We should grow beards, take up axes and dulled knives, then stab the tawdry natives in their skinny, bone-stacked backs. Don’t look the fuckers in their faces. Don’t meet their gaze. Skin them alive and we can make fires and coats and leather boots. We can stay warm until February, if we’re lucky.
Okay, okay, you need to come round here and kick me repeatedly in the teeth. Please. Just so I can finally remember what exactly I’m supposed to be doing with my thoughts. Maybe you can remind me, if your boots are steel-toed and suitably industrial.
I’m only a masochist from Monday to Friday. On Saturday, I become a sadist. On Sunday, I rest. Like God. Though the difference is that I exist. Allegedly.