• [The Unknown.]

  • May 2 2025
  • Duración: 32 m
  • Podcast

[The Unknown.]

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  • Had no idea I was recording but here's what I got after like 6 minutes of my stomach gurgling and some extremely uncomfortable shallow breathing. Somebody should tell her. Can you walk my dog Before we fuck? My girl's not home. Wanna walk my dog. My neighbor is cheating on his girl but that's not my business. YOU LET HER WALK OUR DOG!!!? BEFORE: V.O. That's not my neighbor… [an evil blonde girl with blue eyes smiles maliciously as she exits the building walking a small black dog] …But that's their dog. LATER THAT NIGHT. V.O. I heard them fucking through the paper thin walls of the apartment. That is definitely not my neighbor. …somebody should tell her. YOU LET HER WALK OUR DOG?! That is not my business. Gee, God, I thought you'd never show up. [ensues Horrible guitar playing with acrylic nails] Self You never employ these two fingers. Also Self Cause they don't work. Try medicating that. They would try! (No thanks, I'll do it myself.) Dumb twat. I don't want to call people that… Thats's just what I am. Yo. Somebody tell her! Somebody tell her! …that's not my business. Maybe she already know. Cabinet slamming is a nasty business! YOU LET THAT BITCH WALK OUR DOOOOOG?! Yo, fuck that dog. Ugly ass chihuahua. [ensues more bad guitar playing with acrylic nails.] [basic ass surf music and some suspicious ass licks] [atrocious traffic noise] Jack went down the rabbit hole Jill came back and asked for more Then she saw that Jack was gone [over all] After all she all, She carried on After all, she carried on After all she carried on After all she carried on. Heheheh. [ghetto people yelling in the street like animals] Jack flew down the wishing well… [car honking that always honks whenever I try to make music and start succeeding (but never actually leaves the lot.)] What happened first? Uh. Jack went down the rabbit hole. Yeah. And then? Auh— [nothing], Jill didn't follow him. She just carried on. Jack flew down the wishing well. [the traffic pics up; the ghetto people start acting a fool. Yes. My windows are closed. My focus is broken by the noise.] Crème filling! Nothing but— crème filling! Oh! I want a croissant. A wonderful croissant with butter And Crème filling. A wonderful croissant With butter! And crème filling especially when— —rare! Especially when! Crème filling. Crème filling. A croissant. What kind of croissant. A delicious croissant. With— butter! —and A — special— No— Delicious— With— Butter And Crème filling. A— Delicious croissant With butter And Crème Filling Where are we from? Obviously this place is hell. Why am I here Why am I here Why am I here A… Fabulous croissant. [mind you, I've still no idea I'm recording. ] V.O. actually, I was assuming I wasn't. Monologue/ talk with God [The noise picks up and I get up to record the evidence that my right to peace and quiet enjoyment of my property have been violated severely— then I realize I've been recording the whole time.[ Oh shit. (Well, there's your answer.) I didn't know I was recording. Well, thats's how this all started. And I guess, how it ends. It's true, I started the series by accident when in my homeless despair, my talking to God out loud began being recorded by my iPhone just turning itself on and recording at random. In this instance, I had probably started the recording for the motorcycles and forgotten about it, but having been sick for days from the motorcycles and noise to no avail, I had begun to exhibit symptoms of extreme stress much akin to the homelessness in which the series started; erratic behaviors such as speaking freely out loud without the intention of being heard— and yet being heard anyway. I wasn't happy in New York, and I still felt homeless. The insanity might have been trademark New York, but it wasn't trademark me. I counted my blessings and all of my change; I knew I would have to leave for my own health, but I didn't know how—and returning to the streets was not an option. I was done playing the victim, and done complaining— my stomach churning with indigestion and my head gnawing with the congestion of a two year long head cold. Something needed to change, and rapidly— New York was turning against my mind, and my mind was turning against my body. This was no game— it was somebody's business. But to me, it was personal. This was my mind and my body being tampered with, and my soul remained at large. Something else entirely was begging to take over; whatever was attempting to destroy me had to be destroyed. Immidiately. This happy accident had to have been the end of the series— the show would come down soon and everything I had written with it. My life and my safety were at stake. I had nothing to ...
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