This is the home of the 'serious' a4g. To visit my dark side, go to Point Five. (The dark side seems to post every day... Why do you think that is?)

Friday, February 25, 2005

A Eulogy

So you ask your wife and son to go into the other room so you can blow your fucking head apart and you leave them alone with an empty body and they have to try and find a way to praise you and validate you and make everything you've ever done seem somehow worthwhile even though you've taken a giant eraser and wiped it all away and they're holding all these filthy pink crumbs that are everywhere around the kitchen and drooling out of the back of your skull and it won't go back together and all your self-abuse and bullshit suddenly don't seem like a great postmodern joke anymore but have become somehow someway really real and the pain isn't hip or cool or anything but painful and you don't seem funny anymore and your worldview doesn't seem funny anymore and nothing seems funny anymore.
Not that kind of funny.
Not ever again.

The paper in the typewriter may have been blank. But what no one noticed was that he had written in blood the eulogy for Jacques Derrida.
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