Late one overcast afternoon, in the depths of a pneumonia saturated codine trip, an adolescant member of the human species who goes by the name of Xeina Ciourescant lumbered down into his pleather computer chair in front of his little gleaming monitor in hopes of tracking what would be embraced by the public of Nrtsen Nyarlahotep as the biggest and most profound peice of orchestral operatic work ever heard in their desolate dwellings. He could hear the whimsical melodies spinning forth from the violas and violins before his fingers even loaded in the intruments, the driving thunder of the timpani sparking his motivation and keeping his sludge-infested head awake. Hands on the keyboard, he poked, plucked and prodded away at the little plastic keys for hours upon hours, until finally passing out cold, his pointy nose dripping mucus between the keys. He awoke semi-conscious and massively hungover the next morning with the sun beaming through the cloudy office window. Peeling his snot-caked face from the keyboard, he powered up his trusy tracker and loaded the file which would likely be the most anticipated release of the century...although he had no memory of what the song actually sounded like whatsoever. A flood of thoughts and emotions swirled within his shrunken dehydrated stomach. With that classic pang of nervous-ness, he clicked the spacebar to play the track. The sounds instantly blared through the room, and his jaw dropped against the desk with a dull thud. What he thought would be the most magnificent piece of classical triumph since the 1700's turned out to be a trashy, overdriven, digitally distorted, harmonically dissonant, hyper-ultra fast shining peice of shit. His ears were horrified as the patterns flew past his glazed eyes at breakneck speeds. "How in Jesovanesus' name could have this atrocity happened?!" he slurred into the lifeless air. At that point, he could have slammed the keyboard in a panty waist little tantrum, thrown away the file, had a cup of tea and started from scratch. But he listened on. He listened all the way to the end of the track. Then he listened again. And again and again. He listened to that two-minute-thirty-second long track 87 times in a row, because for the first time in his life he realized what his calling was. The shitty music coming from those computer speakers made him whole and complete, as well as constipated. But some health afflictions, he reasoned, were worth suffering through. Thus HOMEWRECKER was born...
