About the Book
A pseudo-memoir filled with pseudo-psychology and pseudo-science recounting the life of the author, Jason, however badly remember they might be.
“Where did you even get this?” Lilly snarked at the Toms, “Doesn’t this seem like, even if it wasn’t legit, it’d be a good idea to have hanging around the sheer amount of memory floating in our little circle. I could see alone, reading a book, watching TV, but with so many memories to screw with...”
“According to the internet description,” Good Tom began, as he did many of his arguments, “that’s just for flavor, no time control at all! Just a bit of wormwood mixed in, like absinth, a little green faerie re-labeled, and, might I say, a might tastier as well. It’s just a branding - here, everyone, a swig for times well had!” The bottle of Time Control was lifted up, and in our mutual hungover spirits, we could all use something to dull the edge.
“Wait wait,” I interjected an important fact I felt like sharing, “Is this supposed to, you know, in theory, stop time, or simply make us aware of time’s passage?”
Evil Tom filled the shot glasses, and, raising his, answered, “yes”. Gulps across the room, as we prepared for some kind of change, perception of it, or otherwise.
‘Wasn’t that bottle empty?” DJ noted importantly, though none would listen just then.
What a way to start the day, angering Chronos, the lord of Time and Change. Still, he had more pressing matters than those imbibing those little vials of time-essence, and, any damage we were about to do, we’d do to ourselves. After last night, we could use all the time we could get our hands on.
“Are my organs shrinking?” Good Tom begged.
I've always wanted to make. Much to the frustration of my parents, I was almost steadfastly against doing anything they wanted me to do in lieu of crafting elaborate sand-forts with whatever odd thing I could use for a mold, drawing characters for some imagined video game that I knew that I would one day make. Eventually I took up taping pictures I liked to my bedroom walls in an attempt to create some kind of bizarre narrative. Mostly, though, I just wanted to cover up as much as the walls as possible with whatever folderol I managed to get my mitts on. I was a would-be artist by way of the magpie. Eventually I was convinced that I needed to abandon my creations and doodles so that I could be a responsible adult. For many years I failed miserably at that. I dropped out of high school during my second senior year. My only saving grace being my proficiency with computers in a time when everyone and their mother needed someone to work in IT. Many years and far too many dissatisfyin