I wonder if any of you have ever noticed that it is sometimes those who find most pleasure and amusement in their fellow man, and have most hope in his goodness, who get the reputation of being his most carping critics. Maybe it is that the satirist is so full of the possibilities of humankind in general, that he tends to draw a dark and garish picture when he tries to depict people as they are at any particular moment. The satirist is usually a pretty unpopular fellow. The only time he attains even fleeting popularity is when his works can be used by some political faction as a stick to beat out the brains of their opponents. Satirical writing is by definition unpopular writing. Its aim is to prod people into thinking. Thinking hurts. – John Dos Passos

How many hospital beds have I wasted my life in wandering around the opiated labyrinth of incredible sparklers like junk food and vomit and shitting short-circuits of lifting weights and insurance companies.

Survival for the sake of survival is obscene. The idea of it is revolting. I spit in your mouth.

Yet we are supposed to celebrate that we lived through the arthritic deaths of Tristan in my bed it was my bed my bed and he was naked in it. In his sweat. In his agony. In his diminishment. In his blond junkie dreams of years that never happened.

Today, it is the ghosts who fuck me and none of them are jack shit compared to Tristan fucking me because he could.

That was my bed he died in.

Do NOT tell me to celebrate a life with no Tristan in it. I will defy you. I will.

Survival for what.

This. You call this a life.

Plan ahead.

The nurses are only trying to help you.

I want to drink whiskey in Spain.

I want room service.

Because life is another ethical darling. Because . Courage, bitch. They will never get it they have never fathomed it and they never will. Losses and restrictions in any moment. I threw his ashes into a cold and greying sea. Let us celebrate happily ever after.

Pain. Let us celebrate pain.

Let us take it to the skateboard park.

I am going to walk out of this hospital because confinement is just not my style. Fuck’em.

By the time they call security, I will be their departed animal gone wave to grave and happy for it. Death has nothing on me. Cum fuck me, Mister Death. Shit in my mouth your American nightmare.

Survival sets fire to nothing. Put on your warpaint.

Time is running out. Life has mainly bored me.

I’m a bad guy.

I’m a bad guy.