On Existential Fuckedness.

i don't do anything interesting because i do not have a "liberated intellect."

i write bad poems because i do not have a "fine mind."

i am not going blind because i do not have syphilis.

my sister is not an Aryan organizer or anti-semite but she does teach in the suburbs at a Catholic school.

i have a moustache, but some people have a bigger, robuster moustache.

"robustache" i just said out loud to myself.

there is nobody in the room with me.

there is nobody in my apartment with me.

it's not as funny as the first time i said it.

when i first said "robustache" it was probably not the first time somebody said "robustache" in the history of the world, which means i am "lying according to fixed conventions of language."

someone who has a liberated intellect is using my sickly scaffolding to do great things like fall in a ditch over and over.

i try to be more than i am.

when i eat vegan food i mostly eat the cookies.

then i eat wendy's. their bacon makes me mad. it is sickly bacon.

i use wendy's as reward for eating salads because i long for the stability of stale and easy metaphors. value menu metaphors.

when i put agave nectar and almond milk on my grapenuts instead of bleached sugar and cow milk, does this count as fucking the "ghostly schemata and land of abstractions"?

i feel healthy when i drink a lot of water and pee a lot.

it is fun to pee a lot. it feels good.

i feel better than other people when i drink kombucha and stupider and less talented than other people when i drink coca-cola.

someone said something about jeff koons and i said all art is pejorative.

then i drank kombucha in their face.

i wanted someone to high five me then.

friedrich nietzsche needed to high five me from beyond the grave when i said that.

who am i kidding.

friedrich nietzsche would hate me and insanely try to jam his syphilis cock into my eye socket.