“If you’re looking for a person who likes crazy shit, like a giant robot being piloted by a hookerbot through a desert wasteland where punk rock kids blast vampires with NES zappers and go on crash diets to fit into slim pants before they stage a revolution on a dystopic city, I’m your huckleberry.
But the stuff in between has to make a little more sense for me.
The whole thing felt artsy, and that’s cool, but I’m in my mid-30’s now. I’m starting to value simple clarity in stories way more than inventiveness, outrageousness, or mindfucks that require some explanation outside the narrative. Because the mind doesn’t really get fucked if you don’t know what the hell is going on. The mindfuck comes and goes and it doesn’t even register because all the confusion has pre-fucked my mind. There’s no mind left to fuck.
When I was a younger man, I liked weird, experimental, artsy fiction. A lot. A story with an interesting structure could carry me pretty far. I just wanted to see if the creator could pull it off. But now it’s like…
It’s like I used to love the idea of going out and having an adventure. Have some drinks, watch a shitty band, stay out until 4 AM and that was exciting because it was spontaneous and so on. But now, a night in is a lot more fun for me. It just is. The craziness is replaced with calm, and I gotta say, it makes the occasional craziness a lot more interesting. Tonight at the grocery store I saw what I am 100% certain was a woman wearing boy shorts, as in the style of underwear, as pants. Forget the debate about tights as pants, this lady was full-on in her underwear, and underwear that was displaying a lot. At the grocery store. Doing full shopping! It’s not like she ran in for condoms or like duct tape and garbage bags or diapers or a 9-volt battery and you just know her smoke detector is going off, something that she just FUCKING NEEDED. She had regular-ass foods. PRODUCE. She stood around and picked out a bell pepper, calmly checking the different ones for freshness, in her underwear. “