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=> anger brilliance anger brilliance anger brilliance...repeat

anger brilliance anger brilliance anger brilliance...repeat
Posted by Qasrani (Guest) - Monday, July 12 2004, 11:31:06 (CEST)
from Netherlands - Windows XP - Internet Explorer
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Such good timing... This came to me from a friend of mine from university. We went to Cal together and haven't seen each other since... She found herself living in Alabama and her crisis of consciousness is fodder for her hilarious brilliance. I left out some portion of her email, but I thought you guys could enjoy a little humor and fun...

So, NH asks the timeless question:

Am I the angry capitilist, nihilist world hating misanthrope that sits with my copy of Nietzsche (sp) in a corner of some dark, pretentious coffee house that only has soy lattes, I sit there, looking for men with dirty nails, greasy hair, black t=shirts, and a chip against the world on both shoulders like a modern day Atlas, I look for them, and when I find them, I say, fucking consumerist capitalist lemmings, ay, baby? Check out these Marxist mass made alienated labor mugs, right? Fucking sweatshops. I toss my stringy, dark hair over my shoulder and cock an oft neglected wooly eyebrow in his direction. I'm beyond all this I say with my body language. Never mind that my carefully beatnik, world hating outfit came from a fine vintage boutique on Telegraph, and that my copy of N. was picked up at a Barnes and Noble. I'm not caving to the machine. I'm a rebel. A fighter. Step off, Candace Bushnell, I only read you in a former life. My hemp bracelet was ordered online, but it's okay, I tell myself in my carefully shabby chic rustic mirror that morning, I could have bought it in Haight. No, no, no, you don't smell Bath and Body Works Sandalwood Rose aromatherapy lotion on me. That's my phermones, baby. It's been a week since I took a bath. No, no, ah, baby, I don't have hair under my arms because it won't grow. On my legs either. I don't use a razor, because I never bathe. No, you didn't see me with my legs spread at Spa Moksha. What are you, some fucking socialist spy? Only capatilists bathe, baby. They're giving in to the machine. I just got back from Mexico city, babe, checking out the revolution. Want to go back and have some anarchist smelly sex? I can guarantee the smell, baby, but we'll have to coax the sex together. Let's go. My citroen is outside. Do you know how to hotwire? Keys are so, so bourgeois, baby.



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