For Some Reason My Ideas Seldom Make Me Any Money

Do you think I need to engage with the occasional spelunker who stumbles across these digital cave paintings? 

I’m serious. I know I haven’t activated the comments feature and I keep posting shit that most uneducated readers don’t see anything wrong with, I mean besides the content and attitude.

The e-mail address is good, and I have gotten a few decent death threats, but nothing that made me laugh hard enough to dial 911.

Full disclosure: I am addicted to auto-non-erotic asphyxiation, induced entirely by seeking out and being destoyed by the funniest shit I have ever seen, and I seen many funny things, and thought many even funnier ones.

I have often dreamed of laughing at my own cremation and watching the horrified reactions of official observors who only claim to observe my disposal because it was their civic duty.

Is it possible to outlive your own interest in outliving somebody else?

What exactly is existentialism? Things die stupidly every minute of the day, some things more intelligent than others, but all of them die equally dead. I can’t remember the last time I mourned anyone or anything. That would be like feeling sad when a magician made something really big and important disappear, like, uh, ah forget it.

I can remember bursting with love, but I no longer know how it feels or what it means.

Meersault at the end of The Stranger still gives me hope that one day my life shall have meaning as I am led to the gallows on the National Mall to be greeted with howls of execration from my friends and neighbors hoping to make American great yet again.