A Journey to Hell: My 'Earth Hour' Without Electricity

A Journey to Hell: My 'Earth Hour' Without Electricity
8:28, March 28, 2009 Woo! T-minus a couple minutes till Earth Hour starts, and we’ve got enough candles to choke a whore (like if you didn’t want to pay her or something). I swear, I better not smell like sandalwood after this is over. Anyway, the idea is to get as many people on the planet as possible to turn off all lights and electric devices for an hour to help raise awareness of the Earth or how Edison sucked or something. Lara invited some peeps over to play board games, and I’m going to keep writing in this journal and see how that goes. Should be fun! It’s just like being Amish, except without Harrison Ford hassling you all the time. 8:34, March 28, 2009 Wow, look at me, writing by candlelight. I'm all Thomas Jefferson and shit. I feel like I should be wearing a powdered wig. Maybe I’ll run down and get it out of storage. Earth Hour is going swimmingly; Lara, Adam and Tori are playing a game of Risk and I’m watching and sipping on a nice, brassy little glass of pinot. They asked me to play, but I always get too competitive. Don't want to start any fights. I’ve got to say, shutting down my computer was a little tougher for me than I thought it would be. I don’t think I’ve turned it off since we moved in. I find myself occasionally glancing longingly towards the blank screen, wondering if there’s been any important Facebook redesigns I’m not getting to complain about. Hmm… maybe this will be a longer hour than anticipated.
8:41, March 28, 2009 The weirdest thing just happened! On my way down to the wig cellar (I needed something to calm my nerves), I passed by my computer, and instinctively sat down to check my email. Apparently the blank screen stunned me, because I don’t really remember anything until Lara found me there and asked what the problem was. And the weird thing is, all I could think to do was whirl on her and start hissing and hissing. Maybe I’d better watch some Conan on the TiVo and call it a night. Oh, wait. Dammit. 9:02, March 28, 2009 Kamchatka. Irkutsk. It’s all bullshit. I told them I didn’t want to play. What’s the point? All these asshole countries living in darkness, without electricity, without radio, without… Internet. Oh God, the Internet. If I had the Internet right now, I’d be surfing it so hard Google would be like “whoa, what? Slow down there, partner.” At least I won. Adam says it wasn’t valid, but I’m pretty sure kicking your opponent in the stomach is allowed. I mean, you are taking over the world, not baking a cake. Which we CAN’T EVEN DO BECAUSE OF THIS NIGHTMARE CALLED EARTH HOUR.
18 Minutes of Hell Remaining, March 28, 2009 Tried to restore power to the main breaker, but the unbelievers stopped me. Smashed one over the head with a nice, brassy little bottle of pinot. Not sure which. All look the same now. Sounded like Lara. Said “Jesus, Michael, why did you do that?! Oh my God, what’s—am I bleeding? Oh, my God, WHY?!” Sounds like something she would say. Shakes have started again, and the visions. Swirling, roiling beings of pure energy, dancing and writhing in ecstasy as if to taunt me. Also a dinosaur sometimes. Not sure what that’s about.
Time When Moon Appears on Horizon, Planting Month, Year of the Falcon I no longer need the lightning that makes the spirit boxes speak. I have evolved beyond it, found my own source of power, an inner strength. The strength to cling to the ceiling fan and kick wildly at the others. As I rotate past a mirror, I note that I have also apparently evolved beyond pants. There’s a quiet dignity in that, I think. Or at least, that’s what I screech at Tori as she tries to wrap my lower half in a blanket. A little bowel evacuation got rid of her though.
Now who’s “making a scene”!? No Time, No Place, Only Blood Big Spirit fill me; I run with wolf. One I call “assface” dead by my hand. I will sleep inside him tonight to gain his strength. Carving would be easier with electric knife, but… you know. 9:31 Great light come! Blind us! We retreat to abandoned wig cellar. Much noise above. Much that seems so familiar, but distant, like voice of ancestor echoing down long corridor. The Time of Awakening has come again. The great Metal Gods stir. Me look excellent in powdered wig. 9:35, March 28, 2009 Oh… oh God. What have I done? I’ve got to call the police and turn myself in, beg for mercy. It’s my only chance. Jesus, Adam. He looks like a damned Tauntaun. And I’m pretty sure that rug’s never going to be clean again too. Oh shit, I just remembered, I still need to write my post for Saturday. Should I do that before I call? Yeah, great, I’ll tell the police that in my murderous frenzy I paused to write an article about Coldplay. “Was that before or after you clubbed your fiancé with a wine bottle?” Shit, Michael. Shit shit shit. Maybe I’ll just type this up, slap some random graphics on, and post it. I’m sure the readers would think it’s a joke. They’re so stupid. God, I hate them all so much, and their stupid, whiny, retard faces. OK yeah, I’ll do that. Note to self: Edit last part before posting.
When not sharing a quiet evening with friends, Michael serves as head writer for and co-founder of Those Aren't Muskets!
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