more more ROMANTIC RHETORIC

B. McGILLICUDDY

Are we truly literate literists? Is this some fancy addiction we're indulging in? Is this some kind of revolution? Are you even fucking reading this? Can you even fucking read?

We are bound to your eyes by this alphabetical, misplaced parenthetical, but do you love us like we love to fuck with you? Maybe there are way too many questions here, and questioning the nature of the beast only makes it less artistic, but today my insecurities are gushing into your mind because I want you to know that we know what we are doing, and we will never let you in on it.

Who is this "we" I speak of? Are they "the writers" Floyd and La Frere so self-righteously refer to, when the personalities of this consciousness are subjects to be addressed? No, lover dearest, "we" are "you", and "your" constant curiosity about this punch-drunk concept "you" keep returning to; this enigma "we" all so heinously pursue and seem to stumble back upon. And these "insecurities" I'm professing aren't self-reflective questions, they are questions posed to "you", the consumer of this sexist, asinine work of "literature". This daily dose of romau that "we" keep conjuring for "your" masochistic soul. Because "you" don't want to know what "we" are talking about. "You" don't want to "understand" love. Simply mentioning the word does nothing but noticeably lessen the thrilling friction of the experience and the grimy fucking fact of it!!!

So what the fuck are you doing to yourself!? Why do you keep coming back to this!? Haven't you had enough?? There's plenty of other vulgar, masturbatory writing out there you can go blow your own mind to. SO STOP WASTING YOUR FUCKING TIME, DINING WITH THE NARCISSISTS.

w/<3

B. McGILLICUDDY