The stylistic images that surround my life are my own doing. So much so that I've become my own character, a brilliant conversationalist, an inane observer, acutely aware of my shortcomings and proud of my sustained long shots. Wit and vitriol are two things that I'm never short of and I'd like to shoot up from the family of the latter.
The days are turning to be far more interesting than I thought they would. I've been propositioned and I've accepted. So what do we have here, a relationship without emotional bondage and sentimental attachments? Now all that is left of me is to get on with my next best piece of art, pimp it and pontificate on the unnecessary.
Have I come along way? I think not. I've just gotten back to what I was, existentialist or culturally creative whichever way you look at it, all that is defined is my sexuality.
When you screw liberty over make sure you leave no Hiccyups Lest they come along to tuckyouup
