wanted to write you a story all soaked in love and pretty things, but instead
it’s going to be about rat scum, the blistering soul music of choking on
personal shortcomings, and maybe a joke or two. Bad jokes at that, certainly
nothing like comedians are doing these days with their hyper-intelligent
breakdown of cultural idiosyncratic tendencies by way of reflection based wit.
you laugh at my jokes about museum quality antiques going up in flames while a
house full of puppies burns?
not so sure your sense of humor—wish I could get a feel for that before writing
the story, because you know, once the ink’s on the page it’s a bit too late for
regrets. I prefer to live with an abject awareness and semi-permanent psychologically
unsound box of my personal mental fabrication to insulate them out, regrets
that is. I’ve heard of better ways I suppose, but who has the time or money for
if you have to confront some dilapidated and uncomfortable feelings at some
point that may smack of inadequacy, do it in stand up fashion and just face the
music. Life can be good, it can be shit, and a myriad of shit colored varieties
mixed in between. Doesn’t have to dictate the characters we all play on the
larger stage, we can so eloquently write our own flaws.
it would be like taking diction from some phone line person babbling away while
they get busy scuttling their own sense of disgust by third-party. I don’t know
about you, but I don’t want to be that kind of ethical whore who is susceptible
to that kind of mind game. Willing to uproot and gag down on the more
successful perspective because they had the audacious idea of getting to it
first so they could be in better position for the final thrust?
purification through mindfuckery and a psychological blow job seems far too
easy a road out if you ask me.
I said, I don’t know your sense of humor, so I’m not sure whether I should pull
back a bit on the off color commentary for your sake. Then again, I don’t know
your personality either and maybe you’re one of those people that appreciates a
no-holds barred rigmarole tirade of non-penitent truths delivered in the voice
of the speaker who says it how it is instead of how they want it to be.
you aren’t and you’re one of those deceitful little rat fucks that huddles
behind false smiles and bravado attitude that refuses to be honest even with
yourself and is liable to turn tail and betray the trust of others faster than
the lab tech can reload your daily selection of cheddar, medium not sharp.
really hope that’s not the case though, and if there’s any sense to this
fantastical story and scheme that I’ve been told about the genetic structure
and predisposition of whatchamahoosit chromosomes and mitochondrial DNA, then
I’m fairly certain you aren’t like that.
fairy constitution by virtue of dad’s semi-descended Oingo Boingo soundtrack
and mom’s canal of misjudgment.
it, here goes nothing.