2003-10-07 - 10:04 a.m.

Letters in My Bag.

Got me some email from adoring fans and not so well wishers which is in and of its own very fucking cool, because the not so well wishers actually read every fucking entry on this journal and had the balls to call me on it. Bravo. I hope my email reply is read aloud by your sysop nazi and posted to your lunchroom bulletin boards. A couple of the others I�ll answer here because my message to the Blasphemers is personal and most likely illegal if I were living in the States. I�m paraphrasing these to boot.

Letter I: �So what the fuck exactly is The Setting Son, Son?�

�Exactly�? I don�t fucking know. What kind of �fart in the air� question it that? Made me think, though. At first it was all about learning to write thoughts �n shit at a keyboard seeing 98% of my writing is normally done with a pad and pen. It�s changing at it�s own behest � but I like what it�s changing into.

A social dialogue written in nihilistic prose. No, not really. Entertainment a my expense. To some extent, but if it�s all about that you�re missing the fucking point Cocktug. An Elitists Manifesto? A diatribe of delusions? A long-assed lexicon of loosely literate alliterations? I don�t fucking know, what The Setting Son is, Truth be told.

What I do know is that I have a shitload left to say, and people seem to be reading for some inexplicable reason. So read often. Laugh. Hate. Run fucking scared, whelps. One thing this ISN�T is fucking therapeutic. This shit is a far toss from therapeutic.

Letter II: � I�ve always known you to be a hateful bastard, Son�but Jesus.�

Yes Victoria, I man-raped Santa Claus with a basket full of Easter Eggs and a rabbit�s foot, shat in each and every present and set the Sled to �BALLS OUT: RUN THE DEER �TILL THEY BLEED.�

Yes, I�m a hateful bastard, no argument there. But how fucking boring would it be to live life all lovey and peacefully passive? Wouldn�t that get a little fucking vanilla?

�Life is a green valley between two mountains.� I�m sure it sounds better in Chinese, but it�s 1200 years old and is as true today as the tattoo on my cock. See, life isn�t ALL about hate. It�s about Truth and Beauty and Common Fucking Sense. Or at least that�s what it should be. Every last one of us, however, know people who willingly trade their actual lives for what they feel life is all about.

Do what the fuck you want � your prerogative right? Just keep in that Martha Stewart mind of yours that I live here too. I live in your closets and hide in your shoes. I deliver the morning paper and create the marketing that tucks you in at night. Ignore The Setting Son as bullshit, but don�t for a second think that I�m a singular concept.

The Son Sets on a small number of you and you will know my number when you encounter one. The thing we have in common is that we�re pissed to the fucking core at the people who choose to ignore the Truth and Beauty that living in a Western society proffers � with blatant disregard for Common Sense.

I hate everyone by default. I give a person ample opportunity to prove me wrong. 30-someodd years later I still hate most of you. It IS, however, the few individuals I don�t hate that makes Living worth the effort.

�So what�s this all about?� you ask. I reply, �Fuck all, Virginia. Sweet fuck all.�

0 of you fuckers have been accounted for.

old shit. - newer shit.

2003-10-03 - 9:56 p.m.

The Trade.

Of all the potential keepers in my life there�s been only one who has displayed the right proportions of control and contrariness � fueled by a genuinely good heart. We�ve been a couple for a long fucking time. Thinking how long makes me feel old � just remembering the years. She was there when I was just an over heated Lamp Shade. And of all the fucking shitty things I�ve done over the years, I�ve never cheated on her.

Now before you click off thinking that this is a fucking love note, a "OH I'M SO FUCKING SORRY, BABY" story, bear with me until the end of the next paragraph, then fuck off. See, my virtuousness has a price. One she resigned herself to a long, LONG time ago.

I LOVE PORN.

I need porn. Porn is the only true media facet on the Internet. It is everything we are and everything we stand for and everything we want to be - most are just too fucking scared to own up to it. What would the fucking neighbours say, right?

My collection, my Cuirio du Polyparaphilic Pornographie, is Legion and the most timid of amature, 100 dollar productions have on numerous occasions inadvertently made my Lovely Keeper physically ill. But so fucking what? What�s a little fantastical perversion amongst soul mates, right? Keeper, Me and My Rabid and Greasily Horny Imagination.

Do yourself a favour, go lock the fucking door, get the towels and the lubes and the probes out and get off on some porn. Make a fucking mess. You�ll be thanking me when you call my name, �OH GOD!�

Holy fuck I�m high. I mean, brain-on-the-roof-of-the-mouth high. Porn. I need porn. Go fuck yourselves.

No, seriously. Go fuck yourselves.

0 of you fuckers have been accounted for.

old shit. - newer shit.