Fight with God

Okay, let's go.

I've been fucking around and being way too nice here.

Either I'm right or I'm wrong.

And I've spent ten to fifteen years of my life doing the considerable math.

So fuck it.

Either the universe works or it doesn't.

Which means, god, that either you are presiding over a loving and unconditional environment.

Or you don't exist.

Or—even worse, you're presiding over a less than loving and conditional environment.

If it's anything but the first, then you and me are going head to head.

Right now.

So let's get into it.

First of all, I've been pushing people here for a while, telling them that my book is the best on available. Telling them that even if it's a piece of shit that them buying it will change the world in a million ways for the better.

This assertion, and my development of the courage to assert it has gotten me just about everything you can imagine:

Called arrogant.

Left by women.

Ditched by friends.

Disbelieved by family.

Eating hamburger several times a week.

Living at my mom's house at age 40.

Over $80K in debt while all my friends and family of similar educational background who took the traditional route have houses, newer cars, relationships, friends, couches, extra tubes of toothpaste, can use their two week contacts for just two weeks, have dental insurance.

Have health insurance.

Take vacations.

Can shop without fear.

Can buy new sheets without thinking about their mother and how they still live at home.

Can think about fucking without without thinking about their mom.

Or at least can think about fucking without bringing said fuckee back his or her mother's house.

They're also married and likely get touched by other people in a kind manner on a semi-regular basis.

The list goes on, but I'm tired of it too.

And I don't want a fucking shred of pity.

Not a motherfucking second or iota.

Just my fucking money.

I don't need you for anything—either god or the public.

But I can't buy my own book.

And I don't want to live on credit for a day longer.

When I've done the fucking work.

In fact I've done more work.

Much, much more.

I don't want love, or acceptance, or enlightenment or sunshine.

I want the fucking money.

I want all of it.

And I want it right now.

My friends at Amazon, who consult, at wherever, even the artists haven't added the value to western society that I have at this point.

If this is arrogant, then beat it out of me.

If this viewpoint is what's causing my inability to make money from my produce, then starve me longer.

Pound me into niceness like a hammer pounds a nail.

If my success is dependent on happiness, or flow, or whatever—then keep it from me for as long as you want—or can.

But if not, then give me the fucking money.

And give it to me right the fuck now.

And don't just give me the fucking money, god, give me tons of fucking money.

Give me what these ideas are worth in today's dollars.

Let me feel the exact value of what I've done in economic, spiritual, artistic, personal, human and communal terms.

Where I save someone a shrink bill, let me wet my beak.

Where a inspire a yearly bonus, let them pay me like they do these corrupt Chicago crime boss low-life, no class fucks.

Let me feel the exact value in terms of all people currently alive and their offspring.

And their offspring's offspring.

Because as I see it, right now you're coddling them and letting it ride on me.

They're the ones who believe in disbelief.

In fear as a motivator.

In whipping in whatever form.

They're the ones that think that our dreams have anything to do with winning American Idol.

They're the ones who have sold your ass short a million fucking times.

And from what I can tell.

I'm the only one who said you're perfect.

And not just perfect, but perfectly perfect. Not having to be addressed suchly, or approached thusly.

Not having to be mollified this way or using certain language or thoughts that way.

Not having to take my workshop or read my book.

Just fucking perfect.

(What I have said is that a) you want to buy my book, you just haven't; and b) buying my book will reap untold and near-miraculous benefits to economies, people and cultures all over the globe.)

And from my research, I'm the only motherfucker who says that so much as cutting your toenails when you really want to brush your teeth is a greater sin than killing someone—if killing someone is what you really, really wanted to do at the time.

I'm the only one who says that this motherfucking life works.

Is perfect.

Always and forever.

Not overall, not in general.

Not after you retire or when viewed in hindsight.

Right the fuck now and always.

Permanemtly.

Guaranteed.

Inevitably.

Effectively.

Irrevokably.

So let's see the fucking money, baby.

Pay my broke ass out!

You don't think these crazy motherfuckers aren't waiting for some crazy internet fuckhead go first?

You don't think they've included in their math this wacko who wears pink constantly, considers jacking off a spiritual practice and lives with mommy?

Not even off in a long-forgotten side column?

Or don't you think they have the guts to go for it if this motherfucker does succeed?

In fact, what don't you think at all?

Or don't you think I have the guts to handle success and all the haters?

Or the gold diggers?

Fuck, I view haters and gold diggers as success.

I'm a gold digger myself, as you know.

And I tried living their way.

It's not as if I don't know what it feels like to go to bed every night as an accomplished graphic designer with a beautiful girlfriend and "stuff to do" and a trip in the next four weeks.

I know exactly what that feels like.

I remember perfectly.

And I wouldn't trade a second of it for right the fuck now.

Not even if you threw in that I'd never have to do any more manual labor.

(Well, maybe one second—and remember that shit before you start telling someone it's all process next time. Or that the journey is the destination. The journey is the journey and the destination is the fucking destination! The east ain't any more holy than we are over here in the west. We may be a bit shallow—and do drive-bys—but least we don't throw wives on funeral pyres, or practice honor killings.)

But still.

Still.

Prove your fucking self if you're really all the new agers say you are.

Proove yourself that the universe is one of plenty and perfection.

I've set the bitch up like the whole world of dominoes.

Knock the motherfucker over old man!

One news story on the cornball who thinks he can get $120 for a book he self-published should do it.

It could even be negative!

God, I say you're living in the past!

You've become soft and intrigued by violence—interested in pain and suffering.

You like the news, strangely, and feel strange relaxing, even more strangely yet.

You are starting to get off on being a victim.

It.

And how many of these people you have drop by this site and NOT buy my book promised themselves they'd do something after 9/11?

Huh?

How many?

How many gave you their word they'd do—with the same courage it took the terrorists to train, plan, rent the hotel rooms and wake up the next morning and get on the plane—how many of them swore that they'd do whatever it took with the same force of conviction to let love rule here on earth?

Hmmm?

How many?

And they still have their car note paid?

Good health?

And what did they do?

Read a book about radical Islam?

Try to relate?

How many watched a parent or loved one die—in the same room with the same sacred air—and swore that they'd never regret or waste a single day in fear or disbelief?

And how many went straight back to work and choked that motherfucking bigger than anything they've ever had feeling of certainty that it was all permanent love down with a six-pack and thirteen cups of coffee within a week?

Or the next day even?

How many, god?

How many have squandered every iota of inspiration and belief you've put their way?

That you delivered despite the fact that they won't take care of themselves?

Despite the fact that they eat and drink crap most days?

How many of these people you're taking care of?

How many started off doing design to pay for painting, as I did—and packed it in after MAKING TOO MUCH money to keep painting—as I did?

Not because they weren't successful, or because they couldn't afford the time.

Because they could and were fucking scared of everything.

Being alone.

Color.

Stretching the canvas.

Color.

Taking a walk after lunch.

More color!

Mistakes.

An orgy of silent and glorious color.

Fucking their wife instead of painting because they felt like it.

Silence.

Even though it was, oh my god---a Tuesday at 10 am.

Calm.

How could you fuck someone you loved in the middle of the work week?

What are you?

How could you take off all your clothes and feel the sunny breeze through the open window on your cock when you were supposed to be AT LEAST painting?

At least doing something productive!?

And really should be working, you piece of shit.

What their friends would think.

Their boss.

Their spouse.

Who were all exactly like them and waiting—no dying with every breath—for some motherfucker to go first.

To prove it!?

For someone to do something!!??

And the women are no better.

Who have they suggested go first?

Who have they rewarded for breaking new ground?

While it was still new ground!

Before it was the most fertile and productive thing going?

Hmm?

Which of them did that?

What adults have they unconditionally supported recently?

These who are supposed to more closely resemble your open hands?

Who have they supported?

When was the last time they loved without strings—when what they most wanted in the whole world a man who wasn't a puppet?

When did they take charge and make what they wanted to see on this planet?

When did that happen?

When was that?

When was the last time they didn't reward the fuckhead who's sell out was pre-packaged?

Or the nice guy who they knew they could control?

When's the last time that they didn't bitch and moan when a motherfucker tried to even keep a functioning cock and balls off to one side?

When was that god?

Huh?

And I don't even give a fuck.

Other people can do whatever the fuck they want.

But if you're holding back the results of their actions on them—financially, emotionally, mentally, physically or spiritually—and I'm paying for mine, or even paying for their extra leeway, if I'm even paying personally for their extra ability to "hold it all together" until the next paycheck so they can unhappily deposit it and unhappily go about all the things they don't like to do—then you're fucked up.

And every other direction as well.

If one shut down soul isn't getting the cancer it's praying for by joylessly smoking.

If one sure terrorist isn't having the car crash on the way to the bombing..

If one unhappy businessman isn't getting fired for not giving a fuck (or even being a kiss-ass)..

And I'm affected for one second for giving a fuck..

Then what kind of love is that?

Fucking punk.

Oh, and by the way, I'll consider it a failure—and on you—if I make less than five billion in the next several years.

If hating yourself and ruthlessly editing and critiquing other people's loving signals yields a maximum of two billion a year, then I will consider it a stark and blatant condemnation of all you've ever done if taking every possible control off my own signal isn't worth at least five times as much.

So that's ten billion a year.

I'll give you a year and a half to ramp up.

Two weeks to get it to a hundred thou.

Because here's what I really think.

That you were waiting for me to say just this.

All this shit.

So either this is the last test (in which case you're fucked anyway), or if I would have started mouthing more earlier I would have been done earlier.

Cause that's what I set up for myself.

To be sure.

So sure I'd take your sorry ass on.

Sorry in the manner by which humans had known it up until now, that is.

Conditional.

No one has ever said do whatever the fuck you want.

Whatever.

you cannot fail.

And left commas out just to fucking prove it.

Misspellings an dshit.

Blaahhblaoaeafosnl.

And told all the well-meaning folks who came by to ask, in a concerned voice, are you okay—that my words fucking stand.

That this entire planet is under a dark cloud.

Not because of what god has done—or even what people are doing.

But because of what they won't do.

And the only thing they won't do—is what they fucking want.

And any even brief perusal of network television, or even your neighborhood—will relieve any doubt that there's something they've left out in their quest to avoid that.

They drink when they want to fuck, they work when they want to sleep—and sleep when they want to work.

They show when they want to stay home and stay home when they want to shop..

I can't figure it out.

They won't fuck her unabashedly and then never call back.

But that's not even what they wanted.

They wanted to fuck her and be human, enjoy themselves, be completely with her, and then be a fucking man enough to tell her straight up that they thought they had no future.

And then take it from there.

But that they'd be happy to do it a couple more times if it didn't mess with either of their heads.

That's what they really wanted to do.

What else didn't they do?

They didn't say "Jim, you're a fucking idiot" in that meeting.

Or even a nicer version: "That's the stupidest idea I've ever heard."

Even though their boss was waiting for someone to show a fucking ounce of gut. Or balls.

Ready to drop an unseasonable raise for anything at all..

—You could have done anything, god.

You could have had some smack-addled blogger pick up the story and his NYTimes friend take it national.

Or just more druggies like the way it looked on the page.

You routinely discover models in malls.

One hit wonders at Wendy's.

All Kris Kross has to do was wear their clothes backwards.

The guys at my gym don't have to go before a board before they get buffed, they just lift the damn weight!

So what the fuck?

Where's the fucking love?

And if you tell me that money isn't love, then we're going to have the same discussion as if you're using conditions and tricks.

If I really do have to think positive, if I really do have to use NLP, if I really do have to honor my father and mother—in fact if any method I pick works better than another—then you can smoke a cock in hell.

If Zig Ziglar or Anthony Robbins is right..

If Ekhart Tolle's "pain body" is accurate..

If I should spend more time marketing myself..

If I should worry more about how I appear to others..

If it takes chakras, or chants or crystals..

Or is I should worry about if I come off as presentable..

If I should, as the lady at the gallery today inferred, take account for folks with a proven (read monied and or credentialled) sensibility..

Or even spend the fucking time it takes to unpack what an older WASP in an art gallery surrounded by intentionally and ridiculously crude and ugly $80,000 sculpture made on the cheap in Poland means by that (it's so iron curtain—so naif and AUThentICCCCCCCC. It feels so real in my pussy!!!)

If I should be paying more attention to signs..

If I should write down my dreams..

If I should use astrology..

If I should learn the Tarot..

If I should think positive..

If I should be grateful..

If I should work more, rest more, eat better, worry, stop worrying, consume or produce, follow the ten commandments, overturn the church, follow inspirational thinkers, make it non-profit, deny myself, emphasize myself, take more, give more—if I should do anything—then fuck you and let's go right now!

If I shouldn't read the paper while I'm eating.

Or watch tv.

I'll do anything —fight you —take the hit —live in pain —be poor forever —go undiscovered —never feel a minute of love —be alone for fourteen lifetimes —get hit by a car —crash my motorcycle —anything at all..

If you're love isn't perfect, if your understanding about what I want and how I do is not complete and absolute.

If what you really and truly want is also not my identical deepest desire—as I can determine at the time.

No, scratch that last part—if it's as I can determine it then, later, before or if it's what I think I want.

If you should be steering me at all.

Then bring on anything you want.

And bring it hard and fucking fast.

Right now.

Make it burn and rot on contact.

And I'll see you in the darkest, most disgusting pits of hell.

I did my part.

I do my part every day.

So what do you have to say?

Let's see it.

Come on—what, are results not holy?

Do you not support your chosen with earthly means?

Do you even have a chosen?

Do you deny them riches to build character?

Huh?

Then what is it exactly that you do?

IF you are like any religion or new age guru says?

Must we visualize what we want?

Must we work for it?

Must we abandon our ego?

Must we submit ourselves to teaching?

Must we enter a pathless land or follow a certain path?

Even our own?

Must we become warriors or children of the light?

Believe that we are all one?

Love our neighbor?

Refer to the earth in defferntial terms?

Must we repress a single desire or instinct?

Must we be quiet while on trains?

Sit still?

Stop chewing gum?

Must we not yell fire in a crowded theatre?

What exactly are the rules?

Must we get circumsized?

Not jack off?

Question or not question authority?

Vote Democratic and not Republican?

Refrain from bestiality?

Get in touch with our animal spirit?

Not criticize?

Be nice?

Be more childlike?

Enjoy it?

Follow our inspiration?

What the fuck must we actually do?

Do meet your will?

If it's not whatever the fuck I feel like doing, then—as previously mentioned—let's get it on.

If I shouldn't let myself go.

If I shouldn't go on..

If I shouldn't indulge my fears of hatreds..

If I shouldn't do anything, then what?

Huh?

What?

If I have to be nicer..

Or learn to be calm.

If I have to be a man.

Or perform under pressure.

If I should worship the goddess..

If I should cultivate my feminine side..

If I should with-hold production..

If I should consume more..

If I should relax into it..

If I should do, be, think, say, hear, smell, breathe or imagine anything..

Then fuck it, fuck it, fuck it, fuck it, fuck it, fuck it fuck it and fuck you.

Send some crows to eat my eyeballs out.

Right now.

Do me like Sisyphus.

Or Jesus.

If you have even a single requirement for salvation—then fuck it and you.

If I have to promise to be the last soul on earth.

If I'm supposed to be more punk or more preppy.

If I'm supposed to repeat koans.

Or read Ken Wilbur or that guy who writes What Is Enlightenment? Magazine.

If I'm supposed to be good.

Or even not bad.

If I'm supposed to care more about the Middle East.

If I'm supposed to not kill bugs, or run my car or throw out my garbage..

If I'm supposed to be safe, or protect children..

If I'm not supposed to write inflamitory things,

Or piss people off.

If I can't edit.

Or leave alone.

If I'm supposed to like black people more..

If I'm supposed to like white people..

If I'm supposed to like my family..

Like myself..

Love myself..

Like you..

Love you..


If I'm supposed to do anything at all then you're going to have to tell me in person and we're going to get into it on exactly this point:

THE NATURE OF MOTHERFUCKING LOVE.

Exactly what you profess to be an expert on.

Cause I don't see it the way your so-called chosen people have been preaching it.

I don't feel it at all.

And I'll go fucking pull espresso and never write another thing if that shit's the truth.

Or eat trash and live on the street.

I'll do exactly what I feel like and see you in hell.

Or I'll rip into it every fucking day.

Or I'll get the money and stop.

Or whore around, or go do business.

Or finish my album.

What the fuck ever.

Or make the movie.

Or raise the price of the book (maybe that's what motherfuckers need—they sure ain't doing shit where it's priced now.)

I'll make the distinction clearer.

Sharpen my tongue and sword.

I don't give a fuck.

And I haven't found a single other person who's doing what I'm doing.

So call me whatever you want.

But it either is or it ain't.

And either you know or you don't.

And can't nothing change any of that for a second.

I never felt my anger was justified.

Until now.

And in a perfect world, why not?

Why wouldn't fucking bullshit make you fucking mad?

Why wouldn't doing stupid shit make you livid?

And doing what you want draw you in?

And having to swallow other people's stupid shit make you even more so?

Why wouldn't it energize yo so say some shit?

Again and again and again and again?

Why wouldn't it?

I'll tell you exactly why it would—why pain exists.

So you'll get the fuck away!

And anger works very well to get others the fuck away—others who don't agree with you that is.

So let's call it like this.

Everyone who isn't with me—and this includes you—go away.

Go the fuck away.

Let's see exactly who and what is right.

Let's draw the line.

And where the reall balls lie.

Where the real love lies.

Cause all this contemplation and back and forth is killing my ass.

Let's flush out all the pimps and hos once and for all.

All the manipulators and petty hustlers.

Let's separate the wheat from the shaff.

I'm not strong like y'all.

I can't take it.

Can't swallow this shit every day.

Can't deal with another phone call from my mother saying that the work I've done around the house for the last five years is just what a responsible adult would have done—and not worth compensating me for despite the fact that she would have either paid for it or it would have gone undone and despite that this work will result in money being made by someone somewhere at some time.

Everything is valued by the market.

The market is us.

And we're either paying for it or paying for it—I can guarantee you that.

If you think you're out of the way of the market and somehow don't have to deal with scrilla—then you're fucked up.

And I've seen first hand what motherfuckers will take.

They'll take anything you don't make them pay for up front.

Anything you don't get in writing.

They may throw you a bone on the other end—but be forewarned—it ain't free and it ain't love.

No matter how they may try to wrap it.

It's pity or concern.

Which means that, just like a welfare recipient, you're going to pay it all back in extra belief. If not deal with outright strings.

When they eventually pull the plug.

When things eventually go conditional.

Get material.

When push comes to shove.

When it's life and death.

And like I said, if I'm wrong, or ungrateful, or not helpful or worthless..

Or even worth less..

If the work I've done is worth what I've been paid.

Then fuck me.

And do it anyway you like.

Get people mad at me.

Withhold love, sex, or even talking.

Starve me out.

Make my debts come due.

Ruin my credit.

Put the kibosh on.

Bring down el hammer.

Do whatever.

If I'm wrong—do anything.

Do everything.

Cause if I'm wrong we're all so fucked that we'll never even know.

And I'd tell you that the same goes for you but I'm mad at you at the moment.

Except that we already think we're fucked, so we know exactly and already.

That's original sin.

And fundamentalism, and secular humanism.

Hinduism and Judaism.

Gurus and streetcorner prophets.

Management experts.

And everything in between.

So—if I'm wrong, then how you feel right now is god's honest truth.

And the highest absolute state or being in the known and unknown universe.

And how you're feeling is conflicted.

That's what you've payed for.

That's what you've prayed for.

And the universe being perfect...

See how it works.

That's what you get.

But, on the other hand, if I'm right..

Then we are literally unlimited.

And utterly unified.

And I hate to end this motherfucker on a positive note.

I didn't start off trying to be nice for a fucking second.

But I really don't give a fuck.

ANd I even have to go box up and ship a guitar that I wanted to keep forever.

And I've already boxed up and shipped a piece of art glass (by Italian maestro Lino Tagliapietra) that meant a fuckload to me—both as a piece of work by someone I respect and as a yardstick that I had accumulated at least something of material importance during my salad days.

And I've already said goodbye to a couple amps and a couple guitars that I would have kept before just about anything.

And the rest of my studio equipment is next up on the block.

I've got half a mind to sell it just for my new Harley—put the universe to the test.

But I'm tired of that too.

I want the money first.

Give me the fucking money, bitch!

Because they were the only things valuable enough to pay my fucking rent without going deeper in debt and relying more on my family's credit.

Which I fucking hate.

I have two guitars left.

One electric and one acoustic.

Both picked from maybe hundreds that I've played.

And worn in just right.

And rare and individual to start with.

I'll sell off my business before either of them go, but that's where I am.

Mom wants me gone by the end of the year.

And I've got to get the fuck out of here one way or another.

The business that some dreams told me would allow me to eat shrimp and steak while I did the rest of what I needed to do...

Well, I did have some steak.

And there's one in the fridge right now.

Not that it wasn't bought on credit..

But it's not returning anywhere near what I need to live off monthly-wise.

And that's even with a generous offer from moms to continue to subsidize my real estate.

Lord, let me get my own fucking place.

And pay my fucking bills off.

Let me do it like a fucking man,

I've already tried like a worm.

I've already tried to give up, go back.

Plead and cajole and kiss ass.

I've got nothing left to do.

I'll probably send out the book I wrote—describing both The Love Artist and all this consumption/production shit.

But I can't see myself charging less than $120 for it without selling out it's inspiration— The Love Artist.

So whatever, folks.

Do what you fucking want.

Exactly what you fucking want.

And remember—I'm the only one who both told you and showed you to do just that.

And you let me twist in the wind.

And if you can show me another—if GG Allin in fact wanted to live in filth and smear shit all over himself, and that wasn't just a child's response to what he felt the available grown-up options were..

If rappers really want to live their life in a dark club with endless Crystal and perfectly stoned—if that truly is power and not exactly what the man wants from them..

(And, hey, I'm looking forward to at least a few video hos, myself..)

If The Rolling Stones really are happily living the good life even though there's someone else's name on the bottom of each check—and they don't set the prices for anything they make or sell..

And if the hundreds of thousands of indie rock kids really want to be sad and love-lorn and not make money, have a steady income, grow into adults and provide for their families...

Then don't give me another moment of consideration.

Cause I'm saying, with as much emphasis as I can muster—that they want more.

That you want more.

And not just a little more.

Not just another day off or $50 grand a year.

Those are all highly accomplishable.

In fact, are guaranteed in the general course of things.

Those are just history extrapolated into next month.

You want much more.

Much, much, much, much, much more.

And I'm' saying you can have it.

I'm saying it's your birth right.

No I'm saying fucking take it!

I'm saying it's floundering in front of you like low-hanging fruit.

Or a fish on the bank.

I'm saying it's the natural order of things.

I'm saying it's looking for you—hunting you down and banging on the door.

Haunting your every step.

What you want, what you want, what you want.

I'm also saying that it's not a scary what you want?

C'mon, what the fuck do you think this is?

This is what you want what you want.

That whole be careful of what you want thing?

Who the fuck do you think made that up?

And why do you think they did?

Duh!!!!!!!??

Masturbation will make you go blind.

Eating dinner with a man at a table with a white tablecloth will make him think of taking your virginity—fucking you.

This is what the devils have been up to.

It's just a matter of it you believe them or not.

I know you're scared.

That's why you shouldn't stay.

Or—here's an idea.

Think it over until you're not scared.

And then fucking execute!

With contempt.

Anything but sit around and noodle it a little bit, and maybe a little later or after another scoop of ice cream..

Do something!

Be someone!

I'm saying Plan Bs, concern, sensibility, restraint, pity and sorrrow are hatred—and self-hatred—itself.

And that ALL they can bring—EVER—is the eventual understanding that we don't want any of 'em.

And that people who practice them should be ignored or avoided when they do.

As should people who tell you it's hard, or that their method is best.

And to the degree that they do.

And that motherfuckers who practice true love..

Absolute support.

Undying faith.

Belief until the gory end (or perfect result).

In your methodology and way..

Should be paid until it literally hurts.

Until we start to worry about our own sources of nourishment and heat.

If you find one motherfucker who believes like that, pay the motherfucker.

Up front, despite results.

It cannot, will not, must not corrupt them.

It will feed them, strengthen them, love them!

You do not ruin things with your money but solidify them.

Money is NOT the root of all evil.

People who say that are.

On this planet anyway.

You vote and annoint with money.

I'd say annoint me at this point, but I'm done asking for your help.

Or anything.

I've brought it, just like I brought my paintings to that gallery guy two weeks ago.

If he doens't have a yes or no by now.

If he's not either hungry or done.

Then I'm not going to sit around and blow smoke up his ass.

Nor do I want him doing the same.

Tell me they fucking suck.

Or that they're brilliant.

All I want is money or no money.

Make it fucking easy.

I don't need rationalizatins, support, encouragement, concern, hellos, keep it ups or even "hey, bros"

I need motherfucking money.

Money.

Money.

Money.

Money.

Money.

Money.

Money.

And read them all individually.

Don't skip that shit.

It's the most important shit in here.

I know you're getting off on all the other shit and trying to avoid the..

Money.

Money.

Money..

He sounds so free..

La, la, laa.

It's the fucking money you reject.

You fucking pervert.

It's your money.

Your money.

your money.

And nothing else.

I don't want you to tell me anything.

Ignore me.

Hit me.

Tell me to beat it.

talk about me behind my back.

Organize to get people to belittle and fuck with me.

It doesn't matter.

And I honestly don't care.

I've lost faith in the lot of you.

I couldn't find one person who believes.

Which doesn't make me want to do anything to myself—quite the contrary.

It makes me want to fucking win.

To take the whole shit over.

To be Buffett, Gates and Sorros' boss.

To collect tax like a miser.

Well, not like a miser, too much work to stay cranky.

But at least run this whole shit until I get beat by some punk kid who learned how to kickflip watching my tapes.

Or ignoring me altogether.

Either money me or go away you cretin.

Yes or no.

Have I made it clear yet?

Maybe he'll give me the public crushing of the century.

I can't wait.

I can't fucking wait!

I can't wait.

But until then, I consider any money I make essentially laundered.

Because of how you made it.

Call me what you will—that's where I am at this moment:


Monday, July 2, 2007 at 4:18:43. CST.

In real time.

Without editing.

And either that will do or it doesn't matter.

I never wanted it to come to this—believe me.

Or maybe I've always wanted to get right here.

Either way, it's what is.

And what is, is.

$120 or go away.

I might even take the web site down just to tie up loose ends.

Money or no.

Money or no.

Money or no.

MOney.

Money.

Money.

Money.

Money.

Money.

Money.

It is holy, you know.

Money.