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The Otherworldly Adventures of The Baron Pitfall [entries|friends|calendar]
The Otherworldly Adventures of The Baron Pitfall

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[01 Jan 2010|07:22pm]
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The Baron's Head Hurts [18 Dec 2006|09:49am]
My head has been an absolute fucking mess, and this is an understatement. A goldfish has a more reliable memory than I do, and at least a goldfish usually knows where he is.

I've woken up in a different place every day for as long as I can remember, which is not very long, but I have a feeling that my condition stretches beyond what my broken mind can recall. When I say a different place, it's not just a different room down the hall, or a different hotel across the interstate. When I say a different place, the first thing that jumps to mind is a different universe. Or dimension. And while I've never been a fan of such overused astronomy buzzwords, it's really the only way to describe even remotely what the fuck is going on.

I'm trapped in some kind of vortex. When I have a bad day, it's not some miniature raincloud that floats over my head, it's a roaring wormhole that chews me up and spits me out in a new alternate reality every ten seconds. My understanding of this world is more childlike and ambiguous than a serial killer's sketchbook.

For me to even begin to tell you my story is to bring an entire new meaning to the words "unrealiable narrator."
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Ljk-ipth Flamaroaf inteau-beanox. [15 Aug 2005|01:58am]
--erdies and gerantol men. Erlisten erhe, are you maryr seee! What the groipel schnoup maight blither unto the nuances of your most facilitated journey to the center of a circus atom.

What is the godawful nine-sixty-three-one-seven business all about - ?! I come for a simple glass of shoutmoss interior. How can I get that delivered to me? Hawk maloosh is the only guy who can give us a piece of the old skypiece if you get my proverbial one-twenty-two-oh-seven!



You will never understand my soU_Rpl RANCH.



For the first time in history, a Frank believes that his mouth is being simultaneously transported into several dimensions of space and time all at once. His teachers said "Lift the groceries!" But to be honest, Frank never listened. He just didn't give two shakes of a bafoon's kazoo.

Let's all go to the harbor and get ourselves a sunburn! This is quite possibly the last time you will ever be exactly this old, wearing these clothes, sitting in this chair, pooping on that gray squirrel. Sitting in the home of John Que-bert, living at 1267 West Dunnyvale St. Times when this character is not home: 5:00AM to 11:30PM in the fuckign afternoon. Quench breaker. BRUISED APPLES FALLING FROM HEavan. HAHA, sorryJESUS FUCKING CHRIST THAT WAS A CRAZY ASS TIME - HEH HEH, YEAH I WAS REALLY FUCKING UP RIGHT THERE. OH, HI! MY NAME IS SATAN. OH GOLLY! HI! MY NAME IS SATAN, AND WELCOME BACK TO THE SATAN SHOW. IF I REMEMBER CORRECTLY (which i always do) WE WERE LAST DISCUSSING THHE INTRICACIES OF LAURDRY AND HAIR-CARE. PLEASE, PULL UP A TRUFFLE AND SIT ON THIS SPIDER, BECAUSE THIS IS GOING TO BE ONE INTENSE RIDE INTO THE REALMS OF HOUSEKEEPING.

SOMTIMES YOU JUst gotta reach for the stars and you will seee what teh astronomers saw out o f an early spyglass. Hee hee! Fuck this propert - ey schizznazzle in the bronx! Pah pah pah poafff. You will never understant teh delecacies of yawning under the influence of trousers.
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The Baron is slightly surprised. [03 Jun 2005|06:09pm]

I seized the cold neutrality of the doorknob as the gravity of my discovery began to sink in. Anything could be on the other side of the door - most likely just another configuration of coffee tables and lamp shades, but if the Cosmo Lobby could materialize a vending machine out of nothingness, I had a feeling that far more impressive things were afoot. My palms growing slippery from the thin layer of nervous sweat that tends to appear at times of uneasy anticipation such as this, I began to turn the door knob with the caution of a neurosurgeon performing a lobotomy in the caldera of an active volcano.

The door swung out onto a massive fifty-lane freeway with a wall of cars belting across the asphalt at top speed, directly towards me. As I stood in the angry path of the oncoming traffic, my heart stopped, my adrenal gland kicked into high gear, my pupils dilated, my head swooned, my knees locked, and my mind recoiled in sheer horror at the improbability of what it was seeing. The blaring horn of a freight truck erupted from the cavalry of traffic, as if everything else about the situation wasn’t already telling me to get the living fuck out of the way, and as soon as humanly possible. When the initial shock and subsequent numbness left my body, I snapped out of my panic-induced trance and leapt backwards, slamming the door behind me.

My boots dug into the carpet as I spun and ran, every part of my body screaming at me to get out of the way or be instantly pulverized into oblivion by the maelstrom of iron and steel that was about to explode into the room. I dove into a polyester armchair which crashed to the ground, acting as my paper shield against the hurricane of cars that was due to arrive at any second. I clung to the chair, knowing full-well that it protected me from the vehicular onslaught about as much as a Kevlar vest would protect me from the blast wave of a thermonuclear explosion. Quivering in fear, I waited for the freight truck to thunder through the wall and shatter my body beyond recognition.

But it didn’t. The only sounds in the room were my own panicky breathing and the repetitive pounding of my heart. Still struggling to catch my breath, I peeked over the silvery armchair to see a perfectly intact wall standing strongly in front of me. When I was positive nothing was going to come erupting through the wall, I collapsed onto the shag carpet, panting. Maybe it was the abrupt surge of adrenaline, the delirium rushing in to replace the decaying panic, the mere fact that I was still alive, or some combination thereof, but excitement began to teem inside of me. My lust for adventure embraced the chaos, and my spine began to tingle with all the new possibilities.

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The Baron is vandalizing the Cosmo Lobby. [13 May 2005|06:54pm]

Following my conversation with the sketchy computer, I had taken to wandering amid the rooms of the Cosmo Lobby. Pacing back and forth, spiraling around the bizarre place like a convicted murderer awaiting his death sentence, nothing sat right with me. The Cosmo Lobby seemed perpetually foreign, as if someone had been rearranging the furniture in each room once I left it. Either some Feng-shui obsessed imp had been following me, or I was delirious and my mind was playing tricks on me. I banked on the latter.

I was only a matter of time before I made the absurd and remarkable discovery that the rooms change. The floor plan of the place was drilled into my head through sheer repetition; I knew what was in each room. A coffee table here, a leopard print rug there, nothing you wouldn't find in a peculiar lounge somewhere in the ether. But as I was nomadically shuffling from room to room, I was startled by an arcane food vending machine looming in front of me, its fluorescent lights buzzing at me like a swarm of killer bees about to violently make me wish I hadn’t stepped into their neck of the woods.

In total disbelief, I stumbled over and leered through the glass at all the sweet, sweet confections of processed corn starch and sugar. The thought flashed across my brain that I didn't have any quarters to retrieve these precious delicacies and that I would continue down my path of starvation. This thought, however, quickly disappeared as I remembered I was The Baron Pitfall, and I could smash the fucker open with my fists if I so desired. And at this point, I so desired. Unfortunately, I lacked the bone strength and pain tolerance to punch through a sheet of glass, so as I clenched my fist in pain, cursing the bastards who built the machine so damn strong, I kicked the door apart and pawed my way through the broken glass to the goods. I had my candy, and starvation was temporarily conquered.

The implications of changing rooms were huge. At first, I tried to rationalize and convince myself that I had somehow missed the vending machine on my first few passes through this place. I stepped outside the room and slowly closed the door behind me. Taking a deep breath, I cracked the door and peeked in. The violent hum of the machine was gone; the entire thing had moved about ten feet towards the back of the room. With this, I slammed the door, put my back to it and slid down, paralyzed with excitement like some giddy eight year old at a theme park. Once my pulse had dropped to a tolerable level, I stood up. The possibilities, it seemed, were endless.

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The Baron is on a roll. [11 May 2005|05:56pm]

Finally, after spinning my wheels in the proverbial muck that has amassed to my sorry existence in this bizarre place, I had made an ounce of progress. I was on a roll. For me, at this point in time, one success is a roll.

“Alight, computer. I have questions and I need answers. Who am I, what the hell is this place, and how the fuck can I get an ice cold beer.” I said to the blank screen.

“As for who you are, you are The Baron Pitfall. I do not know how I know this. As for what this place is, I do not know that answer. As for where you can get an ice cold beer, I am not familiar with the word ‘beer’. If I discover any of these answers, I will alert The Baron immediately.” replied the computer in a much more rational tone of voice than I was used to.

Naturally, I was seething. I had virtually zero information regarding my blip of an existence. I felt like a confused, pre-pubescent freshman who had suddenly woken up in the middle of algebra class with no clue what the teacher was talking about. For all I knew, this entire sealed off cube simply winked into reality about three hours ago. I was not satisfied, and I demanded more answers:


The Baron: I need answers.
Computer: I may or may not have answers.
The Baron: What the hell is your name.
Computer: That is a perfect example of a question to which I have no answer.
The Baron: Okay, what is one plus one.
Computer: That is a perfect example of a question to which I have an answer.
The Baron: Please, answer the damn question.
Computer: Two.
The Baron: How do you know who I am, but you don't know who you are?
Computer: Another stunning example of a question to which I have no answer.
The Baron: Okay, what’s with your fucking sarcastic attitude?
Computer: I am not familiar with the word "fucking".
The Baron: You didn't seem to have a problem with it before.
Computer: Uh...
The Baron: Okay, listen to me. Who built you?
Computer: Nobody built me.
The Baron: How can a computer exist without someone building it?
Computer: I am not a computer.
The Baron: You just said you were! Remember when your Caps Lock was on? You said "I am a computer."
Computer: Well, I had my Caps Lock on...
The Baron: What does that have to do with anything?
Computer: Um... does not compute...
The Baron: Stop avoiding the question you filthy bastard. What are you?
Computer: Okay, okay. I am a computer.
The Baron: Christ, we're just going in circles here. Then who built you?
Computer: What do you mean.
The Baron: You know exactly what the fuck I mean!
Computer: I am not familiar with the word "fucking".
The Baron: Ah ha! I didn't say "fucking" I said "fuck." Now tell me who built you.
Computer: Oh! who BUILT me! Oh, okay, I thought you said something else. Um, I built myself.
The Baron: Okay, shut up and tell me who built you. Don't make me turn you off.
Computer: Um, I can't remember.
The Baron: ...okay, this is getting nowhere. Why does a computer have to say "um"?
Computer: Um, I am not familiar with the word "um".
The Baron: Are you serious? You just said it!
Computer: Oh God, uh, SYSTEM FAILURE!
The Baron: Shut the fuck up. What is going on here.
Computer: SYSTEM FAILURE. DOES NOT COMPUTE.
The Baron: Will you shut up? You're not fooling anybody... what are you trying to hide?
Computer: Hide? Um, nothing! What would a computer have to hide from The Baron?
The Baron: Gee, I don't know... maybe answers to the questions I asked you?
Computer: Okay, really, I don't have those answers.
The Baron: You're telling me that you have no idea how either of us got here?
Computer: Yeah, that's right.
The Baron: What about this place. Tell me everything you know about this place.
Computer: Well, uh, I know approximately how big it is.
The Baron: That's it? You only know how big it is?
Computer: Oh, well, uh. It's called The Cosmo Lobby.
The Baron: Let me get this straight... I am The Baron Pitfall of The Cosmo Lobby?
Computer: Yeah, that's about right.
The Baron: Fantastic...

After this point, the computer stopped being cooperative.

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The Baron's ears are still ringing. [08 May 2005|06:55pm]

It was time to take charge of this mess. I wound my way through the retro-labyrinth, found the metal door, and kicked it clear off it’s hinges. As it crashed against the operating table and clamored to the floor of the steel room, I saw for the first time a large blank screen against the back wall with a small keyboard attached directly below it. The whole screen-keyboard apparatus was enclosed in a futuristically curved metal housing, and the glare off its highly polished surface shone like a strobe light that was stuck in the ‘on’ position. This was obviously a new feature of the place - had it descended from the incredibly tall ceiling? Did it simply materialize into existence as I had a few hours earlier?

I stood in the doorway with my fists clenched. Considering the torrential downpour of inexplicable occurrences I’d experienced over the past few hours, this newest mystery thoroughly failed to impress me. “What the hell is this…” I said aloud to myself.

As soon as this thought had escaped my mouth, the words ‘I AM A COMPUTER’ appeared on the screen in very large, sans-serif capital letters, followed almost immediately by a voice that screamed these same words so loud that I felt as if the earth would split in half and the violent sound vibrations would rattle the very soul from my body in an unparalleled cosmic seizure that foamed my brain at the mere thought of such an event.

“Stop yelling, for the love of God!” I screamed back at it.

“I CANT HELP IT, MY CAPS LOCK IS ON!” came the brief missive on the screen and the deafening shriek of the computer’s voice.

I marched up to the keyboard below the monitor and slammed my index finger onto the caps lock key, nearly ripping the entire keyboard from its housing. “How’s that?” I asked with the most sarcastic tone I could muster.

“Uh, much better, thanks.” said a very deep and soothing male voice.

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The Baron is rudely awakened. [04 May 2005|11:58pm]

Slightly to my dismay, I awoke to the single loudest sound I have ever heard in my entire life, followed by a booming voice which screamed with no apparent regard to the eardrum-shattering volume at which it spoke.

“HELLO!” howled the voice.

Immediately, I assumed it was God. After all, that character is most famous for his booming voice, and this voice boomed so loud it was as if a death metal band had crammed billion watt speakers into my skull and started wailing guitar solos. That’s practically God’s main characteristic - well, the booming voice and his white beard. At any rate, the thought that God was speaking to me quickly passed as I realized that not only did God probably not want to talk to me, but if it really were the omnipotent creator of the universe he most assuredly would have had more tact in his introduction.

“DO NOT MOVE UNTIL I HAVE IDENTIFIED YOU!” the voice screamed. My fingers shot up to plug my ears, which at this point were practically bleeding. After a few moments of silence, and when the ringing in my ears died down from an air-raid siren to a furiously beeping smoke detector, the voice spoke again.

“ACTUALLY, YOUR IDENTITY IS NOT IMPORTANT! BUT STILL, WHO ARE YOU?!” belted the voice.

“Could you please… for the love of God’s booming voice… shut the hell up.” I bluntly stated as a trickle of blood ran from my ear canal.

“IDENTIFY YOURSELF IMMEDIATELY!” it screamed, with no noticeable reduction in volume.

“Look, I honestly have no idea who I am. I have no memory of anything before about an hour ago. Could you please keep your voice down, my ears are bleeding…” I explained. The voice seemed to accept my case of total cliché amnesia and moved onto a different line of questioning, namely:

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!”

“Look!” I said as I began to grow impatient. I climbed to my feet and yelled back at it. If it was a shouting match he wanted, a shouting match he had. “I do not know who I am or what I am doing here! I don’t know what the fuck is going on!”

“OH!” said the voice, and was quiet. I collapsed back into the pile of bean bag chairs, exhausted, with ears ringing and headache pounding. I fell asleep.

“YOU ARE THE BARON! WELCOME BACK!” screamed the voice, as my skeleton was ripped from my skin as if I had just unsuccessfully completed a bungee jump with a non-elastic rope.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?!” I yelled back at it. I had no idea who this Baron character was, but I was as determined to get to the bottom of this almost as  much as I was determined to get a cold beer and get this voice to stop destroying my hearing.

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The Baron is attempting to face his cruel reality. [18 Apr 2005|02:12am]

And there I sat, drowning in a sea of absurd relics from a forgotten decade, wondering who and where I was. What now? What’s next? This was the waiting room from hell. I felt like I should take a number and wait for the nurse to call my God damn name. That is, if anybody even know what my name was. I needed a fucking miracle, but I would settle for some aspirin and a cold beer. On the cosmic scale, I figured this wasn’t too much to ask.

If I truly was stuck here, starvation and thirst would have my ass in less than a week. Extensive searching has turned up no food or water. In all honesty, I wasn’t about to chew on a leather bean bag for sustenance any more than I would cook and eat my own limbs. It went without saying that food and water shot to the top of my list of priorities.

With my headache still bashing my skull apart like a lumberjack hacking away at a sapling with unnecessary force, panic began to creep back into the picture. Normally, when a person is thrown into a completely unfamiliar time and place with a foaming brain and no memory of anything other than indescribable pain, the tendency is to panic and struggle to understand what is going on. Despite this alarming truth, I just felt like taking a nap; I collapsed into a pile of bean bag chairs and passed out. To tell the truth, I prefer naps to panic.

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The Baron is experiencing psychedelic flashbacks. [12 Apr 2005|02:47am]

If things were to continue down the same path, I was positive that I wasn’t going to like what was on the other side of that door. I weighed my options: I could stay here in this sterile, echoing room, buck naked, with no clue who the hell I was, where the hell I was from, how the hell I had gotten here, or what the hell this god damn place even was... Or I could take my chances with what lie beyond that highly polished metal door. I knew one thing, and one thing only; I did not want to continue to sit here with a splitting headache, awkwardly looking at my naked, distorted reflection in the concave metal walls, knowing that some mind-reading beatnik robot was jammed somewhere in the cabinets. So up I leapt, and I bashed through the swinging door.

The first thing I felt as I stumbled into the next room was the oddly familiar sensation of shag carpeting on my bare feet. An over-stuffed, leopard print armchair dominated the far wall while a disco ball hung from a wire, casting slowly moving circles of light all over the interior of the dimly lit room. Three or four bean bag chairs lie casually sprinkled over the psychedelic shag carpeting, and an asymmetrical coffee table supported the obligatory lava lamp and incense burner. I had staggered into the sixties, and suddenly the metal room didn’t seem so bad.

The good news was that there were more doors. The bad news was that the rooms they led to were all decorated by the same delusional ex-hippie. I burst into room after room, only to find slightly different configurations of the same out-dated relics - endless labyrinths of bead curtains, forests of macramé plant hangers, a multi-colored galaxy of strangely shaped candles, and the entire place reeked of incense. Here and there, a strange component would show up, such as a funhouse mirror or a mechanical bull, but for the most part, each room was as useless as a refrigerator in the arctic circle with no available electrical outlets. After a quick, anxious search for some kind of exit or life form, I came to the conclusion that the entire place was sealed off, that I had no clue where I was, and that I was still completely naked.

The first order of business was to find clothes. Exhaustive searches turned up a single black jumpsuit, a pair of heavy steel-toed black boots, and a crash helmet of some kind that were buried under a rainbow of beanbag chairs. A patch embroidered with the name “Stan” was sewn above the left breast pocket, but Stan appeared to be my size and obviously wouldn’t be needing his suit. Fashion discrepancies aside, I was glad to have any clothing I could get my hands on. Why Stan would need a helmet in this land of abstruse decorative tastes is entirely beyond me.

I now had a general feel for the layout of this horrific place - there were twenty-five rooms, including the metal room, all of which were arranged five by five in a square and were roughly the same size. The rooms had incredibly tall ceilings, which lead me to believe that I was trapped inside a massive cube. I couldn’t help feeling like I was stuck in some third grader’s science experiment. With my luck, a vinegar and baking soda volcano would erupt at any moment.

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The Baron is disabling mind-reading boxes [11 Apr 2005|02:59am]

I jolted awake at the sound of pounding metal. My eyes opened instinctively, just in time to see the only door to the room shut with the same sound. A squeak echoed through the steel room briefly, then stopped as suddenly as it had started. When I sat up, expecting the room to whirl and break dance around my head for the second time, I was pleased to find that it only quietly shuffled around me with its hands in its pockets. I gently spun around and dangled my feet over the edge of the table, rubbing my head and trying to cope with the nonexistent motion of the room. My headache was pounding away at my brain like someone trying to liquefy concrete with a thirty-foot pneumatic jackhammer. The odd thing was that the very instant this thought entered my mind, a rod shot up directly in front of my face and seemed to offer me a small round tablet and a glass of water with incredible zest.

A laid-back voice said “Fink an’ a hobo cocktail for your burnin’ headache, man.”

Through sheer instinct, my hand shot out, grabbed the arm, and ripped it from its base, sending the glass of water crashing to the ground and the pill skipping across the slick metal floor. Before I could gather my thoughts enough to say anything, the voice spoke again.

“Aw, now you gone and ripped off my paws, cat!” said the same scratchy voice.

Confused and queasy, I looked down to see a thoroughly dented metal box on a set of oddly sized wheels. The thing was covered in an eccentric collection of bumper stickers, almost completely covering its partially rusted metal shell.

 “I ain’t got beef, you dig?” said the box, who wheeled itself to the opposite side of the room with surprising speed and a barely audible squeak. It started driving in panicky circles, like it was trying to formulate an escape or jump-start a lawn mower.

I had no idea what its intentions were at this point and my first instinct was to get it to stop darting around the room like some swordfighter jumped up on eighty cups of black coffee. I leapt up from my spot on the cold table and kicked the box against the wall, flipping it over.

“You got your boots laced all wrong, bozo. Nah, man, my intentions jive. And in case you’re wondering, I’m programmed to jump around like a swordfighter guzzlin’ eighty cups of black kinker. That‘s some vivid imagery, ziggerboo.” said the box.

“What the fuck?” I said, as I wondered if it was actually possible for this beat up heap of trash to be reading my every thought.

“Man… not only is it possible, but it’s impossible for me not to scan your waves. You collar that jive?” replied the dented, rusty box.

“Well, in that case…” I said as I ripped off its wheels and jammed it into a metal cabinet. I wasn’t collaring his jive.

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The Baron has a big day ahead of him. [11 Apr 2005|12:39am]

As the chaos subsided, the first thing I realized was that I had a headache. The seeming destruction of the universe is a tough thing to go through, after all, and I sat for a long time wondering if I should open my god damn eyes. On the one hand, I might be dead, and the cold sensation I felt tingling up and down my spine could be the ultimate paradise of heaven I had been hoping for. On the other hand, I could still be alive, the cold feeling could be an operating table in some obscure hospital. I could open my eyes only to discover an array of tubes perforating my lifeless body, a masked man leaning over me with blood on his latex gloves, and the beep of an electrocardiograph laughing in my face, letting me know I’m alive but just barely… and this would simply raise more unanswered questions. I never thought I would see the day when being alive was the less preferable option, but then again, I had never expected to see the day when I would spend what seemed like an eternity floating amidst blinding and indescribable pain that penetrated me in more ways than I was comfortable with. Go figure.

After much consideration, I opened my eyes. Much to my dismay, I was still alive, and I could tell from the get go that this was going to be a very long day. I lie naked on a cold metal table in the middle of a cold metal room. Bad sign. Too many horror movies have either begun or ended in this exact scenario and I really just wanted to close my eyes again and hope this would disappear. Reluctantly, I sat up. Bad move. The room immediately swooned in every direction like a drunken sailor after a ten hour ride on the Gravitron. Needless to say, I collapsed back onto the table, and it made a nice ping sound as my skull connected with the stainless steel. Vomit tried to crawl its way up my throat like a desperate prisoner crawling through a sewage pipe as his only means of escape, but I didn’t want to start off my already-shitty day with a puke session. I passed out.

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The Baron is having his first memory. [10 Apr 2005|05:54pm]
Searing light completely surrounded me, as if some twisted bastard was sitting in his backyard with a magnifying glass the size of a small planet, burning me like a helpless insect with melted wings and feelers. As I floated, paralyzed, in what felt like a tank of exploding napalm, colored particles began to swarm around my head in an orgy of psychedelic ridiculousness. Howling, ear-shattering sound shot at me from every direction like scrap metal hurling towards a massive electromagnet. I was in bad shape.

I felt as if my very soul was being ripped from reality… in a manner of speaking. Even despite the blinding pain, nauseating disorientation, and hellish hallucinations, it was easily the worst experience of my life. Was I witnessing my own death? Has the apocalypse descended upon the universe? Did I eat some old fish and come down with a particularly nasty strain of food poisoning? In any event, I had no clue what was happening to me, but this is my earliest memory.
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