Thursday, September 11, 2003
Sex With Someone I Love
Having spent so much time writing up answers to five simple questions (see below) from Jules over the past few days, I find myself with a new question on my hands: Who the hell cares? I can’t shake the feeling that this whole interview thing I’ve plastered up here for the world to read is nothing but onanism, and the seed of my words is prolifically, prodigously spilled on the ground of cyberspace. Looking back over that post, now that it’s formatted and edited and cleaned up just the way I wanted it, I feel overwhelmingly petty and boring. The experience leads me, naturally, to the sacrifice of even more words:
Inquiring of my deeper self again
if we are almost ready to proceed,
I hover with the page beneath my pen
and cogitate a self-indulgent screed.
The power of the press I weild anon,
which, as possessor, I’m obliged to use -
so bend my wit like a chameleon
and beat the language to a bloody bruise.
My rants and links I jettison at will;
with crafty egotism I inveigh;
put me near a can of worms and it will spill,
shout louder when there’s nothing much to say.
I blog because I want the world to see
that nothing is less newsworthy than me.
