterful of jolokia meat off the top and halved it with Mr. Biopunk. Uvula came back functioning in 10-15 minutes. Washed the paprika heat between nail and fingermeat, finger lost sensation for about 26 hours. Very potent. Cut bigger slices into food, because I felt bored. I wasn’t bored for three days afterwards. Note: for any taste, must try chipotle next time.
For those who miss longer articles here, trust me, so do I. I’m writing long articles and reviews into The Dose (in English) and Mondo (in Hungarian) and the rest of the useful brain activity goes into reading up on all the stuff I’ve been neglecting in the past months (yes, yes, Vonnegut’s Slapstick is the first in line, Neal Stephenson’s Anathem is still on the table with age-old stuff by Robert Anton Wilson, Brian Greene, James George Frazer and even Katalin Barath‘s debut novel is here, because she writes so impressively in 140 characters on Twitter, I’m curious what she can do in 250 pages) and also, reading up on all that stuff I’ll be teaching from September about media awareness, viral marketing, transhumanism and all that. But more about that later to keep you at a steady forty percent, guessing. And there is time spent at the midnight havocs. Join our midnight havoc.