You know, I've always had a lingering suspicion that I'm not here - that I'm just the figment of someone else's imagination.
Well, now that suspicion has been proven beyond a doubt by a commenter at The Unpopulist. He contends that, while I seem to be a commenter on satirical American website Iraq War Wrong, that I am, in fact, the fictional creation of its proprietor. In other words, I am, in fact, Iraq War Wrong. Or he is me. Or we are all together goo-goo-ga-choo.
In order to sort this whole matter out, I attempted to contact myself and give him a good talking to. Unfortunately, his (my) phone number was engaged and I was unable to talk with him (me).
I tried sending emails to him on a number of occasions, but have as of yet received no reply.
Finally, I tried sending a letter around to his house, but merely received a reply from his secretary, stating that 'Mr. Train is unavailable for comment at the moment.' and telling me to forward all future mail on to him through his lawyers.
In the face of such irrefutable evidence, not to mention powerful logic, what can I do but concede my non-existence? Maybe I really am a non-entity, and all this scrawl you see appearing here on this website really is a mere production of your fevered brain. The internet (which from now on will be known as the Unternet, a far more accurate name), far from being the portal whereas real people are able to communicate with others, is merely a collection of electronic dreams and nightmares, in which thousands of lost non-entities - such as myself - perpetuate their non-lives for an uneternity of time.
And in the unlikely event that I do exist, then I'm probably not here writing this anyway. I'm probably some bum lying in the gutter, looking up at the stars, while the booze seeps through my pickled internal organs and my head spins and ...
You might think all this depressing. I find it strangely liberating.
Love to stay around and chat some more, but it's getting late, and I'm going to have to find a park bench to lie on and some newspapers to wrap myself in before it gets too cold...
Tim, your links stink, you fink!
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- The briefs...
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