westid

i’ve got in trouble this week because i was two days late for my appointment with the wicker man. here the hunted, masterfully accomplished in bringing about his own. there was no rooftop brawl this time, but eight years – a new personal best. surrounded by a fucking parody of the things i once delegated my life away in service of. before i’m shoved into a giant hand-woven golem and burned alive, everyone on summers isle do a medieval maypole mosh pit singing. bonfires of all the paperwork i agonised over for months proving my innocence that never saw the light of day. soaring crowds rendering inaudible all the final, desperate attempts at the last gasp to take back the irreversible process of imparting knowledge swallow my pity and admit i’m in over the top. big screen festival venue broadcasting productions of all the leverage i might as well have succumb to when i was only going to put my world renown cuntiness on display sooner or later being who i am. two-week vigil of laughter every year on accident day [18th of May] for the dedication of everyone that got under my skin enough to nonchalantly stay so calm, serene, patient, this time i wasn’t going to be the intransigent ego they knew it’s only a matter of time until i would completely come undone and no longer be

if i knew the first thing how to go about it, my last enfeeblement of defence, then fuck it. this hole no matter how deep i wanted to not dig, gonna lay on my back now and let it bury me. sometimes it feels like the only thing anyone respects about my principles is it’s cute when they put up a fight and cause a bit of friction. when did i start doing that? it feels like a practical joke someone played on me years ago, because i didn’t know what the fuck i was doing, and even though i know somethin ain’t right – i still dunno what

some of it tho – i mean it’s not hard to find something that intellectually challenges me. barely sentient though i am, what’s so unusual? someone who you can’t define any part of by looking at me, will fucking know about it if i take the piss, will show me how well i’m doing lately in the inevitable appreciation from others, have you ever seen some of the decisions i’ve made? fuckin done making decisions have fun with that yellow prick road. if wanting that for myself makes me weird, i dunno what the fuck your “type” looks like

because one or two of you have discussed with me at length some of the unlikely extent that i would be contented to take it, i will ask the uninitiated the same question. what is the female version of the verb emasculate? all we could do was burn them. now we’re fucked, exponentially propagated by the neo-liberalist fascism which so dissociatively surrounds us, nothing beyond being one, can make masculinity so unimaginative, predictable, fraught with trigger happy self-ostracism, so fucking readily cancellable, unbelievably shit