By Four O'clock, I've Discounted Suicide In

So This Zealot Comes To My Door, All Glazed Eyes And Clean Reproductive Organs, Asking Me If I Ever Think About God. So I Tell Him I Killed God. I Tracked God Down Like A Rabid Dog, Hacked Off His Legs With A Hedge Trimmer, Raped Him With A Corncob, And Boiled Off His Corpse In An Acid Bath. So He Pulls An Alternating-current Taser On Me And Tells Me That Only The Official Serbian Church Of Tesla Can Save My Polyphase Intrinsic Electric Field, Known To Non-engineers As "the Soul." So I Hit Him. What Would You Do?

I Want A Tattoo Over My Heart That Reads Try Harder You Lazy Paramedic Shitbag Or I Will Haunt Your Bedroom Forever

Los Angeles Had No Culture Of Its Own, Just A Large Collection Of Misreadings Of The Artistic Histories Of Other, Proper Cities.

Writing Is Basically A Job For People Who Like Punching Themselves In The Face, I’m Pretty Sure.

Dance Like You're Stamping On A Human Face Forever, Love Like You've Been In A Serious Car Crash That Minced The Front Of Your Brain, Stab Like No One Can Arrest You, And Live Like There's No Such Thing As God.