|
Why the fuck do I keep arguing with myself in the reflection of the cardboard box that I fixed up to look like a television set? I will rant and rave for 5 minutes straight at my own reflected image, and the ending soliloquy will always be the same: me bequeathing my social disgust and anger that I have cultivated, refined, monumentalized, and I am gagging on. God is just an idea spawned from an opium den, you FUCK... Sometimes, I like to listen to the waves crashing with one hand resting in a bed of steamed soybean pods and ice, while gently masticating a live roach. I note that it's best to dial down the lights to dim, if not completely off, and to have my trusty neighbor, the Laotian nail clipper with fangs, come over in her teddy and purr like a small engine.... Upon this rock will I build my church...... God, I love me some fucking whores... those FUCK ING WHORES.... you know... there's always that fucking moment when they promise themselves that they'll never fuck a married man again... their imprisoned soul is supposed to be freed... and endless repetitions of this same redemptive act are supposed to unfold across the astral plane, liberating thousands in the same transformative transcendental way that Buddha's fire sermon or Christ's death on the cross did for us all...
__________________
|