Sep. 10th, 2010

kellista: (Default)
i know about horatio alger and am prepared to leave it to the machines. i remember the way you looked at my unctuous lunches. now, in the mirror, i see sinew and it reminds me of you, far from the mandatory minimum. the ultimate question is how and why does a person give a shit? social anxiety is merely the psychiatrizing of a biological deficiency of brain alcohol. it is a wonderful thing to flagrantly abuse the one corporeal thing over which we have agency.

i, for example, have partnered the ultimate curator and there is love. he is intimate with the arbiters of your aesthetic, flippant in the knowing. i want it, badly and now. there exists a giddy mentos-style freedom in that no one cares about things not horded or doled out, commodity-style. i see constant and measurable decay, punching new holes in the habitable belt of this planet. when can i stop shaving my legs for the winter? i am not trying to communicate so fuck your style guide. obviously not trying to communicate, the new vernacular is video based and text is our latin.

creativity is merely romanticizing minutia to embarrassing or spectacular effect. how distasteful, i lie. i see the hilarious dictates of profit; there's no need to argue. i prefer to state. i am, after all, primarily a somber and tedious foil. a sort of narcoleptic who requires constant waking up by her own imagination, she is closer to sleep and dream and her memory is more haunted; the computer has generated an excellent template for a suicide note, beautifully feather-lite and pillow-propped.


kellista: (Default)

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