Ask me no questions I’ll still tell you lies

Not that I was particularly planning on doing anything this fine 4 am, but I found myself in something of a predicament. Having not composed an article in quite some time (and never an articulate one) my editor was harping on me to get a fucking move on. Now I could have simply fucked him in the ass like he wanted, but being an artist, it is not in my nature to go for instant gratification. And being a misanthope, it is not in my nature to give a shit what other people want. (Not being homosexual simply compounded the problem). And wanting to prolong my suffering as I am loath to do (suffering creates art; any fuckwit can tell you that) I girded my loins to compose this ode to the decaying civilization of Man. Yes, faithful reader, I am suffering slings and arrows for you, so that I might bring to you these words, so dripping with possibility, as I am. Be grateful.

Death is not the problem. Let a thought like that sink in for a fucking second. (And yes, I will be using profanity in nearly every available opportunity. It amuses me to do so.) The problem with Life is not Death, though so many would think it so. But Death is easy. Death is a great adventure. Sure one fears what one does not and cannot know, but fear is a simple thing. It’s just that, for most of us anyway, Death is such a distant thing that it is often easily put from the mind. Contemplating one’s mortality is such a vile business. So then the inevitability of the end not really being that big of an issue, what the fuck is the problem? What indeed causes life to be so unbearable? Maintenance. Keeping up the damn façade. Routine and all the rest of this fucking ballyhoo. Death is easy, it’s inevitable; it can’t be stopped and thus it can be ignored. But Life, going on, maintaining the elaborate web of lies woven to keep my ass entertained. That gets to be a bitch. Not because it is hard or unbearable in any conventional sense, but because it is just so fucking dull. So much of the dreaded Same. The greater ennui of the fucking shit is what slowly drives one to madness. (And if you aren’t bored with life then you are probably too fucking dumb to realize that you should be.) After all, what's left to consider. If Life is simply a means to prolonge itself, continue living, then what is the fucking point? Not that I ever contemplate suicide, but sometimes it gets to the point where you just want to light up a smoke and go to sleep on a bed of gasoline. Living to work to eat to work to eat to live to die later on seems not only to be a terrible bore but a waste of time and space. Clearly there has to be more. But as I tend to enjoy eating most days and want to continue to do so, I am somewhat bound to the chains of Labor. If I do not work I will not eat. If I do not eat I will not live. And while Death doesn't seem like that big of a deal to me, I don't really want to die of starvation because I found working to be too boring. Not the kind of noble death the bards sing about. And since the bards are already preparing a glorious ode (I hear they plan on it taking at least 3 days to sing from beginning to end, they anticipate many a noble deed, etc.) I wouldn't want to dissapoint. So now comes the part that I will be bringing up ad nauseum until I accomplish something of note or die in obscurity:

So what comes next? Where the fuck do I go from here?

And to think I can do this all with a smirk.

* * *

“I want to be able to surrender myself to a woman ... I want her to take me out of myself. But to do that, she’s got to be better than I am; she’s got to have mind, not just a cunt. She’s got to make me believe that I need her, that I can’t live without her. Find me a cunt like that, will you? If you could do that I’d give you my job. I wouldn’t care then what happened to me: I wouldn’t need a job or friends or books or anything. If she could only make me believe that there was something more important on earth than myself. Jesus, I hate myself! But I hate these bastardly cunts even more – because they’re none of them any good.”
– Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer