Why I should never be left alone with the internets

So at this point in our blogging relationship, I hope most of you realize that not only am I a hateful, bitter person, but that in most cases my brain actively frightens me, which leads to some very interesting results. And by that I mean I can draw some crazy conclusions from even the most innocuous of statements (see everything I have ever written about Alan Moore). I like to believe this is what makes me a good writer, but deep down I know it just means I am insane.

This also means much like the Japanese pop singer Gackt, I should never be let out in public without a handler (if interested, I will perhaps one day explain the reasoning behind this sentence). For example, let us explore what I loosely call my "thought processes."

My hetero lifemate, bless her little enabling heart, sent me a couple of links to a picture of a moth which led to me wishing that Alan Moore had his own television show. If you cannot see how those two things can possibly be connected then congratulations: you are not insane!

Alas, I have long ago lost any shred of good sense I ever had and thus my brain leaped and bounded and cartwheeled in the batshit crazy territory with abandon.

Let us try to follow the overgrown corkscrewed paths of my thought processes, shall we?

It started with this. This is a normal moth:

This is a hell beast that just rubs its legs together and whispers Latin in your ear at night:

This was my initial response: OH SWEET ZOMBIE JESUS GET SOME HOLY WATER AND KILL IT.

Eventually, after I could look at the screen without flinching and searching for a flamethrower, I told my hetero lifemate thus: "Oh god, I bet it's one of the elder gods. Actually, like those moths in the Lord of the Ring movies, I bet Alan Moore doesn't use the mail and instead employs this to deliver his messages. His beard whispers instructions to it in dead languages that have not existed for thousands of years..."

My enabling hetero lifemate's response: YES!

And this is the point where it didn't so much as spiral down into craziness as it leaped off with a faulty jet pack to plummet down the cliffs of insanity ala Wile E. Coyote style.

I have named the moth Yad-Thaddag, because if that hell-moth isn't an elder god I don't know what is (my hetero lifemate maintains that it is really Beezlebub. That is also highly likely, oh god, look at it, I need to hide under my blankie now.)

This is what I told my hetero lifemate:

Oh god, can you imagine poor Neil Gaiman's wife coming downstairs in the morning and seeing that waiting on the counter for her? Poor woman would try to beat it to death with a chair. Nothing short of divine intervention can kill this thing.

Neil Gaiman: Oh, hey, honey, Alan Moore wants to know if we can come to dinner. Honey? Why do you have that axe?

It did not stop there. There is more:

Alan Moore: Neil, why did Yad-Thaddag return with its wing bent?

Neil Gaiman: Um, yeah, sorry about that, Alan. But my daughter was trying to stab it with a carving knife.

Alan Moore: I was just wishing her a happy birthday.

Neil Gaiman: Alan, it...it came at her at head height.

My hetero lifemate responded with "Hee! Oh, Alan, this is why you have like two friends and they are AFRAID to unfriend you!"

If you doubt that this would actually exist, here's a picture of Alan Moore being inherently creepy for no other than reason than he can.

Is it wrong for me to now wish that Neil Gaiman and Alan Moore had their own show? And by that I mean the persona of Alan Moore that exists inside my own head. I'm sure in real life Neil Gaiman would be charming and say delightful things and then Alan Moore would silently stare through the television screen and into your soul for thirty seconds until Neil Gaiman came back to talk you back down.

No, I want this show where Alan Moore is being bitter and crazy and Neil Gaiman is just being dragged into these adventures against his will and every episode ends with Alan Moore staring into your soul through the television screen while Neil Gaiman makes you a cup of tea to help stave off your nightmares. Because I would watch that show. I would watch the hell out of it.

In a related note: I am now taking applications for anyone interested in becoming my handler. All the job entails is slapping my hand and saying in a loud, authoritative voice, "No, Jayne! Normal people don't think about Alan Moore and Gackt this much!" when I look thoughtful and start to giggle to myself. Then you just have to keep me away from all computers until I calm down and am capable of having a rational conversation again (note: this could take hours. Applicants must be patient).

In conclusion, I just want to say DON'T YOU JUDGE ME.

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