Last night, I folded. I folded two hundred pillow cases. Then I folded sheets. As the ennui mounted, despite ennui being about the most pretentious word imaginable, I folded towels, washcloths, hand towels, and bath mats. I folded rags. I folded napkins. I folded omelets. I folded papers in that way that people do to official papers that have to be kept compact due to crappy filing cabinets.

But the folding didn't end. From there, I was pressed into folding more. I began to fold memories. I folded that first nervous kiss. I folded the sweet comfort of one you love sharing their personal space, and their body heat, with you. I folded that moment where you realized that this was transient. I folded, carefully, the memory of staring off into the distance when you wonder where you, where they, where it all went wrong. You know the one, it happens before the tears, before the frustration mounts, where you just feel so very, very lost and numb. Well, you might not. Since we're friends, and I do like to think of us as friends, dear reader, I might have accidentally misplaced it a little bit. On purpose.

I didn't fold your life, though. I mean, we both know how easily that wrinkles. You should really put it on a hanger, you know.

You have, in your house, thousands of spiders that watch you sleep. Waiting. Waiting for the moment. This is not that moment, and I hope for your sake that it doesn't happen for quite some time. But there is one who is different. He stays with you all the time, just out of sight. He worries about you. He sees your diet, your day to day activities. He sees your triumphs and defeats. Always, just out of sight. Sometimes, you barely catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye, but then he's gone. He's good at staying out of your sight. He knows how you respond to having a fist-sized spider on your shoulder, and he worries. He doesn't want to startle you. He only wants to help, but he isn't sure how. So he stays just far enough out of the way. Sometimes, you can feel him scurry across your body, causing you to blindly itch. His brow always furrowed over his eight eyes as he thinks about how he can help. Always so careful to keep those fangs that drip venom away from your skin.

Unlike his thousands of brothers and sisters, he's your unknown friend, silently hoping to offer you strength. I folded him with a nice blanket. He deserves some sleep.

And yet, I continued to fold. I folded concepts, like breakfast. I folded colors, like turquoise. Because that's such a weird color, it really needs to be folded up so that it isn't occupying everything. I folded words; in a little bit, you'll find yourself at a loss for one. I'm sorry, that's my fault. I folded songs. Old songs, songs that no human remembers. The songs that great, ancient creatures used to have sung to them. They remember the songs. They are very, very upset that humanity doesn't sing them anymore. They are no longer pacified by these songs. So I folded them up, nice and tight.

I folded space. My deepest sympathy to you, Brazil. I folded time. I am truly sorry, Robert Doyle. I folded that five dollar bill you lost when you were younger. What? It's not like you're doing anything with it any more, right? I folded dough. I folded philosophy and art, though dadaism gave me quite the trouble. I folded cards, simply because it seemed like a thing to do. I folded the people who slept through the night, believing, mistakenly, that they were safe as I watched over them. I folded the blood that came out of my worn fingers. I folded the tears that stained my cheek. I folded the light. Not just some of it, but all of it. All the light from everything. From light bulbs, to even the background radiation echoes of the big bang. All of it.

And yet. And yet. And yet... Entropy disrupts my work, as it is want to do with all things. The sun pushes more light into the universe, as do all stars. Brazil is working itself out. From my folding, not from the thing that they are desperately trying to keep buried, preventing it from unleashing its terrible wills upon an unsuspecting world. Robert Doyle will soon forget about the narcotics he was folded with. Your unknown friend will rise from his slumber soon to worry about you, and what his siblings will do to you when they tire of watching.

Life continues. For most of us. For some of us, life has never really been, as we move without form, or death, through eternity. But for us, it continues. I just hope that what I tried to hide for your own sake remains hidden. Forever. Forever outside of time. It's a good hope, to hope that you've helped your friends, isn't it? And we are friends. Right?

So! Anyway! On the fifth, I'll be at the live performance of Welcome to Night Vale in St. Louis. Is anybody else going? I think it'd be really nifty to have an impromptu meetup there, don't you think?

...then you get it. If you don't, we can't help you. Nobody can help you. I'm sorry. We're all sorry. We're all so very, very sorry.

Throughout the text I had no idea of what you were talking about and yet I enjoyed every single line of it.

I've search the web for this Night Vale thing, found the official site, found a Wikipedia entry and I still don't know what you're talking about.

- No text -

...strange, and hard to describe. It's like, X-Files meets Cthulhu meets a comedy radio show. It switches from creepy to silly to heartwarming in the span of a single sentence. It's a wonderful, beautiful, terrifying thing that nobody can describe in a way that explains it properly.

My only advice is to listen to it. It has quite a few monologues that are vaguely reminiscent of what I wrote, things that start out bland and normal and quickly veers off into the realm of insanity. You get a strong feel for the cast of characters, even before they appear in the show properly. There's a strong continuity and character growth, too, and everybody from the main dude to the dude who is literally a five-headed dragon are so interesting. Heck, even the cat that hovers four feet off the ground in a fixed position in the men's bathroom is interesting, especially when it molts and shows off its lovely poison spines.

Except Steve Carlsberg. That guy's just horrible. Just... just horrible. Everything about him is terrible. You're better off if you never find out about him. Really. I mean, he never changes the hubcaps on his tan Toyota Corolla. It's laziness, pure and simple.

I'll stop fanboying now. Honest.

- No text -

Maybe metaphysical meanderings might mess my Meeka mates mars musings. Meaning git your arthritic ass back on destiny so I have someone to share my insanity with.

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I got a strong Douglas Adams, Neil Gaiman, Lovecraft impression in your original post. Loved it!

I've heard of Welcome to Nightvale, I used to listen to Cthulhu and Friends, Drunks and Dragons, hell, even Sayer for a while. Good stuff across the board!

Man this is just as great as any monologue on Night Vale proper, for real. I uh, I'm not gonna get all emotional about it or anything, but very good job, pokeperson.

- No text -

That's about the best compliment I could receive. Thank you, so much.

More like carpel, but I'll be on again soon. One more day of writing to finish this act, then resist the "IT SUCKS DELETE IT" urge, and then I'll be back on.

Carpel Tunnel, Rheumatoid Arthritis, AIDS... They all are the same thing and that thing is excuses. Did I quit back when my hands were cramping up during the Crotas run of '15? Or that nasty hang nail during The Christmas Siege? No I did not, I pushed through the pain, blinked back the salty tears and soldiered on without a whimper. So nut up, press the save button, finish cooking your cinnamon pancakes and join back up with the most interesting 360 clan this side of the mighty Volga.

Carpel Tunnel, Rheumatoid Arthritis, AIDS... They all are the same thing and that thing is excuses. Did I quit back when my hands were cramping up during the Crotas run of '15? Or that nasty hang nail during The Christmas Siege? No I did not, I pushed through the pain, blinked back the salty tears and soldiered on without a whimper. So nut up, press the save button, finish cooking your cinnamon pancakes and join back up with the most interesting 360 clan this side of the mighty Volga.

Wait, your tears are salty? Mine are black and taste like pine nuts.

Your tears are how all tears should taste. Back during the BadassExtraTerrestrialAssult I was attacked and a damn smoke grenade blew up in my tent face and ruined my tear ducts. So the Army surgeon grafted in a pair of Giant Sloth and I've been crying salt water ever since. Wish I had those succulent pine nut tears back, kept me from going hungry a few times.

Or that nasty hang nail during The Christmas Siege?

I have an infected hangnail right now, and I'm starting to think I need to go to the hospital.

Fifth of Jack, trauma shears, and some home made penicillin I got is all you need. Why go pay a doctor?

Fifth of Jack, trauma shears, and some home made penicillin I got is all you need. Why go pay a doctor?

Because...I have health insurance?

Bah I'll even spay and neuter your pets free of cost. See up here it pays to diversify

It admittedly is pretty awesome to have the moles show up to try and get a taste of my eye nectar. Hey, free meal!

Also, yes, I'm updated and will be on again. Just for you.

Yeah... I think I'm going to change the post filter away from "All categories" now... :p

Ha! Sorry, man. Monotony does weird things to my brain. Who needs drugs when you have sleep dep and five hours of folding laundry?!

I could've used this when I was spending four hours a day unpacking and stacking clothes-- but usually not folding them.
May your spiders be kind.