Kitsch Vulva

Greetings, indifferent souls. Thank you kindly for stopping by! As you know, The Fictional Account is going out of business. It's been a long run. It's been a fun run. But most of all, it's been a marginally inappropriate run. But boast of all, I've snatched a job at the local erotica shop. Last week, Chief Overseer of International Matters Mathias M informed me that lately my blog has been "globally irrelevant and random as [his] newly-hatched Roman goatee." I fired his Canadian ass and clasped Fictional Account's failure in my hands. Once the melancholic realization entered my heart, I kicked my Manhattan office's door down and took a walk. I came to the conclusion that I must fire everyone at once! Alas, when I returned from my stroll -- which consisted largely of pensive circles in Park -- I asked Editor-in-Chief Mr. Christian P what I should do. He gave me a perfunctory glare. Then, turning both interested and cautious, he informed me that we'd need either "a post that's aimless, informative, simple, and vague" or "a few thousand dollars, like before the end of January" if Fictional Account was to continue publishing cute entries into the dated-but-fun blogosphere.

Some night, in the middle of this confusing month, I concluded that my ultimate goal is to maintain a waking life which rarely treads cot culture's still path. After smoking some marijuana and viewing some sketchy pictures on Sarah B's tumblelog, I penned something in my journal. I titled my findings -- which are edited here -- "Irreality." An excerpt:

It's been . . . hmmm, forty hours since I last had an ounce of sleep. I haven't lapsed. I've predictably fell off the "sleepy" stage. I'm just dazed. But -- and yes, I have taken into account the small amount of cannabis I've ingested -- I've never felt better. I'm enamored with the concept of free will; I've been touching things to feel their peculiar existence. To make sure they are there. I'm having trouble articulating my in-and-out-of-touch spiel. Here we go. If you begin sleeping as little as possible -- not for some work-related reason; purely because you enjoy your actual, fantastical existence -- you'll gradually begin to find your life more desirable and dreamier. When one strikes a balance between relaxation and unflinching drive, which I'm almost at -- I kind of feel that Ayn Rand "you exist in and of yourself; there's no meaning besides your self-aware pursuits" vibe. It's fun. I'd say that in terms of extremes, I'll resolve to go "all out" sometimes, but I kinda feel that when I push myself, it's in a competitive way. Not good. Let's treasure the individual's fantasy and his methods and view his opponents as nothing more than fellow, less-driven humans. Not objects. Going to go all out now in terms of sleep. You know? Treasure your fourteen hours of sleep and your two hours of sleep. Seven-eight hours? Eh. It'll definitely be harder, but if you must dismiss 1/3 of your life as "sleep" -- in either a "there's not enough time in the day" or "I wish we didn't get tired" style -- I pity you. Nah I'm kidding. But zzzzzeriously, I'm going to bed.

Forward to the present tense, which only I'm in now! You're jealous! Yeah you are. Um, and probably elated, because The Fictional Account is ending its run. I'm not a global person. I'm influenced mostly by my town, less-so by my state, and even less-so by my country. I'm Binx Bolling over here, and I need to flee the malaise and start up a fictional blog which, although will contain characters that echo their NHS counterparts, is for the world. Doesn't mean I'll write a story about Clara Claims (Sarah B) going to Japan. No, Clara will enter Burger Queen (Burger King) on Franklin St. (Franklin Ave.) in Nutley (Nutley) and realize that her life is sub-par. She'll cry and stuff. And write a melancholy diary entry, which, by its final period, will be soaked in tears. There's a post.

Regurgitation, round-up, headlines, summary, plot, rehash . . . nah, what you're about to read is the true Fictional story. Not what you've been told before. More than a paragraph-length recap. More than copy-and-synonyming my previous posts about how this blog came to be. For real, for you: here's the definitive history of The Fictional Account of Miss Teacher's Exploits in Technology.

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"Nick, you're a big fat moron," Dave exclaimed, inches from my face. We were in Web Design, and he was just joshing, but I considered by stomach. I laughed out loud after realizing I was 140 pounds -- a very weak 140 at that! After remembering that it was Friday, I nudged Dave's shoulder and asked the Flannel Ravioli guitarist if he'd like to see 9 with me after school. He returned my inquiry with some spit and a firm declaration that I'm "a bit too homosexual for anyone's liking. That's a no, munch."

There were ten minutes left to go in Web Design. I needed to attack Dave in some indirect way. I needed to do it at that moment. Alas, I silently declared Dreamweaver "gay" and opened up Firefox. There the bulb lit: I'm going to criticize Dave on a blog. Alas, the post was stupid and simple -- it just explained that Dave is a faggot and gets the worst weed. [That entry was entirely edited and is now the unrelated "Rough Beginnings."] What struck me was thus: Dave C, in some world -- one which apparently records itself -- is a faggot. To my audience -- which, by the end of Friday's Web Design, was Dylan (my computer neighbor) and the villain himself -- it didn't matter that what I wrote was false. First-person accounts are rarely fact-checked. My blog was but a few minutes old before it was being railed. The problem was: Fictional Account was born a weapon.

Dave immediately told me to take him off my then-ridiculous offspring. Blow number one. "Dave, I'm not gonna use your last name." I felt swell about my counter -- legally, I was set. Artistically, there'd be a little compromising. It didn't matter.

Two days later, The Fictional Account was officially something that could survive. I had given my creation wings. Day one's relatively idiotic posts were nothing. But day two's post introduced Nick Rapper, your well-groomed, indulgent narrator. More importantly, six other inhabitants of Miss Teacher's fifth period Web Design entered true non-privacy. (Anyone may view this blog!) Unarguably, though, day three put Fictional Account in the air. In "Cute Girl," Dave C has a crush on Jen. It's so innocuous. My blog became a narrative. Words like continuity and canon flew through my head.

Fictional Account was born during an informal war. But by post five it was post-combat, and rather aimless. Notice how "Goodbye Sanity" and "Old Lyrics" hardly look like cousins. During this stage, I was gaining fans at a rapid pace. The weirdest part was: to my knowledge, there were no onlookers at Fictional Account. My biggest fans -- Sarah, Anthony C, Hye-Sung, Angelo, Nick L -- all (eventually) became part of the action. They read about themselves. They commented on these posts. In one entry -- I think it's "Severed Brains" -- Shvet walks into Gary's Pharmacy and robs the owner at gunpoint. Shvet read it, let out a laugh-sigh, and commented, "Actually it was Rocky's. But whatever you write, noob." Big deal -- my blog is a work of fiction. So? Everyone at Fictional Account exists. They've just been transported to a slightly-tweaked world. My metaverse is simply louder and glossier.

Everything was running smoothly. My life. My blog's life. My friends' lives. My computer's hard drive. But then, on November 4, 2009, "Fame Kills" was released. Long and enthusiastic, it informed everyone that my popularity had taken its toll on me . . . essentially: I needed a break. That's all it was, but many bloated, on-edge (opposite of "chill") folks thought I was actually gone for good. Some assumed I was dead, and started biting their fingernails. One young man -- I think it was Mr. Ryan A -- informed me "[he] became unchill" after completing "Fame Kills." Just goes to show you: people are both tools and skimmers. If anyone read the full story -- 2,000-plus words -- you'd also see that part where it specifically says, "I'm going to a better place, now. I'm sorry for leaving you all." Tell me: how the fuck could that be misinterpreted? Obviously that meant I was going to the shore to work on my spray tan. Dummies.

Needless to say, my popularity grew exponentially. The moment "Fame Kills" was released, I checked my follower box -- a cool forty folks. As soon as I entered NHS -- to applause, sighs, and groans -- I realized that everyone (in Nutley) was paying careful attention to my little blog. I logged onto Blogger as soon as the school day terminated, and realized that thirty-seven more people had subscribed to my prose. I had every right to be elated, but I considered my infamy and hissed -- then, true to my words, I took a small break. Oddly, my little bout with misconceptions and ambiguity boiled over. The successor to my "misleading-but-wondrous" post was the breathless "Delectable Dissertation," originally titled "Fully Realized." This entry entirely ignored my situation, and rambled and scrambled its way into the Nick Rapper Empire rafters.

To backtrack: I now had seventy-seven mouses eating whatever crumbs I threw at their sorry grey skin. I publicly announced all this shit, and, in "Delectable Dissertation," gave Anthony C the sole responsibility of making products and slogans to push my brand to its logical max. He fucking delivered, designing seductive t-shirts that dawned the Fictional Account logo in erotic script. Also: he came up with hideously-catchy slogans, like "Nickrapper.blogspot.com -- a mouthful to say, a mouthful to read," and "Visit Nick Rapper's blog -- it's about Twilight." Ha -- that little lie reeled in a few dozen tweens. (Sure they found about my blog's anti-Twilight sentiments, but they were now aware of Fictional Account.) Even greater, Ant promoted my little blog to countless social groups. He twisted my blog's title. To whores, I was Dick Rapist, writing for The Dic(k)tional Account of Miss Teacher's Sexploits in Sexology. To emos, I was the lonely Nick Rapsucks, the cracked narrator of The Personal Diary of Nick Rapsucks' Cutting & Screamo Endeavors.

Again: of course when all those losers found out that Fictional Account was nothing like Anthony C's twisted descriptions, they fled the scene. (Some may have stayed; but mostly, they angrily departed.) Who cares? On November 11, I had left the blogosphere and entered The Blogosphere. Although the world was never blocked from seeing my pieces of narrowly-entertaining high school anti-drama, I -- for the first six weeks -- considered my audience an approachable group of bored humans. Basically: I wasn't being scrutinized. People would either like or dislike the things I scribed. My blog was neither important nor influential. Fictional Account was a kid they knew describing people they knew and, often, themselves.

Anthony's promotional methods, though . . . they were bitterly creative and terrifically placed. One of Ant's best moves was placing and ad for Fictional Account on a literature forum's main page. The marketing was deceptively simple -- it was a 4 X 6 banner ad which shifted its message every thirty seconds. For the first half-minute, one would see, in 9-point Times New Roman font, my blog's title and a fake, hyper-positive review. The second half-minute presented my blog title in 12-point Comic Sans, with an excerpted quotation saying "Fictional Account is deadly." After that time was up, it reverted back to the original ad. Ant explained why the banner was a raging success.

"People on a lit forum, Nick: they appreciate all art. This is a subtle, self-aware, sensitive group. First off, the ad comes at them silently. The review -- it's from something called . . . what did I call it? Oh yeah: NYC Media Pile. It sounds credible. Or at least realistic. So, they find out that there's some weirdly-titled blog that is praised to a hyperbolic, almost euphoric degree. My fake zine is like some selector or aggregator. Like, 'We've gone through a bunch of terrible blogs so you don't have to.' That's what Media Pile is. Um, so let's say no one cares. But they spent a good five-seven seconds reading it. Then they have to select a thread. If the ad switches before they make their thread pick, boom -- there's a visitor. Comic Sans shocks anyone. Calling a blog 'deadly' -- they'll appreciate it in an ironic subtext. They'll vote on your poll, maybe follow you -- probably just stop by and give you traffic. Exposure. Note! Even the people that just know Fictional Account is something. That's what you need. And I secured this ad, this one-off, this first and only ad, in one of the best places possible. You're lucky. This was so cheap too. Oh you owe me."

The stunning success of Ant's promotional endeavors scared me. Being in The Blogosphere meant that any of my strings of words could easily land on somebody's literary pastiche, tumblelog, Twitter account, etc. The possibilities for recognition and dissection seemed endless. On November 12 I innocuously released "Dull Blouse." It was about an English teacher and my crush. The quick post was narrow in its scope and cost me seventeen followers. I was down to ninety . . . but, since all the leavers were results of Ant, I felt a bold exhilaration.

Finally: everyone who would want to read something written by me, who would get the various inside jokes and nicknames, was here. I knew Fictional Account wasn't going to decline in popularity anytime soon; but more importantly: since my blog was written in a way which contained an ideal man as its base (the narrator may not represent this all the time), by default, I was enamored with each reader. Someone reading Fictional Account was either a smart Nutley inhabitant, an easily-interested Internet lurker, or a fan of the specific (self-absorbed, tangent-centered, sardonic) prose I was releasing.

No one could be ready, though, for the night of Tuesday, November 17, 2009.

Three folks were working for me by that ambivalent date: Anthony C, Nick L, and Dave C. I had hired Nick as my editor because he's a fastidious, scrappy bro who doesn't miss a beat of his life. Also: he thoroughly enjoys his Syntax Snob title. Dave was employed in an all-purpose way, claiming the title of Chief Plotman. (He actually pushed for his imaginary relationship with Jen.) I'd contend that about 75 people read my blog, consistently, leading into November 17.

After a tedious school day of mad indie matrices, self-fulfilling prophecies, and hugely fun improv, I stormed home and wrote "Global Aspirations." At the time, it was my longest post. Comically, it contained five first-person short stories aimed at different stereotypes. And, well, it was effective. "Global Aspirations" propelled my comfy little cottage into a fancifully-painted condo. Three separate webzines published mini-reviews of my post. Blogpile called it "mostly funny, and gleefully defeated." Stumbler also praised it, claiming that "it works; though sometimes Mr. Rapper ventures away from satire an enters pure imitation." Web Lit, in a highly critical review, concluded that "there's so much to be discovered in 'Global Aspirations,' you'll forgive the blandness of it."

I discovered all this press the following day. November 18 was long and laborious. It consisted primarily of sifting through a ton of congratulatory emails, Googling myself, and thinking about Fictional Account's prospects. Now at 237 followers -- and a public presence only a few rings away from celebrity -- I needed to hire some more people. The next day I consulted with Dave, who said that Angelo would like to be part of our team. Thus, Angelo became Fictional Account's Social Events Organizer. I gave him the title during our initial qualifications discussion. He suggested that I should expand the brand through parties and paint Fictional Account as a "festive outlet" -- he said that my posts were unnecessarily meticulous and frustratingly internal. To assist Angelo, I put Sarah B in charge of coordinating future social gatherings.

On November 21 I earned my 250th follower -- JOEv420. Then, on Saturday, November 28, Fictional Fun took place at Yantacaw Park. Advertised as "Fictional Account's FIRST fan gathering spectacular," Angelo's bash was rather bare. Granted: it did say on the flyer to bring your own fun. Still . . . fifteen folks showed . . . five of them worked for me . . . and then, in a fit of dreamy realization, I said to myself: "Who actually reads my blog?"

Dumbly, I had uttered this in the company of my devotees and employees. Nick L told me I had 256 followers; I responded, "Yes . . . but who reads my posts?" Ang was right in a terminal, terrible way: my words, although neither banal nor uninterested, were alienating! Nicholas Sparks, however disagreeable he may be, writes in an approachable way. He doesn't interrupt his literary works emotional porn with self-aware garble. I fled Yantacaw Park upon my epiphany, and read my latest post. It was November 25's "Blank Dust," which was based on my attachment to the news of Fictional Fun's proposed occurrence. The thing was: I found myself skimming the damned entry -- it's unreadable!

Fictional Fun, although somehow tedious, pushed Fictional Account to a higher level. Too bad: on Sunday I told my staff that I'd continue writing annoyingly, and make sure I only attracted wide-attention-spanned dorks. I couldn't do it any other way.

December was wonderful -- as 2009 was running out of a stream, I became an esoteric fiery furnace, producing only first-rate sentences. On the 15th, GriffyQ became Follower Three Hundred. On the 19th, I had earned my twenty-thousandth American dollar; I was going to lease that debauched Manhattan office on 44th street. I remember saying, possibly to my staff, "At least one month of pure heaven . . . fuck yes!" Oh -- by then I had made a few additions . . . and one subtraction. December 5 brought Mathias M to our crafty bloghold to deal with foreign affairs. On the 12th, Jill C became our Beloved Inspirer. When a staff member felt depressed, she'd splash water on his face and enliven him. In terms of inverse operations, Nick L stole money from my savings account -- he was promptly fired. Christian P stole Nick L's title -- he was quickly accepted into Fictional Account's cozy premises. Chris garnered a reverence for his pristine typed reports of my posts' problems. He looked at my blog as something that could not contain errors -- it was a difficult, convoluted read before we took in its grammatical inconsistencies. And, truthfully, a lot of my peculiarities look strikingly like mistakes.

Thus, 2010 couldn't come sooner. Oh! On that glorious January 1 -- I loved tasting that refreshing date on my tongue -- my hangover-doomed staff and I (still drunk . . . on life) moved into our pristine Manhattan offices. Everyone said that posts would now come at a furious, divisively upfront and beautiful pace. Everyone said that the first three months of Fictional Account was an ultra-serious prologue. Everyone said that God Himself was opening a new door for us. "Nick . . . before today, I've only been to New York twice. The first time was when my boyfriend and I needed inspiration for a Saint Harlot's monologue. After a couple hours in New York, fuck was I inspired. I wrote a thirty minute epic about an impersonal, confusing world which keeps going up but never looks at the ground, however synthetic it is. The second time . . . yep, it was the same situation, except my sermon was an hour this time. New York . . . no matter how oppressive and monotonous it can be, always is, to its core, a new beginning. It's time. It's your time. It's our time. Let's hold hands and experience this new world together." Jill's words towered over me. I had heard about this. Most Saint Harlot's folks felt exactly the opposite of Jill's message when they departed from her church. Instead of experiencing some Transcendentalist burst of individuality, they felt that Jill was a god. Why wouldn't you feel lesser -- maybe even worthless -- standing feet away from something Holy?

Five postless, euphoric days led to the terrible "Willful Women." The next day "Floral Foam" followed, correcting one of the biggest atrophies I had ever committed. On January 15 I had my big dream-life realization; January 16 saw me asking Chris and Mathias what to do; January 17 brought about the idea of a Fictional history; today (whatever that means to you) I'll say that, well, I no longer have an urge to write nonsensical bullshit. The month of January became -- and still is -- the point in one's journey where one is more excited about the journey back . . . not being back, but walking home and seeing one's footprints. Looking at those (in this case) permanent marks and laughing, wondering why they are so goddamn bittersweet. There's been a lot of rumors floating around. Some faggots claim that I'm leaving because I don't have the money to stay around. Um . . . you're "somewhat right," but I can easily run Fictional Account from my New Jersey home. It's not that; neither is it because I've clashed with the law a few times. And to those who say The Great Wiener Incident had anything to do with it: well, you're in the right Ball Park Franks, but you're off by a couple Nathan's. Enough hot dog talk, folks. More wrapping this blog's anti-narrative up and proclaiming that Didactic Fizzle is "where it's at, muddafucka." Revved readers: I'm leaving because there's nothing left for me to say. Ha ha -- I was out of things to say light years ago. But honestly, January . . . New York . . . the sunlight bursting through the fifth-story window . . . museums . . . office relationships . . . "I won't tell him if you don't" . . . "Nick L, you're fired you conniving, racketeering, bitch!" . . . "Nick, don't feel inclined to write more! Relax -- we've made it. We're in New York" . . . "You're all fired! Ha! I don't wanna do this anymore! Come on, lovely staff: we're all goin' to traverse the streets of NYC in search of everlasting love. Who's in?" And with that, my presence dissolves and you start crying. You laugh? You trip over something (Sarah)? Whatever you do, just . . . just feel it.

Love,

Nick

Floral Foam

[Warning: this post will probably drive you to tears. I've given you the option of soundtracking your bawls and smiles with these largely or fully instrumental songs. Enhance your reading experience! (Like you don't already listen to music while reading my blog.)]

• Track 1: "Seasun" - Delorean
• Track 2: "As the Little Things Go" - The Appleseed Cast
• Track 3: "Gallo Pinto" - Spam Allstars
• Track 4: "Auberge le Mouton Noir" - Do Make Say Think

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"You can do it." - Nike

"Oh, no, we say that to everyone. Nick Rapper -- the blogger -- oh . . . sorry, you can't do it." - Nike

"One more post and I sue and subsequently rape and subsequently murder and subsequently bury you." - Dave

"Read this!" - Hye-Sung

"Fuck off!" - Jen

"Yah mon." - Angelo

"Like, oh-my-God! No, like, blog tops, like, this one. It's fantasmorgasmic. LOL, like I care if that's a word." - Some queer on the street

"Nick, don't listen to them. Your blog is 'absurd' -- a true 'epic win.' Keep going. Never give up." - Nick Rapper

"We at Wrongly Accused Rapists absolutely love Fictional Account. Continue posting! Don't stop 'til it feels right." - Max Hardcore, co-founder of Wrongly Accused Rapists, Inc.

"Let's get mad real, bro. Your last post was shit. 'Willful Woman' -- yeah, it did blow. Ever hear of this thing called a 'plot'? Yeah, and an 'intro.' Well, you obviously know what an 'intro' is because that's what you wrote. I guess I'm done here. But Nick . . . just post better shit. Don't leave." - Maggie (Dave's canine)

"IDC, in fact IDEKY." - Tumblr pioneer Chloe

"I felt her scatological beauty caress my heart. I forgot about ethics, morals, God, and my self-respect. Oh, and my wife! What a bitch!" - Ethan Frome

"Only thing you should ever quit in life: smoking cigarettes. Wait . . . and harming yourself, chucking rocks at cars, being a douche, uh . . . point is: you're Nick Rapper, and you've done uncountable, insurmountable, and okay things for blogging. Happy? Yes, yes. Anyway, drink Coca-Cola! In fact, try the new Farmville flavors: Fertilizer Coke, Hoe Coke, and Avocado Coke. The last one is illegal in four New Jersey towns. Am I done here? Why, yes -- yes I am." - Muhtar Kent, CEO of The Coca-Cola Company.

"No, Nick, you're not leaving! I've devoured your prose, studied each letter of each word, posted my favorite sentences on my kitchen wall, framed your most beautiful phrases in my bedroom, memorized all of certain character's lines, and spread your account to each of my pets! There's blogs, and then there's perfection. There's written work, and then there's literature. There's Nick L, the handsome, awkward bowler -- then there's Nick Rapper, the fiendish, steady writer. If you leave, I take my life. Listen to Kent . . . er, ignore the self-harming part." - No one

Hope my readers know what this is about. You don't? "[I'm sorry I can't respond to you. I am nobody. By my nature I'm kinda quiet!]" Oh . . . didn't know nobody read my blog. That's "mad dope." My blog is like that indie film Titanic. By that I mean: two morbidly loathsome people star in it. No offense to Dave or Jen. Truly! Hey, I like y'all. And Titantic is a brilliant obra. But my name's Kanye West, and I'm keepin' it completely inappropriate ("real.") Sorry for that. So: let me tell you the story of January 6, 2009.

I awoke at 7 in the morning. Then I fell back asleep. I awoke at 11 in the morning. Whoops. There goes school. Well, let's catch up with this Edith Wharton shit. I awoke at 2 in the afternoon. Er, let's just write a blog post! All of my personalities agreed. "Great idea! First post of '10. Hey, that sounds weird! I'll just say 'twenty-ten' -- that works," said my charming second personality. "Post! Post! Post!" screamed my drunken seventh. "Jam, son," moaned the part of me taken over by Dave C. Let me elaborate: Dave took over me, partly. Confused? Consider David C (chillmonger, antagonist, jammer, reader, male). Now consider his self seeping into my thoughts. Still confused? Then why read Fictional Account -- declared "?" by Sarah B and "♨" by Anthony C.

I crept up to my lovely Mac and logged onto Blogger. I selected New Post, and then mumbled, "Eh." My cat came over, pawed me, wished me luck, and fled to his litter box. Then it happened: I realized my idea cannon wasn't loaded. My mind looked something like "zxcvbn," at times resembling "asdfgh." I spent the rest of that hour posting acclaimed MP3s on Tumblr. Then three o'clock looked at me and snarled. I gnarled back, barred my way onto Blogger, and started thinking (effectively.) "Nick, talk about those five female characters' trip to the Kesha concert." "Wasn't there -- don't know anything about it." "Jen posted about it on her site. And there's pics!" "Guess I'll do that, then. Thanks, Mr. Thought Process." "Anytime . . . literally."

"Willful Women" was surely going well . . . but then I'm like: "WTF am I doing this for? I have about negative three readers, these ladies may not want their night out for sale at my Cyberian shop, and I need to do some HW." Alas, I ended the post, content that, although it is short, it contains a conclusion. The (non-included) main event was precluded; the mood was given; the girls were described. Still: "Willful Women" is, by all measures, an American tragedy.

Predictably, I received volumes of hate mail. The e-mails were more upsetting than the letters; this is chiefly due to the satisfaction I experience when I encounter a physical token of disgust in my mailbox. Any anonymous bozo can send an e-mail with endless cuss words and pictures of hideous animals. It takes a real man to give me their home address.

I won't let my lovely opponents fill my blog, though. There were loads of insidious comments about "Willful Women"; there were also a lot of grammatically-sound, beautifully-written ones. Either way: I've suffered enough.

After a few hundred terrifically negative responses to my tiny entry, I posted the following message on my Facebook group's wall:

I'm sorry for "Willful Women." I was feeling lazy. Anyway, I'm done blogging. Fuck Blogger, Twitter, Tumblr, Hi5, Friendster, myspace.com/flannelravioli, Facebook, Racebook, Racistbook, Fuckbook, the often entertaining porn.com message boards, the never-patronized edithwharton.rip forum, kasf.tumblr.com, classyli -- whoops, almost gave the man more promotion . . . uh, fuck the Internet! I'm done with "words." From the end of this message on, I'll be communicating to people solely with spontaneously-invented hand gestures and groups of randomly aligned letters. Quickly, so I don't end up in a mental institution . . . "yulu" = hello, hi / "blart" = bye, see you / "bleast" = friend, bro / "quef" = please / "flome" = thank you / "sesquet" = love / "krep" = hate / "florality" = level (note: the word is similar to English's "popularity." But "florality" may indicate the level of coolness, fame, hate, etc one gathers, and is best preceded by a noun). Okay, we're good. Bye, blogosphere! I can't do this anymore.

And thus, "Floral Foam" opened with reactions to that statement. Writing deductively -- hot or steamy? Look: I'm just gonna take this Nike bro's advice and do it.

Nutley's had a lot going on. Very much. I just read this delirious article last night from New Joy-Z Read-Uh. It was horribly lengthy, so I'll give you an excerpt:

Miss Jennifer A has been vocally silent on the issue. She did write, in her latest blog entry, that "[she] grew up in an upper-class household. [Her] mother taught [her] at a young age to always give credit to those who deserve it. If Pranks, Clanks, and Spanks was plagiarized, then [she] has, effectively, stuck a knife in [her] mother's abdomen."

"Nutley" is the seventh-most searched term on Google for the week ending January 6th. This owes primarily to the aforementioned torching of Christian's house, Jen's plagiarism scandal, and the slew of Nutley books coming out this month. Anthony M's is the nearest: January 12th will see the release of He Said She Said: Rumors That Will Melt Your Face. This will be the seventeenth Nutley book released in the past two months.

Recently, this sleeper hit of a town opened Pop Rocks: a small pub, which will host all of Nutley's concerts from now on. The manager: none other than Dave C's rabbi. Mr. C did not wish to disclose the name of Pop Rock's owner, even though we have reason to believe that his name will be ubiquitous within a few weeks. If one visits Nutley's local music website, he or she may be a little surprised. Perk & the Wallflowers, You Two, Into the Blue's seventh incarnation, and Miley Cyborg are all planning to visit Nutley's Judaism-infested pub.

In other news: last night, Mr. Angelo L was released on bail. January 4 saw the seventeen-year-old's arrest -- for a series of petty literary offenses. Chiefly, his blog was deemed "criminally punctuated" and "overtly factual." Fortunately, his truthful account is widely beloved, and his biggest fans were able donate the appropriate money to release him from the state penitentiary.

The angered bowler said today: "I'm pretty sure all the fucking things they charged me with, like, aren't even real laws. Apparently all blogs have to be 'literature' -- and mine is 'shiterature.' Whatever. I'm gonna sue the pants off of . . . uh, New Jersey? We'll see where this goes. I'm seriously pissed. This is worse than the time where I had seven hundred notifications on Facebook. It's even worse than the time I was temporarily banned from Facebook. Eh, that's stretching it."

Lastly: as of last morning, Sarah B's debut cookbook has sold one million copies. Upon realization of the feat, TV chef Guy Fieri offered her a scholarship at The Culinary Institute of America. He reportedly read (and really liked) Oreos w/ Olives. In her free time, Sarah likes to [. . .]

Whoosh. I really can't take it after a while. I could care less about a host of (obviously rushed) books. Even my good pal Angelo's day or two in jail -- bearable. "Nutley" being, like, the new buzzword: a tad exhausting, but consumable. When teenbot sensation Miley Cyborg plans on visiting my little town, I draw the line; that means I leave my town. Where am I going?

We've managed to refrain from asking that question often -- which, in some respects, is a good thing. Look: you know I'm not sure where my next stop is. But I'll be thinking about it for the next few weeks; yes I will.

Sorry, brothers, sisters, lovers, kissers . . . I need to depart! Didactic Fizzle has taken over my life. Visit it. Hye-Sung called it "hugely unsatisfactory -- a botched collection of drearily-narrated urban dissonance." Didn't understand him -- so I went to Dave. "I see Appleseed Cast; I also see you being my new Facebook sibling." Content and fully-erect, I headed to Anthony C. After downing a foot-long sub, the bassist said: "What the hell is Tumblr? Wait . . . isn't that the new song by Band No One Cares About?"

I responded, ferociously, in the negative.

"Then I don't know . . . sorry. Would you like a pickle?"

I responded, fervently, in the positive.

"Here ya go, Nick."

I responded, effervescently, in the sexual.

"Um, I'm not gay."

I responded, affectionately, in the understanding.

"Cool. But, uh, what's Tumblr?"

Let's just say I summarized the service's aims, goals, and methods.

"Nick, I don't care about David Karp's irregular bodily fun --"

"I just gave you a brief summary of Tumblr, dummy," I defended.

"No, faggot: you just described David Karp's personal features, sex life, and . . . other things I don't even wanna repeat."

"I wasn't finished."

"You ended your, like, two-minute summary, by saying, 'That's basically it' . . . then you brought up Karp's reproductive strugg --"

"Let's pretend none of this ever happened."

About three seconds later, the leach said: "Too bad: 's already on Facebook."

Let's excerpt other people's opinions of Fictional Companion. Sarah called it "a lovely pile of touching MP3s, too-true quotes, and sometimes-inspiring pics." She also requested that I post the song "Gingers Are Not Necessarily Lesser Folk," by -- of course -- Red-Haired Action. I'll decline, voraciously. Shvet declared my new blog "unhinged, unnecessary, unkempt, and unoriginal." The latter I'll accept. Most tumbleloggers are discoverers. Mostly, so am I. Er, I wanna say goodbye to Blogger for a sec. Oh, and quickly: sorry about the poll, but as you can see, I revitalized it. It's been a rough stretch, a sour patch in the Fictional Account webhold. We've gone through countless layout changes to bring you back to square one -- even baser. (Where's the subtitle?) We've endured a tough 2010 post. An aggravating foreground of unparalleled primitivity. Pushing it . . . but I thought "Oral Text" was scrumptious! A t-bone steak. "Willful Women" -- seven servings of canned lamb. Time for more links, guys. If you're an avid tweetist, vote for me to receive a Shorty Award. Ask me questions (anonymously if you want) here! Look at my minor invasion of Dave's privacy here. Kind of -- no, deliciously -- weird, odd, often strange, sometimes crepuscular . . . you know? Anyways and woes, I'm off into Tumblr, into a novel, into a band, Into the Wild. Dave's pants. I may or may not be kidding around; use discretion! So: I advise y'all to be patient and vote on my new poll on as many computers you can. Tell your friends to vote! If you're a character and you're reading this (that's impossible, though) . . . be like, "Best Friend #89009872302349, please vote for me at nickrapper.blogspot.com. Don't ask." He may respond: "Isn't that a hardcore porn site?" Then, tell them, politely, to GTFO and simply vote in my poll, noob. And visit this link. No one saw that coming. Neither the invention of a first-person Tetris game or my inclusion of its home on my delightful blog. Guys, I gotta go. I love you all. I'll be back on this blog in 35-40 days (when my poll ends!) Did I mention that I wanna violently hug you all, and eat you all, you all? Well: it's the truth. Plain and simple. Have fun. Touch Dave. Or not. God Bless. Be careful. Be reckless. Enjoy life. Take care!

Sincerely,

Nick