The night before last I spent five hours analyzing the semantic and performative contours of the phrase “as if” in-text. Tonight, I vacillate between secret applications on one imperious hand, and the abject denial of the pernicious contingency my last ex proved me right in inevitably being on an Other’s.
Accepting that second-guessing intelligence is more harmful than acquiescing to the truth of said intelligence’s brutally proven first nature in its first instance has a lovely indelible flavor, and a third hand is holding spectral position over this amazing Crown Heights studio I’ve enjoyed for two weeks. Nevertheless I remain ever-readied for a second move in two days, and I’m writing fiction like never before on yet another fucking hand, and I threw Anaïs Nin’s “trauma of privilege” motif out the frigid window with fully conscious glee, and I drink under a nomme de guerre with two-dimensional strangers.
I’m beginning to believe in the existence of an intermediary class of inauthentic extroverts, those who are really introverts, yet lack the commitment to follow through, and so make much better extroverts, digitally. No hate, no foul.
Don’t know about you, but I’d rather not be here right now.
I barely touch my social media accounts. It’s kind of exhilarating to imagine the emotional détournement everyone is copping on the hourly, perpetually fighting the urge to conflate their concrete situ with their self-produced produced-self.
But clearly it’s still worse to run from the acts one does, or continue metanarrating one’s failure to act from an abstract, presumably innocent position. My god, the casual ease of blaming one self for hurting oneself, while one freely switches between judge and accused.
In other words, I’m quite pleased with myself, and I know it. Apologies to most readers for the cryptic nature of this post, but look at your fucking clock. Look at it. Goodnight.