Rorschach’s Journal

Rorschach at Comic-Con

Rorschach’s Journal: July 13th, 2012 I don’t sleep, not by current definitions. I lie still, lie silent, but my eyes do not close. Vigilance is the price of order. Sleep is a breeding ground for vulnerability. I tend to be grumpy in the morning. Suiting up for my second day of the maddening orgy of nerdom that is Comic-Con, I don my mended face. The tensile strength of my haphazard handiwork proves adequate. On the train, local law enforcement commence inspecting tickets. I remain calm. Costumed freaks of all ilks populate this speeding geek wagon. I should not draw much attention. My admittance is confirmed. They do not leave; maintaining uncomfortable proximity. Fists clenched, I will not go quietly. Stop reached, I am not accosted. The badged grunts turn a blind eye as I step off the train and vanish into the crowd.

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Rorschach at Comic-Con

Rorschach’s Journal: July 12, 2012 Hotels smell. Not always conspicuously of waste and rot, but inevitably of troubling memories. Our Comic-Con hotel reeked of bad consciences…and fish parts. Nestled in the festering heart of a dilapidated industrial complex, a place where fish are gutted to feed to larger, performing fish in a nearby aquatic prison, the fear of being likewise unburdened of our insides hung thick in the air. Casting off the encumbrances of travel, and feeling the merciful relief of putting back my face, I began the trek to the train station; those who stay in cushy resorts on the convention grounds…they are soft. Boarded the train with bevvies of costumed heroes and villains alike. These people are unafraid of me. Convention center bursting at the seams like a poorly made corset, spilling the fleshy excess into the street. I am recognized; hear my name called in conspicuous whispers.

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Rorschach at Comic-Con

Rorschach’s Journal: July 11th, 2012 The quaint maxim goes: getting there is half the fun. Disagreed. That is of course unless the other, equally fun portion is having your pancreas probed by a particularly dull ice pick. Human beings were not meant to fly, that privilege is reserved for birds and blue-hued supermistakes with obtrusive, perpetually exposed wangs. Airlines are bloated sloths feeding on necessity, and I found myself in its cold grip. I waited until nightfall, seeking to evade notice under the loving cover of darkness. Then, putting on my best disguise of normalcy, my face packed neatly in carry-on, I gritted my teeth through security and boarded the metal, winged sarcophagus; succumbing quickly to a rage nap. This moment of complacency was duly punished, I should have known better. Suddenly the plane bucked like a seasoned companion-for-hire and altered course. Explanations of pressurization malfunction were groaned over the intercom, but I was sure I had been found out. Had the influence of the laughable Keene Act finally asserted influence over the TSA? No parachute, would have to fight my way out of this one on the ground.

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published: 11.26.2014
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published: 11.26.2014
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published: 11.21.2014
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published: 11.21.2014
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