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. 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.