I Love You with All the Condoms in My Wallet

It is that sudden enterprise which makes an incredibly dull entertainment, and yet it blooms in our minds and in our hearts. The very epiphany we are all striving for in this life turns out to be a mildly funny joke accompanied by a laughing track we often refer to as reality. In search for meaning, we talk and talk and we find nothing inherently clear – just a vast greyness of past, present, and future. We say to ourselves: we use to reject, or accept; now, we incorporate. There is no single body. No such thing as a concrete thought. Only process. There is no answer. Everything lies in a perpetual state of process. No longer do we seek for an end. The art is in the process. Nothing is finished, nothing is coherent. I can't fuck. I just can't. I can't do this.

"I love you, baby."

"I love you too."

Truth is a woman. He is right. Us mankind and our dogmatic approaches have completely and utterly failed to obtain truth. That thing we call virtue, justice – those transcendences, those in-it-selves – nowhere near her. All we get is a cold, bitter tongue. I'm gonna cum the very second she gets naked. I know it. Shit, shit. The wiggly part of us we call brain just floats around and stumbles into a corner, taken for granted. Where's the condom? Fuck. Fuck. If I fuck her wearing a condom, does that still make me a virgin? Godammit. Why now?



"Are you OK?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't want to do this?"

"No! I do! I totally do! Like crazy!"


"I love you, sweetie."

"I love you too. A lot. And…"


"Ha-ha, nothing."

"What? What is it?"

"You're so hot. Hahaha!"

"I'm not! You're hot."

"I'm not."

"Like, seriously. You're incredibly beautiful; I can't even believe you're with me."



Look at that. Look at the window, and the sun. The sun. The afternoon sun in this beautiful day. Look at the teapot. The teapot is red. It has a black plastic handle on the top, and a black stainless steel lid, also with a tiny handle on it. The teapot actually has two handles! I hope it's made of stainless steel. Oh, god – what if it's aluminum? What if all this time I'm drinking water cooked inside an aluminum teapot? Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. I'm dying of cancer. Brain cancer. Aluminum cancer. I'm dying a Chinese factory worker baby death. A fucking tumor is growing on my… what the hell do you call that thing? Hypotenuse? Fuck, what is it? I know this! Jesus Christ! Fucking hell.



"I want you in me."


Think of Cezanne. I like Cezanne. Don't you like Cezanne? Of course you do. I like impressionism. Neo-impressionism? I don't remember which one is Cezanne. Think Debussy. Yes, think Arabesque. Think Gauguin. No! No Gauguin! No naked Polynesian little girls! God, to think that I jacked off to that…

"Oh, shit!"

"What is it?"


"What's wrong?"


"You look angry. What's the matter?"


"Tell me!"





"I don't feel like it anymore."

Oh, medulla oblongata.