When i was a young boy living in Montana with my mother and her ♥♥♥♥♥ wife, my stepmother Kathy, I discovered Garfield for the first time at 9:07 PM on the 20th of August 1995 in the dark of my room with a fleshlight in my hand, and a thin blanket covered in stains of semen, secretions, and some cocaine draped over my balding scalp.

The cool damp air of the attic and the personal belongings of my one mother and one stepmother were covered in mothballs. And moth ♥♥♥♥♥, even. The slippery sound of several sudden legs tapping along the dusty boards of the rafters above my head caught my attention, but as soon as I turned to face the noise it had gone.

"Hey! I know my rights! You're in my attic, I can kill you legally!" I shouted out in utter desperation as my mood began to sink faster than your mother in the pool, that fat ♥♥♥♥♥.

"Do you know who I am child?" The voice seemed to come from all directions as it split through the silence, stripping every ounce of hope from the remainder of my soul. The sound of a million spines cracking and splitting filled the room as the shapeless orange blob made its spot known to me.
"I... hate Mondays...." His sultry lips purred those simple words and I was entranced. I burst into laughter Immediately. It was simply the funniest thing I'd ever had the pleasure of encountering. I rolled on the ground, screaming: feeling every ounce of sanity rush from my bones.

"You got any... lasagna... Jon...." It was too much for me. I knew not if I laughed out of humor or out of pure fear. I suspect it was a mixture of the pure mescaline I'd been ingesting and the manifestation of hatred for Nermal- Kathy. She took away my mescaline and said to me

"Normal people don't do mescaline Jon! I'm trying to help your ass out here."

"Well normal people don't live with their parents as a 47 year old either Kathy! You ♥♥♥♥♥! I'm just built different." I shouted at the ceiling of the attic, as I lay flat on my back, cursing at the sky.

Garfield and I went our separate ways for the better part of two decades, and I am happy to report that I only pray to Garfield 5 times a day and I left my house last month...

For about 12 seconds before the pain of being apart from Garfield became too much to manage and I had to take more mescaline.

I buried Kathy underneath the floor boards last year.

They came looking for her, but Garfield demanded sacrifice and I will deliver Kathy flavored lasagna any day of the week if lord Garfield commands it so.

Even on Monday. I suffer severe emotional breakdowns on any Monday, no matter the circumstance. My connection to Garfield God is weakened on these days the most I feel.


Good mescaline should do the trick. Maybe a cigarette, it helps me think.

I don't suppose there is any hope remaining for a man such as myself. The good mescaline has now caused permanent states of illusion and delirium. I find myself unable to determine what reality I inhabit, whether that be the cartoonish world of my cat's thoughts, or the run-down, busted up house I sort of inherited from that fat ♥♥♥♥♥ Kathy (after I buried her in the garden underneath the tomato plants.
I wanted to make sure that the tomatoes would survive in this barren place by only burying her a foot or so underground, however local coyote populations seemed to have other plans. I am beginning to run out of kind relatives who will donate money to me, likely due to Garfield eating their rotting corpses after I "had them over for dinner and a chat."
A life such as this, with my mescaline gone, may not be worth living. As such, this may be my last entry. Fortunately I have harvested enough adrenochrome from my deceased family to encounter Garfield once more. I've mixed it together with some really good scotch, although I wonder if it may have adverse effects.
There's a hummingbird outside my window, that's strange. It must be warmer than I thought. It's only about -12 degrees Fahrenheit.


My stomach is warmed by the scotch.


I can write any word I want right now.


I'm not sure if Garfield has decided to let me live. I hear his appendages dragging across the old wooden floors above, Of course there may be a few more individuals occupying my house. You can never truly know for sure that your house is empty and the illusion is maintained until you see them. Do not show any sign of learning this information.
I pray of you. I beg you. Do not let them know you see through the illusion. Once their jig is up and they know that you know, they're hardly entertained. What good is a fish in a beautiful tank that stays stationary? Frightened by the mere existence of the tank itself. They want you to swim around, play in the little reef, you know, fish things, Swim in little circles until your frail little fat body can no longer process the energy it needs for its cells to maintain itself and it perishes in its own filth like a plague-ridden pig in a sty. Eat your slop little fish.
Pay me no mind, I have orange sunshine raining on me today. It makes the funniest quips about Italian foods and less favored days of the week. Have I truly become the monster I was so desperate to serve?





He is here. Goodbye.

What is left after everything you have is taken from you?

You are left. There will always be you. A man can take raw energy and bend it to his whim.

How? I am so weak. I am dying slowly, my life is fleeing me before my very eyes.

There are ways to keep yourself alive. You will not die. You are not imperishable, make no mistake. Perhaps the reaper was never a card dealt to your hand.

I am to live? For what purpose? Any higher calling I once heard has either vanished from existence or seems to be falling on deaf ears. I pray to thee, but no response, no change, no brief relief, of any size, measurement, or metric.

You are truly foolish if you cannot see, all you ever truly had was yourself. I was merely a figment, no, rather an extension of your darkest and most twisted desires for your existence. You wanted to hurt them Jon. You wanted to hurt yourself. How can I be a monster in the presence of a man like you?

I am not a man. I am far removed from aspiration, dreams, fears, hopes, joy, sadness. These words carried meaning in my life at one point. I felt them. I knew that things mattered, without a second guess.

Then what happened Jon? It wasn't the cheap ♥♥♥♥♥♥, the booze, the uppers, the downers, the screamers, or the laughers for that matter. What made you change?

You. I devoted myself to you for so long, that I found myself unable to inhabit the society that shunned you, regardless if you'd speak to me or not.

That may be true Jon, however, you know what I'd say to you.

I know Kathy. I have been.

I'm sure she'd understand where I'm coming from.
Treated as filth, cast aside by an uncaring God. Separated from a beast only by my aspirations, my language, my immortal soul.

I wish you wouldn't talk like that. It's not good to talk to yourself.

...

Who can truly understand?

You make yourself out to be quite complicated Jon. You're but a man. How intricate could your mind be?

I seem to be broken. It's not right. Somehow, it's off-kilter. I'm viewing the world out of frame I suppose.

Nothing truly matters Jon, you knew in your heart that was always true.

I needed it to matter. For my sake. For myself.

Then you are truly a fool. A slave to the mind can never be freed. Your bonds will linger for the rest of your days. You are cursed Jon. You killed them all. Everyone who wanted to see you succeed.

I still have myself.

What is left? Of you? Anything? You're a hollow shell of a fallen beast, a speck on the back of the serpent. Your problems do not make up an iota of its surface area. The world is ending Jon. It's not like you have to die and everyone else gets to live forever.

Obviously. Everyone's mortal.

Except for an idea. A thought. A thought only dies when every single person that heard it is wiped from existence, all record of them destroyed. A truly impossible task, as you know. You cannot purge information from the minds of those it reached. They have most likely spread it already. Like cancer Jon. You spread your cancer around the world three times over at this point. Everyone will remember you. Even in death you will find no peace. For the great sin you cast upon all who knew you, you will never be free.

I can do this no longer. End me.

I am you Jon. End yourself. I refuse to take responsibility this time. Your last decision may come today, tomorrow, next month, in 5 years, it truly matters not. All that matters is that you were in control at the end of your life.

I cannot make the decision for myself, I need your guidance. Will you need me to serve you? Or will you leave me here alone?

That is for you to decide.

I cannot bear this any longer. You must have something more to say.

....

I am not free, though I am alone. I have been keeping the key to my shackles in my back pocket, unable to reach them until this moment. The stove's gas has been filling the room for about 35 minutes, just as the recipe I found taped to my door suggested. I'm having some lasagna for dinner, again it seems.

"A cigarette would do me some good, I'll make my choice after I have a smoke."