~TerenceSputnik

Goodness me, what a time it's been. A hefty time. A lengthy time. A time without so much as a visit, a glimpse, a gander, a peek, a glance or a gander at the Fabled and Mysterious TerenceSputnik DeviantArt account. Where have I been? What have I been doing? Now, for the first time, watch as I lay it all bare for an audience that will quite possibly consist entirely of me, this chair I'm sitting on and the late- night can of Pepsi that, like David Letterman, keeps me awake, but doesn't make me happy.

2003 was three years ago, goodness me, yes. I was eighteen, not quite happy, not quite carefree, not quite thin and not quite as unkempt as I would be when I turned nineteen. My word, 2003. Crazy old 2003. Gosh, the things I did. Why, I must've been doing some stand- up comedy, based on my old journal entries. Goodness me, there's even some time taken out to talk at length about my feelings in relation to the world political scene. I'm glad to say that maturity has calloused my feelings towards international diplomacy into a hard, nut- like shell that can now be thrown short distances. Indeed, my opinion can be summarised like this:

DIGGING A HOLE AND TRYING TO ESCAPE THE PLANET.

When I fall into the endless vacuum of the cosmos after digging through the ozone layer and letting all the space get in, well, I'll see you all somewhere around the moon. And if anyone tries to start a war on the moon, I'll kick them off it. No, really. I'll tear off their space- suit and punt them into the milky way. It's a sort of semi- violent non- violent solution. It's non- violent in that "punt" is a sporting term meaning, oddly enough, "kick", while in greyhound racing terminology it refers to the monetary bet placed on a competiting dog. Now you know everything my father taught me, except how to play rugby, enjoy singing and feign death before my mother asked me to do anything, ever.

So, 2003, was it? Was it? I can't recall. I remember the year well enough - majestic days spent two years out of high school... the beginnings of the Great Fatness... the Ocean of Love's rocky waves dumping my still beating heart onto the shore, allowing gulls and crabs and squid to feast on the engine that powers my ability to type this drivel. It was a fine year, I was eighteen and therefore, in a way, in some way, this way, that way, anyway, which way, toupee, touche, today- okay! A man. Yessir, a man.

No, no, no, no.

I had a good try at it though, it didn't work.

2004, from which there are four very short entries in this journal can be summarised as The International Year of Rotting, Rat- Infested Whale Carcasses. I spent my first year out of home expanding in girth and paying scant attention to personal hygiene. I had sex on a ridiculously regular basis, however. This was, unfortunately, my only form of exercise. No amount of frenetic coitus, thrusting synchronised to music or gymnastic toe- sucking will compete with two pies and a Coke for lunch. You will get fat. Still, as I am not a wholly shallow person, let us also say that 2004 was a woeful year in that I...

(Editor's Note: It was here that John began what would have to be the 351st time he'd told the story of Life With A Bunch of Gothics and the Woman Everybody Wanted to Screw/ Be Mothered By/ Screw and Be Mothered By Simultaneously. However, because this story will eventually come out in play format, a bunch of stand- up comedy monologues and possibly a musical entitled, oddly enough, "Angst!", we won't be seeing any of this story tonight.)

... and she never returned any calls after what I did. 2005 was better. I wrote a play, it was performed, it made money and it's since been nominated for an award. Also, I met my current girlfriend, the light of my life, the nightlight of my nightlife and the strobe light of my epilepsy. So pretty is she, so wise and charming and lovely and cute. For her I cut my hair. Thanks to her I lost all the weight that life first with mother and then in the company of a complete motherfu...

(Editor's Note: This particular portion of John's vernacular will not be screened this evening either, as it is not technically true. His ex- girlfriend never, in fact, fucked mothers. She did, however, sleep with at least one bona- fide motherfucker, as he has a daughter, which makes her a motherfucker- fucker, which not only sounds stupid, but is. If you are a motherfucker- fucker, or you think you know someone who might be a motherfucker- fucker, please, point out to them that their partners will all be doomed to forever be motherfucker- fucker- fuckers. The price of their pain is on your head, motherfucker.)

Incidentally, Samuel L. Jackson actually owns that word.

That's why I've been gone. I've been busy, I've been busy, but I'm happy.

And my hair looks better.

And I've got the shovel ready. I'll see you in the stratusphere, carving my way through a cloud. If a plane hits me, tell my mother I love her. She'll be driving it.