really, if I could be anything I’m not (or don’t quite think I am) right now, I’d be a girl; I’d be a slut; I’d be a cock sucker. I’m sitting up here not “writing” anything in particular, knowing that even not “writing” is not “not ‘writing’“ but “not” really “caring” except i do, o i do. did i mention that while i was assigning random names to the aliases in the untitled folder, my fingers accidentally swiped out “poem” for one of them? of course it doesn’t MEAN anything, you fucking cock sucker (yes, yes!). But my point is, my point is of course that still doesn’t mean i want to make anything as pedestrian as a book. A book is a fucking tombstone, and I’m not dead yet. Okay, okay, I don’t really have anything to say. My face is a brick wall. I’m going back downstairs. I just wanted to say one more thing before I went down there, and a cream pie hit me in the face. (2002)