Weakest Pynchonite

I have an easy solution to most problems in my life, if the headache starts too early from the comedown of alcohol, I either level it out with weed or go to sleep. If the buzz of the alcohol isn’t killed however, I write. Shoving my fat mustache, mouth slightly agaze and looking confused to act out like I’m above writing as an art form. Beautiful people can always become famous just by being beautiful, but ugly people actually need to do something, to act, to do whatever, and then most of the popular culture will still be stupid enough to think these ugly people are beautiful just because their own view of aesthetics is so skewed, or they might just be too stupid to know better. Either way they’re wrong and they’ve clearly never tried to do something better with their life.

OMAD keeps the doctor away but 2MAD makes you go astray. IF the goal is to starve then do a late Tolstoyian impression, shit yourself too why not, a starving idol can and probably will smell like shit, but atleast you’ll look cute from afar. Honor levy claimed counterculture was dead, but clearly she’s just too privileged and self-centered not to go to wherever the counterculture is.

“Could there be block parties 'bout which I don't know?
Maybe they're in neighborhoods where I don't go
Could there be all these parties down some little lane
With potato chips sitting there and guitar playing?
We need more parties in the USA“

There’s your fucking subculture, dude. it’s in the neighborhood where you don’t go.

Post-ironic kawaii-fash is not cool won’t be cool and Pynchon would be disgusted with you lame losers for acting like you would be.

New Yorker killed the flash fiction, and we are not going to be murdered next. Our faith is to write big, juicy, untranslatable, unsellable novels. Death to the novella and long live the strive for perfection in the self congratulating extended format and masturbatory novels for which we love to pretend that we read.