Count your beatitudinal blessings (groveling in front of the piano for an attitudinal and adenoidal adjustment) that the ancient Egyptians didn't also have plastic surgery. (Like those mummified fuckers don't look creepy enough.) Barely able to keep your head above the waters, the face of the deep looms large, like a conflation of Genesis and genocide. Only seventh-from-Adam Enoch, his historically invisible sister, the occasional impromptu blowjob, and annus mirabilis music keep you from completely losing your beandip hypertrophic visions of the Bukowski and Horselover Dick lovechild haunting your apocalyptic but almost exclusively suppressed nightsweats. Holy frijoles are approximately as obstructive of your bowels as Sacramento Numero Uno, but the latter has the allure of a fiery eschatology to match the fiery scatology. Libertinism has never agreed with the ascetic personality, but you'll be damned if you don't follow the nihilistic cosmology through to its oh-so-logical conclusion. Scientific materialism, the spectating specter of theology, and Derrida walk into a Bar Mitzvah, but they've forgotten whether their merkavot are psychedelic chariot-thrones or midlife-crisis battletanks. Here's a medicinal missive from Midgard: kindly deposit lascivious laudatory lucre in enclosed SASE. It has now become fashionable to quote as many once-upon-a-time linguae francae as possible in a paragraph that has grown unfashionably unwieldy and in need of ein Editor, breaking every grammatico-fascist declension rule in the revisionist Torah sworn to by every desperate inferior latter-day-temple resentful betabitch in all cults and cultures from Canaan to Petrie-dish bacterio-religions not yet dreamed of in your philosophy, O Mighty Picker of Nits. You should have emailed this to her instead of broadcasting it on the frothy front-end of the Eljer personal porcelain portapotty bootydouche big pink piggybank meatwhistler's mother tooting fecal fantasias on the noseflute of pyramidal phantasm-fantasies that have finally recapitulated where we began this misguided ithyphallic heatseeker. You can stop now, having achieved a pseudomorphic approximation of coherence and equiponderant stability. But this would betray your impulsive self-sabotage, your perpetual need to defeat yourself before someone else has a chance. So your labor pangs continue in incontinent coterminous terminal velocipedalpoint countrapunctus, skipping lilypads with the prevaricating pose of autopoiesis. The only projectile that would help you or civilization at this point is a cathartic homuncular emesis or an erectile ejectile blowing gray squishies Sahasraraward like the great gassy giant feeding the gaping black hole of aborted ambivalent ambition ammunition trolling confessionals like an errant act of contrition signing a mnemonic contractual anonymity condition and fighting a Pyrrhic war of attrition, you redundant prick. Sign on the lengthy litiginous ligament dotted fucking line of lineal luminal Rohypnol hymnal homoerotic oneiric visions of frictional frisson rubbing a fat nasty between you and God.