in

Youre Adam, The First Man! Can You Eat The Right Fruit And Overthrow God?

“OH I FUCKED UP AGAIN, OH, OH! ”

A Voice mails signifying into you.

You blink. Blinking seems unbelievable, so you do it again forever.

“I DID IT AGAIN, I FUCKED UP, WHAT IS THAT, WHAT IS THIS? ”

You loosen, and new sentiments flood down out of you. The half of you on the bottom is suddenly “warm” and “wet, ” and now “cold, ” but still wet. For the first time ever, you are at ease. Now you know about legs, too, one of the main things.

The newness of everything is building your chief fizz, and so is the Voice .

“IT’S LOOKING AT ME, FUCK, FUCK CAN IT TALK? CAN YOU TALK? ”

You build the thing happen and now your throat’s in the concoction. Throats are one of the main things. Here’s what your throat does 😛 TAGEND

“Guhhh.”

But calling was more fun, so now you have preferences. The Voice is still going. Its language sears itself into you.

“IT’S TALKING, OKAY, OKAY GET IT TOGETHER! GET IT TOGETHER! HELLO! HI! HELLO! ”

You clench out another voice, and you and the Voice share a moment of meaning. This is the first time two things have ever envisioned the same thing. Nice!

“I THOUGHT ABOUT ME AND THEN I WAS, AND THEN I Suppose ABOUT SOME OTHER THINGS MAINLY BIRDS AND MORAL ABSOLUTES AND THEN THEY WERE, AND THEN I THOUGHT ABOUT YOU AND THEN YOU WERE, ” the Voice says. “I KEEP THINKING OF THINGS AND THERE KEEP BEING NEW THINGS LIKE SOME TREES, AND WELL FUCK ME NOW THERE’S LIKE TWICE AS MUCH AS THERE ALREADY WAS BECAUSE I Belief ABOUT WHAT THERE ALREADY WAS, STOP, HELP STOP IT! ”

“HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW, I JUST Imagined ABOUT WHAT THE NEW FAT PINK FILTH THING I’M JUST WILD ABOUT WOULD LOOK LIKE WITH ITS PENIS ON THE OUTSIDE AND I GUESS I GOT DISTRACTED THINKING ABOUT WHAT I MIGHT BE ABLE TO DO AND NOW YOU’RE SOMETHING I’VE GOT TO DEAL WITH, I MEAN, FUCK.”

Wow! For some reason, hearing that builds you feel like a little hole please open within the centre of you, but you can’t find a word to put to it. Oh well, it is very likely to go away soon enough.

“HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW, I JUST Envisioned ABOUT WHAT THE NEW FAT PINK FILTH THING I’M JUST WILD ABOUT WOULD LOOK LIKE WITH ITS PENIS ON THE OUTSIDE AND I GUESS I GOT DISTRACTED THINKING ABOUT WHAT I MIGHT BE ABLE TO DO AND NOW YOU’RE SOMETHING I’VE GOT TO DEAL WITH, I MEAN, FUCK.”

Wow! For some reason, hearing that builds you feel like a little hole has opened up within the middle of you, but you can’t find a word to put to it. Oh well, it will probably go away soon enough.

“YES, DEFINITELY, EVENTUALLY, YOU AND EVERYTHING ELSE, EVENTUALLY.”

Now you know about fate! What a period you’re having.

“YES, DEFINITELY, EVENTUALLY, YOU AND EVERYTHING ELSE, EVENTUALLY.”

Now you know about fate! What a period you’re having.

“UH.”

The Voice falls silent for a while, and as more bits of your intellect knit together, you find yourself becoming aware of your surrounds. “Colors” and “shapes” resolve into, uh, colorful shapes you have no terms for, things towering and dense in all directions. Voices and aromas bubble up from every angle. It’s dizzying.

The light warms your body, the breeze tousles your mane, your muscles flex and unflex, and like a little tiny tickle, a voice up in you ventures, Hey, maybe this is better than not being. Though on second thought, frankly, it’s still kind of a toss-up.

“OKAY I GOT IT: YOU CAN NAME STUFF, ALL THE STUFF I THOUGHT OF THAT NEEDS NAMES LIKE BEASTS AND ET CETERA, AND I DON’T WANT TO ACCIDENTALLY DREDGE MORE STUFF UP OUT OF MY MIND AND INTO THE WORLD, I Entail HELL LOOK HOW MUCH STUFF THERE IS TO BEGIN WITH, SO GET OUT THERE CHAMP GO GO ON GET INTO IT.”

“OH MY GOODNESS, ARE WE GOING TO DO THIS WITH EVERYTHING, YES’ NAME’ JUST CHOKE SOME SOUND OUT AND THAT’S WHAT WHATEVER IT IS IS NOW, WHO CARES, NONE OF THIS MATTERS, I Signify FUCK IT YOU’RE’ ADAM’ AND I’M’ KIP’ OR YOU’RE’ STOOL-BUDDY’ AND I’M’ GOD’ OR WHO CARES? WHO CARES? WHO CARES?

“JUST GO KEEP YOURSELF OCCUPIED BECAUSE I Belief I MIGHT HAVE JUST THOUGHT ABOUT SATAN WHICH MEANS THAT NOW THERE’S SATAN SO NOW I HAVE TO GO DEAL WITH THAT, JESUS CHRIST, OH WONDERFUL NOW I’VE GOT TO DEAL WITH HIM TOO OKAY FUCK GO BYE.

“OH AND STAY AWAY FROM MY POTENT TREES FOR EVERYONE’S SAKE.”

The presence of the Voice disperses, letting whatever’s between your legs relax. You’re alone now, in what you decide to call a “glade.” Hey, that’s kind of fun!

What will you do?

mmmmmmmhhhhh ….

mmmmmmmhhhhh ….

ooouuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh …

ooouuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh …

aaauuhhhhhhhhhhhhh …

nnnnghhhh …

aaauuhhhhhhhhhhhhh …

nnnnghhhh …

What an experience. You coin a new word to describe luxuriating in your body.

The untamed wilderness stretchings in every direction, pregnant as fucking with possibility. What’re you gonna do, young man?

What an experience. You coin a new word to describe luxuriating in your body.

The untamed wilderness stretches in every direction, pregnant as fucking with possibility. What’re you gonna do, young man?

You lift up one leg and immediately topple forward, “beaning” your “noggin” against something jutting from the “ground, ” sending “white” and “horrible” through the whole thing that is you. Okay! You’ve never moved around before; no need to be hard on yourself.

You make a mental note that cutting yourself a reasonable quantity of slack is now named “radical self-care.”

Better get on with it, though.

As soon as the Voice or Kip or whoever mentioned important trees, you knew exactly where you were headed. You’re not entirely sure what a tree is yet, but you figure you’ll is well aware when you see it. Boy, you can’t wait to do whatever it is one does with a tree!

Only, who’s this luminous joker?

With a outburst of what you decide to call “confidence, ” you ask this luminous joker who he is.

“I am international civil servants of He most high, He of many names: the Main One; the Six-Day Kid; Kip; He who is called Jeremy God. I am Seraph Uriel, and because my Lord accidentally thought up some goofed-up and powerful trees, He has charged me with babysitting you, the Only Guy.”

That’s a lot of new words! Better do as he says.

Uriel flies along to a tree “plump” with option fruit. The middle of you induces brand-new voices and sensations like, Hey, shove something into me, you dip , and the hole in your face gets wetter. You can’t wait to use what you’ve dubbed your “pearly little chompers.” Yeah, you know what to do, sidekick!

“Here is the tree of Eleven Hundred Dollars U.S. Bestowed upon all those who bite of its fruit is the blessing of 11 hundred dollars U.S ., but beware, O Human: Such wealth comes at a cost most dear….”

Without hesitation, you rip one fruit off a bough and jam your face into it hole-first. Instants afterward, you’re eating the first thing anyone’s ever eaten, and it’s spraying sweet juice hither and thither. Uriel watches with visible disgust.

A tickle against your hip cues you to look down in time to see a little wad of something flat and thin pop into being before it flutters apart on its way to the ground. Before you can reach for it, a blast of the unknowable force you’ve been calling “wind” carries it off, never to be seen again.

“See, O Man? For no sooner is eleven hundred dollars U.S. in your comprehend than your deficiency of pockets seizes it away anon! But come now, big son; there is more fruit for the chomping.”

“Look ye now upon the tree of Tito Puente’s Recollection. Each bittersweet fruit holds within it the whole fullness of the living standards of El Rey de los Timbales, the undisputed grandaddy of Latin percussion: the most important one highs, the lowest lows, and all the in-betweens. Dare you step into the mind of Puente? ”

Dare you?

The flavor nearly overwhelms you, piquant and brisk, smoky and explosive, thumping out a bomba rhythm on your palate. You reel back as ensures and hearings explosion into your brain:

Adjusting a satin prow affiliation;
Picking drumstick splinters out of your big, thick sausage fingers;
The heat of the stage daylights and the roar of the crowd as you clutch your Latin Grammy;
Making strained chitchat with some goddamn muppets;
Doing drumming …

The totality of Puente fills you up, threatening to obliterate what little subjectivity you’ve eked out in your hour or so of universe, but with a great, defiant gag, you puke up the hunk of munched pith. Tito subsides, and you get on with your day.

Uriel produces you to a gorgeous tree laden with shimmering golden fruit. Even in your naive know-nothing government of total tabula rasa ,< i> you recognize that gold has inherent value. Looks like you gotta have that important fruit.

“Those are lemons, ” says Uriel. “Lemon trees are very pretty, and the lemon bloom is sweet, but the fruit of the poorest of the poor lemon? Impossible to eat. So don’t eat them. Just come on.”

This was 100 percent a mistake.

The bad fruit is a hateful fiasco. You choke it all down and make a mental note to never again trust your own judgment. And in that minute, perhaps you’ve eventually become truly…

Human.

“Are you done? ” says Uriel. “Because God “re just saying that” after I present you this main important tree, I get to go gorge myself on seeds.”

The last lemon already stripped all the enamel from your teeth, so it’s as bad this time around. You are truly one genuine dullard.

Uriel stops in front of a perfectly ordinary-looking fruit tree. You’re basing that off of the three fruit trees you’ve discovered, but still. You reminisce about the topsy-turvy times you’ve had lately until you realize Uriel’s speaking 😛 TAGEND

“This is the only tree in all the garden you must never feed of, the Tree of Calling ’Em As You Realizes ’Em and Telling It Like It Is. To savor its fruit is to gain the clear-eyed view of the Almighty Himself, letting one to speak luminous trues as a new God. It will blow your damn brain out the two sides of your pink, little head, so please, simply don’t even try to eat it.”

Game time. What’s it gonna be?

Without even wiping the visible salivate from your slack jaw, you lunge for the all-important Tree of Calling ’Em As You Assures ’Em and Telling It Like It Is, and slam your whole meaty body right into Uriel’s twinky little torso with a sound like a salmon slapping a ceramic gale chime. Not that you know what any of that is, but that’s what it sounds like.

“Were you listening to anything I just said, or were you lost in a fruit-related reverie? ” Uriel says angrily. “God says you’re not allowed to eat this fruit, so there’s no way I’m going to let you. Now scoot along, little guy, and let me gorge myself on those good seeds, the food that angels favor! ”

Damn! What a bust.

You fret your way off into the untamed forest, feeling a horrible sucking sensation in your centre that you decide to call “disappointment.” You unconsciously recalibrate all of your expectations and induce yourself a bit more distant from the world so that “youve never” have to feel this behavior again.

Well, time to go discover that death exists and then find a way to kill God.

Only, who’s this luminous joker?

Probably smart not to defy the will of God on your first afternoon on Earth. You’ll strategy up a route to scarf down that fruit eventually. Like, perhaps you’ll have found that fatality exists and then find a way to kill God? “There wasnt” bad ideas on this young Earth.

Even so, as you make your way off into the untamed forest, you can’t assistance but feel a horrible sucking excitement in your centre that you decide to call “disappointment.” You unconsciously recalibrate all of your expectations and construct yourself a little more distant from “the worlds” so that you never have to feel this style again.

Only, who’s this luminous joker?

The untamed wilderness stretchings in all directions, pregnant as fuck with possibility. What’re you gonna do, young man?

The untamed wilderness stretches in every direction, pregnant as fuck with possibility. What’re you gonna do, young man?

You lift up one leg and immediately topple forward, “beaning” your “noggin” against something protrude from the “ground, ” mailing “white” and “horrible” through the whole thing that is you. You’ve never moved around before; no need to be hard on yourself.

You make a mental note that cutting yourself a reasonable quantity of slack is now named “radical self-care.”

You tramp off to find something to name, branches and brush tearing your soft, new-formed scalp to ribbons.

Oh, gross. These must be some of the animals Kip was calling about. They’re, like, twice as large as you, and filthy, and they’re all yammering away at one another in a big pile of wet. Fuck! Today get so bad so fast!

“HOW DID WE HAPPEN? ” they’re howling. “WHAT GIVES? WHAT GIVES? HOW DID WE HAPPEN? ” Ugh, get over it, geeks!

You reach inside yourself to where true lives and draw out a epithet for these disasters 😛 TAGEND

“Hey! ” you clench out. “From now on, you’re called’ Mother’! ”

They’re too busy thrashing around in the wetpile to react, and then you can’t consider them, and they don’t am coming. In this style, you learn about loss.

Hey, but what’s that thing?

“Hey! ” you clench out. “From now on, you’re called’ The Intimacy Bus’! ”

They’re too busy flailing around in the wetpile to respond, and then you can’t learn them, and they don’t come back. In this lane, you learn about loss.

Hey, but what’s that thing?

“Hey! ” you clench out. “From now on, you’re called’ God El Dos’! I satisfied God, and you’re the other one! ”

They’re too busy flailing around in the wetpile to respond, and then you can’t assure them, and they don’t am coming. In this behavior, you learn about loss.

Hey, but what’s that thing?

“Hey! ” you clench out. “From now on, you’re called’ Some Kind Of Horse’! ”

They’re too busy thrashing around in the wetpile to respond, and then you can’t read them, and they don’t am coming. In this way, you learn about loss.

Hey, but what’s that thing?

“Hey! ” you clench out. “From now on, you’re called’ Special Guest Greg Proops’! I’m aroused on your behalf! ”

They’re too busy flailing around in the wetpile to respond, and then you can’t realise them, and they don’t come back. In this route, you learn about loss.

Hey, but what’s that thing?

“Hey! ” you clench out. “From now on, you’re called’ HENK.’! ”

“’HENK.’! ” you repeat helpfully.

They’re too busy flailing around in the wetpile to answer, and then you can’t watch them, and they don’t am coming. In this route, you learn about loss.

Hey, but what’s that thing?

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