Those hopelessly incompetent bastards over at Mint Magazine summoned me to write an article while I was high off the fumes and sediments of Celine. “On what?” I asked Jamie while I quietly tore at my hair, wishing to find something of taste in my fragmented brain. “Anything,” he replied, “tell one of your crazy stories that you used to bullshit us with back at Uni.” “But,” I whimpered, ” I was 20 then. Such a tender age when all calamities were forgivable on the plea of naïveté.” “Dakota,” he said with such an affection that even the blue radiation of the computer screen was brought to tears, “just do you.” With those gentle words of encouragement, I dreadfully crawled back to my empty apartment in the shadows of Brooklyn. I did virtually nothing for three days, but lament over my inability to write. Sure, I scribbled a few lines of isolation in my notebook.
I composed beautiful renditions of Petrachan sonnets that rivaled any retard who was still following the Petrachan form. The phone went unanswered. My record jackets collected dust. My boss fired me, claiming that though I was an enthusiastic employee, I was just too insubordinate. “So long flatfoot!” I yelled before drifting into the delirium and mania of the streets, of the people, of the things I knew and actually gave a damn about. Then it dawned on me like dawn. I was going to write an article celebrating nothing! Every cocksucker is a critic! Every bastard is an artist! Every bastard was doing something. And I favored doing nothing. Just being a bum suited me fine. Nobody did nothing anymore. They had to have their noses in everything. And it was repulsive, and it was disgusting, and it was contrived.
I grew nauseous listening to the same tales of cocaine consumption, of excess, of quitting smoking, of having the red velvet rope lifted for you and beating out the rest of the suckers who were punished by waiting in line. To hell with them, heaven I dreamed of and paradise was much better reached when one had a clean conscious. Don’t believe me? Read Dazed magazine! Read Vice! They’re always knocking on someone else’s door. Eavesdrop on a conversation while waiting for the subway, somebody is up to something or they want to know what someone else is doing. Sickening. This is why I choose to be a drop-out, content with daydreaming about nothing. Don’t do anything, you’ll be much happier than striving for some unobtainable dream. The disappointment and despondency seems to dissipate! But then again, I was never one to be right. Everyone was always right. It became too repugnant.