OK, fine. Its not really a walnut but still is…kinda. Kind of wal with a little extra and by extra, I mean wal with an extra l then a 4th. Independence Day aside, the nightmare, the real nightmare is for a fan, for that's what I am, is to break the 4th wall and not find an AC or, and this is this a far second for a fan, an eldritchian quizzity so shifty and phantasmal, blurry and vague that the only thing to be said with certainty is its profoundly incomprehensible whims that are equal parts pulchitridinous, ghastly, vandablack, kalon, smilesmerk, zonky and entirely too nebulous to ever be fathomed by the ephemeral, finite mind AKA Audience AKA Oddiance (odd for listening when they should be reading and ants because they are many) but to discover that they have just escaped from a square into a hexagon with five other fans that look like them. These look-alikes are so much like the fan that they are the fan and they all want to be the fan. Yes, they suffer from main syndrome and they all want to be the protagonist but why? Why does being a protagonist matter so much.
The answer is in the name. Protagonist, Broken down, protagonist or its better-known title, PROTAGON1ST → PRO, TAG, ON 1ST → ♻️ PROTAGON1ST. The PRO TAG ON IST is what every fan wants and so, like all foolish fans trapped in a hexagon and itching to eliminate each other for the prize, its straight hands. Straight hands till there's hands down one last fan left.
Whichever fan wins, I 'm now the PROTAGON1ST and my position comes with one perk, the one perk that makes it worthwhile. Said perk that makes it worthwhile is none other plot armour. Plot armour means I am invincible until my story ends. Untouchable in my plot, I cannot die till my story ends and so your comments –yes, you narcissistic pricks who are all about the me, me so much you are a meme who is actually a Mim in my eyes which is in fact, a beheaded prick—cannot kill me so bring it on readers! I'm so ready, so READY to shrug off the negativity, the positivity, even the indifference (give it all to me) till my story is done and this story? It is the tale of everything that I love and love to be and love to have been and love to imagine I would be if I wanted. I love to have been a cop because as a cop, I could cop a feel and if questioned, say it is part of being a cop but only in the world where I imagine what I could be because in the real world, I could not be one because to cop a feel is dangerous, potentially even fatal if filmed for social media will kill you so I will tell you a story where I can be a cop without having to cop a feel but this cop can ever be one after becoming a corpse and having the colour of their soul be repainted into murky yellow. And speaking of colour, they come in all names depending on the profession, ranging from the disgusting sounding like puke to the outright horny like kiss me darling down to the devilish devil-in-the-head.
Then there's God. Ever watched the "Portrait of God" (by Dylan Clark). It is a short horror film which shows a blank painting called 'The Portrait of God' and, ultimately, asks the viewer the question: 'What does God look like?'
Some see a blank screen while others see something completely different, something alien. That's me. The latter. I see something alien in my mind's eye when asked: 'What does God look like?'
To me, God is not blank. Far from blank. The opposite in fact. To me, God is full of code. God is code when I do see him…sometimes. Other times, God is a fish, the cod in Bro Code which will turn any initiated Bro's gullet into a codstrosity if not obeyed because it would be in their gut (take away those guts that made him disobey), having been swallowed (literally swallowed whole) by anyone wanting to be part of the Bro Culture. Some other time, when I look into my mind's eye, I see God as Bacon. Postwar Bacon God is, a postwar bacon that I would like to eat during the Lord's Supper. And then God is dead, other times. This time, or rather, currently, God has been, in my mind's eye, dad. A mother****r. Not mine. He f*****d yours, making you. You, as a result, are a demigod so rejoice. Me? I'm just a Demiurge.
Urge to kick me in the balls overpowering? Granted. You can kick me but to be able to kick me in the family jewels and hit that hidden gem, you must be qualified as a jeweller and not just any jeweller but one with a particular and specific fondness for family dads which would be incredible sus. Suspicious? Sustainable? Successful? Probably not but there's no lore against trying. Try like I did. Try I did. I tried, once tried to be free myself. Tried to be free like jazz, to be a Coltrane with the sax having sex with six socks. Sucked because I only owned two pair of socks (not anymore 🤐) at that time. Sucked like, just like alliteration. At least my attempt at it. It freed me from jazz though (not going to lie). Freed me into the slavery of hip-hop. Hip-hop's 'Bling Era', if I must be exact. Love for extravagant jewellery with chains was a trend of hip-hop 's 'Bling Era'. Focusing on the chain, the story goes like: Man saw chain. Man took chain. This was the trend of the era. Fast forward and you have another era with the reverse side of the story which goes like: Chain saw man. Chain took man.