Fully Clothed Breakfast

Here’s a question: am I the character I play online? How much of what I say is true (and does it even matter, really? I mean, are we even capable of telling the truth anyway is the question that needs to be asked. Even if I want to recount, in perfect detail, some formative event of my life the details will get mucked – I’ll remember things wrong, significance will be reshaped by time and subsequent events, I’ll shape the story to make it more interesting to anyone who reads it, maybe I’ll make myself come off better (or worse) for self serving (or self deprecating) reasons (fuck, Ayer would be quick to point out that knowledge and truth are slippery things anyway) and in the end what I display may have the flavor, the scent of truth but will really be a lot of nested (and re-nested (and re-nested)) parenthetical lies that please (either me or someone else))?

On another point: I have this habit of writing, drunk, in the middle of the night. What I make seems to be shit, so instead of sending it out I post it here. This is last night’s drunken typing:

Fully Clothed Breakfast

This is not what I mean. After dark I masturbate to Naked Lunch and drink Ten High whiskey while the cat looks at me with an accusing glare. He knows I ate his brother. What did Cronenberg learn making The Fly? Did he carry those insect politics on to his other films? I don’t fucking care. Not as long as I have a highball glass and a .38 and a few lines of broken poetry. My opus will bleed from my fingers onto torn pages and scream like a mother over the corpse of her toddler. I will call it Fully Clothed Breakfast and the critics will rape me. In despondent death metastasis despair I will flee to Mexico and fuck Ginsberg until he begs me for forgiveness in the toilet on the roadside that passes for a confessional down there. After I am dead they will understand me. I will be remembered as a man ahead of his time. Let us all chant together: HEY HEY HEY HI HEY HEY HEY HI O O O LORD HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY LORD.

I really like This blog

UPDATE: Since it’s early and I’m drunk, I just sent a manuscript to Six gallery Press. I cannot wait for them to laugh at me and tell me that I am a moron.



  1. Did you know that Stephen King wrote Cujo while taking cocaine, heroin, weed, painkillers, meth and opium?
    Apparently he can’t remember writing it.


    • Sounds like a good weekend


  2. I’ve tried several time to read Naked Lunch, but I still can’t do it.
    Same with Nova Express, Soft Machine, and The Ticket that exploded.


  3. ‘am i the character i play online?’

    always something i ask myself when i pretend interview myself.

    in my case, i guess i’d have to say that, yeah, i guess it’s me. probably a more stripped down version, devoid of any traditional social nuances and bullshit necessary to maintain civility and normalacy within a healthy, functioning day to day life. Like, panning for gold…if you threw me into one of those pans, all the rocks, grains, bits of sticks, mud; swirled it around, i think the gold would be what i am online. Just the raw shit that is heavy and worth something. The stuff that gets dumped back into the river is the stuff we all put on in order to ‘appear normal’ in the world we must function inside of complete with friends, family, coworkers, starbucks employees.

    i dont know what i am saying. delete all of this.

    i think roxanne gay is my new girlwritercrush.


  4. an, oh fuck, you rule


    • Really? I think I suck.


  5. i know. we all think that we suck. that’s why we have to trust in the opinion of others sometimes.

    (and i am an other)


  6. Perfect!


  7. I cannot believe this is true!


  8. Sometimes it’s really that simple, isn’t it? I feel a little stupid for not thinking of this myself/earlier, though.


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