The spice of life has always come across just a little bit too bland for my tastes. I've always wanted my tongue to burn up with it, I'd like two incestuous twin sisters of smoke to curl seductively from my nostrils. You know I'm not sure if this is a good thing but I got a sudden desire to FUCK SHIT UP and slip betwixt your door jam like a expired credit card.

Not exactly healthy but I think I could go for a bit of minor vandalism after I finish this. Breaking a few glass bottles on concrete, like back when I was twelve. Grab me a can of spray paint and share my caramel slice of raw feeling with the world, untitled #4 with author: anonymous, hell, it's almost a public service. An act of charity. Applause is not a necessary prerequisite —no post-performance renumeration required, I'm doing this purely for myself. It's all about ME, not a conversation a goddamn soliloquy. Or maybe it isn't. Maybe that isn't strictly speaking, true.

I can never seem to ever get drunk enough, and whenever I do manage it I always seem to get too drunk. It's a fine fine line. A delicate balance. I've found my crimes were never unspeakable enough to bother mentioning to anyone. Prosaic as a can opener, merely only functionally evil. Or nice or good or cute or whatever else, however you'd like to frame the question. Framing the question is important. NAMBLA frames the question as a case of sexual rights for children. Say, you're not against civil liberties are you? Get the fuck out.

I guess if the world really does end the survivalists can all say I-told-you-so but until that happens we are simply biding our time, living in hope of a heavenly sandblaster stripping away the paint and rust back to the bare metal, shine and gleaming chrome baby, shine and gleaming chrome.

Everybody is growing up, getting married, having kids. But I'm not growing up. I'm growing down, growing roots, planting tentacles, my snakes into the soil. Imagine a desert but instead of sand everyone was just so fucking boring it made you want to scratch your eyes out. Imagine being that boring. It's a very close call my friends, but each of us scrape our escapes by application of olive oil and move on. Not us. No way. We're far too complicated, complex and in-depth, unique specimens truly worthy of preservation in a medical museum or at the very least a sideshow.

The obese beast that stalks the slimy sewers of each of us. Oh yes, I know what you keep stowed away in that locked box of yours. Well, not exactly, but I think I get the general gist. A monstrous inhuman liquor lies bubbling in bowels of your soul, I can smell it; ok! let's just forget the whole thing, we can let somebody else clean the dishes tonight. Disposable cutlery is the real secret behind my fast-paced modern lifestyle. Plastic spoons and such. Paper plates and rubbish bags.

Can I ask you a personal question? Do you like yourself? Yeah. Me neither. It's a problem, obviously, it's a problem for me. Beer, at least, you can talk to. Beer, at least, talks back. There's far too many ungrounded hair dryers for this small bathtub to handle alone. Yes. Good question. Very perceptive. Well, to be honest, I'm intending on unleashing a raging bull into the candy shop and then . Aw, you know there's plenty more fish left in the barrel and my trigger finger itches something vicious. I'm an equal opportunity employer; I will destroy every single one of us. No favouritism given and none asked for, an aquatic three-legged race wearing concrete shoes and I swear to god I swear to god I will be with you every single step of our descent. We're all fleas on this drowning rat together, sinking at a rate proportionate to our relative densities, but sinking nonetheless.

The problem is that you have to build your own big red button to push, and it never gets finished, and there's no such address, failed delivery—and anyway, an autobiography consisting of undelivered letters is a poor way to be remembered.

Time to go smash something.

What can I say, I like you.