Autopsy Of A Dead Hedonist

The fluctuating capacity to have a good time depends on avoiding the urine spray of reality. Watch out for who stands next to you, but not too closely or it's creepy. Failure rears its beautiful stallion head and the voice-over says "ride." Actors take their place without the artful direction of art or a director. Oscillating fans are orchestrated by technically dead composers. The hum of power is an effortless melody but the efforts of sycophants discord the harmony. I don't have a gun but I have cold dead fingers. They itch for a warm hole to gather in and move on from. I promise you disappointment, a promise I will disappoint. The less we try the more success we come to regret. Stuff your face in cake, fat western world. Wrap yourself in blanket robes and tower over quavering rats with half an erection. That is the social life, friends. Smiles are unmistakably grimaces in the right light. A party is an orgy without the intentions admitted. I need a French duet to spit in the eye of love, Serge Gainsbourg and a corpse in vogue. Anything but a habit please. What is more deflating than lust no longer lusted for? Your fantasy life is neither. If you've gotten this far I'll read between the lines for you: I had an okay time last night. The problem with hedonism is the morning after.