Sick of this new Eminem sh**. Music is dead. I’m tellin’ you, I got pretty definitive evidence. Two years ago, I hated that Taylor Swift song more than life itself. Now, I find myself abiding it. At ends of long workadays, in times of moral compromise, I’m forced to use my left brain to survive in this world, and it tells me that her vocal timbres swathe in my ear like something attractive, like something for which I would want to buy a $25 steak dinner.
But I don’t enjoy Rhea Tregebov anymore. So there, poetry’s getting better.
When I meet a philosophy prof, I know it’ll be gravy. History people are too haughty. They’re interested in facts, not afraid, intimidated or humiliated by them.
I’m quiet. At work I listen to perverted stories. This dude did a threesome, a gang bang, the Eiffel Tower, the black, softspoken dishwasher was “beatin’ up two strippers at one time.” That’s like the most that dude ever says.
Oh yeah, and marriage is still an antiquated, crumbling enterprise, in case you were wondering.