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god rhymes with . . .

I spent most of the night reading Garros-Evdokimov’s Headcrusher and I’m now a bit more than halfway through it—after working through just under 170 pages in one sitting—and oh god it is quite glorious. I’ll refrain from saying much until I’ve actually finished it, but for now I can say that it’s got its moments of manic, less-than-wholesome genius. God I love violence, especially when it’s perpetrated by someone I’m rooting for. But then who wouldn’t? Well, many people, come to think of it, and if you’re one of those people then, well, sorry, go back to your Bronte (fuck the diaresis man, I can’t be bothered) or your Verne and stay there.

I’m not saying Bronte (again, fuck the diaresis) and Verne are shit. Far from it. But, well . . . fuck it. I can’t be bothered to explain. I’m sure you understand. And if you don’t, take a number from the machine at the back of the room—press “A”, tear off both squares of paper and hand one of them to me (it’s for the records, you see)—and line up on my left. Quite a long queue. I’m sure such a fine specimen such as yourself would be able to figure it out without me having to hold your flaccid dick (or breasts, if you’re a female) and walk you through it, yes?

I have once again gotten a shitty haircut. However, this time I can blame my dad. Why did I get my hair cut, you as? Well, there comes a certain point in a 19-year-old’s life where he gets fucking tired of listening to his mother yak on and on about his fucking hair and, thus, being the spineless shit that he is, decides to get it cut, instead of, say, doing something outrageous with it just to fucking spite her. Which is what I would have done (or so I fucking think), if I had any semblance of balls. This is definitely going to be a long month or so until my hair regains some semblance of being fucking ok. Granted, it’s 2/3-rds ok, the front is nice, the sides are okay, but the back sucks total horse cock. There’s a fucking reason why I usually don’t let people touch it: it’s easier to fuck up than a fucking prostitute. Oh well. I’ll live. If worst comes to fucking worst there’s always my hoodie. And my trucker cap. And my beanie. And an unlikely combination of all three. If needed. But fuck it, I’m not that fucking vain, am I? Oh wait, judging by how I feel about this then, yes, I probably am! Wait, I think I see Captain Obvious jerking off right there in the shadows!

Time’s ticking away—tick tock tick tock—and it’s getting near to 3 in the morning now. My memory is admittedly hazy, but I don’t think I’ve went to bed earlier than 3 (in fact, probably closer to 4) in quite nearly two months—ok, maybe there was odd early night (relatively early, that is, fuck sleeping before 12) or two, but mostly it’s been a constant stream of late nights/early mornings for me—and I don’t see myself changing my habit anytime soon. There’s always something to do at night, things which I, for some odd reason, can’t fucking do during the daytime. Read books, masturbate, play even more Fallout 2 (best thing in my life right now? Maybe, just maybe!), write stupid, useless blog posts like this one, the works. I woke up relatively early today and here I am, still awake. My eyes hurt, my back hurts, I still feel crap about my hair (vain motherfucker I am), my head’s starting to throb and yet I keep pecking at this fucking keyboard, watching letters combine to form words which combine to form sentences which try to tell a story—or at least a lame attempt at one—which congeal into paragraphs—identified, much like stanzas in a poem, by blank spaces before and after them—which separate different trains of thought into self-contained bundles of holiday cheer and much swearing.

For the record, I’m not actually mad at anything or anyone (well, aside from myself, but then that’s really nothing of note, it’s a near-constant presence, much like that cosmic hum of the universe, barely worth mentioning past the early stages of discovery), nor am I unhappy or uncomfortable or disgruntled or anything of the sort. However, I’ll leave it to you to decide whether this is how I really feel about things, whether I’m really like this (you really wouldn’t want to know me, right, if I was really [stop it with the fucking italics man] like this?) (come to think of it, who’d want to know me at all?) or whether this is all just an act, a sham, a deliberate attempt to appear edgy, angsty, angry, an attempt to violate all manner of good taste and proper writing, an attempt to offend (but one which may or may not backfire and leave me looking like the huge cock that I am) by combining fact, fiction and much exaggeration into one big pile of useless words. It’s meta-fiction! Or is it?

Boys and girls, this should prove that I am horrible. Avoid me like the plague.

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