Let it be known that I am an ass. Or at least slightly bourgeois.
For the past six months, I have been promoted, listless and ungrateful. I have devoted great sums of money towards the appearance of success, and have created conflict for the illusion of progress. I do ninety-five sit-ups a night now. I squeeze the miniscule amount of fat together, hoping that one day I will weigh nothing, I will be a mannequin in the window of Bloomingdale’s, observed and without potential. I read book after book, attend every essential event, amuse anyone who will stand still long enough. It is my own Dostoyevskian underground, populated with apathy, rage and embarrassment. Perhaps I am a little godless, I do not know.
I think I am just stirring from the capitalistic catnap, and realizing I have done so little of what I came here to do the only logical response is to sit alone in a room with a bottle of vodka listening to a Scott Joplin record until I can’t see, or hear, or both.