Vice. Vice magazine.

I picked up the ‘second annual fiction issue’ a couple of weeks ago but put off reading it because the fiction they put in Vice last year had the same effect on me that Ann Coulter’s blog does, i.e. wanting to throw and break things.

Anyway, I finally skimmed through the issue and found this paragraph:

“I have scoliosis. The feelings of being loved never penetrates. Being alive is irritating. I can’t come without thinking of the porn in my dad’s closet. I feel bad for wanting the easy way sometimes. I don’t think anything is real. Everything hurts.”

That’s when I threw the magazine across the room and said ‘oh dear god’. Then I had to go for a walk because I felt nauseous.

I don’t do this very often, but I think I’m going to have to take this issue of Vice into the clearing up the road and subject it to Ritual Burning. The last thing I did this with was a religious text of some kind.

Next year, instead of picking up the fiction issue of Vice, I’m just going to rub a cheese grater against my scalp whilst visualising New York hipsters sitting alone in their apartments cutting themselves out of self-induced self-loathing. You know it’s self-induced because it’s motivated by ambition. Self-loathing and self-pity are such great assets to artists in their mid to late twenties and early thirties, you know?

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