My First Book Of Autobiographical Stream-Of-Consciousness Stories Part 1

Now:
Really, this is...not really, well, maybe perhaps the first one I've actually posted on here. And I know this is insanely meta, because this is a story and all and I'm not going to put in where I've gone and edited bits back and forth in my head and well...what was the point of that insanely long run-on sentence? Ah yes. I'm getting ahead of myself. Yes.
This is a stream of consciousness story, or post, whichever fits better, where we attempt to follow - I say follow because if it went straight from head to screen it would be an incomprehensible string of half-formed words and thoughts - Fire up the thought engines! - so we're trying to minimise the whole "jumping tracks around my head midway" thing here. And hopefully it'll be in sequential sentences. And yes, this is part of it too. Did you think, maybe, these were author's notes? Well, the line's blurred, and so are many others. Enjoy while I procrastinate and angst at the same time.
Scroll down to the very bottom for the distilled, but slightly different version. It's a long way down.
Buckle up for a ride inside my weird, weird head. Like I said, autobiographical.




Then:
Imagine this:
You've just realised that you've sort-of pushed the fact that you can turn your thoughts on and off, and you don't know whether or not this is a good thing; to the back of your head. Like I said - good, or bad?
Well, it's sort of like, when you realise that maybe you're not breathing, although, looking back, you definitely are. It's like, being a permanent camera for a head. NO! NO PERFECTIONISM! (excpet perhaps for the spelling, and proper - or perhaps not - punctuation.) No, don't touch it. I'm going to leave it in for the final - don't even think about it! - product. YES, it's a wiggly red line, get over it. *exasperated sigh* I'm sorry, shall we continue - therein lies the inherent flaw in adapting this for text of any sort - god, it's like a museum with a curator here - or is it back there? I'm sorry again - we were jumping tracks back then. And somehow my creativity, wrong word, thought processes - no I'm not shouting at you, that's how we're getting the processes across, different formatting - aren't - won't work unless I'm in the middle of imagining something. No, anything, doesn't have to be a fanfic or a, a, what's the word, original novel. It could be a scenario, or something. Back to where we were. Right, so here I am, here you are, you've just realised that you can't think - god, this confessional thing is hard to write - PREVIEW! *read* *read* *close tab* *close tab* OH SHI- Where's the "undo close tab" bit - come on! *undo close tab* *sigh of relief* Oh, look at all the unsound effects! Ha (ha ha)! and perhaps, it's not so different from the times you realised that you couldn't feel yourself breathing, all or all those times when you didn't really feel like yourself but just an extension of the universe, and even now you're typing automatically because your brain is telling you to - oh, look, a brain itch. Ah, much better. And, even now, you realise you've run well out of thoughts, and it's only the text that you're writing that keeps you sane - or perhaps, typing, or even perhaps, alive. Maybe. I said, maybe. I'm so sorry for the confusion of the persons, comma, you say, full stop.

The question is, am I writing this as myself, or as the narrator; the all-omniscent narrator?
I am a texual zombie, I can't put my pen down. Stop typing, that is.
 Oh, look, cross-pollination! (of sentences)
I apologise for the bad grammar, it's not necessary for a stream-of-conscss. fic. OR is it? I'v elost a stray thought! No, Catch it! I apologise for the bad capitalisation.

Has it occured to you that you apologise too much? That was over the top.
Really, is it so fascinating to watch duelling dual personalities? Shut up, evil self. I'm not your/anyone's evil self.
Then who are you?
Who are you?
Oh, crap. This is too insane. I think we've driven most of our readers away.
What readers?/Like Han?/I wasn't aware that we had readers./Do you realise what's wrong with all this? Pronoun confusion. Perhaps this
Perhaps this isn't healthy.
This is insanely meta.
Well, what did you expect, writing a "autobiographical stream-of-consciousness story"?
I love the way you can go over/rewind thoughts/sentences like that.
I think the spellchecker's given up (the ghost).
Really.
Hey, stop being sarcastic!/You've no right to be sarcastic!
Oh look, there it is again.
Oh look, multichoice statements.
Really, I should finish this now/wrap this up. It's getting too long.
This will be under the cut. ctrl-c, ctrl-v
Over and out.
Resume static.
I think my internal music player's acting up agian. Sometimes it get stuck on some song, and it's embarrrasing, that song, and now, it's not/is.

A/N: Well, that was confusing. Here's some more, hopefully clearer.

I don't think I think sometimes. My head goes all blank. Try to imagine this: you're sitting there, reading something, and you don't really care if the stuff's plausible or not/and the only reaction you get from yourself is when there's explicit sex or something. Yes, I've gone and seen fanfics and scrolled through without looking. Is that inured enought to withstand the horrors of /b/, yet? Or you're watching something. I don't think they ever meant to take suspension of disbelief that far, where you just...zoom/zone out. And...stop caring. Stop thinking. The ones against the grain, they try to get you thinking again, but perhaps, nothing's clearer than when you (it comes time to write) type it up. Really.? Yes, IMHO. Or E, for experience. But then, it would be IME, and that's not as pronounceable/nice. This is, a single strand, right? But really, I can't feel myself breathing sometimes and then I wonder, perhaps I've forgotten to breathe? Or, sometimes, like I've forgotten (to see) what it is I'm looking for. My brain (is)(can be)(will be) (a traitor) is holier holeir? more full of holes than a colander. A holey colander? No, a leakey leaky one.

A/N: A fic brought to you doing nothing. No, that's a Word Salad. Should I say it's Monday? It certainly feels like a Sunday. It's almost certainly postmodern, though, am I right/IRCC? And it is of course, just a story.

The horrifying thing is, it's all true. Most of it. Some of it. Bits of it. But the feelings - I couldn't possibly make that up.
(You can) Psychoanalyse me, now, Han.