"I have shown myself as I was; contemptible and vile when I was so; good, generous, sublime when I was so; I have unveiled my interior such as Thou thyself hast seen it, Eternal Father! Collect about me the innumerable swarm of my fellows; let them hear my confessions; let them groan at my unworthiness; let them blush at my meannesses! Let each of them discover his heart in his turn at the foot of thy throne with the same sincerity; and then let any one of them tell thee if he dares: 'I was a better man!'”

— Jean Jacques Rousseau, "The Confessions", written whilst he was swimming (mostly sinking) in the inkly bottomless depths of a glue binge.

A little better than average, maybe bigger even than King Kong's cock itself; looking about me, casting my line out, trying to catch some of the olden time writers strut, that all-knowing swagger, I just needed me a few crumbs of self-confidence to feed to the sewer rats. Around and everywhere life continues inevitable, the incredibly heavy pink stiletto of time still refuses under threat of law of gravity to lift it's heel off the ant farm. Only an insect possessed of an uncommon valour and fortitude could continue to raise his proboscis to the sun under such unfavourable circumstances—lord knows I'm trying to be that insect.

Life continues: inevitable, infinite, terrible, wonderful. I once looked, direct, straight into the bright blue eye of God. It was a mistake. I blinked, felt small, engulfed, felt tiny by comparison, horrible, tiny small, and then went: blind: deaf: mad, ecstatic in my grief for one more glimpse. Bigger gods are scary. All tripe of course, worthless gutter rubbish, but trying to, attempting to write. Every time I think about writing I feel the thousand gleaming eyes of some black spider god upon me, evaluating, calculating, weighing up this old piece of brick against the hummingbird feather of virtue. Still, a brick can smash windows, bust heads. I'd rather be a hammer than a cold crushed skull. I'd rather be a nail than a kneecap.

I think I'd choose a sticky ounce over over a pound of contentment any day of the week.

That said, putting things in perspective, what have I got to lose? Nothing worth selling, anyhow. My net worth is well under two thousand dollars, including personal affects. Finally got some projects on the go, hope I get my face in the papers cos I love that shit. Infamy makes my balls throb. It's like some kind of justification for existing, drunkenly pissing my name into the yellow snow of other peoples lives. Sweep all the broken dreams back into the toy box cos I got some all new cheap pieces of plastic crap to choke on.

What we need now is some explosive decompression. Dust all the dust off the dinner table. We could set the bedbugs scuttling for cover, go tip some sacred cows – perhaps hold hands in Sunday School and then fuck in the confession booth. Too boring otherwise. The intolerable nonsense of the hours. the sheer senselessness of the minutes pass like glaciers crossing the street to avoid each other. There's not enough sex in this slow dance, still! teacher gets her steel ruler out! screeches “You kids must maintain at least a ten inch distance!”, a vicious slap on the wrist that leaves deep red welts for weeks. It can't be helped. It's difficult.

In my garden let a thousand grotesque flowers bloom and open, let them sow their pollen to the winds. Sailing out to undiscovered territories, sending our little boats to every compass point available, let them float on off the edge of the map and into history.

Fuck you black spider-god. \m/