How To Fail At Existentialism

Niet­z­sche: Ok guys most people are mind­less sheep, I’m just say­ing, give them jobs they like and maybe don’t pro­mote them to lead­er­ship positions?

Niet­z­sche: OH NO RANDROIDS

Her head is surrounded by the rings of UR-ANUS. GET IT GET IT

Social Evol­u­tion!

For­sooth, A Wild Gay APPEARS.

It is the rare TRANSPLAID:


After many BATTLES, it evolves to the bold GAYTARTAN:


Its final EVOLUTION is the ador­ably indi­vidual PAISEXY:


TRANSPLAID’s PREVOLUTION is of course QUIOLET, which is queerly enough, related to GAYPURPLE.

The truth is that those dear QUIOLET and GAYPURPLE are sadly related to the rather polit­ical VIOLENT.

Its evol­u­tion is the pat­ron­ising TRANSPLAINED, which after rant­ing on Tumblr, evolves to GAYTARD.

Its final form is FAILSLEY. Or FAILSEX. Whatever. At that point the dis­tinc­tion is moot and no-one cares anymore.

Abso­lutely Fabulous!

I, The Drug Dealer and Puppycat are, respect­ively, the Fash­ionista, the Barista and the Hip­sta of the hos­pital. The Three Mus­ket­eers of good fash­ion in the hos­pital, clad in excel­lent shirts, pants and two-toned shoes. It is pos­sible we loiter around like alley cats, talk­ing dirty.

It turned out that Puppycat had spent all of her time and money on makeup:

Look, I was being self-destructive. But fabulously.”

Pais­ley Thursday. Be there or be square.

A Jil­l­ion

I am like, a jil­l­ion years old.
A jil­l­ion is a 1000 fil­lions.
A fil­lion is at least 1/5 of a fire­fly.
A fire­fly is about 1/2 of a sea­son.
Thus, a fil­lion is about a fort­night.
A jil­l­ion is 38 years.
Well, about a jil­l­ion anyway.

An Update.

Dear All,

How has it been since I came out for the second time?

Amaz­ing. A huge relief. Scary at times. A little con­fus­ing but not that con­fus­ing, cer­tainly not as con­fus­ing as life was before. My head has been incred­ibly clear.

I’m Tom- short for Tomás- and I am cur­rently sit­ting around being well-dressed, smart, inter­est­ing and cool. I am mostly straight, I have two awe­some cats, I have star­ted reread­ing one of my favour­ite book series’, “The River­run Tri­logy” by S. P. Somtow, one of my favour­ite authors. I bought some new clothes and foun­tain pens on the week­end and caught up with friends. I am basic­ally con­ten­ted and complete.

One thing I really did not expect was it to be such a relief or for me to feel sud­denly so much bet­ter and so much hap­pier and con­fid­ent. I thought it would be much more con­fus­ing and harder in my head.

So, how has it been otherwise?

Other people have mostly been sup­port­ive, or at least con­grat­u­lat­ory. Ser­i­ously! It has been much much bet­ter than I had anti­cip­ated. I feel like I have a lot of people to talk to, and gen­er­ally they are all pretty awe­some! People have noticed that I look hap­pier and more con­fid­ent and that my demean­our has changed. I am con­stantly get­ting com­pli­ments about my new ward­robe (which looks pretty awe­some). It also helps that in gen­eral my friends have been inter­ested in the whole pro­cess! I think it is interesting!

Here is a photo:

How­ever, I have been a lot more sens­it­ive than I expec­ted in regards to when things have made me feel upset.

The people who have advert­ently or inad­vert­ently made me feel uncom­fort­able have fallen into the fol­low­ing camps:

  • Women (usu­ally) who say “But you can be female and still like mas­cu­line things”. Not the point, honey. Plus, what if I am a fem­in­ine man (I am).
  • Men (usu­ally) who are fix­ated on “But you don’t have a penis and phal­lo­plasty sucks”. None of your busi­ness, I would like to see how well you pleas­ure your partner(s), and once again, none of your busi­ness. (Actu­ally I am quite pleas­antly sur­prised at how little of this I got. Really, only one or two people)
  • People who jump the gun and become very insist­ent- even when I say I have not decided yet– on “So when are you doing X, Y or Z” when I have not made any decisions yet about whether I will do hor­mones or sur­gery or legal things. “Oh but you must!” — says who?
  • People who later make inap­pro­pri­ate jokes or jokes that hinge on me being a “girl”. For­tu­nately this has not happened often but when it has it has, it has hurt.
  • The wrong pro­noun. This is actu­ally prob­ably the least of my con­cerns. Most of which has just been a mat­ter of people for­get­ting inad­vert­ently. I can excuse that as long as even­tu­ally people get the hang of it.
  • Once again, the idea that “it only counts if you have done some­thing”. Some­times people for one reason or another choose not to take hor­mones or sur­gery at all, often for com­plex reas­ons. Does that some­how make their gender dif­fer­ent? Given that the first stage in any trans­ition any­way would be to “live as one’s gender”, I don’t see how this “does not count” or that close friends should be wait­ing to change their pro­noun use.
  • People post­ing links to anti-man rants that gen­er­al­ise everything about mas­culin­ity or man­hood or men as being patho­lo­gical or sug­gest that women should take over. Unhelp­ful. Inac­cur­ate. Counter-productive. And kind of hurt­ful, actu­ally. That sort of essen­tial­ism and black and white think­ing is exactly what made his­tor­ical male-centred pat­ri­arch­ies prob­lem­atic. Oh, wait, you did not mean to include me in your anti-man rant. Why is that exactly? Oh, right, because I am not a “real man”?

On a much more pos­it­ive and once again inter­est­ing note, since com­ing out quite a few people have approached me and said that what I have talked about really res­on­ated with them– either because they under­stood a friend/family/other people much bet­ter, or because what I was describ­ing really res­on­ated with their own exper­i­ences and for the the first time they had talked about it openly and it was good.

So I guess one small action some­times makes a big dif­fer­ence to the people around you in ways that are actu­ally kind of awe­some and unexpected.

Deutschy, cam­paign­ing for the Ori­ental Express since 1201!

Every­body Needs a Bosom for a Pillow

It has been con­clus­ively shown, via the power of the Inter­net but in par­tic­u­lar the power of the great minds of Ser­aphim and myself that Our needs (the needs of Human­ity & Co.) are quite simple; eleg­ant and con­cise, you might say:

  • Love pil­lows
  • That are called ‘cat*’
  • Made from a Japan­ese mater­ial that feels like boobs
  • That cleans the haus
  • Has 8 nipples
  • *May or may not be a cat (undeter­mined, due to Schrödinger)

Given that the Future is Now and that cats love Room­bas, clearly this is a thing that can and will happen.

I present to you:

Býůbž, Roomba cat love pillow

Býůbž, Roomba cat love pillow

This is Býůbž. His num­ber of but­tons :3.

The Truth About Cats

The other day, Puppycat, who is a puppy who is also a cat but not one of those infernal beasts known as a Cat­Dog, poin­ted out a fun­da­mental truth:

The truth is that whenever there are two cats, there is always an out­go­ing one and one weird reclus­ive one.

It’s true! There is a Pan­talai­mon the Camel Cat (who is cuddly and a ladies’ man) and a Noc­turne the Owl Cat (who lives under the bed and reads Anxi­ety Cat and casts spells).

There is a Hand­some Cat (a cuddly Bur­berry stripy cat) and a Pixie Cat (a skit­tish Tuxedo cat).

There is a Chloe Cat (a derptastic tor­toise­shell who always falls over) and a Jesse Cat (an emo who was born with the dis­ab­il­ity of being pure white).

There are the cats at the hos­pice at MMC– a play­ful older Devon Rex and a reclus­ive Psychic Hos­pice Cat who may or may not be Nurse Catte.

My good­ness!

The Truth About Doctors

Doc­tors are vam­pires. They are after your blood. They stare at your jug­u­lar and palp­ate your carot­ids. They listen to the seduct­ive drum­beat of your heart. They cut you and bleed you. They feast on the arcane signs found within your altered, filtered blood. They cast ritu­al­istic spells with it. They pre­dict the future. They never see the sun. They never sleep.

Their agents are the Blood Sis­ters, a goth/earth mother les­bian band of space elves who roam the wards early in the morn­ing bleed­ing patients willy-nilly, col­lect­ing their life-forces and not even car­ry­ing pagers.

And radi­olo­gists are the worst. With their X-ray vis­ion and their powers of ulti­mate rejec­tion, they are the most arcane wiz­ards of medi­cine, those with the ulti­mate right of veto. Radi­ation does not tem­per them, it makes them only stronger! They never see the sun and live in the dark, their pal­lid eyes sens­ing only elec­tro­mag­netic radi­ation in the non-visible spectrum.

Worse yet, radi­olo­gists are never awake between the hours of 5pm and 9am (which is why they reject your scan requests). Which makes them…



Every­one knows that deep down I exist in the realm of the Les­bian Space Elves. I am prob­ably one of those ones that ends up liv­ing on the dark sibling-planet on the other side of the orbit of the Les­bian Space Elf planet that con­tains SECRET SPACE ELF MANS who are also CATS.

Thus, this is the avatar of my Soul:



True Self Know­ledge is a kind gift that strikes one at the most tender of moments (wait­ing for blood products on the ward after hours).

How vam­piric!

The Death of all the Bromance

It was the best of times, it was the blurst of times. I was in pos­ses­sion of many fly­ing mon­keys, who I refer to as my duck­lings and/or min­ions.

It was the oncology/haematology/gastroenterology ward aka Home and It Was Good.

Marky Mark and Fetlife/G were hanging out at Home at the desk with me and Puppycat, who had just finally tamed the manly and frayed ends of my motor­cycle jeans . It became obvi­ous that Fetlife/G and Marky Mark had a spe­cial bond (which is sim­ilar but dif­fer­ent to Fetlife/G’s ‘bromance’ with Puppycat):

Me: You guys have such a bromance! It’s bromantic!

Puppycat: It’s totally not gay.

Me: It’s only gay if the balls touch!

Puppycat and I burst into uncon­trol­lable spasms of laughter.

Marky Mark and Fetlife/G look at each other and at us nonplussed.

Puppycat and I con­tinue to giggle.

Marky Mark and Fetlife/G look incred­ibly disturbed.

Gig­gling con­tin­ues for 30 mins.

That Damn Sniper Dude. Totally free for pro­fes­sional devel­op­ment tutori­als at all times. Don’t call him, he’ll call you!


They fought that day, Father and St Ant­ony. Ant­ony is my brother, Saint because that’s what every­one treats him like. God. Except Father Super­ior, of course. That’s because he’s the Father of God.

The words burst into my ears from down­stairs. This wasn’t just another fight. So I stopped. Looked in the mir­ror at this man, sorry, girl. I pulled the cuffs long, adjus­ted the navy silk bow-tie, smoothed the eye­brow pen­cil mous­tache and really looked. My hair, just cut, was the right length for the suit. I would have made a great guy. I grinned quickly to myself, ran my fin­gers through my hair.

My brother blas­ted some more abuse at Father, the kind of stuff he got away with.

Shut up! You shut up now!” Father finally shouted some author­ity crap at him. Dream on, city boy. Then a thud, crash, splinter. What the hell was that? I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to know. I breathed in and looked back up into the mirror.

I slowly ran my clammy fin­gers down my jaw, then across Father’s stiff, smooth, Armani shirt col­lar. Down to my pain­ful breasts, hot and bare against the clean fab­ric and to my quaver­ing heart.

There was a thwack. An animal shriek. Thud­ding steps on the staircase.

What was I doing? I tore off the suit, fol­ded it. Ran back to my room naked and guilty. Shit, shit, where were my clothes? I ducked into the closet as they ran into my room. Father hit Ant­ony, hit him so hard. Every time he opened his mouth, another slap. Maybe a punch. But that wasn’t all that caught me. It was what he was wear­ing. I knew what this was about. And I knew where my clothes were.

Sniper­girl or Peter Pan or how to mans.

(the tl;dr ver­sion of this is that I am a man and I’ve just put it together. A female bod­ied man I guess whatever that means. But I think the nar­rat­ive below is worth read­ing, as is the rant about the state of the mod­ern man)

Dear All,

When I was 15, I wrote my first ever good short story. I did it as a writ­ing exer­cise — I’d decided that I really liked writ­ing and I was going to do it some­what ser­i­ously. Every­one knows that in writ­ing this story I also got my other pseud­onym, “Sniper­girl” from the incred­ibly cool Hallowe’en out­fit a caller into the radio had had (“I went as Sniper­girl!” she said). But I haven’t really talked about the story itself.

It was kind of an awful time for my fam­ily in that basic­ally every­one had decided to self-destruct. In the back­ground, I’d dis­covered that I was into girls. Really into girls. And I was just recov­er­ing from being incred­ibly depressed while being at an all-girls school where every­one was para­noid about “the gays”. Oh yes, and one of my friends had outed me a year pre­vi­ous. For such an awful time it might be sur­pris­ing but there were some pretty hil­ari­ous times too.

I had star­ted sneak­ing into my dad’s ward­robe and put­ting on shirts and ties and pants. Believe me when I say I make a pretty cute guy. I do. It would make me feel sim­ul­tan­eously scared and excited (in a non sexual way). One of my first memor­ies is of walk­ing next to my dad when I was 3, con­vinced that I was going to grow up to be a man just like him.

I idol­ised my father as a child. I did not real­ise that he had been thwarted in his desire for a “per­fect son” by my brother hav­ing aut­ism. So luck­ily for me I guess I got to absorb all the les­sons a father gives a son. Like how to match a tie and a shirt? Or that real men can cook?

But mov­ing coun­tries and puberty changes everything. My dad got really weird and my fam­ily self-destructed. It’s no won­der that so many stor­ies are writ­ten about the end of puberty I guess. Just think of Peter Pan.

So Sniper­girl is about a girl(?) who sneaks into her father’s ward­robe and puts on his suit furt­ively while her dad and brother are hav­ing a phys­ical fight down­stairs. I did not real­ise what a hell I was liv­ing in until I left. Still, it could have been worse. I was not sexu­ally abused or raped. My par­ents were crazy but our home envir­on­ment and my par­ents could have been much worse. I could have had broken bones and bruises. I could have been someone without the means to get friends or help. I could have not been smart and focused enough to get into med­ical school and escape.

I came out as being into girls at the end of high school too. My par­ents didn’t accept it for years. Now they do. But I have never iden­ti­fied as a les­bian. Bisexual woman? It does not feel hon­est. But a mostly-straight man does. It feels unbe­liev­ably hon­est. I finally recog­nise the per­son in the mir­ror.

I am a man. A mostly straight man. An effem­in­ate, silly camp man. A man who isn’t afraid to wear pink and give out manly hugs. A man who is full of per­sonal strength and some per­sonal weak­ness. An hon­est and warm man with integ­rity. A man who is in touch with his fem­in­ine side. A man who is strong and sup­port­ive. A man who rides a motor­bike and plays gui­tar and some­times wears flan­nel and watched rugby at the pub the other day. A man who paints and likes flowers and writes poetry.

In other words I am incred­ibly com­fort­able with myself and my man­hood.

I do not need hor­mones or sur­gery or to be born XY with a huge cock for that. (I am more than sat­is­fied with my abil­ity to pleas­ure hot girls in bed, thanks)

What does it mean to be a man? Good ques­tion. Other than the obvi­ous (gender iden­tity), for me it means being an adult man and not a man-child. What does it mean to be an adult? It means being someone who takes respons­ib­il­ity for my actions. That’s about it. It’s pos­sible to be a respons­ible adult who plays with Lego and jokes around and some­times takes a sick day and some­times needs other people. Being a man doesn’t neces­sit­ate being a moun­tain man liv­ing in a log cabin (though, the thought is appeal­ing).

So I guess it is an ongo­ing dis­ap­point­ment to see that my age peers have a sig­ni­fic­ant minor­ity of man-children. People who define their sense of self by whether or not they are “banging hot chicks”. Or like the “men” who once did a fur­niture removal for me, base their sense of self on mak­ing fun of a poor dis­abled woman say­ing “would you root that”. Abus­ive men. Needy men. Men who use their pos­i­tion of power to lie and cheat. Men who refuse to have under­stand­ing of those who are less for­tu­nate than they are and instead whinge about how tough they have it because no-one real­ises what a “nice guy” they are. Entitled men. Broken men.

I don’t know what the solu­tion is. The major­ity of 30 year old men are not like this. I am sur­roun­ded by awe­some, inspir­ing, sup­port­ive men. Some of them have men­tal health issues. They are not per­fect. They have flaws. But they are good men.

Hav­ing grown up with the exper­i­ence of a woman’s life I can say that women out­side of fam­ily struc­tures sup­port each other and define a sup­port­ive iden­tity for each other in a way that men have only rel­at­ively recently star­ted to do. Women struggled a lot — and much more than the mod­ern man — until they ban­ded together and star­ted help­ing each other.

I star­ted the week won­der­ing what it is to be a man and it turned out that I was lucky enough to have had pos­it­ive role mod­els in my fam­ily and around me. And I still struggled. I struggled with being a needy man and a “nice guy” in my late teens and the very very start of my twen­ties (until women kicked my ass and I was forced to grow up). Many of my male friends went through sim­ilar exper­i­ences. Almost all of them got over it, as I did, fairly early on. But a few slipped through the cracks and they are the “lost boys”. The guys blam­ing women and fem­in­ism and other men and racial minor­it­ies for their prob­lems. Look­ing online, con­vinced that spend­ing thou­sands of dol­lars learn­ing the “art of seduc­tion” will cure the deep, hor­rible black void within them.

It sad­dens me immensely. It is a major prob­lem. Some of these people are the rap­ists and abus­ive part­ners and par­ents that cause so much dark­ness around them. That per­petu­ate the prob­lem where young people — male and female — grow up exposed to viol­ence and abuse and neg­lect and inap­pro­pri­ate rela­tion­ship mod­els.

There is a reason that chil­dren do bet­ter in a single (non-abusive) par­ent fam­ily than with two par­ents of whom one is abus­ive or unsup­port­ive.

It is a prob­lem that is too big for me to really cover or con­tem­plate fully right now. But I am myself and I am free and happy and com­plete. I am myself and I glow as bright as the sun on a summer’s day.

Deutschy, mov­ing zug since 1804 for great justice.

IIMS: Sooth­ing Relax­a­tion Big Brother Edition

Look around you: IIMS.

Ima­gine your­self on a beau­ti­ful beach: IIMS.

The light­house is actu­ally a pan­op­ticon and its eye is star­ing straight at you: IIMS.

Think deeply about mead­ows: IIMS.

Now you are sink­ing deeper and deeper into the ocean: IIMS.

Under­neath the ocean is a sub­mar­ine: IIMS.

Also Cthulhu: IIMS.

Cthulhu is w͙̗̜͔̹̤ͯͬ̆͋͞a̷̫̖̖̬̰̞̖ͧͬ̊t̴̀̒c̨͕͖h̜͖̃́̓͂̅i̯̒n̹̰̳̜̿̈ͨ̌ͪg̯̞͙͕ ̝̭̳̩̂̈́ͥͫ͂͘y͖͎̥̝̋̑ͣ̆o̫͖̤̲̲͎̤ͨu̮͍̲̱ͬͪͩ̑͂ and may or may not be put­ting in an I͍͔̝͉̭̳͖͊ͧͨ͆͛̐̏I̛͚͚̳͓͓̗̝ͪͫ̓ͩ͊̆͆͠M̸̥̈́̑̀Sͩ̐̽ͪ͏̘̲̠̟: IIMS.

As the demonic effigy takes over your sub­con­scious mind you slowly sink into the utter relax­a­tion of IIMS.



Want to show your sup­port for IIM­Sing every day? Why, this t-shirt is prob­ably for you!

The #YOLO gen­er­a­tion will #IIMS because #TGIF and #LMAO!


2014-05-23 21_20_07-WHEN IN DOUBT_ IIMS EVERYTHING -

This lovely piece of apparel fea­tures the car­dinal rules of IIMS:

  1. There is only one real way to deal with dis­putes: IIMS.
  2. Intern leav­ing the ward to urin­ate: IIMS.
  3. Received IIMSIIMS.
  4. For­got to put in an IIMSIIMS.
  5. Did an IIMSIIMS.
  6. Not sure whether to IIMS or not? IIMS.
  7. No-one did an IIMSIIMS.
  8. Empty beds: IIMS.
  9. Hos­pital is full: IIMS.
  10. IIMS is full of IIMSIIMS.
  11. Busy doing actual work: IIMS.

Happy IIMS!


It has become clear that there is only one real way to deal with dis­putes in the Hospital:

What is an “IIMS” you may ask. How dare you ask. That’s def­in­itely worthy of an IIMS. And after that IIMS, there is only one way to respond. With an IIMS.


Patient bed move: IIMS.

Intern leav­ing the ward to urin­ate: IIMS (doc­tors must always be in acute rental feulire)

Doc­tor starts gig­gling: IIMS.

Doc­tor does an IIMS: IIMS.

Patient is on Liso­prolol: IIMS.

Patient is in bed: IIMS.

Patient is not in bed: IIMS.

Cats sleep­ing on a bed: IIMS.

Cat doesn’t sleep on dying patient in hos­pice: IIMS.

Doc­tor makes a joke with a patient: IIMS.

Patient has unevent­ful recov­ery in hos­pital: IIMS.

Nurse and doc­tor are friends: Def­in­ite IIMS.

Received IIMS: IIMS.

For­got to put in an IIMS: IIMS.

Did an IIMS: IIMS.

Mak­ing fun of the intern: IIMS.

Nurse is a catte: IIMS.

Patient’s fam­ily thanks the treat­ing team: IIMS.

Staff mem­bers are not using the broom closet for repro­duct­ive ses­sions: IIMS.

Doctor’s room doesn’t have spare physio­ther­apy equip­ment and nurs­ing office in it: IIMS.

Intern thinks “cath­et­ers are piss easy”: IIMS.

Think­ing aloud: IIMS.

Some­thing is done for the patient: IIMS.

Noth­ing is done for the patient: IIMS.

Think­ing about doing some­thing for the patient? IIMS.

Patient decides to put in an IIMS: IIMS.

Empty beds: IIMS.

All the beds are full of patients: IIMS.

Patient is still in hos­pital: IIMS the patient.

Recurs­ive Möbius Meta­pseudoIIMS: IIMS.

Not sure whether to IIMS or not? IIMS.

No-one did an IIMS: IIMS.

Busy doing actual work: IIMS.

No-one is at a tea break, teach­ing, depart­ment meet­ing, mul­tidiscip­lin­ary meet­ing, IIMS com­mit­tee meet­ing, IIMS response depart­ment chapter branch masonic bap­tism or tak­ing a dump: IIMS.

Patient got their Liso­prolol: IIMS.

Patient is on Neur­o­fen: IIMS.

Patient enjoyed a hos­pital meal: IIMS.

Patient is steal­ing hos­pital sup­plies that no-one else wanted any­way: IIMS.

Patient has nine lives because patient is actu­ally a catte: IIMS.

Doc­tors love to IIMS: IIMS.

Nurses love to IIMS: IIMS.

IIMS com­mit­tee depart­ment response chapter branch masonic bap­tism of fire prin­ciple IIMS respon­ded to by an IIMS in the appro­pri­ate fash­ion: IIMS.


Even those who know how to LADIES do know how to IIMS and those who may CATS may also IIMS.

There is no limit to IIMS. IIMS everything.

IIMS is the very found­a­tion of the hos­pital system.

IIMS is the major employ­ment of admin­is­trat­ive staff.

IIMS crashed the IIMS sys­tem due to over­whelm­ingly IIMS of the IIMS and it got IIMS.

Someone sus­pec­ted IIMS of being a fun­da­mental force of nature and that was shown to be IIMS.

Every­one was insep­ar­able from their IIMS. When severed, their soul frag­men­ted into mul­tiple meta­pneumo­cysticosili­co­coni­osisIIMS.

The heav­ens trembled and the only people safe from IIMS were a close-knit group of friends, all bound together by their shared secret IIMS.

The IIMS emerged from the bowels of the patients and the light­nings of the plate­let machine that fea­tured a prom­in­ently IIMS.

It was given form by the earths of wards­men stand­ing guard over the patient beds in the lifts of the hos­pital, replete with nurse-cattes, and IIMS was found to be the words of IIMS.

A CEO was Abbor­ted within the broom closet in which the eld­erly IIMS were sequestered.

The masonic IIMS com­mit­tee wor­shipped the gods that were both IIMS and not of IIMS but some­how were also IIMS.

And lo, there was IIMS, and there was noth­ing that the faith­ful band of trav­el­lers could pro­tect the patients from.

And the IIMS rav­aged the land with legs made of IIMS and scuttled amongst the bod­ies of the IIMS.

Piles of IIMS like a waste­land rose through­out the land and alas the end was nigh.

Infin­ite mul­ti­plic­a­tion of the IIMS that had called forth IIMS from the void had gathered like bac­teroides within a nec­rotic tumour and, lo, the IIMS was one with IIMS and all that had IIMSed the IIMS.

A shud­der as the world dis­solved amongst a sea of infin­itely IIMS IIMS and the words floated into the nec­rotic soul of the plate­let machine closet and the masons built an edi­fice that was only of IIMS.

The light­house called the IIMS forth and all



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