Everything here, and everything somewhere else. Could have any title and appear anywhere. I, who does not exist, like the God I, who does not exist, deny, has all the rights and responsibilities of a barcode-brushed lobotomy.
Which sometimes or sometimes always and then again not at all appears in world events, as a regional, local, banal phenomenon. Absolutely respecting personal individual freedom, as a digital and nomadic trace between fact and fake, descended from the moldering cross, to tremble drama-free.
Existence blows away
Salutation to the harbor promenade of possibilities, I am rarely but clearly confronted with the protective walls of the emergency mentality. I have pretty much forgotten about the red square of everything will be fine.
But I don't grant you, you random love, access to the inner circle of my social porn, this is child's play compared to the paywall romance, I just want to point out that a paperweight from Indian winter knows how to keep me grounded like an addiction to failure on the ostrich.
When I realise at Jakominiplatz how wrong I am here, it is once again because of the people, because of this confusing mixture of careless matrix, of the pseudo-pregnant art of repression of a tired mob of egomaniacs.
I just want to get away from here, forget about the often so quirky sexy, over-frozen pretzels, but the country bread from Auer, the organic one, is at least a picture book in terms of taste compared to what Sorger has to offer. Sad but true, what happened there, I have to talk to Alfie about it, hidden advertising fucks sloppiness, there is more to it than that.
This gives me the idea of going down in the history of writing as one of the first product placement writers: why Google Ads when you can feel so finely tuned in your Dionysian syllable lust, an Apollonaire of the WordPress slam, three s later, you simply earn what you deserve by keeping your mouth shut and hoping it's not grandpa's sperm.
The person who doesn't exist, who was canceled by a nonexistent God and has a passport from the Austrian state, is standing around aimlessly and is actually supposed to start work. A memorable event indeed. A standard article that shamelessly surpasses and magnifies Anna Mayr's misery, completely beyond misery, but to be honest, I'm nervous as to how this is supposed to work, despite the good cause of nature conservation and so on.
And like a whoosh, the panic disorder sweeps through me, the spa sleep torture sea bath of my longings sluggish me. Relaxation for a few weeks is over again.
The red roses of being. Sold out. Flattened nose on the Luxury Lane.
Operation successful, patient artist
is written on one of my whiteboard Post Its.
It couldn't be more hardcore, the vitamin D deficient web cleaner, the bits and bytes cleaner, you want to put shackles on him, not with him, or her, or them, fuck off to Bulgaria btw., a food bomb doesn't make a character my dears 🙂
But back to the sad testimonial of a thousand-leaf shame.
The Dude thinks of something new
Since the current strategy has banished him to the elephant graveyard, he might as well only love, talk and fuck with men in the future, vote for the ÖVP/MFG and ride the hamster wheel for the owners of the hamster wheel in all its load and amphibians until the end of his days.
Plus seafood and fruit brandy.
Dream holidays in Poland, Alaska and Dubai.
The whole thing is called opposite therapy and is prescribed to failures. The danger of ending up like Nina Proll should be mentioned as a possible side effect.
And that this is not satire, that would be too cheap, humor or not, The Matrix is not back in the cinema for nothing, the inner demon of my esteemed wife Professor Seidl, who sponsors entire awards in the most coveted Blogger network in the world, is inconvenient for him, he would rather spend another five years playing Covid hide-and-seek, actually doing nothing, just pretending.
Lieferando and Netflix and a flashlight are enough for him, but it would only be worthwhile if he neurologically returned from the illusions of his masturbation attempts to the banality of his libido.
And once again the vegan chili is simmering and once again he was too lazy to at least vary the ingredients like he promised himself even though he doesn't exist.
Without pussy, it's not motivating. But when pussies send postcards, call, or want to go for a coffee, then Breaking Bad is over. Then he switches to a Duffy Duck version of the hero.
The big superpussy says:
OK, the conditions weren't the best, and I may have been a bit over-the-top, but you actually did a good job for ten years after the electric shock, and the same goes for your first ten years as a dad. You're a bit screwed now, that's right, but it seems that's what you always wanted, so let's go for ironies, and when you're told about paradise over there near the Moroccan coast, take it damn seriously.
Why did you actually stage your own Naked Lunch, why did you dream of the sky above the desert and fall asleep with Chatwin if you now intend to bother with the murder of Handke and other Serbian jokes.
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Get rid of a few of the short-lived fragments that have been thrown at you, reminding you of the futility of those you never wanted to be, and then take off your hat and be the doer in the eternal spring full of social clubs and dune raves.
Follow the shamans even though you don't believe in them, one of them has three wives, what do you think he did wrong?
This text is slowly gaining momentum and color and has earned itself an extended breathplay. Deep Stuff is a tantalizingly chosen essay title; we cannot ignore what awaits us in the form of more sick stroking of the crown jewels, a breathing-in beyond our expectations.
The macaroni, by the way, is cooked quite soft, a good sign that the text is flowing, and you haven't vacuumed either; moving makes sense anyway, you can't handle the size of a couple's apartment if you're not a couple.
You never taught me that, just like swimming, riding a bike, or keeping house intelligently, liking particularly large clitoris is not an adequate substitute.
Oh, are you finally starting to complain? Then again, things are not always as they seem, as a wannabe Mr. Robot should know.
Without me you would have learned even more bullshit, basic arithmetic, writing and reading and the rest from the libraries worked perfectly. If you had drugged yourself with all the supposed higher education thinking inhibitors, then there would have been no anathema of Zos
no book of lies
no Cosmic Trigger and Encyclopedia of Psychedelic Plants, no Beatniks, no Baudelaire, Basquiat or Dylan.
Watercolors and gymnastics instead of the art of dreaming and stalking.
How would you vote today, my wannabe?
That's all true, I just wish you had motivated me to pursue a football career by using your backside as a carrot. And not forbade me from seeing Jakob, only to end up messing around with him yourself.
How long are you going to keep harping on about it? I had no breasts anymore and was horny as hell. They're not exactly lining up when you're forty and bald and look sixty.
Hola, now it's time for the paywall, or okay, I don't want to be like that, I'm not a courier.
But please with cream
This is Fay, I pay her a hundred euros a week to lick her to orgasm. We have a beautiful, honest relationship that isn't dumbed down by Disney.
Whenever I, the person I was, come home from that, there is always, for what feels like fifty of my fifty years of life, since my conception, a letter in my mailbox demanding that I pay church tax.
For just as many years I have been laughing and throwing it in the trash.
I am an atheist, I don't believe in anything, and especially not in the verb believe. Me and belief are two sons of bitches of self-hypnosis, no need.
It is better to doze off in mischief and hearty grumbling.
There are some affinities with Albert Camus' tender, lustful absurdity of being. Sartre always seemed a bit too Apollonian, arid, for me.
And to cover a kind of Eminem rap in the chaos of Funkelfrei, to occupy oneself for all eternity with stealing the fire from the cock heaven of boredom.
The rest of where I came from dances in cruel theses to my esteemed daughters, hardly a sentence that doesn't slurp like a censor, smashing the snail shell in which we leave slimy, well-meaning trivialities. Influences.
Age is a rotten spell, the chains of character armor are steel snakes of silent suffocation, you long for the vampire kiss of eternal bloom, we are all stupid brains who have fallen for a storyteller's antediluvian idea that steals our money and our energy.
Since Covid, there is no room left in the promised Selig, so the wagonloads of Celan's fugues now go directly to Oz.
Valhalla is occupied for Viking.
Am I too strong, you're too weak.
And a few more lines, and a few more failures, and a few more laurels and hurdles, I grind with fingers on the keys the silent scream in all of us. The echo in everyone and no one, that whispers, lovingly gives hope, the windmills in the vacuum, have you ever faced the demons that wait on the other shore of folly for those who are ready to turn around with an indifferent smile when the boss excitedly demands what is expected of slaves.
You have nothing but what you are wearing, you walk away grinning ever more, your owner calls out something, he offers more, and you walk and you walk, with every step Kafka's beetle crumbling into dust behind you a little.
One in a thousand may one day be like you, Beetledust, but no one here is like what I once was.
None of your cogs will turn anymore if your creatures no longer want to.
But all of this is also a transformation in the process of falling. (I) think that a lot has been missed. We took the right turn, but overheated and over-excited, rushed and taken advantage of. But everywhere in this eternal chance to do better than the moment before, in this never-ending freedom of each individual, everywhere the fires of this very freedom are smoldering and flickering and licking in the aimless night of our future.
On the beaches, in the mountains, under palm trees, among the dwarves, everywhere these fires are lit, it is the other world, which cannot become any less improbable because it is always possible while the predetermined concepts in their own predetermined building of lies, intoxicated or failing in their construction, but remaining constructions.
The construction site is emptying, the market, all the beautiful things are rotting. Only the flints are becoming scarce.
The age of cocks is coming to an end, whether the pussies will do better remains to be seen, what will the great first, the metavulva from metavulva harem home, answer, what will she send and sing to the wanderer, she always has one more lesson for my me-rest program than I can process in this one.
No gratitude for canned food
Tomorrow is the victory of the cats over the dogs, which is not a victory in itself, but for many the loss it deserves.
The resilience of life, the flexing of Gaia, we are formed and blinded on shaky foam, Sapien egalis, like a drying up fishing ground, a bleaching coral.
What I found back then when I was him in terms of love and connection, of joy from within, remains even if (I) now tell everyone what I like, because (I) only consist of the present, of the here and now, clearly connected with one another, while the rest of the world manages an unfortunate past.
But maybe it's just the onset of dementia that I'm trying to convince myself because I don't want to accept that in just a few years we'll be stumbling towards the end, sedated by babbling, unvaccinated, overwhelmed dragons.
Maybe I just lack the temptation, the offer to travel on deck and not in the engine room of the fool's ship, had I been a little more in love with myself, I probably would have accepted it.
Don't summon yourself, everything and everyone staggers towards me, in Kali's grip all beings are a thorn
