"Do not the commodified provocations to enjoy which bombard us…push us toward masturbatory, ‘asocial’ jouissance whose supreme case is drug addiction?"
—Slavoj Zizek

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I know I always write this, but this has been the longest uninspired period of my writing. I’m not a terribly serious writer or anything but it used to be something I sort of felt compelled to do? I can’t write anymore, mostly because I’m so fucking tired of the same things I always talk about. like I talk about:

  1. the moon
  2. the ocean
  3. deer/animals/but 4 reel mostly deer/also birds like ugh
  4. art (michelangelo, or whatevs)
  5. mythological characters
  6. etymology 
  7. space and shit
  8. gardens ‘n green shit
  9. fires/arson
  10. dreams/sleep
  11. writing 

I’m so tired of myself, and I don’t even want to write these tired poems anymore. They’re always addressed to someone, usually whatever stupid boy I’m pining over, (“oh sweetheart, tell me you know the tides the way you know the folds of my skin” VOM) 

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