A solid green hardcover notebook

Harvey Kornbluth was born on 14 January 1982, in Toronto, Ontario. This makes him Canadian, and though there is technically nothing wrong with this, he is compelled to apologise for the fact anyway. For the convenience of his parents and the medical staff involved with his birth, Harvey agreed to be born shortly before lunch, at 11:37am. On the day he was born, corn dogs were being served in the hospital cafeteria, but unfortunately they were out of mustard. Somehow, Harvey was forever affected by this error of omission.

His parents, Darryl and Celica Kornbluth, were both killed in a car accident while driving back from synagogue. Though Harvey would never know this, his parents were arguing about the merits of moisturized facial tissue, when, distracted, his father plunged the car into a river. As such, Harvey was raised by his homosexual uncle and his half-Asian lover. They taught him about musicals, Abba and oxycontin addiction.

Harvey was a peculiar child. He was prone to carrying around blank index cards and a copy of the Koran. His favourite cereal was Froot Loops which he ate with too much milk. He always carried an umbrella, even on the hottest summer days. He looked at the stars at night and considered their role in his life in a non-philosophical way. He asked a lot of pointed questions to his peers ("Would you murder a parent to save Santa, and which one?"), and wrote scathing letters to authority figures. In one such missive he wrote:

Mr. Coley,

If it is in fact the case that we are not meant to eat the Play-doh, then I beseech you to explain why it is so delicious. Your humble servant,

Harvey Kornbluth

His adolescence was marked by casual smoking, cold showers and suicide notes placed in public spaces. His threat to self-immolate — which was painted on to the rear of a portable classroom in purple tee-shirt puff paint — was unproven. Nevertheless, it prompted his teachers and caregivers to enroll Harvey in a school for the mentally deranged.

At the institute, Harvey consumed Greek yogurt and learned to ride the unicycle and wrote stream-of-consciousness poetry about the other inmates. In his time, he made only one friend: a tall and charismatic redhead named Miranda, who would shower with her clothes on, and pass Harvey notes at lunch, and scream herself to sleep every single night. Miranda was cured after she smashed a watermelon into pieces with a foam-bat (anger expulsion therapy), and she left the institute. Harvey was alone and depressed.

He worked through his troubled feelings in a solid green hardcover notebook and came to the inescapable conclusion that the world and all the things in it were projections of his mind. Content that this was the only piece of knowledge he could wholeheartedly deem true, Harvey felt a vague sense of responsibility for the figments of his imagination and thirsted no longer — or at least a little bit less — for his own self-initiated demise.

Satisfied with Harvey's new-found (albeit disturbingly flawed) belief in the value of living, the institute released him. It was spring and he was an adult. The first thing Harvey did was find a prostitute and pay her for sex. The second was to procure an umbrella.

Many years later he started this blog, and shares with you those those dark corners of his notebook: the musings of a solipsistic inmate.

Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves

I would strongly recommend you take the time to read the story of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. If you lack the time you could let me summarize:

Ali Baba is in the woods crouching behind a juniper bush watching exactly forty thieves who are gathered around the entrance of a cave that is opened by a secret password. Ali Baba watches the thieves, notes the password and returns later to kife some goods. When a friend of Ali Baba's finds out about the cave, he acquiesces and spills the password. Problem is, the friend gets trapped inside and the thieves find him and chop him to pieces.

Burying chunks is awkward so Ali Baba brings the bro-chunks to his slave girl, Morgiana. She suggests they pay a local tailor Baba Mustafa to stitch the body back up. Not sure why. They make sure to blindfold Baba Mustafa to protect their identity and get him to do the job.

Thieves find out that their body is gone, but luckily they run into Baba Mustafa who can't shut up about all the recent bodies he has stitched together. Even with the blindfold, Baba is deece at retracing his steps. The thieves find the house he worked at and mark it with an X so they can return later to ice the family that lives there. Our girl Morgiana catches wind of this plan and marks every house in the 'hood with an X. Thieves are baffled. They try again the next day by chipping the front step of each house but Morgiana retaliates similarly. The day after that thieves say "fuck it, let's start paying attention to relevant details about the household" they want to destroy. The thieves' bossman shows up with forty large jars filled with —you guessed it — forty vengeful thieves. As mentioned before, Morgiana is too smart for this and pours hot oil on all the thieves ending their lives. Bossman flees.

Years pass.

The boss thief establishes himself as a merchant, befriends Ali Baba's son (who is now in charge of his late chopped-up friend's business), and is invited to dinner at Ali Baba's house. The thief is recognized by Morgiana, who knifes him almost immediately. First Ali Baba is angry but then he gives Morgiana her freedom and marries her to his son.

The end.

I left out seventy-two pages of detail but let is suffice to say that this is one convoluted and ridiculous story. Hot oil? Is forty jars of thieves any way to kill a family? In the name of Ibrahim, these people are Muslim. They couldn't figure out who to kill a boy and his slave? Why did they have to stitch up his friend? I hate this story.