The Beginning

Jaime N. Christley

My English teacher once told me that you have to go and write and write and don't stop writing for a specified interval of time. One minute I think you don't stop you don't revise you don't edit you just write write write. Don't even look at the stuff you just wrote. Even if it's all hosed up beyond belief you just keep on writing. That's what I was trying to do here, but I fucked it up completely on account of the fact that before this sentence I went back and revised...I defy anyone to find it (parentheses for no reason).

So what! I just went back and fixed some more; commas in the proper place, a few capitalizations. Is that okay? I mean, I am using a computer, for God's sake. And I have to capitalize the "G" in God, otherwise I'm completely fucked.

People should brush the backs of their tongues. You know, the part that is just before the throat -- where you're afraid to stick your toothbrush because you're afraid of gagging? I bet there'd be less bad breath if people did that.

Holy shit! What was that all about? Completely unnecessary digression. Utter self-indulgence. Pah! Ha!

So, I'm looking back over this entire essay slash (no actual slash...after all [brackets for no reason] this is experimental absurdism) stream-of-consciousness piece and saying, "hmmm, what am I trying to say here." Is there a secret code, a secret code by which you can translate the Jaime Christley phenomenon into common, widely held ideas? Yes! Hang on, I'll get it. Okay, I'm not really getting it, there's no such a thing. I was just being silly with an undertone of irony, since it's already a foregone conclusion that nothing in here is remotely translatable into any organized series of ideas. So why read it? Because life is boring, and your synaptic relays need a bit of exercise. Otherwise they'll stop clicking.

That last bit was the message/moral.