I woke up one day and decided it was time to have a mid-life crisis.
It was a Tuesday and I had nothing in my diary anyway. And aside from waking up on the wrong side of 18, I must have died on Facebook anyway because there wasn’t a single birthday reminder for me to ignore. What am I supposed to do now? I wondered. Not a birthday? Not a previous post on-this-day by-me-for-me-to-re-share?
Fuck all?
I have no instructions from the Zuk. I’m ZUKfucked I thought.
I mean, digitally, that’s the same as being mors dood. And although I woke up feeling like it, it felt a bit soon for it to be official.

Like the blunt that gets to me after my mate Eugene wakes up and realises that puff-puff-pass doesn’t include a lengthy description of the mating rituals of red worms, with much Whiskey-infused waving about of a dead doob.
Dead like that.

So that’s how it began I guess. More-or-less. How I started a process of realising there was a me on the way out and a new me on the way in.
Well immediately of course, I stopped paying my tiendes at kerk, stopped paying the rest of everything else to SARS, but started paying e-tolls because psilocybin makes you do funny things.

Like one time when I stopped at the collapsible Engen convenience shop off Linksfield road. I didn’t know what I actually wanted to put in my body’s nutrient-interface-orifice (inhabitants of earth call it a mouth), but somewhere inside of me, the collective committee that is me, said it wanted something to be put inside of it. “Exchange their currency for a thing“, they said. I asked, “What thing?”. They answered, “We’ll know when we see.” So there we stopped and off I went. We went. Anyway, long story short, every time I looked down an aisle to see where to walk to and look at things so decisions could be made, the end of the aisle would fokkof with a moerse speed in a moerse far direction. And then I would have to trap (trrrrap – for you rooineks), for days on end. To buy shit I didn’t know the names of, with currency I didn’t understand the value of, through a cashier I couldn’t comprehend the language of, with a wallet filled with things I just somehow had faith in for effecting an exchange. For things.
It was traumatising.

I still swerve left every time I see a Coke sign.

Eventually after choosing arbitrary things that spilled from my overflowing hands as I/we trekked lifetimes down one expandable aisle after another, I handed what remained to the cashier together with my entire wallet and motioned for him to perform the transaction. This was after we both had used unintelligible utterances with which to initiate and conduct the necessary communications.

It became clear to me that the vocal protocols were not installed in this unit.

It’s a good thing I was able to communicate to it with rough bodily gestures because when it rugby-tackled me at the portal to the outside again, it did so with my change. And my wallet. And my keys. These earth-folk are tough but honourable.

In spite of the earthian’s charity, the entire ordeal was still very trying to me, and I tried to tell my friend Andrew (who I had abandoned in the car) all of this, but found myself with him screaming and lashing out at a swamp-monster fuel-pump thing that was apparently lashing out at him. His kicking the car door in terror was oddly almost in time with the crude sounds that were issuing from a thing labeled “Quantum” standing next door. These quantums have very disturbing sounds but it’s comforting to see their advanced understanding of quantum-movement through your earthian peak traffic. They will have no problem parking Elon’s Tesla on Mars by 15:00. And be back in time for 7de laan.

But I digress.

Once I was that dead.

Now I’m not.

I’m mrofnoctonod

~ Once upon a time mrofnoctonod was in business and all about the business of doing business and then one day he woke up and realised he didn’t want to play that game anymore. I can’t play that game anymore. So, I wisely went ahead and lost everything and reinvented myself. And this is who I am.

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