They say that you hurt the ones you love, which is clearly why I’m doing this to you in the middle of a Corktown café. Listen, I know it’s been hard for you lately. Your cousin got burnt and thrown into the gutter and your sister disappeared. I get it, but you know what? Well..You know? Fuck it. Fuck you. Why the fuck am I being an apologist? You hurt the ones you love? Please. I’ve never loved you. You produce nothing but crap. I mean, sure, you’ve got a little bit of energy and you can occasionally be satisfying, but I’m not looking for little bits and occasionallys, you know? That’s just not the kind of guy I am. You’re not as complex as you think you are. Oh for fuck’s sake stop crying. You’re making a scene. Do I have to throw this coffee in your face to make you shut up? People are beginning to stare. Am I just going to have to slather you in butter and slowly gnash on your epidermis? Is that some sort of psychosexual fetish I should be getting checked out? Does it matter? Oh, don’t give me that look. It’ll be over fast.
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ironic dadaist performance art
2 posts
There comes a time in every person’s life in which they must forgive those who have hurt them in the past for any wrongdoing. It’s different for everyone, but, in this particular case, we must forgive The New York Times for every far-too-late trend piece, every fawning profile and Vows, not to mention the actual unsavory offenses (Iraq, Jayson Blair etc.). With one line, one simple little sentence, one perfect little lede, everything is right: Continue reading