DJ Laundromat

In the laundromat I add a Dixie cup of ink to a stranger's load of wash because fuck a stranger in the goat-ass. Strangers are mostly foreign, mostly Other. I'm anxious. Next time I'll add a squid for humor. These fluorescent lights are too bright.

The ink will warn others of the stranger's impurity. The radio tells me what to do of course, and the power company, and the makers of vinyl records for sure. I too control behavior with my soldiers: my two turntables and my microphone. Anyone in my sphere will obey the waves that crash from the speakers. I am close to completing the perfect mix, the mix to end all mixes, the mix to raise an army. Voluntary, of course. I intend conscription using the pleasure of beats. Our junta will rule for generations. The dryers go thrum-thrum-thrum.

The stranger is checking her wash. Eek! There's ink on my hands. Oh my God, here she comes, this stranger is wack. She hates her whites gray. She doesn't respect me. Let go of my hand, you don't know who I am! My ribs, my face! Take off your shoes, tequila woman! Stop kicking! I shriek. I bleed.
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earlobe alternatives

i no longer subscribe to the bombastic pretentiousness of capitalization. the capital i represents the false inflation of the ego. yes, it's that -- or maybe it's that i've mailed both shift keys and the caps lock key to different webcam girls as tokens of my affection, a la van gogh. also, -kew- will now be used to represent the letter between p and r. the girl who got that one, she was really -kew-t.
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On Not Eating My Arms

I lick my biceps and forearms. They taste so clean, with just a hint of smooth salt and soap. That salt has a nice flavor. I click-click off the air conditioner and do a foolish fifty jumping jacks. I lick again, and "Yah! Yecch!" Next time I'll do twenty-five or leave the air conditioner on. After dabbing with a paper towel, I rub expensive olive oil down-up and up-down and top with a dash of balsamic and a light sugar sprinkle. I lick again: just right.
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A Man Should Have Balls

When, if not all the time, does being professional detract from your personal life? So I have this girl, Liliana, in my car, and I desperately want to rent her an apartment. Not because of my meagre commission, or even to know her bedroom window, but rather that I need to see her again. I show her a few apartments that I know she won't want, foolishly selling all the way. "This one is close to the train," I say (but be sure to bring a sandwich for the walk). I know that she wants some apartment that I don't have. Once this is ascertained, is it not right to abandon "professionalism" and go to "personalism?" I may have something else she wants. Is professionalism not a myth, a capitalist invention?

I'm sure she smiled. She touched and twirled her hair while we were talking (of course the windows of the car were open, no doubt messing her dark and sultry look). She complimented me on my accent, which she took to be British until I told her I was from Palatine. Do these scant signs permit an abandonment of salesmanship? If I showed obvious sexual interest in all of my sexy clients, wouldn't that cross some awful societal boundary? Does that boundary exist?

Nay, it must be a psychological boundary, some awful product of the great white suburbs where nobody says what they mean. Things are understood, but never really understood. It must be an institutionalized cowardice masquerading as manners, castration as sophistication, a polite illness.

I feel terribly confused and regretful. A man should have balls, and while mine are there for fondling, they don't seem to be providing the behavior necessary to get laid. What is wrong with my balls? Should I send them back to the factory, the uterus?

HAPPINESS LEVEL: 7
ANXIETY LEVEL: 9
LISTENING TO: "Human Nature" by Michael Jackson
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