We Don't Call Brides "Whores" in Texas

And other good advice, like make all yr corners rounded, keep yr head down, watch yr six, if yr happy and know it, don't fight it!

I think about race science while I make sixty sugar cookies (sixty?)(yes, sixty.) and about how 'what is it?' is what it is about what it is.  Sense, like I ever cared about you, so tedious and used for such limited purposes.  Enframe this, motherfucker, with your ideas so hard.  You can't keep names straight, and I'm supposed to pay you how much?  Suck a dick.  Another bit of good advice.

Everyone thinks they are special, and that is the problem with science.  We cannot acknowledge the limits of our knowledge, nor to even keep a straight idea of what we mean when we say "I know that dot dot dot" within our intellectual grasp long enough for our mind's eye to focus on it, let alone define it, and PS we are assuming a positive existence of knowledge.  Do we have that epistemic right?  When you say that you doubt something is true, you are implying that you have some belief in what it would mean for a thing to be true.  I doubt that you doubt, but I don't doubt that you believe, so try to prove anything, including truth, without relying on the idea of proof.  It only makes cents in our artificial systems, or is reality like pornography to you, how you just know it when you see it?

It's slippy sticky, like creamed sugar and butter, tasting equivalently delicious to our brains, and is at least as bad for us.  Some people don't care about the kinematic chains, about thrownness (as distinct from throwedness), about arrows of time and their pointing towards dangerous metaphors, causality and other monsters of that ilk, and I am one of those people.  I mean, I like to think that I am.  I couldn't say that I know that I am.


I forgot that this was supposed to be my holiday post, my cheery annual polemic.  But I'm rolling so hard right now (cookies!) and IDGAF, go buy stuff.  I'm sure your shiny products will make you the spitting analog of happy.  You are your dockers and your iDevices.  I am my virgin cold-pressed coconut oil, my copy of Better Living Through Monkey Sex, my tripod, and my dedicated memory card.  I am getting you a sore dick and emptied nutsack for one of the gods' blood-sacrificed son's estimated birthday.  You're the easiest to pleasiest!

inamorata

or, "The Flotsam of the American Polity"

That girl is six foot seven inches, and I just awe, and aww, because no one likes non-conformity, the noncomformists least of all, ask any Deep Ellum tattoo artist, not that I know any, I'm tramp stamp free.

Marcuse confuse, makes me look lucid, 'loquent, logical.  Lately, I've been brain dead death dying, or looking to fake it, and escape to somewheres warm and non-extradite-y, where we can fuck on our own clock, to our own rhythm, lazy or 'letic, whatever suits us when.

He breathes in sharp disgust, exhales in the next room.  And I cue it all over again, again.  I'll find you a new house, on a new beach, with a new view, but same old thrice-comed-in pussy and comfort-food tits.  Here's to fucking-through-the-flu.  Your karma is a three-piece sutra!  Hyphenation is almost never-wrong.  Clink-clink!