sisa9000
please help me
itt post your creepypastas, i will start
Hey, 'teens. I have a story to tell. This isn't just any other story, this was something that had happened to me on January 3rd, 2024...
It was a dark, gloomy night. A stormy night. Hell, it was probably both and I'm misremembering. Anyway, I was sitting in my car, eating some slop like chips or something with the heater on and a blanket on the seat. The seat was kicked back so I could lie down and scroll on the 'party. I glanced outside, away from my phone, into the surrounding forest, and by god it was beautiful. I hadn't seen something like this in a while. This was probably because there were no lights around (I was in a rural area). Taking in the view relaxed me. The forest enticed me to come in, beckoning to me even.
<
So I left my cozy German car to explore. I kept a tracker in my car so I could find my way back so I wasn't worried about getting lost. I walked through the forest, and it was near quiet, very tranquil. I could almost sleep on the soft, snow-strewn ground covered in leaves and pine... it was wonderful. I felt like I'd been walking on clouds. I chose a comfortable enough looking rock to sit down on and made a thread on /soy/ documenting what I'd seen through the forest and was taking and showing images to other 'teens like an autist. I highlighted the icy ground, monolith-like trees surrounding me, the stars popping out with an unmatched vibrance. It was gorgeous.
<
I got back up and was heading to my car when something felt... off. I felt like I wasn't alone. The forest got louder, like a bunch of animals scattering away out of nowhere. I started to look behind my back more. Now, I'm not usually superstitious or believed in any kind of paranormal shit but... this freaked me out a little. I, unfortunately, did the stupid thing and brushed off any worries. Leisurely, I walked back to the car, which was a foolish mistake.
<
I could see an opening through the trees to the tiny hill where my car was sitting. It was still far, so there was a ways to go to get back there. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I heard something. I don't exactly remember what it was, could have been a tree branch crunching, leaves rustling, maybe being kicked up. I don't know what it was, but I damn well knew that it couldn't have been some forest animal. I froze, dead in my tracks. I get a feeling to check the thread, with only one new post. I clicked the NSFW spoiler image. It was an image that flashed saying...
RUN
I basically shat my pants.
I turned around, and I saw a looming, gigantic humanoid-like creature standing over me like a skyscraper. He pierced the unending monotony of the woods with a ghastly white glow. His eyes were, I'm not even sure they were normal eyes. They were a dark red, about maroon, but they were bright like the stars. They fixated on me, staring me dead center into both my eyes and my soul. It was haunting, the way he was looking at me. He didn't hunch over, he didn't bend, he stood still and straight like the trees of the wood. And so his pants were also the color of the wood. They were baggy, with a beaten belt holding them up. Every detail of him and his ghoulish, stretched out face were masked with a thick, ominous shadow contrasting the gloomy whites and browns, and the only thing he did was strike pure fear into my heart. I didn't even know what to do. He just stood there... looking at me. Waiting for me. Waiting for that exact moment I move a muscle or look somewhere else or even blink or breathe or take a step. I was mortified.
<
So there we were; it was a staredown. I had to rely on my peripherals to get a clue as to how I should even deal with this. I saw something that caught my eye. It was blurry, but I saw a fallen tree branch about the size of a blade on a ceiling fan. I quickly ran over to it, surprised he didn't follow me. I picked it up, quickly shouting "Who the fuck are you?!". He just looked at me. I still remember this next part like it was yesterday. His mouth folded into itself painting a sinister grin with which he bit his lips with the strength of 50 lions. I could see blood foaming out of his mouth mixing with his spit as he slowly turned to look at me, hunching a little to get a better look. He was drooling. He was drooling, looking at me. All of a sudden, his pants fell and... I nearly fainted out of fear. Time, in that moment, stood still just like he did.
<
All of a sudden, he charged at me, extending his hands to try and grasp me for god knows what purpose. I held out the stick like a retard, and he grabbed it instead. Must have aimed a little too high. I started to book it back to the fucking car. I lost my shit. I think I tore a ligament rushing back to the car, I still feel pain around my knee after the incident. I could hear his giant, ogrish footsteps pounding over and over running after me. He was shaking the ground. I got in the car and twisted the key to try and start it. He slammed right into the car door as soon as I shut it, pinning me underneath the now heavily deformed car door. He dug his hands into the door, ripping away chunks of metal. He dug his fingers into the frame, tearing it open, digging for me. Suddenly, the car started, and I floored it. As I peeled out from the hill, he somehow still clung onto the car door. It only took all 5 of his fingers being ripped off to finally let go.
<
I drove into a nearby hospital, where they removed me from the wreckage and immediately put me under surgery. The impact left me with a concussion, several broken ribs, a broken collarbone, a broken femur, a fractured orbital and something else regarding internal bleeding. I was in that hospital for months. It was only then after 6 months I was able to return home, still with the moderation of a doctor on a camera. I had trouble walking. It took a little while and some admittedly embarrassing relearning to both speak again and regain my balance. Life... hasn't been the same after that. I hate that I have to be monitored by a doctor I don't even know. What's worse is the anxiety when I hear footsteps outside my house. I went outside this one time, and saw footsteps caving in the grass and dirt. I think he followed me back to the house. I alerted the police, but they unfortunately didn't believe me.
<
Sorry to bother you all with this story but, I just can't stay quiet about this, I just can't. I hope you all have a good day or good night in whatever timezone you live in. I need to go get some sleep. I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow.
Good night 'teens.
Hey, 'teens. I have a story to tell. This isn't just any other story, this was something that had happened to me on January 3rd, 2024...
It was a dark, gloomy night. A stormy night. Hell, it was probably both and I'm misremembering. Anyway, I was sitting in my car, eating some slop like chips or something with the heater on and a blanket on the seat. The seat was kicked back so I could lie down and scroll on the 'party. I glanced outside, away from my phone, into the surrounding forest, and by god it was beautiful. I hadn't seen something like this in a while. This was probably because there were no lights around (I was in a rural area). Taking in the view relaxed me. The forest enticed me to come in, beckoning to me even.
<
So I left my cozy German car to explore. I kept a tracker in my car so I could find my way back so I wasn't worried about getting lost. I walked through the forest, and it was near quiet, very tranquil. I could almost sleep on the soft, snow-strewn ground covered in leaves and pine... it was wonderful. I felt like I'd been walking on clouds. I chose a comfortable enough looking rock to sit down on and made a thread on /soy/ documenting what I'd seen through the forest and was taking and showing images to other 'teens like an autist. I highlighted the icy ground, monolith-like trees surrounding me, the stars popping out with an unmatched vibrance. It was gorgeous.
<
I got back up and was heading to my car when something felt... off. I felt like I wasn't alone. The forest got louder, like a bunch of animals scattering away out of nowhere. I started to look behind my back more. Now, I'm not usually superstitious or believed in any kind of paranormal shit but... this freaked me out a little. I, unfortunately, did the stupid thing and brushed off any worries. Leisurely, I walked back to the car, which was a foolish mistake.
<
I could see an opening through the trees to the tiny hill where my car was sitting. It was still far, so there was a ways to go to get back there. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I heard something. I don't exactly remember what it was, could have been a tree branch crunching, leaves rustling, maybe being kicked up. I don't know what it was, but I damn well knew that it couldn't have been some forest animal. I froze, dead in my tracks. I get a feeling to check the thread, with only one new post. I clicked the NSFW spoiler image. It was an image that flashed saying...
RUN
I basically shat my pants.
I turned around, and I saw a looming, gigantic humanoid-like creature standing over me like a skyscraper. He pierced the unending monotony of the woods with a ghastly white glow. His eyes were, I'm not even sure they were normal eyes. They were a dark red, about maroon, but they were bright like the stars. They fixated on me, staring me dead center into both my eyes and my soul. It was haunting, the way he was looking at me. He didn't hunch over, he didn't bend, he stood still and straight like the trees of the wood. And so his pants were also the color of the wood. They were baggy, with a beaten belt holding them up. Every detail of him and his ghoulish, stretched out face were masked with a thick, ominous shadow contrasting the gloomy whites and browns, and the only thing he did was strike pure fear into my heart. I didn't even know what to do. He just stood there... looking at me. Waiting for me. Waiting for that exact moment I move a muscle or look somewhere else or even blink or breathe or take a step. I was mortified.
<
So there we were; it was a staredown. I had to rely on my peripherals to get a clue as to how I should even deal with this. I saw something that caught my eye. It was blurry, but I saw a fallen tree branch about the size of a blade on a ceiling fan. I quickly ran over to it, surprised he didn't follow me. I picked it up, quickly shouting "Who the fuck are you?!". He just looked at me. I still remember this next part like it was yesterday. His mouth folded into itself painting a sinister grin with which he bit his lips with the strength of 50 lions. I could see blood foaming out of his mouth mixing with his spit as he slowly turned to look at me, hunching a little to get a better look. He was drooling. He was drooling, looking at me. All of a sudden, his pants fell and... I nearly fainted out of fear. Time, in that moment, stood still just like he did.
<
All of a sudden, he charged at me, extending his hands to try and grasp me for god knows what purpose. I held out the stick like a retard, and he grabbed it instead. Must have aimed a little too high. I started to book it back to the fucking car. I lost my shit. I think I tore a ligament rushing back to the car, I still feel pain around my knee after the incident. I could hear his giant, ogrish footsteps pounding over and over running after me. He was shaking the ground. I got in the car and twisted the key to try and start it. He slammed right into the car door as soon as I shut it, pinning me underneath the now heavily deformed car door. He dug his hands into the door, ripping away chunks of metal. He dug his fingers into the frame, tearing it open, digging for me. Suddenly, the car started, and I floored it. As I peeled out from the hill, he somehow still clung onto the car door. It only took all 5 of his fingers being ripped off to finally let go.
<
I drove into a nearby hospital, where they removed me from the wreckage and immediately put me under surgery. The impact left me with a concussion, several broken ribs, a broken collarbone, a broken femur, a fractured orbital and something else regarding internal bleeding. I was in that hospital for months. It was only then after 6 months I was able to return home, still with the moderation of a doctor on a camera. I had trouble walking. It took a little while and some admittedly embarrassing relearning to both speak again and regain my balance. Life... hasn't been the same after that. I hate that I have to be monitored by a doctor I don't even know. What's worse is the anxiety when I hear footsteps outside my house. I went outside this one time, and saw footsteps caving in the grass and dirt. I think he followed me back to the house. I alerted the police, but they unfortunately didn't believe me.
<
Sorry to bother you all with this story but, I just can't stay quiet about this, I just can't. I hope you all have a good day or good night in whatever timezone you live in. I need to go get some sleep. I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow.
Good night 'teens.
ShitBucket
Gears are being oiled again
1 month ago#1204416
ShitBucket
Gears are being oiled again
ShitBucket
Gears are being oiled again
1 month ago#1215774
1 month ago#1215783
Invasion of the breath-snatchers. (1)
You’ve seen them too, haven’t you? They’re everywhere now, ever since – that – happened. I thought I was going crazy you know. Yesterday I almost tripped over one - I though he was asleep but when I tried to walk away I could see him get up behind me in a parked car’s mirror. Freaked me the fuck out. Then at the next corner another one was waiting for me – right outside the office! Like they were coordinating! Huge eyes, black, jet-black, they say it’s drugs, but I’ve never seen drugs do that, he was staring right at me, that wasn’t a look a high negro gives you, no, that guy was laser-focused.
We’re sitting in a Starbucks while Mike recounts his psychotic episode. He’s wearing a Hugo Boss suit and a blue tie and sits legs crossed to show off the soles of his leather Van Liers to the waitress - she’s cute, unfortunately brunette, but she’s making up for it by tucking her plain-white tee into her yogapants giving her pussy a wedgy and me a hard-on. I have to agree with Mike on one thing - there are certainly more bums than there used to be.
‘Come on Mike,’ I laugh. ‘What do you think they’re going to do to you?’
‘Haven’t they chased you?’
‘For nickles and dimes, Mike. Look – I think you’re just a little stressed out – they’re just looking for some cash or a hit, and if you don’t get in their way they’ll just ignore you.’ I take a sip but my Pumpkin Spice Latte has gone cold and that’s probably his fault. That faggot’s been turning my lunch-hour into free therapy sessions. I wish he was right and a stupid nigger’d storm in to slice his throat.
I knew I was supposed to give him some lecture about George Floyd and how the blacks were human too, but I’d already done so yesterday, and he hadn’t learned anything; he was insane after all. Back in the old days he would’ve been the village idiot, and paraded around on a donkey with a pighat on while the children threw pebbles after him, or that’s what they did in medieval Poland. That’s the reason people fantasize about the past, about homesteading or the wild wild west, because a Mike couldn’t strut around in Hugo Boss. It’s not the violence that appeals to them, but the lack of pretensions, the fakery and the acts.
Of course I much prefer the 21st century, cars, phones, computers, and all the benefits of modern science, and I’d never make the mistake of throwing it all away, but little annoyances like this make me reconsider, if only briefly.
The next morning I was already dreading lunch with Mike again, so I called in sick and decided to spend my day having wrinkly Thai grandmas give me handjobs. The Rubmaps app told me exactly where to find them, but if I’d just wandered around long enough I would’ve found one by coincidence.
Today was an Armani day, so I decided, and a Nike day. I used to wear leather shoes like Mike did, but those are ‘out’ nowadays, even at the office. Sneakers just give off a more athletic vibe. I would’ve preferred my Yeezy’s, but unfortunately I can’t wear those anymore. I still love their snug fit and sporty feel but I just know that wearing them would force me to have uncomfortable conversations I’d rather not. Clothes should give people the right impression about who you are, and those shoes can’t do that anymore. What a shame.
New York has changed in twenty years, it has changed a lot. I wasn’t around to be an asset manager for that long, but it sure feels like it. My father and grandfather both worked on Wall street, so I have what you could call a genetic memory of what it should look like, and the uneasy feeling that what it does is very different now. Although if you look around you can spot the details that make it so - A nigger is selling weed on a dumpster – God knows how many years ago he’d have been shot - Every park is littered with tents and needles and blacks more skeletal than the Jews in Auschwitz - Women always dress like they’re out jogging, and even the attractive ones wear dirty T’s and smell even more horrendous - The city has been invaded by low-lives. In the sixties even mobsters and pimps, no, even in the seventies the criminals, the scum, the trash-heap, even they were better-looking than the modern New Yorker. Every inch of the city has been soiled. Except for one spot.
Chinatown's best massage parlor faces me, red and flush, separate, elevated above all the other shops beside it. This one doesn’t normally get a good score. Inside you have to sit in what looks like a dentist’s waiting room. Because its too impersonal, they complain. There’s only a ‘floor wet’ sign on the chair next to me. But it is clean, they made the cheap tiles shine like marble. A lot of people go to these places for intimacy, but not me. I fill out a form and hand it in at the reception. I couldn’t care less if the broad wrestling with my cock had a smile on her face. And I’m patient, I can wait a while like this. For other people that’s an insurmountable problem, they can’t sit silently, they can’t talk without a mommy and daddy ooh-ing and aah-ing them back to sleep, and that’s how they get tricked, but not me, no, I’m always wide awake. That’s what I appreciate about this parlor, the ladies here don’t try to trick me. The bell rings.
‘Mistel Bateman?’ Dutifully I rise.
‘You know? Cant he at least take me seriously?’
‘Hm-hmm.’
‘And today he’s gone, sick, do you believe that? That asshole’s never sick.’
‘Hmmm-hmmmm’
‘And the others act like I’m some sort of leper! They won’t even talk to me unless its about work!’ - He’s eating a vegan spicy tuna-salad baguette, nine-sixty, while calling and spraying crumbs over his cellphone.
‘Well… Mike…’
‘What!?’
‘I mean like, it’s like, an uncomfortable topic, you know?’ His girlfriend silently curses Bateman, now she has to listen to her fiancee’s rambling.
‘How is it uncomfortable? Everyone has moments like that!’
‘Well, but – oh!’
‘What!’
‘Sorry Mike, I promised Eleanor we’d have lunch. I have to go now sweetie-sweetie!’
‘Hey wait a second!’
‘Bye-byee sweetie pie! Mwwahh!’ The connection ends.
‘Bitch.’ Mike knows her well enough to tell she was lying, but the idea of even his own fiancee treating him like this is too much to take. He’s sitting alone at the Green Dayz eco-restaurant, but normally he doesn’t like vegan food at all, and he wonders why he chose to come here. What might’ve been the reason, maybe not consciously so, is the fact all the other customers are white and female, slim blondes like his mother, but he remains oblivious to this, and tips the waitress a fifty. His lunch lasts another twenty minutes, and while going for a walk makes him anxious, so does going back, they don’t want him there anyway.
Manhattan is big enough to disappear into, even if all the blocks are square that just makes them all the same, indistinguishable. Mike is used to quiet Long Island and it’s spacious homes, not the crammed maze of alleys and people. Other than the bridges, there’s no connection Manhattan has to the rest of the country, and if they were to all collapse he’d be stuck here forever.
And then there’s the blacks, they’re staring at him again. They’re inescapable, like the rats and the pigeons. Its just part and parcel of living in a big city – Is what his girl always said. But they make his skin crawl. If only there was a single clean spot in New York. Someone bumps into him.
‘Ayo! Watch where ya goin’!’ A nigger shoves him aside. He’s pushed into a puddle. Now his Van Liers are wet, and whatever sewage counts as water in NY seeps into his socks, yet he cant bring himself to say anything back. He was just pushed over, dirtied, shoved, shouted at, but he can’t speak. He knows he should have told him off, shouldered him back, that filthy nigger, but he couldn’t. He steps back onto the sidewalk. A group of nigger children giggle at him, and he tries to ignore them, to just continue on, but can’t shake the feeling they’re following behind.
You’ve seen them too, haven’t you? They’re everywhere now, ever since – that – happened. I thought I was going crazy you know. Yesterday I almost tripped over one - I though he was asleep but when I tried to walk away I could see him get up behind me in a parked car’s mirror. Freaked me the fuck out. Then at the next corner another one was waiting for me – right outside the office! Like they were coordinating! Huge eyes, black, jet-black, they say it’s drugs, but I’ve never seen drugs do that, he was staring right at me, that wasn’t a look a high negro gives you, no, that guy was laser-focused.
We’re sitting in a Starbucks while Mike recounts his psychotic episode. He’s wearing a Hugo Boss suit and a blue tie and sits legs crossed to show off the soles of his leather Van Liers to the waitress - she’s cute, unfortunately brunette, but she’s making up for it by tucking her plain-white tee into her yogapants giving her pussy a wedgy and me a hard-on. I have to agree with Mike on one thing - there are certainly more bums than there used to be.
‘Come on Mike,’ I laugh. ‘What do you think they’re going to do to you?’
‘Haven’t they chased you?’
‘For nickles and dimes, Mike. Look – I think you’re just a little stressed out – they’re just looking for some cash or a hit, and if you don’t get in their way they’ll just ignore you.’ I take a sip but my Pumpkin Spice Latte has gone cold and that’s probably his fault. That faggot’s been turning my lunch-hour into free therapy sessions. I wish he was right and a stupid nigger’d storm in to slice his throat.
I knew I was supposed to give him some lecture about George Floyd and how the blacks were human too, but I’d already done so yesterday, and he hadn’t learned anything; he was insane after all. Back in the old days he would’ve been the village idiot, and paraded around on a donkey with a pighat on while the children threw pebbles after him, or that’s what they did in medieval Poland. That’s the reason people fantasize about the past, about homesteading or the wild wild west, because a Mike couldn’t strut around in Hugo Boss. It’s not the violence that appeals to them, but the lack of pretensions, the fakery and the acts.
Of course I much prefer the 21st century, cars, phones, computers, and all the benefits of modern science, and I’d never make the mistake of throwing it all away, but little annoyances like this make me reconsider, if only briefly.
The next morning I was already dreading lunch with Mike again, so I called in sick and decided to spend my day having wrinkly Thai grandmas give me handjobs. The Rubmaps app told me exactly where to find them, but if I’d just wandered around long enough I would’ve found one by coincidence.
Today was an Armani day, so I decided, and a Nike day. I used to wear leather shoes like Mike did, but those are ‘out’ nowadays, even at the office. Sneakers just give off a more athletic vibe. I would’ve preferred my Yeezy’s, but unfortunately I can’t wear those anymore. I still love their snug fit and sporty feel but I just know that wearing them would force me to have uncomfortable conversations I’d rather not. Clothes should give people the right impression about who you are, and those shoes can’t do that anymore. What a shame.
New York has changed in twenty years, it has changed a lot. I wasn’t around to be an asset manager for that long, but it sure feels like it. My father and grandfather both worked on Wall street, so I have what you could call a genetic memory of what it should look like, and the uneasy feeling that what it does is very different now. Although if you look around you can spot the details that make it so - A nigger is selling weed on a dumpster – God knows how many years ago he’d have been shot - Every park is littered with tents and needles and blacks more skeletal than the Jews in Auschwitz - Women always dress like they’re out jogging, and even the attractive ones wear dirty T’s and smell even more horrendous - The city has been invaded by low-lives. In the sixties even mobsters and pimps, no, even in the seventies the criminals, the scum, the trash-heap, even they were better-looking than the modern New Yorker. Every inch of the city has been soiled. Except for one spot.
Chinatown's best massage parlor faces me, red and flush, separate, elevated above all the other shops beside it. This one doesn’t normally get a good score. Inside you have to sit in what looks like a dentist’s waiting room. Because its too impersonal, they complain. There’s only a ‘floor wet’ sign on the chair next to me. But it is clean, they made the cheap tiles shine like marble. A lot of people go to these places for intimacy, but not me. I fill out a form and hand it in at the reception. I couldn’t care less if the broad wrestling with my cock had a smile on her face. And I’m patient, I can wait a while like this. For other people that’s an insurmountable problem, they can’t sit silently, they can’t talk without a mommy and daddy ooh-ing and aah-ing them back to sleep, and that’s how they get tricked, but not me, no, I’m always wide awake. That’s what I appreciate about this parlor, the ladies here don’t try to trick me. The bell rings.
‘Mistel Bateman?’ Dutifully I rise.
‘You know? Cant he at least take me seriously?’
‘Hm-hmm.’
‘And today he’s gone, sick, do you believe that? That asshole’s never sick.’
‘Hmmm-hmmmm’
‘And the others act like I’m some sort of leper! They won’t even talk to me unless its about work!’ - He’s eating a vegan spicy tuna-salad baguette, nine-sixty, while calling and spraying crumbs over his cellphone.
‘Well… Mike…’
‘What!?’
‘I mean like, it’s like, an uncomfortable topic, you know?’ His girlfriend silently curses Bateman, now she has to listen to her fiancee’s rambling.
‘How is it uncomfortable? Everyone has moments like that!’
‘Well, but – oh!’
‘What!’
‘Sorry Mike, I promised Eleanor we’d have lunch. I have to go now sweetie-sweetie!’
‘Hey wait a second!’
‘Bye-byee sweetie pie! Mwwahh!’ The connection ends.
‘Bitch.’ Mike knows her well enough to tell she was lying, but the idea of even his own fiancee treating him like this is too much to take. He’s sitting alone at the Green Dayz eco-restaurant, but normally he doesn’t like vegan food at all, and he wonders why he chose to come here. What might’ve been the reason, maybe not consciously so, is the fact all the other customers are white and female, slim blondes like his mother, but he remains oblivious to this, and tips the waitress a fifty. His lunch lasts another twenty minutes, and while going for a walk makes him anxious, so does going back, they don’t want him there anyway.
Manhattan is big enough to disappear into, even if all the blocks are square that just makes them all the same, indistinguishable. Mike is used to quiet Long Island and it’s spacious homes, not the crammed maze of alleys and people. Other than the bridges, there’s no connection Manhattan has to the rest of the country, and if they were to all collapse he’d be stuck here forever.
And then there’s the blacks, they’re staring at him again. They’re inescapable, like the rats and the pigeons. Its just part and parcel of living in a big city – Is what his girl always said. But they make his skin crawl. If only there was a single clean spot in New York. Someone bumps into him.
‘Ayo! Watch where ya goin’!’ A nigger shoves him aside. He’s pushed into a puddle. Now his Van Liers are wet, and whatever sewage counts as water in NY seeps into his socks, yet he cant bring himself to say anything back. He was just pushed over, dirtied, shoved, shouted at, but he can’t speak. He knows he should have told him off, shouldered him back, that filthy nigger, but he couldn’t. He steps back onto the sidewalk. A group of nigger children giggle at him, and he tries to ignore them, to just continue on, but can’t shake the feeling they’re following behind.
1 month ago#1271406
Invasion of the breath-snatchers. (2)
Rubbings always end too soon, but at least they offer aftercare. I’m lounging in an eastern-style cypress bath arranged according to the principles of ‘feng-shui’ – a tasteful traditional Chinese design philosophy designed to be at once useful and natural, by using the four elements – water, fire, earth and air – to create a space that breathes vitality, or so I read. The most obvious particularity of the practice is the demand that running water be used, somehow. Here at the bath it makes sense, at least, but the waiting room for instance, has a water-circulating fishtank on the reception counter. It has to. Similarly this bathhouse has one section of wall replaced by large windows overlooking the garden, because it has to. Nevertheless it makes sense to me, not in any rational sort of way, or by any scientific argument, but just by experience. The workplace feels oppressive because there are no plants, no earth, and certainly no running water. Similarly the feng-shui of Manhattan itself is too unbalanced – too much earth and water and too little air or wood. - After my first visit here, I remodeled my office to be more even, and once I had my oasis in stinking, filthy, rotting New York, work became a lot more enjoyable. I’m currently thinking of doing the same for my apartment.
My peace is interrupted by a phone-call. It’s Mike. Suddenly I want to break the cypress floor and hurl something through the window, but I pick up anyway and listen.
‘Bateman? Where are you Bateman?’ I can hear him running.
‘…’
‘Listen! They’re after me Bateman! Hundreds of them!’
‘Mike…’
‘I’m not kidding! You’re safe aren’t you?’ I have to start laughing.
‘Please, please! ...I went out for lunch and I-I, they…’
‘SHUT UP!’
‘Patrick?’
‘I’M SICK! I’M IN BED! MY TUMMY HURTSS! ITS MY FUCKING DAY OFF, MIKE, SO PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SHUT! UP!’ My new iPhone 19 flies twenty yards through the air and crashes against the bathroom tiles, but any regret is offset by fact I’ll never have to hear that twerp again. Maybe I should’ve humored him more, he might’ve been in the middle of a psychotic episode, but as much as I’d like to hear him scream his head off, I just can’t stand it when he talks to me. The only way I should have to converse with him is while having my hands wrapped his stupid little neck, so I can start squeezing whenever a little sound comes out. Silence is golden.
I try to forget about it and enjoy the rest of my day with ‘A Christmas Cock Carousel’, ‘Looong’, ‘Hard-hitting’, ‘Eternal Semen of the Spotted Ride’, ‘Cuck Course’, ‘The Fat and the Fluffer’, ‘Minotaur Madness’, ‘Jaws can Fuck’, ‘Railing Retards’, ‘Precocious Drip’, ‘Seeping’, ‘The Age of Aquatic Sports III’, ‘Cunt Yoga’, ‘The World is Black and White’, ‘Womb’, ‘Loving Food’, ‘Septic Tank V’, ‘Snipped Sweeties’, ‘Sex is Fleeting, Rape is Forever’, ‘Gospel Baddies’, but the tapes eclipse the counter. The cashier is gone. Such an easy job too, it makes you wonder what goes on in their heads. I now have to find the bastard. Behind the shelves, on the toilet, I even peek into the stockroom, which is dirty and smells of pizza, I don’t linger there, wouldn’t want to get infected by that smell. The bugger probably decided to smoke outside, one of those people who think having ‘lunch’ entitles them to do whatever they want, but I bump into another customer on my way out. I easily push him aside.
‘Whoops, sorry.’ But passing him by, the man grabs my shoulder, and as soon as I turn around he falls over. Another druggie schmuck. The man is wearing a black Hugo Boss, an oversized silver Omega watch on the wrong wrist, and, to my horror, a gaudy, brown-red plaited bow-tie, ‘Jesus Christ!’ I push him off me, and check out his shoes, which had to have been a gift from a woman, because it is the only sensible choice, a bit old-fashioned, so probably a woman he is no longer seeing – light-brown Van Liers – muddy and wet, and I wonder if I should call the police.
He looks up to me in a haze. His eyes are black, wide-open, red, yellow, white, half-closed, bloated, unfocused, pupils dilated, irises of a black sun. I turn to run, but bump into another man – two – three – a wall of them blocking the exit, standing before the window. The sun has gone and it rains outside and all of them are looking to shelter here with me and I’m trapped, I turn back and the one behind me has stood up again, his hair covering his face and clawing at his neck mumbling the same thing over and over and over and over and over and over again in chokes and stammers and coffs in between pauses longer than the wait time for a table at Eleven Madison Park or the Modern – ‘I… cant… breeef…’ His head tips over and for the first time I get a look at his face – Caucasian, male, a bit round and chubby – but all over his skin are brown spots, like a reversed vitiligo, all the way down to his neck, red and irritated is all the skin around it. ‘Mike?’
Rubbings always end too soon, but at least they offer aftercare. I’m lounging in an eastern-style cypress bath arranged according to the principles of ‘feng-shui’ – a tasteful traditional Chinese design philosophy designed to be at once useful and natural, by using the four elements – water, fire, earth and air – to create a space that breathes vitality, or so I read. The most obvious particularity of the practice is the demand that running water be used, somehow. Here at the bath it makes sense, at least, but the waiting room for instance, has a water-circulating fishtank on the reception counter. It has to. Similarly this bathhouse has one section of wall replaced by large windows overlooking the garden, because it has to. Nevertheless it makes sense to me, not in any rational sort of way, or by any scientific argument, but just by experience. The workplace feels oppressive because there are no plants, no earth, and certainly no running water. Similarly the feng-shui of Manhattan itself is too unbalanced – too much earth and water and too little air or wood. - After my first visit here, I remodeled my office to be more even, and once I had my oasis in stinking, filthy, rotting New York, work became a lot more enjoyable. I’m currently thinking of doing the same for my apartment.
My peace is interrupted by a phone-call. It’s Mike. Suddenly I want to break the cypress floor and hurl something through the window, but I pick up anyway and listen.
‘Bateman? Where are you Bateman?’ I can hear him running.
‘…’
‘Listen! They’re after me Bateman! Hundreds of them!’
‘Mike…’
‘I’m not kidding! You’re safe aren’t you?’ I have to start laughing.
‘Please, please! ...I went out for lunch and I-I, they…’
‘SHUT UP!’
‘Patrick?’
‘I’M SICK! I’M IN BED! MY TUMMY HURTSS! ITS MY FUCKING DAY OFF, MIKE, SO PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SHUT! UP!’ My new iPhone 19 flies twenty yards through the air and crashes against the bathroom tiles, but any regret is offset by fact I’ll never have to hear that twerp again. Maybe I should’ve humored him more, he might’ve been in the middle of a psychotic episode, but as much as I’d like to hear him scream his head off, I just can’t stand it when he talks to me. The only way I should have to converse with him is while having my hands wrapped his stupid little neck, so I can start squeezing whenever a little sound comes out. Silence is golden.
I try to forget about it and enjoy the rest of my day with ‘A Christmas Cock Carousel’, ‘Looong’, ‘Hard-hitting’, ‘Eternal Semen of the Spotted Ride’, ‘Cuck Course’, ‘The Fat and the Fluffer’, ‘Minotaur Madness’, ‘Jaws can Fuck’, ‘Railing Retards’, ‘Precocious Drip’, ‘Seeping’, ‘The Age of Aquatic Sports III’, ‘Cunt Yoga’, ‘The World is Black and White’, ‘Womb’, ‘Loving Food’, ‘Septic Tank V’, ‘Snipped Sweeties’, ‘Sex is Fleeting, Rape is Forever’, ‘Gospel Baddies’, but the tapes eclipse the counter. The cashier is gone. Such an easy job too, it makes you wonder what goes on in their heads. I now have to find the bastard. Behind the shelves, on the toilet, I even peek into the stockroom, which is dirty and smells of pizza, I don’t linger there, wouldn’t want to get infected by that smell. The bugger probably decided to smoke outside, one of those people who think having ‘lunch’ entitles them to do whatever they want, but I bump into another customer on my way out. I easily push him aside.
‘Whoops, sorry.’ But passing him by, the man grabs my shoulder, and as soon as I turn around he falls over. Another druggie schmuck. The man is wearing a black Hugo Boss, an oversized silver Omega watch on the wrong wrist, and, to my horror, a gaudy, brown-red plaited bow-tie, ‘Jesus Christ!’ I push him off me, and check out his shoes, which had to have been a gift from a woman, because it is the only sensible choice, a bit old-fashioned, so probably a woman he is no longer seeing – light-brown Van Liers – muddy and wet, and I wonder if I should call the police.
He looks up to me in a haze. His eyes are black, wide-open, red, yellow, white, half-closed, bloated, unfocused, pupils dilated, irises of a black sun. I turn to run, but bump into another man – two – three – a wall of them blocking the exit, standing before the window. The sun has gone and it rains outside and all of them are looking to shelter here with me and I’m trapped, I turn back and the one behind me has stood up again, his hair covering his face and clawing at his neck mumbling the same thing over and over and over and over and over and over again in chokes and stammers and coffs in between pauses longer than the wait time for a table at Eleven Madison Park or the Modern – ‘I… cant… breeef…’ His head tips over and for the first time I get a look at his face – Caucasian, male, a bit round and chubby – but all over his skin are brown spots, like a reversed vitiligo, all the way down to his neck, red and irritated is all the skin around it. ‘Mike?’
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