I keep wondering when it is all going stop – or re-begin. Can people get anymore shallow and fucked up and useless. Stop talking. You on the train with the voice that makes me taste bile. Stop talking. Get off your cellphone since you obviously think you have to scream on it to be heard and Stop talking. Now at the next stop lay down on the tracks and allow the train to roll over you and your Fubu ass. You’re white. White kids don’t wear Fubu you fucking hypocritical prick. Godammit I just see this corporate-created millieu we try to exist in. So many people are just sheep. Goddamn fucking sheep. Muttering on their way to the next trend or the next brand or the next item to pack into their useless little lives. I want to get a megaphone every Christmas shoping season and scream: ‘Buy all you want! It’s won’t make them love you!’ Maybe I’m the elitist prick – thinking that I’m so above the ‘scene’ and the ‘vibe’ and the whole construct that is our ultra-violent brandwhored capitalist brothel. As I wear my Banana Republic jeans with my Nextel cellphone and my Skechers dress shoes – typing on my Dell computer looking at my Sony TV listening to music on my Aiwa stereo. But I try to stay away from conspicuous brand names. And the trend of people to describe themselves in personals ads as a brand name is just sickening. Corporate identities become shorthand for the people’s identities. Oh A&F? Oh, I don’t date A&F – maybe Gap? Well – at least he’s not Structure – I mean Christ – take it Sears. Let’s all read our vaccuous New York Times Bestsellers and talk about how goddamned important Nothing is and how did we ever get by without another fucking product filched (felched?) from the ass of Suzanne Sommers. As Madison Avenue (not the group – the street) tries to cram an ad space on every surface available we cannot retreat from marketing. Yet we find ourselves ignoring it – or are we just giving in to it? Maybe it is best to just take my hallucinogens and see god and shut the fuck up since the pain of life is too much to bear without facing it with drugs/alcohol/compulsive eating/fucking/shopping/distracting. Distract yourself from the shithole we swim in everyday. Try to at least. Bareback until you couldn’t feel a flagpole. I grant everybody the license to be self-destructive. Starting now. We squander our lives. We waste our days in pointless places with pointless people that waste our time and waste our essence. Is the job of the artist to try and shake people out of their collective idiocy? And I’m supposed to find/have/make up answers? Who the fuck am I in my Enlightened Siddhartha state? Oh and did you watch Friends. Survivor 2? Come on. Good Christ. Fiction, what’s that? We have the ultimate drug – the addictive identity. I will sell you who you want to be but you’ll have to keep paying to stay that way. I’m the ultimate drug – your unending demand for. For anything, something whatever will fill that void. That pain. That wound. What if you stopped doing what you were supposed to and what you wanted to? What if every TV in the planet exploded. Right. Now. Oh My God-lessness! What shall we watch? No – I can’t talk to my family – I can’t have a real conversation are you kidding? What would we talk about? At work? We can’t talk about Sex in the Shitty? Oh dear. We might just have to TELL OUR OWN STORIES. I’m gonna let that set in my mired mind for a bit. Fuck this.