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