n. infantile pattern of suckle-swallow movement in which the tongue is placed between incisor teeth or between alveolar ridges during initial stage of swallowing (if persistent can lead to various dental abnormalities) v. [content removed due to Bush campaign to clean up the internet] n. act of nyah-nyah v. pursuing with relentless abandon the need to masticate and thrust the world into every bodily incarnation in order to transform it, via the act of salivation, into nutritive agency

Friday, June 02, 2006

Dear Evil Arch-Nemesis,

I’ve been thinking things through, and I’ve decided it’s time for you to shave off that mustache. The curlicues have been getting on my nerves.

I am writing to you tonight (standard tech-writing introduction sentence… mapping the task ahead) to let you know that I’ve had it up to here, and I am pointing to my ear lobes, with your dream invasiveness and your capacity to still be my arch nemesis after months, and I do mean months, of us having avoided any contact with each other. Granted, it is not really your capacity for greatness or graceful pirouettes that has captured my OCD attention, but rather my capacity for strange fictionalitions and dramatizations that endlessly adhere to James Bond narrative designs, and I do mean the 70s versions, and not the current ones. But nevertheless, I am here, here to let you know that I’m fucking all over that shit and sooooo reclaiming my zone, bitch.

This is my town too, harlot, and you may have adopted it for your own sake, but I’d like to emphasize how it truly is, contrary to your previously and constantly administered clichés, big enough for the two of us, just so long as you follow your doubled tongue-waggings and stay inside to create great art and attend to the nether regions of your powerful albino whipCracker. This is my town; I own it just like the Gucci I never bought, and I will be slipping into its slinky blue creases and walk-arrogant-walking about its small-town confines. I may be embarrassed by its unending tendency towards naiveté and unshaven armpits, put it’s all me, and you know that’s true, girl, no matter how often you, my arch nemesis, slip on your leather lederhosen and tall, tall hiking boots that stretch up to the airstrip, and sashay through the Re-store with all its unending rows of recycled construction splinters.

Here’s the deal. We will not run into each other, so that black shadow can just blow on out of here. Got me? And I will focus, and I’m not really sure on what, since flirting (which is the same as so much, no?) long since lost its glamour when I realized how little it gained the world. But I will focus, and right now, post having-my-cat-lick-my-face-raw and having had a I’m-going-to-die-alone-knitting-sweaters-for-felines “moment,” I am going to say that I’m certain there might be something more positive out there to focus on than the recurrent nightmares of Bville as a concentration camp with all my “friends” lined up to rip my wrists through all its emotional glass windows. Maybe this nebulous coming-soon Focus has to do with the Tao of cat tongues and computer clicks, but surely it will be less predictable than so much else.

Anyhow… I am sooooo sashay now, arch nemesis mia. I recognize that your incredible glamour is most likely Fiction (fiction as in Bogus Imaginatory Sentiment rather than Apropos Translation of Some Form of Reality). You probably don't gather dark materials of mass emotional destruction and slink through dumpsters to spy on the outskirts of… no, I imagine not. That is me, now isn’t it? Go ahead; admit your nefarious and endless debacles of torment are creations of my own twisted mind. Just discuss it, and let it be known. I ‘fess.

So, in other words, evil arch nemesis, as an ancient fragment of a half-lovely, half-piehole of a human being, twisted through the conductive arc of my electrified and long-engaged synapses, I think it’s time you let this town be home for me again. I think it’s time for me not to fucking freak out within a thirty mile radius of this County, and I also think it’s time for me to stop strategizing my memories. I want my dreams back, and that means you can take your violin-playing hussy out of my high school English class, and yeaaaas, I will put back on my clothes and stop crying like a goddamn pussy. As an equal trade for you removing yourself from these nightmares, I will no longer give you any power over my emotional status with which to traumatize my so very delicate sensitive earlobes. Oh, hell no, girl, I am far too fucking something… I don’t know what, and I know it has resonance with the spiritual achievement of hoboes… but I do know it is something I own, all for myself, something chewy like steel, and I’ll give it away to whomever I feel like, and that whomever won’t be the black-hole vortex created by your evil arch-nemesis embraces.
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