From the diaries of Epi Fluffin Pooh

Propety of Reddy Inc, re-blogged here with permission.


What happened was, Tolkein and Moorcock headed to Reddy’s to discuss their fantasies. Reddy did not live in Cape Town, it was more fruitful to be gay in Bombay. His sexual orientation had nothing to do with the fantasies of Tolkein and Moorcock. He merely wanted to solve his problem. Reddy Bean, had a problem. He did not know whether to recommend Tolkein or Moorcock to his friends. By the way, none of his friends in Bombay were gay. His friends were fanatics of fantasies, but were mindless, and did not know which was the better of the two. This interesting story, will be continued later. The chronicler was misdirected due to things that are frankly, none of your business. The readers who are reminded of a strong influence of Adams, please consider this something that I actually intended to write:



Hidden and unrecognizable in the long string of hallucinations is the one reality that consumes, smothers and comforts you just like your dreams. This, is what I presume to be the one “true” story that I wish to relate: In my pocket is a ring. It is a ring that I keep, not knowing whether I am role-playing Gollum or Cirdan or Bilbo or Frodo or Annatar. But even Sam would not be interested in the one that I have – it is a small plastic ring, jagged on one side, and square holes in the middle. It is a crude composition – out of place from its surroundings. And it is not this ring that matters, it is everything that it represents. It is something that holds me on to a central power, one of perception, of comprehension, of nothing less, than a real reality. A reality that is consciously trying to isolate itself from you. A reality that wants to make you an outcast of a system of its own fucking design. A reality that is incomprehensibly real despite the oppositions, and the contrast, and the lies and the bullshit. A reality that consumes and smothers you even in the comforts of your sleep. A reality, that makes me aware of my body, of my most primitive needs, of my own conflicts, of my very instincts. A reality which hides behind the wisdom in the words “all that is gold does not glitter”. It masks itself by being the least pleasing thing to turn to. Real reality should be analyzed, quantified and the power of just being a part of it, should be encompassed within a ring that people should carry around just so that they remain in the real reality. Or you can pretend that his has already been included in the design consideration of an existing ring, which exists in the real world, and you will know when you find it. So go look for it, till you find it.



And I found it. It was in a tetrapack of real juice. I swear on the ring that this is real. I was sucking on the juice because I needed it. Real juice sucks, because it is not a substitute for water that you need when you are vomiting. It is not what you need, when you are where I was when I found it. I was in my living room, smoking a spring roll, which is a joint made out of hash, only you roll it in weed instead of tobacco. That’s some green peace for you man. I was smoking the joint and watching the television. I do not remember what I was watching, because I was doped out – like really bad. THC does that to you – that is its function. Because when you are doped out, you begin to tap into your own sub consciousness. If you begin to doubt this, then consider the same thing happening to a fake sub consciousness that you create for yourself in your complete consciousness, because social conditioning, urban myth, and whatever the idea of history is, makes you believe you have a sub consciousness. Either way, the shit is I know it is real, from personal experience, that watching television in a doped experience, makes you think a lot of things at once, which is why you forget everything later on, and which is why you will be slightly distracted from the fact that you are vomiting. You are emanating puke. Your chest region is an abnormality. Your mouth is lost in chaos. Your teeth are chattering away like a primitive madman, and your saliva drips down to the ashtray, while you think you will burp, and hot mash runs up your throat, through the obstacle course that your face has constructed for it, and out of your system. It gushes out and leaves you empty behind. It is the remnants of what you are supposed to consume to survive. It is your own food, half digested, coming out of your mouth, and mingling in dirty patterns with the ash from the ashtray. And the ashtray is turned over, because you move your hand in a hot sudden pain – it is the still burning ash of the hash brought in the gay capital of Bombay. It has fallen on your hand! Burning you, and you moved your hand turning over the ashtray, and you yell in pain from the hand but the yell is smothered by the vomit, and then the world flashes by and you have no clue what is happening to you and you pass out. And that is when you start remembering what happened to you. I remember my eyes opening and the light creeping into them. They showed a drastic scene – one of your own vomit in the ashtray. My eyes were not enough, I needed to come to my senses, Gather information from other sources as well… slowly, my body woke, the pangs of the burn were intense but subdued… yes, I could recognize the hangover, I jerked myself up to an erect position, and looked around myself. Oh what a mess I had created! I got up, and realized that I was dead. If my parents came home. I didn’t know what I was doing. It was a bad idea really, chainsmoking springrolls at home. There was some real juice that had spilt over into some of the vomit and the ash. I needed water. My eyes were burning. My hands were burning. My throat was burning. I didn’t find water, but fortunately there was some milk around. Milk that I had forgotten to drink when I had left home in the morning. From previous experience, I knew that milk was a really good drink to have in a hangover. I trusted my previous experiences, and overtly went for the milk. I put in to my throat hoping it would suppress that primordial thirst, and I sputtered out what came into my mouth. It was old milk. I had forgotten that milk loosens its taste if it is kept outside from morning to evening. Oh my god! I had lost track of too many things, I had to bring it all together, to focus, to do something useful. But I still needed the water, and I was still thirsty. I rushed to the bathroom, to the tap, and turned it on. Tanker water. Out to the living room, looked around, found real juice, tore apart its cap, and drank it. It tasted sweet then, and I hope never to experience that again. And when I had torn open the cover to get to the juice, the washer type thing in the cover popped out. It was this small plastic thing, it has spikes on the inside, which bites you if you wear it, it has circular ridges on the outside, like a long spiral staircase, and four, small, and uneven squarish holes. It looked like a crown with gems, or a castle with windows, depending upon the way you looked at it. But it was too small, so I thought it was the ring that I was meant to find. You see, it represented a lot of things.

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