“Welcome to the Fascist du cream, a three-star hotel in the middle of an ancient sinkhole.”

It would be grossly unfair to describe myself as self-obsessed. Precisely, if I were even capable of envisioning an ego, I’d probably have twice as much luck expressing myself as the moderate manic I am, well… sort of pursuing. Delicate, of course. Creamy las duos, unrelentlessly.

Assuming a deliciously harmful level of self-control, I direct my attention towards a mirror, catching an awkward smile in a feint deliberation of sass and prejudicial smut. And soon, the exploding enthusiasm unappreciates itself onto a piece of paper, colluding ink into an aesthetic cancer of lies and Darwinian trickery.

Yes, you’d probably have to gouge my eyes out before I’d even consider tasting your post-ironic sardonicism.

Oh, I am just so offended right now.

“My face hangs like a battered pig sway in a thick unconsummate oil; the lard dangling from a hook signed personally from Mr. Government himself on a loan which barely covers the general human interest of soggy bread and circus entertainment. Because who the fuck really knows why I’m whoring myself for that CASH MONEY.”

Say it again for me, “WE LOVE THAT CASH MONEY.” I’m truly done with your antics at this point. I’ve written enough cover letters and key selection criteria applications to want to puke… pretty rainbows. I’m sure the imagery looks amazing inside that crippled imagination of yours. Swallow it with pride.

“In my backyard is a shredder, working tirelessly to destroy anything less than perfect and on a thick sludge of literal incomprehension, hints of plagiarised literature are oozing from my lips, pouring onto a canvas signed personally by Yoko Ono herself. That ungrateful fuck-stick.”

I mean, I can hear the crying too. But what does it matter if I can’t feel the tears sopping wildly in an uncontrollable rage of impatience and apathy? Everyone knows a worn rope is a ugly omen for a weak neck, so why snap n’ crackle sunshine!? Cause it’s time to shine, poor buddy!!! Bring em’ out and destroy em’ all!? Let err burn Dinky McD, T-fucking-M.

If I press the buttons they make the feelies bounce.

This <button> is a pattern of threes, mimicking the shit crescendo we’ve all been grown to accustom, or something. t t t t t h h h h h i i i i s s s s is not actually a word, even as it fools your mind into the bustling courage and self-belief you cannot BLOODY afford. You’re weak, BUSTER. You’re not a lateral thinker, young TUCKER. You’re just a dumb PUCK living in a cheap fantasy of lies and prefabricated opinions. IT’S




So I’m standing by the bench, chuckling down a packet of M&Ms. Cause it’s funny, yo’ll. All casual like, holdi ng my breath as women walk by. I think it’s sexual, you know, though my psychiatrist says it’s just another SYMPTOM holdin’ the small man down. Why of course it is just another symptom, which explains why I have severe burns and cuts across my entire body. Daddy got violent. Just kiddin’, I think.

She tells me (in slight tones) that symptoms aren’t real which is why I like to pack em’ like sardines. Maybe she should stop strapping me into the chair, forcing me to deliberate like a clackin’ lucker, but who don’t like the taste of red, blue and green and orange and oregano-nge and SPLURRGE.

The metallic glory keeps the mouth closed. Stop looking. Perhaps I’m fake, taking myself for granted, boring into the untapped depths of human irrationality and wasted glee. After all, your mind is consuming itself in a struggle to maintain equilibrium, splattering into a mesmerising churn of bewilderment and wonder.

Jump kiddo.