Arthur Graham’s Reviews > Something to Do with Self-Hate > Status Update

Your heart drips down the throat of another thirsty Saturday night, only to be regurgitated on a Sunday, and you keep waiting.

You knew from an early age that to get through life you would have to rely solely on your imagination because everything else was so disappointing.

“Hey,” says Sommer (or Lizbeth). “Hey! What’s wrong with you, are you even listening to me?”
You contemplate whether or not Lizbeth (or Sommer) will just shut up and fall asleep if you give her what she came here for, half wanting it, knowing it’ll more than likely be lousy.

Moonburst gets pissed you won’t snort coke off her titties. When you tell her you’re hurting, she leaves.

“We’re all just a bunch of toy robots on the edge of a table moving in circles without much direction and eventually falling and breaking into pieces.”

A famous painter once said that a work of art is never completed.
Dali?
No clue.
But think about it.
In death, one leaves behind things: bad credit, expired food, unpaid parking tickets, dirty socks, unrequited loves, and so on.
Life, as far as anyone knows, lacks veritable closure. So why should thought or art be any different?

"Yeah, you need space all right—another space to stick your cock in!"

Usually, if you don’t catch the name of the person you’re in bed with, you can catch something else.

This is ridiculous. Insects fuck flowers. Humans huddle over toilets and shovel garbage they paid too much for into their nose and act like assholes for several minutes. Then they repeat.

An empty room, a dying room—a dying, empty room—and in it, you watch the string attached to the ceiling fan. You watch it for a long time. You study it. It swings back and forth, beautifully, like a golden beaded lasso. You wonder if there is enough to hang yourself with.