What’s with all of this hatred of authority? I wonder
what the woman who’s having an orgasm downstairs
(or pretending to) is doing. Who or what gets you there?
The possibilities, it would seem, are endless in that arena.
I’m reading a book in four sections that I am growing
to despise, each page I turn, until I arrive at the
fourth section and, like magic, the lyrics are
miraculous. I’m not into pain. I’m about as
pure a hedonist as you might come across (this
I keep telling myself, anyway). The book seems
engulfed in pain. Pleasurably. Which not only
most often seems trite to this reader, but I just
never get it. WHY? Of course I keep reading,
kept reading. So what did I just prove? That
I appreciate torture just as much as anyone,
probably, and furthermore that in the end
it might just lead to something akin to
enlightenment. Or pleasure. Even greater pleasure.
I’m reading a book in four sections that I am growing
to despise, each page I turn, until I arrive at the
fourth section and, like magic, the lyrics are
miraculous. I’m not into pain. I’m about as
pure a hedonist as you might come across (this
I keep telling myself, anyway). The book seems
engulfed in pain. Pleasurably. Which not only
most often seems trite to this reader, but I just
never get it. WHY? Of course I keep reading,
kept reading. So what did I just prove? That
I appreciate torture just as much as anyone,
probably, and furthermore that in the end
it might just lead to something akin to
enlightenment. Or pleasure. Even greater pleasure.
