Untitled the First (Three Words)

Untitled Part 2

There is no sequel. Hell, there shouldn't be a second chapter. I'm dead, and I won't even explain it because I assume the reader can make enough sense of the bizarre. And if he can't, then his loss, not mine. As if I will use vague pronouns or full names or short or long sentences to describe anything or detail anything that is happening; Kirby was dead last night while uploading a story, and I found him outside his window the next morning, tired as always. Some things never change, so I handed him a coffee candy (blessed be those coffee candies, they're the only reason I wake up in the morning).

Kirby was dead, but not really. Not because he was in my heart, or he resurrected, or he staged his death, or his soul lived on, or he became a post-mortem organ donor. He just wasn't really that dead because he only died once, and we won't count it this time because it was only once. It wasn't too important, so I decided to forgive him for it and move on. He took my hand, but I realized that was really gross, so I just pushed him onto his feet. Then he thanked me, twisted his neck so his face was forward, and climbed back through the window with mangled arms and legs, and turned the computer screen back on. The music never stopped. It was 12:59. Kirby looked around in suspense, and the clock struck 1:00. I finished my thought, and jumped into the sheets. Did I turn off the lights or leave them on? I couldn't decide which one would be scarier, so I did neither. I won't mention my dreams or my dreamlessness, and I won't even tell you whether or not I had dreams, because I hate authors who do that. I will also hate you if you try to find meaning in every sentence, every action, the fact that Kirby died; if you notice that I switch between 'I' and 'Kirby' with no explanation, if you think coffee candy is a metaphor... leave my room. Turn off the lights when you go.

I won't double space the section after the sleep, because I hate people who do that. Also, sleep never feels long enough; just imagine how much longer we could live if we slept with our eyes open. That's why dead people live forever. I won't end the chapter here, because I don't want you to think about that previous line, or even look at it again. I won't even reference it again. Kirby woke up. The sun wasn't up yet. Kirby wasn't a student, so he didn't have to get ready for school in a few minutes; he chose not to be because he hates it when every story starts with some idiot who wakes up late for school - he didn't want to be that idiot. I slammed open the computer and the screen shattered. To be honest, I didn't care all too much because all that the screen did was get in the way of the images the computer was displaying. I pulled up whatever Kirby was working on, and decided I'd help him finish it before he woke up. I read what he wrote. I'm a bit of a harsh critic (everyone says that, but it's not really true, so I guess I'm not really a harsh critic), so I thought what he wrote was rubbish. Contradictions - he wrote against the mainstream, and he wrote against the anti-mainstream. Kirby had no friends before he died.

Kirby slammed the door open, and the wood splintered into nothingness, but Kirby didn't care. Some things just got in the way and didn't do anything useful. But Kirby was mad. He pulled up his chair next to mine, and swiped back the laptop, pouring shattered glass all over the floor. He took one look at his writing. He thanked me, and burned it with a birthday candle lighter. Happy birthday, Kirby.