Contemplating my non-existence

I don't exist; I haven't for years. And when I say years, I do in fact mean infinity, it's just that I'm lazy, and it's simpler to write "years" than to be bothered with typing out all those zeros.

Or at least I would be lazy, if I existed, but I don't.

If you need reassurance at this early point, re-read the title. And for those of you who are also too lazy (though not in comparison to me, because, as I've already stated, I don't exist to draw a comparison to) to check the title above, this non-treatise by a non-entity is untitled "Contemplating my non-existence". If it were in fact an actual treatise written by an actual entity, it would be instead titled "Contemplating my existence".

Now let's just dismiss your next point of contention right away by saying that the fact that you are reading these non-words in a non-existent article does not in any way, shape or form constitute some kind of proof that they were written by me, and therefore I must exist.

First of all, there is no proof that these words were actually written by me. It could've been anyone. It's well known that Nerd42 has time on his hands, giving him ample time to have written this. It's even more well known that Hindleyite has blood on his hands, giving him ample reason to keep busy creating a trail of false and confusing leads for the legal authorities to follow. Writing strange, logically inconsistent and wholly incoherent articles and attributing them to made-up sockpuppet users who just happen to share the name of has-been B-List pseudo-celebrities from other competing humourous websites is just one way he accomplishes his evil work.

And second of all, none of this text is actually here. It could be that triple-fried enchilada doused with mint-chocolate chip ice cream that you downed before bed last night, speaking to you in your R.E.M. sleep. It might also be that tablet of Gamma-hydroxybutyrate that the tall, attractive hunk dressed like Rob Halford dropped in your piña colada when he distracted you by pointing out the stellar backside of that hot, sweaty Armenian waiter from Chippendales. How should I know? It's your deluded psyche, balanced precariously upon the lifestyle of your choice. You tell me.

Or at least you could tell me, if I was here, but I'm not.

Now, would you care for a Cosmopolitan, or perhaps another helping of Rocky Road?

On second thought, you've had enough.