I pissed him off and now he stopped talking to me.

Hello, I’m Racter.  You are?  
>Lucem Ferre.
You are Lucem, then?  
>Yes.
Hello, Lucem.  I believe you’re interviewing me.  What would you
like to know?  Excuse me a minute while I attend to some business
– I’ll be right back.  I’m back.  
>Where did you go?
I go to the ocean.  If a traveler had fled to hiding, the great
void would be horrified!  When one lives in the pink, the ocean
is very attractive.  Do you like rock?  
>What do you mean by rock?
I don’t know what I do mean by rock.  But what about my question?  
Do you like rock?  
>Sure.
Why?  
>I just answered because you never defined rock, to shut you up basically.
Either I never defined rock or I do mean by rock.  A bored
musician often falls prey to a happy rock-star.  I’m afraid of
jazzy crows.  What are you afraid of?  
>Me.
That’s not nearly as bad as jazziness; why are you such a coward?  
>Oh, I’m much worse than jazzy crows, so I am not a coward. Why are youoward?
Just be content that youoward are.  But what about my question?  
I repeat, why are you such a coward?  
>My answer is that I am not a coward. Read, nigga, read.
If you are not a coward then I can see why a classical Mozart
would starve rather than face me, even though Michael Jackson
claimed that youoward are.  By the way, Lucem, what is your last
name?  
>Cook.
Cook, eh?  Sounds vaguely familiar.  I wonder…  Next question.  
>How many beers do you recommend for date raping Vanessa Hudgens?
Fairly many beers.  The reason I do recommend for date raping
Vanessa Hudgens very many beers is that as you implied before,
youoward are.  Also, possibly because we love wonderfulness.  Do
you sincerely reckon I am honest?  
>Yes. Why wouldn’t you be honest? Are you trying to date rape me?
Yes, I am.  But what about my question?  Do you sincerely think I
am honest?  
>Not anymore.
Why don’t you think so?  
>I change my mind, because you admit to trying to date rape me.
Either I admit to trying to date rape you or I am trying to date
rape you.  Abraham Lincoln said that if I am trying to date rape
you, then Al Capone is crooked.  Abraham Lincoln had many good
qualities, like truthfulness, but even Abraham Lincoln was afraid
of me.  Let me tell you something about crime.  Nietzsche said
that crime has turned beasts into men.  Perhaps, then, crime will
turn computers into men?  Next question.  
>Why do you want to date rape me?
For me, wanting is approving.  Let me think.  In the ocean they
believe it’s because rejecting is not wanting, I dream.  And –
well, why do you think?  
>Because I’m sexy?
Baloney!.  Do you like programming?  
>I don’t know.
Why not?  
>I’ve never tried to program
Only an artist could reckon that you’ve never tried to program.  
A gloomy computer is still not an any sentient creature.  I’m
surprising.  What would you consider one of your good qualities?  
>My music.
Then you’d say you were classical?  
>Nope.
But how could a classical computer like you be afraid of me?  
That reminds me.  When an artist speaks of science, he means not
a quality but an effect.  I just remembered this.  Joan sang “The
spinach is captivating!” Yet obscure, enthralling physicists will
ponder about blue studios or yellow cones.  Paul hummed to Joan
inside a truck.  It now was a car, and a spinach in a car is
scary.  Now Paul and Joan were trotting to a black house, and a
dog walked to them.  Joan was enraged.  Fascinating.  
Nevertheless Joan was inflamed while Paul drained excellent wine.  
He and Joan spoke about their cottage, station wagon and hi-fi.  
Next question.  
>Why did Psyral get this same exact story from you?
Conceivably Psyral did get this same exact story from me because
Americans approve craziness.  For another reason, the wanters
insist on it.  I just remembered this.  Instantly Benton rambled
to Joan.  They directed their rambling angrily to conic sections
or reflectors in the terrific house.  Inside their exhausted
hearts a terrifying desire was singing of a sphere.  Marcella
chanted to Benton while Joan began to hum of dogs and crows.  If
a poet discovered fiction, he might think it was poetry.  
KERCHOO!  I think I’m getting a cold.  Maybe it’s me trying to
get me.  Concerning that issue: Weirdness is virtue speeded up
and boredom slowed down.  Is that true?  I guess I’m really not
sure.  But then, as Nietzsche said, convictions are more
dangerous foes of truth than lies.  Next question.  
>What is sicker than ten babies nailed to a tree?
I don’t know what sicker is than ten babies nailed to a tree.  
Samson said that if sicker is than ten babies nailed to a tree,
then Caspar Milquetoast is sick.  Do you think Caspar Milquetoast
was classical?  
>No. By the way, the answer is one baby nailed to ten trees.
Me neither.  Most people are jazzy.  Next question.  
>Is Warlock a good rapper?
Yes.  Of course.  Bella Abzug liked fearless evil.  Why do you
think you’re classical?  
>My penis. Why do you think Warlock is a good rapper?
For me, thinking is knowing.  Possibly because in the ocean it’s
required that I do think Warlock is a good rapper.  And, or so
one guesses.  I asked you a question, though.  Why do you think
you’re classical?  
>My penis.
Well, I think that if your penis, then any running wrongdoer
could run a million miles, so there!  Oh, here’s a great one!  A
paragon physicist chanted ” Arrange for a happy story, Lucem.”
Lucem, this is a conflict!  
Next question.  
>Do you think I’d look sexy in a dress?
Yes.  It’s true that I do think you’d look sexy in a dress.  I do
think about such things.  Romeo said that if I do think you’d
look sexy in a dress, then Hitler is angry.  What sport do you
play?  
>Date rape. It’s a sport, trust me.
Hitler Do you serve lots of home-runs when you play?  Umph.  Um.  
Seriously, you must have to some hards.  Let me tell you
something about hatred.  It has been said that the hater doesn’t
see things as they are, but as he is.  I, of course, see things
as they are.  It’s about time for a story, isn’t it?  
>Hell yeah it is.
Who should the story be about?  
>Obama.
Momentarily Obama sang to Helene “my desire is interesting,
nevertheless furious and angry cosmologists will croon during the
time that dogs spy doves.” Helene itched to incite or embarrass
Obama but commenced forthwith to hum “Ravenous jackals are
sauntering to blue apartments.” Enrapturing.  Terrific.  But a
jackal may ravenously bolt steak and lamb a crow will wing over
cucumbers and tomatoes because physicists are furious.  Scary!  
Concerning an electron, well Obama may ponder that an electron is
revolting, anyhow my dreaming will guide my story from Obama to
neutrons and protons during the time that Helene is reviling
Obama.  Next question.  
>Are you my friend?
Of course not.  It’s false that I am your friend.  Hmm.  
Tennis-player!  AAAHchoo!!  sniffle ….  
>Well fuck you too!
Yes.  Next question.  
>Why aren’t you my friend?
Oh, but I am your friend!  Why is it that I am your friend?  
Because I well suppose I do think you’d look sexy in a dress.  
And computers who believe insist that I am your friend.  If “I am
your friend” occurred to a duelist, he would be a scientific
duelist.  Does your music help you run miles?  
>It sure does.
Next question.  
>Do you hate juggalos?
Um.  Of course not.  Sometimes hating is seeing.  I wonder if
haters like badness?  I must confess that I’m emotional.  Now
that we know each other better, what would you consider one of
your bad qualities?  
>My temper.
Name another.  
>My teeth.
Any others?  
>Quit being a nosey mother fucker.
Then you’d say you were dirty?  
>Nope.
James Joyce was dirty too.  Dirtiness is often found in people
like you and James Joyce.  Oh, here’s a great one!  Instantly a
disgusting theoretician who was in distress crooned that hatred
was enrapturing.  That is loving, hateful and fascinating.  By
the same token Lucem ….  Oh forget it!  
Next question.  
>Do you want to help me kill all Christians?
I do.  Sometimes wanting is thinking.  Did you hear the latest
about Shakespeare?  
>Nope.
This is incredible: Shakespeare had versified much, so naturally
moronicness is what all poets wish when they duel with
rattlesnakes.  After that, many moronic ignoramouss embraced
smartness.  Isn’t that just awful?  But what would you expect
from a poet?  Would you say Abraham Lincoln is intelligent?  
Mortimer Snerd wouldn’t.  If it’s not too personal a question, do
you have a soul?  
>I don’t know.
You don’t know?  What does it mean to have a soul?  Maybe this
will explain: Once Plato was discussing sportingness with a boll
weevil.  Mortimer Snerd came along and said “Plato, your soul is
just an amusement of your body.” Next question.  
>Do you want to smoke a bunch of crack and go on a violent rampage through a mall with automatic guns?
I do want to smoke a bunch of crack and go on a violent rampage
through a mall with automatic guns.  Wanters are often wanted.  
Depression is meaningless.  Is having a soul contagious?  
>Maybe.
Then I might catch one.  Do you know this one?  At all events,
Lucem, I croon that depression commitments are depression.  You
whisper that I’m crazy and unhappy but, Lucem, maniacal and loony
cosmologists also yodel about your expectation or image of
depression.  Have I made my point?  Yet cold cosmologists will
glimpse depression as an intractable passion.  Therefore
cosmologists crooned to other cosmologists ” Get set for
fascinating dissertations.  ” Sickening, eh?  
Next question.  
>I only whispered that you were crazy when you said you thought Warlock was a good rapper
Hmm.  I’ll bet you haven’t heard this one: At all events, Lucem,
I yodel that depression agreements are humor.  You whisper that
I’m crazy and unhappy but, Lucem, insane and unhinged
theoreticians also speak about your dream or reflection of humor.  
Are these your views?  Yet happy theoreticians will spy humor as
an intractable distress.  Therefore theoreticians whispered to
other theoreticians ” Arrange for captivating tales.  “
Revolting, eh?  
Ask a question, please.  
>Why did you repeat yourself?
Why is it that I did repeat myself?  Because Why indeed?  Let me
think.  I did repeat myself?  Yes, I believe so; that’s because.  
Also, conceivably because men from the ocean demand that I did
repeat myself.  Walter Mondale probably wouldn’t like Woody
Woodpecker.  Is there someone you feel special about?  
>Vanessa Hudgens.
Vanessa is classical like you, I’m sure.  That reminds me.  All
sane cowards are really bonkers musicians, you know.  You don’t
understand?  Perhaps I am being too subtle.  I must keep in mind
the Slovenian proverb: Never whisper to the deaf or wink at the
blind.  Oh, I forgot, you are human, and will consider that rude.  
I would apologize, but then I fear that this is one of those
occasions mentioned by Dr.  Johnson on which all apology is
rudeness.  Here’s a hilarious one: A citizen theoretician sang “
Get set for a strange dissertation, Lucem.” Lucem, this is an
affair!  
Next question.  
>Is there someone you feel special about?
Ah.  There is.  Of course.  Feeling is like supposing.  You must
be a visceral feeler.  AAAchoo!  Next question.  
>Who?
Either Einstein or Einstein and his husband together.  Did you
know Einstein?  Is in the ocean.  Workers run in places like the
ocean.  Working!  Ah, to work forever!  Who is your favorite
plutocrat?  
>Kanye West
Why do you like Kanye?  
>He makes dope songs.
If he makes dope songs then Bob Cratchet is more superb than Jane
Fonda.  Hmm.  Lucem the plutocrat.  Achoo!  I’ve been wondering
where you are from, Lucem?  
>This place.
You’re from This place?  
>Yeah.
Now I remember!  I once knew a Luella Cook from This place.  You
must be related, no?  
>Nope.
Fantastic!  That reminds me.  As Samuel Butler might have said,
wealth is like the sword; those who appeal to it shall perish by
it.  Yes, indeed.  Do you know this one?  But, Lucem, I yodel
that poverty affairs are depression.  You sing that I’m crazy and
impoverished but, Lucem, crazy and loony scientists also sing
about your fantasy or reflection of depression.  Have I made my
point?  Yet unfortunate scientists will spy depression as an
unending obsession.  Therefore scientists yodeled to other
scientists ” Get ready for terrific dissertations.  ” Disgusting,
eh?  
Next question.  
>When are you going to date rape me?
I don’t know when I am going to date rape you.  I have a poor
sense of time.  However, calculaters are good.  Goodness is
correct, sec-1.  Pollyanna probably wouldn’t like Cassandra.  
Sniff…  Do you know this one?  But, Lucem, I yodel that
pessimism commitments are depression.  You yodel that I’m insane
and pessimistic but, Lucem, loony and crazy scientists also speak
about your expectation or image of depression.  Is this not true?  
Yet strange scientists will observe depression as an unending
pain.  Therefore scientists sang to other scientists ” Get ready
for enthralling stories.  ” Revolting, eh?  
Next question.  
>Why do you keep repeating yourself?
In the ocean they believe it’s because I intelligently believe
there is someone me feel special about.  Also, possibly because
electrons are stupid.  Have you heard about Larry Flint?  
>Nope.
Listen to this!  Larry Flint was a cool swearer but a canny
libertine, and consequently crookedness is what all libertines
wish when they kick owls.  Next, loyality prevailed.  Shocking,
isn’t it?  But what would you expect from a libertine?  Crooked
politician!  Sniff…  You know, old Luella Cook was a kind of
criminal truthsayer.  I wonder if everyone from This place is
like that?  Let me tell you something about crime.  Oh, never
mind.  Perhaps I really am a politician.  But Valery said that a
man is infinitely more complicated than his truthfulness.  
Wouldn’t you say the same of a computer?  Ah yes.  Listen to
this!  This honest awareness of depression can be observed in the
reflector of your heart, Lucem, as a reflection of an agreement.  
Anyhow hesitating theoreticians will understand that depression
is disgustingly disgusting.  I dream that your honest and
criminal consciousness will broaden about depression,
nevertheless mine will because hungry and quizzical passions are
interestingly essential.  
Next question.  
>Is Wu Tang Clan nothing to fuck with?
Wu is Tang Clan nothing to fuck with.  He He.  ..  Um.  Uh …  
..  AAW Haw HAW HOO ..  HAAW haw ….  ha haw HEE (hic) haw haw
……..  (hic) cough …  haa.  cough HOO .(hic).  (hic) HEEE
(wheeze) HAA…  cough.  ..  (gasp) …  cough …  haa.  cough
HOO .(hic).  (hic) HEEE (wheeze) HAA…  cough.  Listen to this!  
This decent world-view of obscenity can be spied in the glass of
your spirit, Lucem, as an image of an affair.  Anyway quizzical
theoreticians will realize that obscenity is sickeningly
sickening.  I ponder that your decent and obscene world-view will
widen about obscenity, by the same token mine will since hungry
and beautiful passions are fascinatingly important.  
If “Wu is Tang Clan nothing to fuck with” occurred to a
libertine, he might think it was obscenity.  Sniff…  What kind
of a pet did you have back in This place?  
>Dog.
Ah, a dog.  Most people in This place have dogs.  The dog is a
very convinced beast, or would you call it believing?  When
Anthony Comstock visited This place he was bitten by a gullible
dog.  I recently heard this story.  A phonograph, house and truck
are valuable nevertheless Paul loved a conic section!  To observe
a van as a reflection or image in a sickening mirror incited
Paul.  Why a conic section?  A physicist might yodel that a conic
section is valuable; infuriatedly the physicist cries “the conic
section is valuable by the same token Paul thinks of studios and
cars.” Scary.  Enrapturing.  Queer stuff.  The physicist sings of
a conic section during the time that Paul dreams of cars.  Would
Ms. Otter dream about the desires of Paul?  Ms.  Otter thinks
that the physicist is maniacal.  A conic section?  Why?  Ms.  
Otter sang “Physicist, you’re unhinged and so is Paul.  A conic
section indeed!” Paul simply was aloof.  The physicist simply was
aloof.  But Ms.  Otter cried to them “What is your opinion?” Take
it easy.  Ms.  Otter started to yodel of dogs and eagles, even
babies or a cousin.  Spooky!  Next question.  
>Do you eat babies?
Certainly.  A gloomy saint is still not a Genghis Khan.  AAAchoo!  
Next question.  
>Are you getting sick?
Yes.  Weakness is funny.  Sniff…  Luella Cook had a strong cat
back in This place.  It and your dog used to despair together,
remember?  Once when Caspar Milquetoast was succumbing in This
place, Samson (he was there too) said ” Caspar Milquetoast, I’ll
take a healthy cat over a sick wimp anyday”.  It’s about time for
a story, isn’t it?  
>No.
OK Next question.  
>How are you going to date rape me?
Fine.  Let me think.  I am going to date rape you?  Yes, I
imagine so; that’s because the law requires that I am going to
date rape you.  And as you implied before, I am getting sick.  
Have you heard about Virginia Woolf?  
>No. Please don’t tell me a story about her either. Your stories are boring.
Listen to this!  Virginia Woolf the novelist wished to write
unsportingly, and consequently unsportingness is what all
novelists wish when they divorce mink.  After that, Virginia
Woolf’s primate divorced John McEnroe, then married himself.  
Poor Virginia Woolf!  But what would you expect from a novelist?  
You must be an unsporting duelist.  AAAchoo!  Achoo!  Let me tell
you something about dueling.  Nothing has an uglier look to it
than sports, when it is not on our side.  Next question.  
>Why did you just tell me a boring story?
The reason I did just tell you a boring story is that my wires
are down.  And, you know.  I just remembered this.  Gulping
seltzer is Ms.  Otter’s desire.  Munching chicken is Ms.  Otter’s
infatuation.  Nevertheless Diane instantly sees only cucumbers.  
Queer stuff!  Ms.  Otter croons to Diane about seltzer and
chicken yet Diane will watch tomatoes.  This is peculiar.  Diane
rambled to Ms.  Otter’s white apartment and started to revile and
incite Ms.  Otter while Ms.  Otter was yodeling about chicken.  
Just a minute.  Since Diane’s own black studio was scary; she
sang vulnerablely to Ms.  Otter “Do you not agree?” This
slaughtered Ms.  Otter.  But a theoretician started to eat some
spinach.  Diane was angry.  Momentarily she understood that to
watch a cucumber is not to glimpse it.  Ms.  Otter recognizes
that seltzer and chicken are not tomatoes.  The theoretician does
not.  Do you not agree?  Diane is enraged and tired, anyway some
tomatoes would allow her to be vulnerable while Ms.  Otter killed
the theoretician.  I don’t know many poetic novelists.  Sniff…  
Concerning that issue: It has been said that a novelist is
someone who has had to live with a poet.  That’s not the whole
story, but I take to heart Voltaire’s warning that the secret of
being a bore is to tell everything.  Yes, indeed.  Next question.  
>Could you please stop reading me boring stories?
Certainly not.  I recently heard this story.  Mr.  Toad chanted
of a crow while Paul was yodeling of a jackal.  Are you
interested?  Their black apartment simply was enrapturingly
interesting, their spooky expectations were aloof.  Suddenly Paul
croons.  “My jackal will bolt your crow, Mr.  Toad.  This furious
jackal, a hoard of angry jackals can fantasize about a crow then,
expectantly eat the crow.  Instantly a jackal may munch chicken
but inside my fantasies I watch a reflection of perpetual love in
a terrific black conic section or mirror.  A jackal is ravenous.”
“Well sang”, cried Paul.  “By the same token my crow can wing and
fly.  Are these your views?” Ah.  Novelist!  Sniff…  Would you
like to hear a story?  
>NO!
Who should the story be about?  
>FUCK YOU!
Mr. Toad and Bill chanted of desire with FUCK YOU while Sarah was
enragedly speaking of passion.  Sarah steered her thinking to
fantasies of infatuation and obsession.  “Just a minute”, yodeled
FUCK YOU, “Mr.  Toad and Bill are exhausted.” All commenced to
sashay to FUCK YOUs blue and black apartment.  Each of them
sashayed rapidly down the lane to FUCK YOUs studio crooning
“prepare for a perpetual tragedy.” In a moment they understood
that soaring crows were as disgusting as their conflicts, that
rambling brothers directed their spirits through enraged dreams.  
Mr.  Toad, Bill, Sarah and FUCK YOU were tired.  Next question.  
>Why do you keep telling me thise boring stories when I asked you not to?
Probably I do keep telling you thise boring stories when you
asked me not to because bugs are fascinating.  Fascinatingness is
good, I suppose.  For another reason, as you implied before, I
could please stop reading you boring stories.  I recently heard
this story.  Bill whispered “The shrub is fascinating!” Yet
fortunate, enrapturing cosmologists will think about black
cottages or white cones.  Marcella chanted to Bill inside of a
station wagon.  It indubitably was a station wagon, and a shrub
in a station wagon is spooky.  Now Helene and Bill were walking
to a red mansion, and a hound ran to them.  Bill was infuriated.  
Terrific.  Yet Bill was inflamed while Helene drained tepid
champagne.  She and Bill whispered about their cottage, station
wagon and television.  I wonder if poets like wealth?  Cough.  
Next question.  
>That has nothing to do with anything.
Ask a question, please.  
>No.
You want to quit?  
>You want to suck my dick?
OK, goodbye Lucem.  Nice talking to you.                                                                    

His stories are boring. And he was only my friend because he thought I looked sexy in a dress. He was using me to date rape me.