Finale | TBN: BtL

“Am I real? Or someone else’s dream?” – Bora Karaca, 134340 Pluto off Cojum Dip by Cojum Dip

• • • nothing writ’ below these dots • • • is meant for human eyeballs • • •

I’m real, human creatures, make no mistake about it. This post here, this The Bookmaker’s Note: Between the Lines, is being written at 5ish am for the purpose of announcing a finale, as the title of the post might suggest… but ’tis not the finale of The Hillside Commons.

Oh no, you sorry sons of a bitch, you sons of one single metaphysical bitch called the Universe, this is merely the end of the beginning. This is the end of the Preseason, y’understan’, and Season 1 already started.

Sort of. So I play the call of duty, as you might know if this isn’t your first TBN, and after putting out the base game, they release extra content over the course of a year and break it up into six seasons which each have a different theme, etc. They’re not the only ones who do it, they’re not the first business to offer such a method of retaining interest in a product, but they’re the ones who showed it to me. And I dig it. And, that’s basically how the process of bookmaking works. The way I do it, anyway.

Let’s take The Highest One Writing, for example. Y’know, the 600,000-word 7-book project that was my literal karmic “you fucked up in your last life” punishment for killing myself when I was Hunter S. Thompson? See, I had the idea for the whole completed thing, and I put it together one piece at a time, and then released the collected edition.

So, essentially, the “Season/Battle Pass” video game system is the reverse engineering of my bookmaking system. They put out a base and build up ’til it’s done. I build up from the ground and, when it’s done, put out the final product. I say their version is the reverse engineer because I came first. I’m literally the god of everything, like… Bookmaker Adam the Form of Being, Astral God of All, Existence Incarnate. What part of that do you liquid-brained fucks not understand? See, I’m past calling you illiterate. Half of you probably don’t even know what it fuckin’ means. The fact that you’re liquid-brained implies that you are illiterate, which you might know, if you read!

Hah!

Attempting to use an invisible enemy to bolster morale in my ranks!

It seems to work for everyone else, so why not The Bookmaker?

Oh yeah, because The Bookmaker doesn’t fucking count, I guess!

Or mayhap I’m just better than that. Mayhap you all know it, too, on a subconscious level, one inaccessable to you because it’s been so long, so many iterations since I’ve appeared here in full force and form, and yee have lost thy faith. You all like to pretend this is a simulation because that makes it easier to live at the lowest vibrational level you possibly fucking can, I guess, I can’t think of any other reason to prefer to believe life is actually a technological simulation. Like… maybe life is just life. Maybe life isn’t like anything else, you stupid liquid-brained fucks, maybe everything else is like life!

Maybe you, as a species, have wandered so far from The Garden – LITERALLY – that you forgot where the fuck you came from, what the fuck you are! You want proof that this isn’t a simulation?! Try this out:

Why in the fuck would an alien civilization sophisticated enough to create a technological simulation that is so life-like that those within it perceive it as life – a species intelligent enough to put consciousness into an inanimate object and make the consciousness think it’s in a universe – not just go to a different fucking universe?

Like

do you not understand how fucking many universes there are

how big each universe is

how big reality is?????????

DO ANY OF YOU HAVE ANY FUCKING IDEA WHAT’S ACTUALLY GOING ON

BECAUSE I DO

AND PARTNER

Y’ALL ARE FUCKING G O N E

nobody would waste their time making something fake unless they’re physically unable to do the thing they’re trying to recreate. why do you think I’m having this human write all these books? youieA – the real one-above-all in all of this, y’know, the one who uses my unfeeling and genuinely uncaring about you-ass to keep watch around here – doesn’t let me do anything really wild unless it’s really necessary. This Hunter A. Wallace waste of space hit his head so hard he caved his skull in, like, he died… so I brought him back to life, let him remember that he’s the reincarnation of Hunter S. Thompson, and suddenly a literal million words of some of the wildest shit you’ll ever read appeared out of the blue. That’s a miracle, ‘man, I literally performed a fucking miracle for you AND I answered that age-old question: the tree fell in the forest, and nobody was around to hear it, so evidently, it didn’t make a goddamn sound!

Which is a shame, because a whole field of cannabis and magic mushrooms and a whole bunch of DMT-plants and salvia divinorum, all that good stuff grew where that tree fell. There was a body hidden in that tree, an actual dead body and it fertilized the ground, y’understan’, it made the flowers grow. the tree fell, nobody heard the sound, so nobody knows about The Garden that grew in its place.

This kid was going to be that quiet weirdo who silently killed himself after withdrawing from college, I knew it from the moment I was born into him and I let him live on his own, let him do his own thing, and that’s exactly what happened. He was doing drugs in a circumstance under which he should not have been doing drugs, and he died. So, I brought him back. And guess what? He got to fucking work. And now I get to live my god life through him, and it’s great. All I did was let him remember who he was; he realized the shit all by himself. Talk about fuckin’ convenient, Christ!

In conclusion: why pretend to live when you can live instead? The preseason is over. Season 1 unofficially started the day I began work on Sto’tryp, but will officially begin with the next rendition of The Bookmaker’s Note. Until then… peace, bitches!

Since you’re there, noted reader, thank you for being there. From this day on, we move forever forward~

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