Post #5

Maybe I have bubonic plague. I'm waiting for my lymph nodes to swell, I hope they don't, but really they could be swollen already. The more I think about it, the harder it becomes to close my armpits comfortably. Do I have a fever? It's curable, but maybe the treatment will leave me thin, like Kafka, shadow-like and intense. I would wear only white or off-white silk then, with a scarf and no glasses to hide my sunken, bloodshot eyes. I'd have a cain too, something straight and uncompromising. I'd hoard all my money and eat only raw rats, still wriggling on a stick. I'd shave off all my hair, decide to become homosexual, and fuck often just for the sin of it...

I've just spent probably 10 minutes trying to think of some way to either amend or mitigate the possible offensiveness of that last sentence--someone might afterall read this--and, since I'm too afraid to advocate presidenticide, this is the best I could come up with.

Anyway, I feel better now. And really I'm more afraid of being cliché than I am of bubonic plague. But I can't do anything about it either way. I could go to the hospital; but it is easier to just embrace my shortcommings, write them off as intentional, and insist that everything I do is perfect. The semi-colon in the last sentence is especially enigmatic. But enough, I'm confusing (in the transitive verb way) and this is exactly why I don't like to talk about myself.

I'd rather talk about you, dear reader, and the enjoyment I would have having sex with your brains and skull. And vomit... That was a joke. Really, it's all very funny, HAHA. Just listen to yourself reader (what garbage!), you're nuts.

This is the worst post yet.