Don’t quit smoking. Don’t go to work. Don’t save money. Don’t pay taxes, bills. Don’t be kind to women. Get a new name in a new country where you can beat your 13 year old wife and live on 2 dollars a day.
Burn the neighbors. Fingerfuck your grandmother. Forget all that shit but just don’t quit smoking. Go to the store right now. Stop writing on your stupid laptop in the park while the mockingbirds scream and scream trying to get laid. It takes the bitch woman mockingbird all spring to pick one. Men doomed to sit on a high branch and cry. Anyway stop listening. Get in your car. Warm it up. Drive to the Valero gas station. Buy a pack of Camel Filters and a lighter and take that one crackling first drag that you float while your heart makes meth music.
You’re gonna die anyway. Cancer’s genetic. Nothing slows suffering and doom. When one particle exploded to make the universe it was foreordained you’d be sitting on a stump in your synthetic dress shirt typing stupid shit before going to nine hours– NINE FUCKING HOURS of worm work. Can’t talk to people from your high school anymore. They were rich kids so now they’re documentary filmmakers about poor black kids. They’re married and write for the New Yorker and you, Tacos, you’re a secretary because your parents were normal people. Alone and all your brains nothing next to a nice face and a big dick. But then when you’re given things, success is banal. Whereas the scope of my failure is dazzling.