Nov 17 2009
“Fascists are the only true anarchist…”
When your closest friends are all women life is nothing but castration anxiety. Oh sure, on our way out it begins so innocently with, “Boyz are gross…” and ends somewhere around two (a.m.) in a bile-strewn room with a kind of Salo-esque, Dionysian bloodlust. And all my parts get tossed into the Nile. So, I don’t go out: survival is essential when you’re trying to make a living.
Don’t worry, though–it’s not all good news. The American Empire is in its final death throes after the worst economic depression since the ‘29 crash. The apocalypse came when we weren’t looking and we missed the rapture. I’m more content to stay at home with a good book–Bolano’s ‘By Night in Chile’ maybe, or Nabokov’s premier. Or, there’s always sexting. Skyping, or whateverthefuck.
We’re all fucked up in our own, special way(s). So don’t blame me if I smell like weed and cheap cologne and dress like an anoxeric teenage girl who just climbed out of a hobo shanty–I haven nothing but love for you. All of you. Even if you are all a bunch of twittering Yahoos. Go out, get your freak on. Just don’t cut off my balls.