You, February Eleventh:
Tired of listening to sycophantic pontifications, love-making with non-entities, hypothetical, "what-if, what if." Are you more content sitting alone in a theatre knowing that everything you touch will cower under your palm, or do you prefer to be self-conscious, a lot of laughing heads floating around, vomiting advices, warm because there are so many bodies in the room? Self-deprecation is not charming; let us not delude ourselves. It is loathsome and annoying, if you want the truth. The honest brilliance, that Chomsky masterpiece (unprecedented synaptic lapses), the thing which shocks, festers writhing guilt, the entire "why-the-hell-do-I-philosophize-to-a-cutter-goddamit?" mentality, a menagerie of doubt, torment, tracing your finger across history, discovering the poignant beauty of it all--yes, and yes it is so simple: tissue paper. Pastel pink. Are you looking through her?



