The only thing that matters, I suppose, is becoming the metaphorical asshole everyone expects you to be. Go buy your sanctuary in levittown where they will include the washing machine to salinize the shit stains off your bib that you wipe your tongue on after licking clean your boss's ass and the semen remnants after fucking his daughter. Don't forget to consider the box they will include that will bring you out of your misery and delirium into a state of bleak vegetation, returning you finally to your primitive state like the hunter who fought for your liberty to sit on your ass and create a market economy that sends infants to the foreground upon arrival. Don't make me force the civility upon you.

All I can think about are the lemons we picked at your grandmother's house. They were infested with green-leaf anteaters and red-headed lesbians and I could barely get a word in with all of their laughter echoing from the courtyard gates and bouncing off the amplified stereo speakers that god put right next to the side porch. We were alone for a moment and all I could believe in were the soft pillows that reflected in your eyes and I couldn't wait to get back into the study with the door that locked alexander's gates so we could reciprocate the sunshine emanating from the dragon's lair where his captives were doing lines off the redwood table where the three beaver heads sandra had collected for hibernation sat with expressions of lusty blindness. I don't like you anymore because you take me away from the state when I thought I knew what an object was.