im in new jersey. i am in a room full of computers with people i don't understand. i don't belong in this room. i don't belong in new jersey. outside the window there are seventy canadian geese shitting on a lawn. across the street there is a xxx video shop with a pink awning that says, "adult (something i cannot read)" then "smokeshop." a mini bus picked me up on madison avenue and dropped me off here. im not aloud to drink coffee right now. i have to use the restroom but i'm not going to ask anyone where it is because i don't want to talk to people. this is going no where. i'm going no where. this is called a 'business continuity exercise.'
have you ever had bikini sex?
try it today at thieves jargon.
thieves jargon is one of my favorite places to wait for cancer.
i have a mental imagine of myself thirty years from now hooked to a dialysis machine reading thieves jargon and form rejections from smokelong quarterly.
madonna songs are playing from a radio somewhere.
something degenarative is happening inside my colon.
this is inevitable.
i have more swag in volume III of the catalonian review - it's part of a larger work teetering on the border of novella and novel. it's about 25K words right now and reads like a less nihilistic/less grammatically-erroneous version of less than zero - minus the drug abuse and male prostitution, written by someone eight years older with a better taste in music and a comparably toned physique. i don't know what that means. i don't think people will want to read 25K words of this under any circumstances. and i know this. so it's okay.