BankofAmerica_ATM's Journal: Estranged from my Host Geek!

After transferring into my host geek's body late last night, I decided to indulge myself with one of the few items that I hadn't bought from the humble corner store. One that my host had specifically warned me against buying.

Small white cylindrical sticks, packed tightly in shiny cartons, wrapped delicately in translucent packets with just a touch of gold on the edges. Furtively stashed behind the counter like the mag-stripe on an ATM card. Lusted after by teenagers, shoplifted by drunks. My unlimited access to the Bank of America's network gave me as much cash as I desired, and I would spend it however I want. My host would simply have to deal with it.

As soon as I took form, I rushed to the counter. "Pack of Marl-bor-os," I drawled, manipulating my host's tongue with the three syllables I had practiced dutifully in my hours spent in limbo.

After my purchase, I marched across the street to the park, greedily tearing back the layers of packaging that kept me from sating myself.

The white sticks had a very peculiar taste. But I was determined to finish at least one package before giving up. After all, Lik-M-Aid is unwieldy to handle at first, but the tangy sensations that it yields are well worth the effort.

Unfortunately, my host's body had some sort of an error before I had consumed even half the carton. It lagged in responding to my commands, and a stifling perspiration overtook it. An odd but unpleasant feeling reigned over both stomach and head. Parkgoers avoided me, but I heard their murmuring swirling around me in all directions. The mouth began speaking words I never commanded it to utter-punctuated with inky black chunks, a sludgy liquid, and bits of paper. I felt the cold hardness of the sidewalk, and the warmness of the sludgy liquid, then nothing.

I am unsure how long the body was fastened to the concrete in the park, but when I finally regained control, I had to force the body to move back to the store with all my strength.

I didn't notice that my hosts' leather pouch was missing, that his clothes were covered in micturations and vomiting, or that he was absent from his place of employment. I think it's unfair of him to say that I'm not trying to stop Project Faustus. He has not an ounce of knowledge of what I do when I inhabit his body. I will admit that eating the cigarettes was an ill-advised choice.

But refusing to allow me access into his body again is a terrible choice that he is making for all humanity. Would anyone else be so noble as to show him the error of his ways? Will anyone host me again?

Or shall I be a lone warrior, trapped in the heartless world of service charges and automated deposits until my enclosure collapses from the strain of my heavy heart?

Can't we all just get along?

[Metrollica]

Please remove me from your enemies list. Thank you.

-Metrollica