J. Albert Werner Schrodinger the III

I was once the disciple of the great and terrible Des Cartess. Mapper of the Deep, Sidereal Strider, Diver of Destiny; he invented new titles daily. He had a laugh like a crystal harp in a sandstorm, a cutting giggle. It cut through walls, through mountains - one can hear it echo in the aether, a maleficent chortle wafted on a breeze of unwashed socks and practical jokes. This is not to say he’s completely rotten. He is beyond rottenness. I only call him great and terrible because he gets such a kick out of it.

In fact we were suited perfectly to one another: I would ask a stupid question and he would whack me on the head. Without him I wouldn’t have had anyone to whack me, and without me he wouldn’t have had anyone to whack. We would have been very lonely if not for each other.

My main function as Des Cartess’ disciple was proposing stupid queries. His was whacking me, followed by geological periods of brow-furrowing when he would devote himself utterly to investigating my idiotic proposals in order to figure out just how stupid they were. Naturally he was always right, and he would tell me this before whacking me again.

There was only one instance when he was wrong about something. In an investigation of my LaBrean stupidity he was struck nearly dead by a lance of doubt. He had realized that my question was an intelligent one! This paradox stymied him for moons and moons. He was was physically paralyzed by this revelation of my brilliance, incredulous that I could have become enlightened before him. This went on for eons. He levitated in a stasis of divine shock, his beard became wispy and long, his robes hung like jellyfish from his skeletal frame, his countenance turned to tapioca as he struggled with the abyss. I had to spoon-feed him fermented yak butter to keep him alive.

One night, as I slept the sleep of the wicked (as I assumed it had been my wickedness which caused my master’s condition), he arose from his coma. Screeching like a great shrew-dragon he fell upon my crown with whacks uncountable, bellowing with great vitriol that he had not been wrong about my stupidity after all! Indeed, my foolishness had been so incomprehensible that it had fooled him. In the end he had only been wrong about being wrong.

As punishment for this most authentic of stupidities Des Cartess whacked me senseless. Thus I stand before you, my mind and body split, cursed to exist inside-out and instructed to return to Des Cartess only once I have regained my senses. He mused that upon my return I will perhaps be less stupid, though I believe he would be sorely disappointed if I were.

My new journaling method

Who needs eyes when you have a mobile phone?

I make mobile phone art now

Back home

I feel like a grown-up! Weird!

Thank you

eVite