There I was, fingerbanging a thousand nihilistic redheads with attention deficit disorder, when my friend who looks like a thunderstorm made of fuck kicks down my front door and insists we buy a mansion in the worst parts of Los Angeles. I tell him no, fire is the constant in which we burn, or something, something, Star Trek: Generations.
At this point, one of the redheads hatches into her next phase, which is a hotter redhead, and begins to lecture me about Baudrillard. I find this arousing, so I buy her Billy The Mountain (the album, not an actual mountain) and we listen to it on a helicopter made of brushed silver and filigreed blades. While I stare out the window, I think about the incompetence of editorialists and the vast, improbable luck of notaries. She kisses me with a mouthful of ants and I spit them into a desk drawer in someone else’s office.
It’s always someone else’s office when you’re spitting ants, you know?
Time seemed to find a new perimeter inside a duck’s cage when I enveloped a paradigm of attractive women with great hair into brusque, lanky mannerisms. We all hired new management. I found myself staring into her eyes as I made faxes, sending them to all the departments, great litanies and numerical disciplines, the modern alchemical. I may also have petted a dog. I never did find out that dog’s name.
Sometimes, you never find out the dog’s name.
While finding ourselves in a sartorial dispute during a philosophy lecture about iconographic semiotics and other things that didn’t exist yet, I was in the back row getting a blowjob from a concept with really great tits, attempting to fight my way up a staircase of my own design. We are all Kosh, I told myself. Deep Space 9 is better than Babylon 5 anyway. I knew if I was locked in that lecture hall, nothing would ever happen again, all time would stop, and my microwave would never cook that burrito. We all need that microwave burrito sometimes. It’s the human condition. Crawling towards burritos.
There I was, stuck in the lecture hall, watching time unfold, watching my zipper go down, thinking about that one time the thing happened. Son of a bitch. Always back to that thing. Are we really alive or is this just a bottle episode? You never know; it’s just that burrito you always want to eat. Bottle episodes and burritos. Ants in desk drawers learning dog’s names. Here we go, there we are. Sentences, sentences, sentences.