Desperately seeking something a little more absurd

I need something a little more absurd in my life. Somewhere along the way of in this sea of not trying to be like everyone else, I have boxed myself into this contrived 6’7” free rapping chi gong healing Jew hat everyone thinks is so unique or so original but at this point neither do I find it unique or original.

It’s more just something I do. I feel somehow ordinary, and not that being ordinary bothers me, but I need something more absurd in an eccentric wet dream sort of way.

I want to ride camels through New York City spouting out the philosophies of Dead Kennedys. I want to be in an 80s rock band. I want to suddenly discover that I have pitch. I want to wake up to find out that I really am a lesbian black Eskimo trapped in the real world . I want to fight walruses and fuck tigers. I want to make David Bowie look painfully straight. I want to cut like a ninja fucking his dead mother in Prince’s purple rain. I want to be a King of Spain even if no one will acknowledge me as such. I want to be the princess of Barcelona. I want to succeed from Union Square Park within Union Square Park and create a special park for people’s balls who hang really low and who somehow don’t know that they’re balls hang really low until they walk around at Burning Man and someone says “Hey, you’re balls hang really low.”

I want to develop profound crushes on autistic 40 year old women who work the counter at Whole Foods while I whack off in the magazine section thinking of pixies and fairies and the autistic 40 year old woman who works the counter at Whole Foods. And mermaids.

I want to breathe through my dorsal. WHAT THE HELL IS A DORSAL? (I’ve just been informed it’s a fin). I want to commit sins and still win. I want to kick Tin Tins ass. I don’t so much want to shoot Lassie but piss in his eyes. I want to wrestle the Beaver, take the Partridge Family on a real adventure, and insist that no matter how light my complexion may be that I am really a part of the Jackson Five and that everyone just can’t remember. I want to give head to Hillary Clinton and I want everything I write now to be used against me at a later time. I want my sanity or lack of sanity to be put in question, and I want people to know if insane is really just a better way to go, or if we should even go at all ,or if George Michael was really wrong to wake me up before we go-go.

And I want Wham and the son of Sam to get together and rid the world of Spam. And ham! Because pigs have 30 minute orgasms - don’t you forget it. And if they call you a pig fucker for knowing it, smile and say ‘better to fuck pigs than corpses and mannequins masquerading as people.’

I want to seethe out my pores with an ever ending flow of red carpet shooting out of my orifices asking for someone actually genuinely interesting, interested in a dramatic change of events to walk down that carpet, wearing nothing but their boxes, singing songs about Debbie Gibson. Because only electric youth can jam the circuits and only when we jam the circuits can we have black outs in New York City and only then can class barriers be broken down and only then can I fuck the cute girl in the Upper West Side who smiled at me because I don’t ski and I don’t summer where she does and I don’t wear Burberry unless someone gives it to me.

I want to glorify Gucci and kill Prada.

I want to be the biggest contradiction you ever thought about fucking. Or not fucking. Or hugging, or kissing, or missing or dissing or pissing in the wind and you realize if you piss in the wind that they’re this thing called urine therapy so if you swallow your own piss it’s actually therapeutic.

Think about something. Think about everything. Think about nothing, think about winking, think about blinking, think about Fight Club, think about too many Rubber Duckies in the tub. Think about the hub of your life and who you are in that hub, think about not thinking and just being loved from above.

Seeing, said, match, absurdist mission, be gone.