First of all, I would like to point out that cheese has no place in our nation's banks. For too long have we stood under a thundercloud ripping along at top speed and if I could just sit down for a few seconds I wouldn't have to stand under it any more because frankly it's becoming a bit tedious. I mean, really. As if I would want a freakish cloud following me around. Not that I'm complaining, the pay is good, and the hours... well, the hours aren't really that good and to be quite frank (and if I were quite frank, I couldn't be quite Roger as well, or maybe that's a parable for another time) I've lost my train of thought because this text box allows you to keep typing and typing on one line and I'm not really sure what would happen if I pressed return. Okay, I'm going to do it now, but I can't predict the results. It's kind of like the cloud; no one can really tell me it's there, but I know it is because I do, and anyone who has a problem with that logic can take a flying leap of the end of my nose, which has become quite stuffy recently, because I think I need to air it out or maybe hire a maid to come in and clean it, but you know how maids are, you can never tell where they've been, and I don't want to wake up in the morning to find that my brain is gone. Actually, I did have that experience once, not so long ago, but if I told you about it there's a chance you might believe me and that would ruin the fabric of my lies, so suffice to say that I did get it back, or rather one that looks just like it, although I'd never actually opened up my head to take a gander, being as that's not a healthy thing to do, although I hear that if you try hard enough, you can violate the laws of space and time just long enough to take a gander at your brain before you drop stone dead. Not that I'm saying that the laws of space, time, fork, spoon, or even double fudge mocha apply to me, but there isn't really any reason why they shouldn't, given that I'm a normal, Goddess-fearing disinterested human, or at least I was the last time I checked, which was admittedly quite a while ago, so you might not want to believe anything I say up to or beyond this point and really, I'd be happier if you didn't because then I wouldn't have to worry about people seeing any truth in my statements. I like the complex tapestry of lies I weave, but I don't understand why it doesn't go with my furniture. Why couldn't I have lied a coat of paint, or a nice Danish sofa? What am I going to do with a tapestry that doesn't go with anything else I own. So I guess the long and the short of it is that that's the reason why I'm giving the tapestry to you, although it might make a nice floor covering or maybe a hammock for outside, so perhaps I should just keep it and see if I can find some use for it, but probably what will happen is that I'll end up throwing it away, and then you'll be sorry. As a matter of fact, why aren't you sorry now? You should be, refusing my gift and all, not that I really meant it as a gift, more of a communication of how little I think of you, which admittedly it is, although not a very good one, as I'm not entirely sure what I've been saying to make you so mad as to refuse my lovely gift. You know, the Trojans probably would have been much better off if they had refused the Greeks' gift, and that is where the saying comes from, so I suppose I can see where you're coming from, but I'm not Greek, and I'm not really bearing the gift, just sort of tossing it in your general direction, not that that's easy to do in cyberspace and all, which this is I guess, although how would I know, because these days, what with computers getting faster and faster, I might be typing on a modified badger for all the good I'm doing. I mean, you could have at least told me why you didn't want the rug, but no, you just throw it back in my face and I end up rejected like I've been so many times before. As I said, rejection is a major theme in my life, along with that damn cloud, which no one seems to believe in, so I guess you could call that a kind of rejection as well, although you wouldn't call it anything, you don't even call me. I might as well just leave the rug on your doorstep and let you wipe your feet on it and spoil its lovely colors, which actually might go rather well in my den, so maybe I'll just let bygones be bygones and keep the rug, although you'd probably interpret that as a sign that I didn't love you any more, not that I loved you to begin with, not really, what with your stinky feet and your habit of having wild sex at all hours of the night with strange beings from other dimensions, and then in the morning tell me, "Oh, it's okay honey, I'm just doing my best for my business" like you were some kind of deranged inter-planar prostitute, when you know very well that I hate honey and that you are actually... well, we won't go into that, but suffice to say that I've had it up to here with you and the stupid cloud, and the rug doesn't look good in the den, and I don't really know why they call it a den anyway. Is it because they used to keep wild voracious animals there? Maybe it's because they used to keep sick people in the den, and it was really called a den before, but they changed it so that "a den of ill health" would mean something, not that it does to most people, a fact that many have found surprising, given the recent upswing in promotional material for schools on the internet and the fact that teachers, once reviled for their profession, are actually able to open their doors without being pelted by masses of animal waste. And speaking of waste, why is it called waste, or is it just called that and I should stop talking about it because frankly, better minds than mine have tried to tackle the problem of waste and haven't come up with much of anything, not that that matters to me, but it might to some people, especially the people who go around discounting my cloud and giving free food to lepers, although the second reason is more reasonable than the first and there isn't really a dearth of what you'd call kind people, but there is an upswing in stupidity, something which I can understand only if I hold my breath, stand on my head, and hum "Cocaine" by Cream, although not really by Eric Clapton, but by Cream, which people sometimes call Cream with Eric Clapton, as if he were some other musician who came on for that set, like "Mariah Carrey and Boys II Men sing the Hits of Engelbert Humperdink," something which I'm sure has been made, but I don't want to think about it because if there is one herald of coming apocalypse, it would be that, and I don't even believe in apocalypse except on alternating Thursdays between 12-1 when I believe everything anyone says for the duration of that period. Some people try to take advantage of me, but an hour isn't a very long time, and after that I return to my previous schedule of doing nothing and caring less, which is pretty much where I am right now. Hail Eris, goodnight, and don't forget to tip your servers.
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