Sunday, April 20, 2014

SELFIE, 2.348c


self-portrait, yet again, as always

This notion has become a comic sense, becoming what a whip of the word is to only become an industrialized society.

I live the life of a 12-inch solver, only by my feet. The records of career ump tempts careered upon as inevitable and collapsing.

 Some times I want to fuck and sometimes I don’t.

And the times between them are littered with mothers and friends and frank conversations about toast.

I like my toast, toasted, with avocado and big flakes of sea salt, strewn like little children clothes, all over the edible.

I am an asshole.

(That is a persona I present, from time to time.)

I am a loveable bear.

(That is a personal I present, from time to time, depending.)

I am what you want me to be.

(That is, when you want me to be something I can do; something that is disrupted when what you ask is something you want me to be and I have to say, no, I cannot be that which you want me to me.)

This thing called self:  such a wonderful waste of an image altogether.