To the douchebag in the comments for the previous post:
I am not impressed with how many Blogger accounts you can make. If you are really the person who wrote this manuscript (which I doubt), you can come to my office and politely ask for it back if you want. If not, please refrain from posting on my blog.
Thank you.
Sincerely,
Pete (Properly Paranoid)
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Chapter Seven: Paradox
"Newcomb's Paradox." I looked it up. It's a thought experiment.
Imagine there is someone that can predict the future with 99.99% accuracy. "The Predictor" they are called. Then imagine there are two boxes in front of you, the Player of Games. Box A and Box B. The Player is allowed to take one or both boxes. Box A always has a thousand dollars in it. However, Box B might or might not have a million dollars in it. It all depends on what the Predictor predicts.
If the Predictor predicts that the Player will take both boxes, Box B will have nothing. If the Predictor predicts the Player will only take Box B, it will contain a million dollars.
It seems simple, right? Take both. Take both and you will either get a thousand or a million and a thousand. If the Predictor is wrong. But the Predictor has always been right.
The Player does not know the prediction. The prediction cannot be changed once the game is in play.
Now imagine that instead of money, inside the boxes contains the Player's fate. Life and death. One choice leads to everything working out fine, the other leads to a horrible and quite painful death.
I think I am the Player.
I need to play the game.
Imagine there is someone that can predict the future with 99.99% accuracy. "The Predictor" they are called. Then imagine there are two boxes in front of you, the Player of Games. Box A and Box B. The Player is allowed to take one or both boxes. Box A always has a thousand dollars in it. However, Box B might or might not have a million dollars in it. It all depends on what the Predictor predicts.
If the Predictor predicts that the Player will take both boxes, Box B will have nothing. If the Predictor predicts the Player will only take Box B, it will contain a million dollars.
It seems simple, right? Take both. Take both and you will either get a thousand or a million and a thousand. If the Predictor is wrong. But the Predictor has always been right.
The Player does not know the prediction. The prediction cannot be changed once the game is in play.
Now imagine that instead of money, inside the boxes contains the Player's fate. Life and death. One choice leads to everything working out fine, the other leads to a horrible and quite painful death.
I think I am the Player.
I need to play the game.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Chapter Six: Cause
I finally saw the cause of my misery and pain. I finally saw the conspiracy's core, the thing that moves the world around like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, setting everything up just right.
I was looking for DEATH again. I wanted to ask her so many questions, questions that plagued my mind and made me restless and sleepless. I looked for DEATH and I found something worse.
I saw it out of the corner of my eye. I do not know if I could see it if I tried looking directly upon it, but it was out of the corner of my eye that I saw it and it was in the corner of my eye that it stayed.
It was in the outline of a woman. The figure of a woman. But it was just the outline. A stark white outline, like a chalk drawing done in the middle of the room. And inside the outline was...nothing. A blank white nothingness.
I stopped what I was doing and just waited. I waited for it to move, for it to walk forward on its nothing legs and reach out with its nothing arms. But it didn't. It didn't move at all. And I knew: this was the cause. The primal cause, the cause of all things. The conspiracy in the cracks, all of it.
This outline of nothing. This woman in white.
At that moment, I felt my fingers move without me. They sought release, to type words into a keyboard. I didn't want to move, but my fingers wanted to type, to write something out. Something wanted to be born in letters and sentences, but I was fixed in place. Finally, my hands found a pen and one wrote on the other with frantic scribblings.
I glanced down at my hand and then glanced back up, but the outline of the woman was gone. Or perhaps it was still there, but I could no longer see it.
I looked down at my hand again to see what my fingers had written. There were just two words and I, unfortunately, had no idea what they meant:
NEWCOMB'S PARADOX.
I was looking for DEATH again. I wanted to ask her so many questions, questions that plagued my mind and made me restless and sleepless. I looked for DEATH and I found something worse.
I saw it out of the corner of my eye. I do not know if I could see it if I tried looking directly upon it, but it was out of the corner of my eye that I saw it and it was in the corner of my eye that it stayed.
It was in the outline of a woman. The figure of a woman. But it was just the outline. A stark white outline, like a chalk drawing done in the middle of the room. And inside the outline was...nothing. A blank white nothingness.
I stopped what I was doing and just waited. I waited for it to move, for it to walk forward on its nothing legs and reach out with its nothing arms. But it didn't. It didn't move at all. And I knew: this was the cause. The primal cause, the cause of all things. The conspiracy in the cracks, all of it.
This outline of nothing. This woman in white.
At that moment, I felt my fingers move without me. They sought release, to type words into a keyboard. I didn't want to move, but my fingers wanted to type, to write something out. Something wanted to be born in letters and sentences, but I was fixed in place. Finally, my hands found a pen and one wrote on the other with frantic scribblings.
I glanced down at my hand and then glanced back up, but the outline of the woman was gone. Or perhaps it was still there, but I could no longer see it.
I looked down at my hand again to see what my fingers had written. There were just two words and I, unfortunately, had no idea what they meant:
NEWCOMB'S PARADOX.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Chapter Five: Headache
I woke up with a raging headache. Something is wrong with my head. It feels like something is bursting to escape. If I split my head open, would Athena emerge, her helmet dripping with gore, her spear covered in gray matter?
I am seeing DEATH more and more. I don't know what to make of her. Is she an omen? Has the conspiracy finally decided that I am to be dealt with? If so, they are taking the slow approach. I can feel them creepy up on me in every rusty nail avoided, in every accident missed.
Is DEATH protecting me from the conspiracy? Am I supposed to do something? Am I supposed to accomplish something before I die? Before she takes my hand with her sharp fingers and leads me into whatever awaits on the other side?
The headache is getting worse. It's concentrating in my left ear now. A pain, an ache, a dull throb. And then it rises suddenly, like a spike in the side of my head. And I can feel it building up again, just waiting for that moment, that spike, when I will clutch my head and beg for the release of death.
i can feel it fingers myfingersaremoving icantstopthem
I am seeing DEATH more and more. I don't know what to make of her. Is she an omen? Has the conspiracy finally decided that I am to be dealt with? If so, they are taking the slow approach. I can feel them creepy up on me in every rusty nail avoided, in every accident missed.
Is DEATH protecting me from the conspiracy? Am I supposed to do something? Am I supposed to accomplish something before I die? Before she takes my hand with her sharp fingers and leads me into whatever awaits on the other side?
The headache is getting worse. It's concentrating in my left ear now. A pain, an ache, a dull throb. And then it rises suddenly, like a spike in the side of my head. And I can feel it building up again, just waiting for that moment, that spike, when I will clutch my head and beg for the release of death.
i can feel it fingers myfingersaremoving icantstopthem
ON THE NAILS OF NORNS AND THE NIGHT-OWL'S BEAK
THE WOMAN IN WHITE WILL LET OUT A SHRIEK
THE FATE OF THE GODS SHALL BE UTTER AND BLEAK
AND THOUGH SHE IS DEAD SHE CAN STILL SPEAK
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Chapter Four: DEATH
I can feel it building up in the air. Like a storm, exactly like a storm, except there is no way to predict where the lightning will strike or when or what will happen when it does. In fact, there may be no lightning at all. I can feel it building up in the air with no release in sight, suffocating me with portentousness, with ominous feelings. Like this is the END of the WORLD and EVERYTHING is going to BREAK DOWN into CHAOS. All of the BUILDINGS and STREETS and CARS and AIRPLANES will BREAK DOWN and people will FALL out of the SKY like DROPS of RAIN and
What am I saying? Why do I get like this? Is the conspiracy trying to make me insane or do I know about the conspiracy because I am insane? Where do I draw the line? How do I know certain things are real and certain things are not?
I have never seen the conspiracy at work. They perform their actions, work their miracles, behind everyone's backs, in the secret corners of the Earth. Not in alleyways, but in the offshoots of alleyways, in the hidden spaces no one knows.
But I have seen DEATH. DEATH is something different. DEATH is not a part of the conspiracy. DEATH is the only thing outside of the conspiracy, outside of everything.
As I walked to my car, after work, I saw DEATH.
She had fingers like knives.
What am I saying? Why do I get like this? Is the conspiracy trying to make me insane or do I know about the conspiracy because I am insane? Where do I draw the line? How do I know certain things are real and certain things are not?
I have never seen the conspiracy at work. They perform their actions, work their miracles, behind everyone's backs, in the secret corners of the Earth. Not in alleyways, but in the offshoots of alleyways, in the hidden spaces no one knows.
But I have seen DEATH. DEATH is something different. DEATH is not a part of the conspiracy. DEATH is the only thing outside of the conspiracy, outside of everything.
As I walked to my car, after work, I saw DEATH.
She had fingers like knives.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Chapter Three: Names
I can't tell you my real name. Not the name I was given at birth, but my real name, the name the conspiracy gave me.
My boss's name is ROGER. My coworkers call him ROGER RABBIT, because he has overly large front teeth and a gorgeous wife. I cannot remember my coworkers' names. For one thing, they change every week. Not their names, but the coworkers themselves.
"What happened to GEORGE?" I would ask.
"Oh do you mean JIM? He was fired. I'm KEVIN."
Every week, out with the old, in with the new. In hindsight, I realized that this was due to the conspiracy, to make me uneasy, to make me unsure and insecure and look strange. So I stopped learning their names. No more GEORGEs or JIMs or KEVINs. Just RANDOM COWORKER NUMBER 2 or UNKNOWN PERSON 3.
As for the conspiracy, I do not believe it has a true name. It is, after all, INVISIBLE and VICIOUS and OLDER than words and REASON and has YEARNED for more than what we can give it.
I'm sorry. When I get nervous or excited, I tend to capitalize more and more words. Just a tic.
My boss's name is ROGER. My coworkers call him ROGER RABBIT, because he has overly large front teeth and a gorgeous wife. I cannot remember my coworkers' names. For one thing, they change every week. Not their names, but the coworkers themselves.
"What happened to GEORGE?" I would ask.
"Oh do you mean JIM? He was fired. I'm KEVIN."
Every week, out with the old, in with the new. In hindsight, I realized that this was due to the conspiracy, to make me uneasy, to make me unsure and insecure and look strange. So I stopped learning their names. No more GEORGEs or JIMs or KEVINs. Just RANDOM COWORKER NUMBER 2 or UNKNOWN PERSON 3.
As for the conspiracy, I do not believe it has a true name. It is, after all, INVISIBLE and VICIOUS and OLDER than words and REASON and has YEARNED for more than what we can give it.
I'm sorry. When I get nervous or excited, I tend to capitalize more and more words. Just a tic.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Chapter Two: The Conspiracy
What is the conspiracy? Who are the participants?
Well, that's simple. That's the easy part. Everyone is a member of the conspiracy. Everyone. Even you. You may not know it, but you are a part of the conspiracy to ruin my life. You are being manipulated at this very moment to bring about this conclusion. And it doesn't matter where I go, because it's the same everywhere.
Every single person on Earth is part of the conspiracy. Unknowingly recruited, used against their will, forgetting what they want forgotten, only remembering the bits and pieces of their lives that make sense.
The conspiracy lives in the cracks. The cracks in our memories, the cracks in our lives. Those moments when we can't remember what just happened, when we think we did something, but don't know what. We think "Oh, it must not have been important," but it was. It was important to the conspiracy.
I am a member of the conspiracy, too. How could I not be? I am normal. As everyone in the world is a member of the conspiracy, to be normal, I must also be a member.
And yet, somehow, I remembered. Perhaps that was why I became their target or perhaps I remembered because I was already their target. It does not matter. I remember now.
All those forgotten moments, those moments you think don't matter, those are the moments the conspiracy uses. You move something, you change something, and it effects things, which effect more things. A chain of cause and effect.
A butterfly flaps its wings and a hurricane happens.
You are the butterfly and the conspiracy makes you flap your wings when it wants a hurricane. Whenever it wants an accident to happen or an assassination or a regime change or a man's life ruined.
It is the gun and you are the bullet.
Well, that's simple. That's the easy part. Everyone is a member of the conspiracy. Everyone. Even you. You may not know it, but you are a part of the conspiracy to ruin my life. You are being manipulated at this very moment to bring about this conclusion. And it doesn't matter where I go, because it's the same everywhere.
Every single person on Earth is part of the conspiracy. Unknowingly recruited, used against their will, forgetting what they want forgotten, only remembering the bits and pieces of their lives that make sense.
The conspiracy lives in the cracks. The cracks in our memories, the cracks in our lives. Those moments when we can't remember what just happened, when we think we did something, but don't know what. We think "Oh, it must not have been important," but it was. It was important to the conspiracy.
I am a member of the conspiracy, too. How could I not be? I am normal. As everyone in the world is a member of the conspiracy, to be normal, I must also be a member.
And yet, somehow, I remembered. Perhaps that was why I became their target or perhaps I remembered because I was already their target. It does not matter. I remember now.
All those forgotten moments, those moments you think don't matter, those are the moments the conspiracy uses. You move something, you change something, and it effects things, which effect more things. A chain of cause and effect.
A butterfly flaps its wings and a hurricane happens.
You are the butterfly and the conspiracy makes you flap your wings when it wants a hurricane. Whenever it wants an accident to happen or an assassination or a regime change or a man's life ruined.
It is the gun and you are the bullet.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Chapter One: Normal
The conspiracy stepped up its game today. They turned up the volume on my alarm clock, so when I woke up, it was with a blaring headache. Clever bastards.
They also removed the last of my aspirin, so my headache stayed with me as I drove to work. Other things the conspiracy did: manipulated traffic lights to cause congestion, set up construction areas in certain streets, parked cars in certain parking spaces, and all to make me late for work.
You might think that this is overkill. After all, each one of those could have made me late; however, all three combined were certain to make me late and make my boss impatient and irritable at me. I was one step closer to getting fired. Just like the conspiracy wanted.
I know what you are thinking. You are thinking: why is he so special that an entire conspiracy seeks to ruin his life? I am not special. I am, in fact, very ordinary.
And that's why they wish to ruin me. Not to kill me. They wish to bring me to ruin, to dismantle my life bit by bit, piece by piece, until I am left with nothing except the jagged edges of broken dreams. All because I had the audacity to be normal.
"Oh, you're just paranoid," you think. Of course I am paranoid. I have to be. I have to watch each step I take, each turn signal, each person I make eye contact with. I have to be careful or else I will make a mistake, one mistake, and then the conspiracy will take another piece of my life away. They did it a year ago, they will do it again.
I can't give away my name. I will just refer to myself as Norman (short for 'Normal Man'). Norman sounds good.
This is my story.
A Brown Bagged Manifesto
I am a reader at a publishing house. I read manuscripts day in and day out. You would think that's a pretty boring job, but I like it. I like reading. Sure, I get mainly stinkers, but every so often there is a jewel in the rough. I like finding those and sending them on to people who can polish them up and publish them.
I was working on Friday when the mailman dropped on the usual bundle of manuscripts for me - however, there was one that stuck out. The reason being that it had been mailed in a incredibly crumpled brown paper bag.
I opened the bag and removed the manuscript and began to read.
It is possibly the strangest thing I have ever read. And I love it. I know for a fact that no one here will publish it - it is just too out there - so I took it home and have decided that I will publish it online. The writer (who has remained anonymous) put a note on the first page releasing the entire document into the public domain, so I won't get into trouble.
In any case, the manuscript was called Paranoia: A Manifesto. And it begins like this:
The conspiracy stepped up its game today. They turned up the volume on my alarm clock, so when I woke up, it was with a blaring headache. Clever bastards.
I was working on Friday when the mailman dropped on the usual bundle of manuscripts for me - however, there was one that stuck out. The reason being that it had been mailed in a incredibly crumpled brown paper bag.
I opened the bag and removed the manuscript and began to read.
It is possibly the strangest thing I have ever read. And I love it. I know for a fact that no one here will publish it - it is just too out there - so I took it home and have decided that I will publish it online. The writer (who has remained anonymous) put a note on the first page releasing the entire document into the public domain, so I won't get into trouble.
In any case, the manuscript was called Paranoia: A Manifesto. And it begins like this:
The conspiracy stepped up its game today. They turned up the volume on my alarm clock, so when I woke up, it was with a blaring headache. Clever bastards.
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