Over breakfast at 3:39pm (a stream of consciousness only lightly edited)

Fuck, that was too many mezcals. “I think part of the rise of Donald Trump is profoundly linked to this profound shift.” Are two profounds a tic? Crack new modes of thought. Let’s get outta the white box already. When did artists and scientists start doing the same thing, start, I dunno, mapping new territories? Ugh. Cliché. And you―don’t have to be like them, but their modes are the new modes.

Lucky you aren’t in it for the money down the drain.

Knowing what you know. Yeah, you’re fucked. “What will your practice be?” Rings hollow, doesn’t it? You want to ask me what I mean by practice, don’t you? I used to be imaginative, and then I went to grad school. You were fucked from the beginning. Unlike Paris Hilton. Unlike Ivanka Trump. Did you know OJ’s lawyer was a Kardashian? Isn’t that a fucking trip? Who even knew dudes could be Kardashians? — or maybe I saw the wrong episodes.

If you die of hunger fast enough, you can outwit regret.

This isn’t a good dream. This is one of those dreams where you’re hyped up on Levetiracetam, and so your dreams are boring as shit extensions of your reality. Dude, you dreamed you were hungover? Like a motherless child — I wouldn’t have, I know. Is anybody even searching for a voice anymore? Trick mirrors and smoked, fernet-filled bodies. Georgia O’Keefe died and sold a painting for 44 million bucks. Women’s world record. While dead dudes sell at three times that over breakfast.