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It occurred to me that at this point money is more important than life. Take DAT and abortion. Technology created both — technology is not a God-/natural-given right. But women can have abortions — technology is not withheld from them. But with DAT, first we were not allowed to sell it in the U.S. because one could copy compact discs and take money away from the industry — if we ever receive it, we will not be able to tape from tape to tape, so again, technology is withheld. When it is a question of life and death, we are given the ability to kill, but when faced with a money-making proposition, and a money-jeopardizing situation, we are not allowed to have access to the money-jeopardizing technology — fuck everyone you mother-fucking bastards… how long do we let it go on? Placid bastards. { I died on the first hill I saw. } — [ Calvary, was it? ] — { No, they never came. } — [ Peaches bit her lip, muttering creative condemnations imperceptibly thrust at the cis-gendered cashier contentedly swiping through counterfeit portraits of pin-up blow-job dolls. ]

Photo by Garin Chadwick on Unsplash

Just reading scarce excerpts of Nietzsche and heard him recount some life experience, and it seems as though he never lived as if he never breathed, never held a woman tight to his side for security, or cried into his pillow with the dismay of humanity, [ She slammed her Skor bar down on the countertop to both command his attention to the transaction at hand and crack it into sticky “fun-size” pieces. ] went on sunny picnic walks with a prospective love in the heat of a summer park and roiling brook. [ With her eyes locked on his swept mop of sinister rat-black hair she guzzled an upturned Sobe bottle of sugary green tea, pleading for the effect of the caffeine. ] To hold a clammy hand and smile — false or/and true. [ In a drug-languid unveiling of acne craters, he put down his device and stared back at her. ] Never walked amongst a deep crowd and wonder how to fight back at a core enemy when there are so many empty faces silently begging for their mercy. [ “Yeah.” His sleek hairdo collapsed as a torn fan across his unfazed left eye, as if aware of its inevitability, as if preparing for it, “you’re going to have to pay for that.” ] He may not have ever worn a mustache or a ragged beard and rashed himself with a sharp straight-edge. [ The game of visual chicken was played masterfully by both parties: she, tippling the bottle ever higher let the liquid rush ever-faster in gravity’s favor, he, “Even if you drink it all.” while attempting to pierce through her cat-mascara quaverings with each swallow. ] Or played some ball out in the backyard with a grandfather, missing, loving, loving. [ Something hidden and inharmonious deep within the belly of the universe shifted — nearly imperceptibly — and Peaches couldn’t maintain her multi-task juggling act, so like a leg jabbing its way out of sleepful neglect, the gulps of highly-synthesized tea grew from a tickle to tsunami in fractions of seconds, and she involuntarily doubled over and spat her remaining mouthful against the dangling plexiglass barrier, showering the candy display cases, the EZ-Clean-coated Formica, and, in slashes up and down, the cashier’s cotton shirt. ] I have done all these things and I think as well; I am not only a creature of thoughts devoid of life experience, I love the aesthetic as well as the ugly | I hate both as well | [ Foul invectives, bills and paper towels as mops, and a frantic flick-whisking of flannel were accompanied by Peaches’ continued coughing as she braced herself, leaning over the stadium box-tiers of colorful confection wrappers. ] I am a person first and foremost, one day something will take that away from me, and all that will be left are my many words, thoughts, and deeds — please remember of me also the way you are — the sun you see, the wind you breathe in casually, the sick illness you fell into come sprinkling wintertime. [ With tears welling in her eyes, Peaches regained composure by marshalling a force of will and with a pained look back at the sticky and livid cashier that said “I’m sorta sorry,” she ran out of the store, the automatic glass swishing its closure after her. ] Love as often as you hate — hate as often as you love. { You’re gonna have to pay for that, bitch! } We create paradox, not balance.

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