CaptainWacky
I want to smell dark matter
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
you are in Charles Horse now
a layer of Horse clouds everything
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Charles Horse was always in bed. Sometimes he got out. He'd eat. He'd shower, on occasion. He'd make gifs of female celebrities. But he was always in bed. When he was in bed he was not anywhere else. Charles Horse was always in bed. And sometimes, Charles Horse dreamed.
In his dreams, he was often in bed. Sometimes a different bed. Sometimes his childhood bed, when life had been perfect. When he'd had a chacne. But usually just this bed. The prsion bed., the prison of Horse.
Sometimes he was remembering things in bed.
Charlies Horse remembered the time he broke into the pretty woman with the pink jacket's house and hid under her bed so he could smell her. How he lay there all night listening to her breathe. How, when he finally rolled out so he could smell her, her dog woke up and started barking. Had it known he was there the whole time? Had it just been waiting for the worst possible time to bark? Why had it chased when he'd ran for the door. It was one of those fluffy cute dogs women have sometimes. It could not have hurt him.
Charles Horse really regretted kicking that dog to death. He hated that he'd hidden behind the door outside to listen to the pretty woman's screams of anguish when she'd found it.
WHAT THE FUCK WAS WRONG WITH CHARLES HORSE!?
None of this had ever happened, of course. I don't have to explain that. Charles Horse knew it himself. It wasn't even a false memory, or a dream he'd had. It was something he'd created late one night. He'd been trying to think of the worst possible thing he could do. The dog stomping hadn't been part of it originally, just the girl sniffing. His sick mind couldn't let him do something perverted without adding an unexpected twist.
Did he even like girls? Did he even like stomping dogs to death? Did he even like anything?
HAHAHAHAHA, luaghed Charles Horse, madly. I'm not even a real person, he thought. Oh, the person living below might have heard his laughter. He didn't care. "COME AND GET ME, CUMNOSE!" he shouted.
Of course, he didn't do that either.
He didn't hide in the girl's garden afterwards, lying facedown in the mud. He didn't start humping the mud as he heard people running by searching for him. He didn't even dream it. His dreams were much stranger than that.
Would he even enjoy humping mud?
He was at his computer making gifs when he heard the man downstairs coughing again. Such a horrible, loud cough. Like he was coughing up his whole lung. Go to a fucking doctor. He couldn't take it. "SHUT UP," he shouted. He banged the floor with his fists. "STOP FUCKING COUGHING."
The doorbell rang. Why did Charles Horse open it? He wasn't sure. He guy from downstairs was standing there, completely naked. Charles stared at his small cock underneath his pot belly.
"Want to goon together?" the man asked.
It didn't happen, it never happened, it was never dreamt, but it did feel more likely than some of the other things Charles Horse made up.
What are dreams anyway? Is it like A.I. prompts? Are we just computers, trying to make sense of random images, trying to fill in the gaps?
That was how Charles Horse was when he was awake too, sometimes, but generally things were much more boring then. At least when he was dreaming he wasn't doing it. The dreamer was. It was creating scenarios for Charles to be aware of. The dreamer lived in Charles, distinct from the conscious Charles aware of the dreams.
But what if the dreamer was conscious too and Charles just didn't know it? Both of them, living in the same body, in the same brain. One serving up dreams for the other. Charles felt guilty that he never gave anything back to the dreamer. He wondered what the dreamer thought about the dog stomping, the mud humping, the gooning. Probably wasn't impressed. Charles couldn't say he was much impressed by it either.
He tried to think of something awful again. Something he could feel. Maybe he coud...no. He felt nothing. He didn't even have violent fantasies. Even the dog stomping was abstract, like he was thinkg "I stomped the dog to death but no actually imagining what it would feel like to stomp a dog to death. It would feel horrible, he thought.
But he got no joy of thinking about pleasant things either, not really. He wrote a story about Chandler and Joey from Friends moving to the moon in his head. Did he enjoy that? Maybe? Nobody was ever going to hear it or read it. But maybe Charles Horse had to do things just for himself...
He was humping the mud. He could hear people running by, looking for him, trying to find the dog killer. He picked up a rock. It was so big. He saw that woman from the street he hated. That hate was completely irrational, based only on her facial expressions and the fact that she was tallen and wider than her boyfriend. Why the fuck did that bother Charles Horse? Because he wasn't a real fucking perosn. His fucking brain didn't fucking work right. He was fucking riddle with autism worms. They burrowed through his brain, eating away anything normal. Anything decent. They left nothing but a non-functional moron. He hated all those fucking tv shows about autistic people who were super geniuses and used their autism to solve crimes and shit. It wasn't like that. It would never be fucking like that. But anyway, she had walked by. Fuck it. He'd kill her. He jumped up and smashed the back of her head in with the rock. That was much more graphic than the dog stomping. He actually felt her skull crack like and egg. Hehe. Maybe he'd finally enjoyed something. He went back to his hiding place. Her skinny boyfriend found her and cried out. Charles jumped out. He was so tall now, so large, so dark. A shadow monster. The boyfriend cowered in fear and Charles felt good. He entered him, through the eyes. He took his body. He was the skinny fuck now. Charles Horse's old body lay on the pavement beside the woman he'd murdered. Actually it looked like she was still alive, so he stomped on her head like she was a dog. This didn't feel as good, but it was a means to an end. He was free now. He started flying as other people arrived. They pointed up at him, shaking their fists, throwing debris at him. He swopped down and crushed them all with his massive strength. It didn't make much sense...
Okay, he'd started dreaming. Progress. He was in bed. His room was big. He was home. This was wrong...no. It was right. He was still here. He looked out the window at his old street. Everyone was nicer here. Maybe he could go back further. Back to when things made sense, when he didn't have to worry, when he made a snow pig.
No, he woke up instead. He felt angry about it. He felt phsyical pain in waking up, like it was an effort to escape the dreams. But he didn't want to escape. He hated it. He hated being here. He hated that he couldn't imagine anything bad. He hated that he couldn't imagine anything good. He hated that was only 3:46 A.M. and he'd probably not get back to sleep now. He'd be in another day soon, eating, possibly showering, looking at the internet. But it would pass and he'd be back in bed. Charles Horse was always in bed.
__________________________________________________________________________________________
hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
ffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff
ggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
i forgot the alphabet
need to slepe tonigt
ggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg
stopt hat
fk
stop hta
g
gSTHOP
STopt
t
that
yo
gr
rrrrrrrrrrrrr
no
stop tht
ffff r9
stop ith
n
there
no
stop that
there
you can sotp now
OCD satisfied.
it's ovr.
________________
what even is thing of the day anymore
mabe aliens fromt he future will read it and turn CHarles Horse into a real person using future technology
but they would be very disappointed if they did
because there's nothing there
there's nothing here either thwhy would would would
why would aliens want to help me
there's been bilions of people
id'b e near the bottom of the list
at leat Hitler was memroable
and i mean if you brough Hitler back you could torture him
or give him a good talking to anyway
what could the future aliens do with me
they could use me as a warning maybe
"he wrote 817 and of these and they just kept getting worse!" - translated from future alien language
________________________
I'm not Charlse Horses
df
I'm not Charles Horse.
But I agree with him on one thing.
I just don't care about anything.
I thought thigns would turn out right if I lived long enough.
Thing would start making sense.
It's been a very long time though and things haven't started making snese. I still don't understand the things the rest of you do.
Yes, all of you.
So how can I care anymore when I'm not holding on to something?
And he can I learn to stop starting sentences with "but" so mcuh?g
bgHaha
HAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAGAh
hah
ahh
h
hhhhhhhhhahhah
hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
it's all about the game
come on,f uture aliens
make it make sense you bastards
bring me back to torture mE with Hitler if you want
just do something
there must be something
theremsutg
you are in Charles Horse now
a layer of Horse clouds everything
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Charles Horse was always in bed. Sometimes he got out. He'd eat. He'd shower, on occasion. He'd make gifs of female celebrities. But he was always in bed. When he was in bed he was not anywhere else. Charles Horse was always in bed. And sometimes, Charles Horse dreamed.
In his dreams, he was often in bed. Sometimes a different bed. Sometimes his childhood bed, when life had been perfect. When he'd had a chacne. But usually just this bed. The prsion bed., the prison of Horse.
Sometimes he was remembering things in bed.
Charlies Horse remembered the time he broke into the pretty woman with the pink jacket's house and hid under her bed so he could smell her. How he lay there all night listening to her breathe. How, when he finally rolled out so he could smell her, her dog woke up and started barking. Had it known he was there the whole time? Had it just been waiting for the worst possible time to bark? Why had it chased when he'd ran for the door. It was one of those fluffy cute dogs women have sometimes. It could not have hurt him.
Charles Horse really regretted kicking that dog to death. He hated that he'd hidden behind the door outside to listen to the pretty woman's screams of anguish when she'd found it.
WHAT THE FUCK WAS WRONG WITH CHARLES HORSE!?
None of this had ever happened, of course. I don't have to explain that. Charles Horse knew it himself. It wasn't even a false memory, or a dream he'd had. It was something he'd created late one night. He'd been trying to think of the worst possible thing he could do. The dog stomping hadn't been part of it originally, just the girl sniffing. His sick mind couldn't let him do something perverted without adding an unexpected twist.
Did he even like girls? Did he even like stomping dogs to death? Did he even like anything?
HAHAHAHAHA, luaghed Charles Horse, madly. I'm not even a real person, he thought. Oh, the person living below might have heard his laughter. He didn't care. "COME AND GET ME, CUMNOSE!" he shouted.
Of course, he didn't do that either.
He didn't hide in the girl's garden afterwards, lying facedown in the mud. He didn't start humping the mud as he heard people running by searching for him. He didn't even dream it. His dreams were much stranger than that.
Would he even enjoy humping mud?
He was at his computer making gifs when he heard the man downstairs coughing again. Such a horrible, loud cough. Like he was coughing up his whole lung. Go to a fucking doctor. He couldn't take it. "SHUT UP," he shouted. He banged the floor with his fists. "STOP FUCKING COUGHING."
The doorbell rang. Why did Charles Horse open it? He wasn't sure. He guy from downstairs was standing there, completely naked. Charles stared at his small cock underneath his pot belly.
"Want to goon together?" the man asked.
It didn't happen, it never happened, it was never dreamt, but it did feel more likely than some of the other things Charles Horse made up.
What are dreams anyway? Is it like A.I. prompts? Are we just computers, trying to make sense of random images, trying to fill in the gaps?
That was how Charles Horse was when he was awake too, sometimes, but generally things were much more boring then. At least when he was dreaming he wasn't doing it. The dreamer was. It was creating scenarios for Charles to be aware of. The dreamer lived in Charles, distinct from the conscious Charles aware of the dreams.
But what if the dreamer was conscious too and Charles just didn't know it? Both of them, living in the same body, in the same brain. One serving up dreams for the other. Charles felt guilty that he never gave anything back to the dreamer. He wondered what the dreamer thought about the dog stomping, the mud humping, the gooning. Probably wasn't impressed. Charles couldn't say he was much impressed by it either.
He tried to think of something awful again. Something he could feel. Maybe he coud...no. He felt nothing. He didn't even have violent fantasies. Even the dog stomping was abstract, like he was thinkg "I stomped the dog to death but no actually imagining what it would feel like to stomp a dog to death. It would feel horrible, he thought.
But he got no joy of thinking about pleasant things either, not really. He wrote a story about Chandler and Joey from Friends moving to the moon in his head. Did he enjoy that? Maybe? Nobody was ever going to hear it or read it. But maybe Charles Horse had to do things just for himself...
He was humping the mud. He could hear people running by, looking for him, trying to find the dog killer. He picked up a rock. It was so big. He saw that woman from the street he hated. That hate was completely irrational, based only on her facial expressions and the fact that she was tallen and wider than her boyfriend. Why the fuck did that bother Charles Horse? Because he wasn't a real fucking perosn. His fucking brain didn't fucking work right. He was fucking riddle with autism worms. They burrowed through his brain, eating away anything normal. Anything decent. They left nothing but a non-functional moron. He hated all those fucking tv shows about autistic people who were super geniuses and used their autism to solve crimes and shit. It wasn't like that. It would never be fucking like that. But anyway, she had walked by. Fuck it. He'd kill her. He jumped up and smashed the back of her head in with the rock. That was much more graphic than the dog stomping. He actually felt her skull crack like and egg. Hehe. Maybe he'd finally enjoyed something. He went back to his hiding place. Her skinny boyfriend found her and cried out. Charles jumped out. He was so tall now, so large, so dark. A shadow monster. The boyfriend cowered in fear and Charles felt good. He entered him, through the eyes. He took his body. He was the skinny fuck now. Charles Horse's old body lay on the pavement beside the woman he'd murdered. Actually it looked like she was still alive, so he stomped on her head like she was a dog. This didn't feel as good, but it was a means to an end. He was free now. He started flying as other people arrived. They pointed up at him, shaking their fists, throwing debris at him. He swopped down and crushed them all with his massive strength. It didn't make much sense...
Okay, he'd started dreaming. Progress. He was in bed. His room was big. He was home. This was wrong...no. It was right. He was still here. He looked out the window at his old street. Everyone was nicer here. Maybe he could go back further. Back to when things made sense, when he didn't have to worry, when he made a snow pig.
No, he woke up instead. He felt angry about it. He felt phsyical pain in waking up, like it was an effort to escape the dreams. But he didn't want to escape. He hated it. He hated being here. He hated that he couldn't imagine anything bad. He hated that he couldn't imagine anything good. He hated that was only 3:46 A.M. and he'd probably not get back to sleep now. He'd be in another day soon, eating, possibly showering, looking at the internet. But it would pass and he'd be back in bed. Charles Horse was always in bed.
__________________________________________________________________________________________
hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
ffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff
ggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
i forgot the alphabet
need to slepe tonigt
ggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg
stopt hat
fk
stop hta
g
gSTHOP
STopt
t
that
yo
gr
rrrrrrrrrrrrr
no
stop tht
ffff r9
stop ith
n
there
no
stop that
there
you can sotp now
OCD satisfied.
it's ovr.
________________
what even is thing of the day anymore
mabe aliens fromt he future will read it and turn CHarles Horse into a real person using future technology
but they would be very disappointed if they did
because there's nothing there
there's nothing here either thwhy would would would
why would aliens want to help me
there's been bilions of people
id'b e near the bottom of the list
at leat Hitler was memroable
and i mean if you brough Hitler back you could torture him
or give him a good talking to anyway
what could the future aliens do with me
they could use me as a warning maybe
"he wrote 817 and of these and they just kept getting worse!" - translated from future alien language
________________________
I'm not Charlse Horses
df
I'm not Charles Horse.
But I agree with him on one thing.
I just don't care about anything.
I thought thigns would turn out right if I lived long enough.
Thing would start making sense.
It's been a very long time though and things haven't started making snese. I still don't understand the things the rest of you do.
Yes, all of you.
So how can I care anymore when I'm not holding on to something?
And he can I learn to stop starting sentences with "but" so mcuh?g
bgHaha
HAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAGAh
hah
ahh
h
hhhhhhhhhahhah
hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
it's all about the game
come on,f uture aliens
make it make sense you bastards
bring me back to torture mE with Hitler if you want
just do something
there must be something
theremsutg