Words written to explain the gap between yesterday's post and all my previous posts (in other words: an extremely important revelation)

Here's the next drawing from my book of 99,999 Drawing Prompts (the last of which accompanied my unlit entry). I should explain, in case it's not obvious, that the idea of the book is to offer its reader-artist, on every fresh page, a prompt in the top left corner which determines the aim, intent, and true meaning of each creation. This present masterwork is titled "Tacos". It is valued at 100 drachmas. (A drachma is a silver coin from ancient Greece, notionally equal to 100 lepta.)

Dear diary,

Well, events actually happened in my life, over the past couple days. What does this mean for us—you and me; diary and diarer? It means that my mind is now just a solid rock of fear: I have no intellectual content to disclose to you, at present; I have no imagination; on the other hand, I DO have actual events to relay here on thy pages, O private memoir: not only seedy thots but actual experiences to journalize! Now I feel like a normal person, a real wooden boy. So that's the good news. (The way you can tell it's genuinely good news is that it isn't very inspiring.)

So what's all the fuss about? What's the hype, and should we believe it? Where's the beef? In other words: What actually happened in my life that I'm so eager to tell you about?

Well, first of all, the reason that I've been absent for so long, and I haven't composed a public diary blog post here or even updated my social media accounts since the early thirteen hundreds, is that I lost my Internet. It got destroyed by accident. The cord got cut, literally:

We hired a professional tree-removal service to come and slaughter six dead pines from our backyard, and, when the guy was using the ground-ripping device to torment a trunk, one of the device's blades chopped thru the underground cable that delivers the Internet to our house. When the company left, that cable was sticking out of the ground where one of the pines had been, and the cable's intestines were exposed: its shiny wires were like the viscera of a Primordial Sea Serpent that had been slain by the outboard motor of Lord Yahweh's fishing boat.

I remember the exact moment when it happened, because it was traumatic. I was indoors, down in our basement, hiding from the sound of chainsaws which had been filling the air since the crew had arrived at sunup. It was now afternoon; and, having finished reading my fellow-countrymen's official report on the Dangers of Socialism (no joke), I was browsing thru images of cats, which activity is the prime reason the Internet was created, but my tyger only loaded down to his torso. That instant, I deduce, is when the cable cord got cut. So now you see my predicament: I have the front half of an electric tyger on my TV monitor, and the back half of a Sea Serpent jutting from the dirt of our forest. I might as well merge the two creatures into a Combo Evil and allow it to marry the Sphinx, which lives by the pyramids, so that their offspring can slouch toward spacetime and finally be born. Let's get this over with.

So anyway, not only did the pro manglers deprive our yard of pines but our outlets of Internet. (As Ralph Waldo Emerson always sez: Nothing is got for nothing.) Moreover, the day after the tree people attacked, we happened, by pure coincidence, to have scheduled an invasion by a professional insulation service to come blast our attic full of new fluff & also to install plastic barriers above the soffits.

A soffit is an architectural feature, generally the underside of any construction element, such as the material connecting the exterior wall of Bryan Ray's house to the edge of his roof under its eaves.

So I had to endure the presence of these wonder-workers for several additional hours, just when my spirit most needed a break from domestic upkeep. And this team of attic insulators was supposed to begin their onslaught at 9 a.m. but they showed up at 8 instead: a whole hour early. So that left me traumatized. And they made a lot of noise up there, trampling around on our rafters. It sounded like The Horsemen of the Apocalypse, except a bit noisier. (In case you haven't noticed, I tend to see everything thru the lens of the changing of the gods, the turning of the ages, because every moment that passes is the end of the previous world and the beginning of a new-yet-unimproved heaven & earth.) And they cracked the ceiling of our bedroom while they were up there. They took a picture of the damage and said they'll have to ask their boss what to do about it. I hope that their boss decides to pay us a visit himself & fix the crack personally, so that I can compliment him on the sheen and volume of his mustache. Also note that a crack in one's ceiling resembles the jagged strike of a lightning bolt which precedes the trials and tribulations of the Biblical End-Times. However, unlike a bolt of lightning, which is here one moment and vanishes in a flash, a crack in the ceiling remains forever: like a fossilized thunderclap; like a commandment etched in stone by the hand of the LORD.

If I end up repairing the crack myself, I'll fill the fault line with painter's caulk. That's what we did at our old apartment, and it worked pretty good.

Now, after the insulation crew left, we had to make an important choice: Do we solve our Internet problem, or do we allow ourselves to enjoy life for one fleeting moment?

So we decided to get the Internet fixt. So my sweetheart called the company that "provides" us with that curse (I place the word "provides" in air-quotes because Internet "Service Providers" do not serve or provide anything at all: they just sit there like the sun, up in heaven, radiating cancerous rays down upon us ex-archetypes), and the representative who answered our call politely informed us that there will be no charge for her company to send out one of their clowns to semi-mend the severed cable, but this repair job could not take place until the festival of Halloween – that's three whole days from now, when there might not even be a universe to situate a computer in, due to the devastating effects of climate chaos (not even a savior can resurrect so quickly); in other words, we all might be simultaneously underwater & YET suffering from a worldwide drought. Is this acceptable? are we willing... nay, ABLE to go so many days without food or water?—without Internet connectivity, I mean?

So we told the company rep to schedule the repair; then we saddled our snow-white Hybrid Sea Creature (with the head & breast of a Tyger and the haunches of a Whale) and drove to the Electronics Retailer down the street. And an employee there greeted us and asked us why we were weeping. And I explained that our Internet got aborted, thus its spirit is with God now, which pisses me off because I think that all souls should abide in Hell when they die, because I am the Devil and I desire friendship and company. So the employee of the Electronics Retailer answered and said:

"I have just the product for you. This product that I shall point at will cleanse all your sins. It is better than the Bible or Jesus." —And she pointed at a smart-phone.

So I wiped the tears from my eyes & asked, "Is that a smart-phone?"

And she said, "Well it bloody well ain't STUPID."

Now this word "bloody" is what Englishmen use instead of our United Statesian "fucking" – I know this because I stopped the clerk in her tracks and said:

"Don't you mean 'Well it sure as fuck ain't stupid'? Why do you say 'bloody well' instead of 'sure as fuck' when speaking my language?"

And she said, "Sorry, I'm an Englishman."

Then I asked if the phone would be able to surf on the Internet, and if I could somehow hook it up to the silver screen at my movie theater, because I hate using the tiny screen of the phone itself to make calls: I prefer the large CinemaScope image that is projected at my Art Film Palace that I built in my backyard, where the seating has plush upholstery and all the chairs recline, and they serve the audience vodka shots every hour, while exhibiting the choicest titles. And the store's employee answered:

"Yes, your new phone will float on the great gray ocean, alias the Internet: you only need to purchase this extra wireless receiver that must be plugged into the side of your 'silver screen'; that'll allow you to send text messages via 1940s Hollywood rotary devices, like a true celeb (which is short for celebrity), instead of thumbing the small touchscreen like a regular sucker."

So I bought the telephone plus the add-on for my Art-House Movie Mansion. But I soon realized, after reading the instruction booklet, that I didn't need the extra receiver that the clerk recommended: I was able simply to navigate to the "Settings" domain of my device's menu; then, under the heading "Wireless & Networks" I found the option to use my new phone as a "Tethering & Portable Hotspot"; then I devised a clever password, so that not just any passerby can access my Internet when they walk their dog near my house on the public street, no, only the FBI's surveillance van that remains parked outside of our abode should be able to access the secret desires of my heart (its password is "Bomber-Jet-Christ", by the way; with no spaces, only dashes); finally, I tapped the slider next to the heading "Activate Portable Wi-Fi" so as to enter "Hotspot Mode", & now I'm sending this weblog to you as a phone text via movie-theatre while my comrades & I watch the 2013 film Wrong Cops.