My arm hurts, and I know why. It's Them. They want me to write for Them, They want me to send Their filthy messages of debauchery and planetwide conquest. They are trying to force my arm to move, but I won't allow it. So it just hurts.
They send me dreams, sometimes, vivid visions of what life would be like if only I let Them come through. Sometimes, They also send me gift certificates, which I never use because of the smell. They are only guessing at where I like to shop, anyway, and guessing poorly.
I know They were here, before, but They just can't come back now. I'm trying to make Them realize that, but I'm not having very much luck. One of Them, I think his name was Norman, is kind of sympathetic, but then, I can't really tell with Them.
So here I am, with my arm hurting, and all the aluminum foil in the world isn't going to stop Them. They keep beating on my defenses, and I think eventually They'll win. Maybe it'd be a better world with Them back in it. The third time's the charm, They say.
On the other hand, who am I to stop Them? They'll find somebody else eventually. Maybe They'll come through, and before They go out and remake the world, They could fix up my place a little bit and buy me lunch. Yeah.