anti-blogging, drunk, nobody knows what time

Hello America

I am drunk, I didn’t mean to get drunk, I wanted to hydrate and acclimate, but then I met so many wonderful people [eats an entire tube of lipstick, belches, kisses a real pig, literally, at a farm] that I ended up drinking nineteen Belgian and Dutch beers (Heineken is somehow a masterpiece here in the Netherlands, Heineken is a masterpiece here in the Netherlands, they make a variety called “extra cold,” I am drunk, if you’re not careful I am going to smoke Dutch Marijuana and write a terrified blogpost about Yo La Tengo and the raisin-ing of “Northern Europe,” I am drunk) and I had a conversation with a novelist about how blogging actually is bad for the gastric intenso-valves, and I should stop if I want to become the first Jewish James Boswell in Space (Prince, Michael Jackson, Tristram Shandy, Tom Jones, Peter Falk, Peter Falkner, I am drunk), and so I drank the beers. It’s OK. At Christmastime the Dutch set out glass vitrines of dog-food treats for people to eat in honor of St. Nicaulaus. I heard a Russian and Italian discourse about violence. I met several people who, when I thought about describing them on my blog, made me ashamed to have a blog. Their authenticity and bravery and eminence and humility shame this website into the dead condom wrapper that it is. Fuck this blog. I am drunk. I am in the Hague. I am with Slobodan, we are both trashed. Just kidding. The internet is a threat to American novelists so they lash out. Dickensian Tiny Tims like myself kiss and preen before the ovalled internet in our privetty bed-jams and are un-soothed, un-sayed, Orientalised and shaken off the knife. I’m drunk,  nothing excused. Remove me from your Feed.