self-portrait, yet again, as always
This notion has become a comic sense, becoming what a whip of the word is to only become an industrialized society.
I live the life of a 12-inch solver, only by my feet. The records of career ump tempts careered upon as inevitable and collapsing.
Some times I want to fuck and sometimes I don’t.
And the times between them are littered with mothers and friends and frank conversations about toast.
I like my toast, toasted, with avocado and big flakes of sea salt, strewn like little children clothes, all over the edible.
I am an asshole.
(That is a persona I present, from time to time.)
I am a loveable bear.
(That is a personal I present, from time to time, depending.)
I am what you want me to be.
(That is, when you want me to be something I can do; something that is disrupted when what you ask is something you want me to be and I have to say, no, I cannot be that which you want me to me.)
This thing called self: such a wonderful waste of an image altogether.