The White Girl Mob: Or, How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love Kali-Yuga

When a friend introduced me to the White Girl Mob, all I could think was: I surrender. The world belongs to sexy postmodern white bitches with glasses. We're just living in it. We are lucky to make it into the margins of their video shoot, their Facebook album, their Tumblr feed. Otherwise, our lives are void. Hail, Caesar!

Twenty-Six Years On My Way To Hell

Nine Inch Nails are my favourite cathartic juvenalia. Every time I listen to them I remember how I felt when I was fourteen... okay, sixteen... okay, twenty... okay, still: like an angry, embittered outsider desperate for sex. Trent Reznor is too fond of the word decay and things that rhyme with "hole," but he is able to deftly capture negative psychological sentiments with simple lyrics.

"Closer," with its "I want to fuck you like an animal, I want to feel you from the inside... You bring me closer to God," ably captures the truth expressed by Malcom Muggeridge, "Sex is the mysticism of materialism and the only possible religion in a materialistic society."

"Burn," with its "This world rejects me, this world threw me away... Sometimes I think I could burn this whole world down," is the Platonic form of the sort of vengeful nihilism Nietzsche dubbed ressentiment.

"Only," with its "I just made you up to hurt myself... There is no you, there is only me," is the crystallization of solipsism.

"Down In It," with its "Just then a tiny little dot caught my eye, it was just about too small to see, but I watched it way too long and that dot was pulling me down..." absurdly conveys the inherently absurd downward spiral of obsessive thought.

"Wish, " with its immortal rallying cry "Twenty-six years, on my way to hell!" is particularly relevant to me, as I just turned twenty-six.

No, it's not Mozart. No, it's not even the more operatic negative depths of Swans. But I've seen Nine Inch Nails twice in concert, and they provide a ritual purgation for eternal adolescents no other misery-grinders can equal.

The Strange Faces Of Facebook

As poet-Sodomite Jim Morrison observed, people are strange when you're a stranger. As a stranger, I use Facebook to follow that strange breed, "people," up close but from a distance, like a bird-watcher with binoculars. I have a number of "Friends" who are only my "Friends" because I'm fascinated by people I have nothing in common with.

My favourite was (alas, she unfriended me) my real-life friend's stripper ex-girlfriend, who would frequently post rap lyrics glorifying her vagina and its ability to extract money from men. Other choice faces are the unfailingly cheerful Filipina (is there any other kind?), the Panamian girl who's always jajajaja'ing, and the young socialite Jewess who posts about fashion and her cat Boo.

Upon self-analysis, it's clear that I am strangely drawn toward non-intellectual, non-ironic, non-jaded females to whom I have nothing to say. I don't wish to enter their perfect world, or shatter their perfect world. (Unlike Marxists, I believe in the firm necessity of false consciousness.) I'm content to simply spy on their existence in awe and wonderment. They are strange to me because I don't know how people can be so unstrange.