ON BEAUTY, MOTHERFUCKR

by heytherewildflower

YOUNGMAN: I like Lucy Lippard. Her name always makes me think of Lucy Lawless, which makes me think of Battlestar Galactica and that I’d probably have sex with a robot if it had real enough skin. But this has nothing to do with your question. Artists are not real people. There’s this Jerry Saltz lecture somewhere online where he’s talking about the sublime and during the lecture he makes an analogy about how non-artists are like dogs in that they deal directly with the world: you ask a dog to come to you and it will. Whereas artists are like cats, y’know, you call for a cat and that cat is not fucking coming to you; they’ll take a stroll around the fucking room, rub up on a bunch of shit, then rub your tiny ankle and be off. And the Saltzer, he said artists are like that in that they have an indirect way of dealing with the real world, through the making of art, artists create this system of occupying the world in this indirect, yet very distinct way.

I have officially, thus far, used my extra “mad money” from the salary of the dumbass awful fucking job I do, to buy the following items, 1. perfume 2. iphone 3. boots 4. designer vibrator.

life in the postgraduated jungle. you earn your indulgences with tears and profanity.

I woke up this morning to an email from my roommate sent at 4am:

“I was trying to find the bathroom in the dark, when I found myself accidentally pawing your door for the light switch, thinking to myself “why does feel strange?”.  I hope I didn’t wake you up. I’m a bit drunk, and miscalculated the distance in a straight bee line from my room to the latrine. Oops!

The funniest part is, I’m naked. Ha ha! Mega awkward!  or meg-awks, as the slang might go.”

She had just spent the evening performing as one half of a boobset backup dancing team in a christmas show called, “All I want for Christmas is a Boob Job.”

we’re all about lewd performative nakedness all up in this hood, BELMONT PALACE, SEATTLE-TOWN.