I pretend I'm a writer when I'm not pretending I'm a rockstar. Both of these things may or may not take place in front of the bathroom mirror.
You probably have no idea what my posts are about, and that's the way I like it. True art fails to yield to analysis.
Self-indulgent biography, attempt at humor, pseudo-intellectual Nietzsche quote, etc. etc. etc.
Shots from the Bandwagon/Fueling the Fury
Plastic patriotic pan-partisan pricks: retire and put your money where the milligram is.
My country tis of thee: self-serving misery. Ugly, I sing!
Crude and ugly.
Off-color Americans, sprint to boycott the solution! Pseudo-altriuistic intentions are a 42-gallon barrel of spiked mace paperweights for your liquid Bible basher. You’d do better for the tarnished majority if you unpacked your suitcase of opinions and called in sick. Opportunity for righteousness gives birth to a whole new kind of slime-ball, equally uninvited to the midnight beach party.
A fleeting thwart from the bleeding heart, temerity’s timebomb ticking.
Tonight I went Technicolor shopping at the bleach store, manufactured crank and sold it to the Peace Corps. Godspeed you away with a black kiss, let us pray: flower children, leave the fire to the arsonists.
Sentimental sympathizer swimming in sin: drop the guns from the gas pumps and give in.
