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My Ideal

has killed me in the only meaningful way, mistaking the splatters of my blood droplets for her own tears.

This was actually my third day of fasting, an attempt at both physical and emotional detox, as well as to sacrifice some of myself in hopes of gaining something from the universe in trade. But not this, and not like this. The one amber ray of golden sunshine I’ve known in all my travels proving to be the shimmery reflection of my spirit burned alive.

On that note, this collection of essays may or may not come to a close. I sincerely hope that somebody anywhere might learn from my experiences, and thus get a sense of the true designs of the fool. To laugh at the fall.

Better to have loved and lost than never to have survived to warn others how all hope is gone and we may as well just blow our brains out. Dying alone is the only way to guarantee that the conversation stays interesting. But really, if the internet were intended to be meaningful it would have been delivered to us in bubble wrap. Preferably by strippagram. Love was built to be intangible because to lay eyes upon it would mean an even quicker demise for all parties. We know we are mere animals because it’s easier for us to find someone to fuck than someone who means what they say and says what they mean. What grand uprising or unification might possibly arise when every last one of us is so helplessly displaced from one another? Kill or be killed, fuck or get fucked, all of it’s binary which amounts to 2-steps when it takes 3-steps for an effective Curly shuffle.

Good night, internet. I pray we never meet again.