The following are abrasive rhetorical questions concerning this Depressive’s anatomy and sexual prowess, asked sarcastically at his formspring account, slightly edited for formality.
Do you believe your penis is based in fact?
Yes, the verity of the invoked digit precedes dreams, delusions, or anything of the irrational. It is a vector of truth, pointed at the navel, as if wanting to enter all concave darkish forms, even if such forms originate from the self. To suffer one’s solipsism is to understand this truth.
You think you’re a big swing dick these days?
No I don’t, as I’m prone to self-loathing. Also, I pride myself on having a rather “objective” view of the world, and I have assessed that my dick — while capable of swinging, technically, circumscribing an arc congruent to the shape of my balls — does not exactly embody the evocations of a “big swinging dick.” I understand you ask your question abrasively, with commentary of what you project my ego to be. I am sorry that you do not understand me.
What psychiatric drugs are you on? Why don’t you go out, get drunk, and laid maybe?
I am not on any psychiatric drugs, or even over-the-counter drugs, though my therapist has proposed that I self-medicate myself with alcohol. I do go out though, social excursions which often lead to getting drunk, so you are hereby fired as my biographer. As for getting laid, it is not that easy. I am a Shy Sensitive Soul, a demographic that, due to our sans intercourse anthropologically adverse non-putang saturated plight, are slowly going extinct. You see that monkey in that tree? You see that middle finger? Oh, I’m just happy to see you fucking asshole.
You slamming any hoebags as of late?
No, I haven’t slammed any hoebags as of late, and — while we are on the subject of receding linear time — much later than that. Sometimes it takes a man in a wheelchair speaking into a machine (of human sans humane machinations) to fully understand God’s empty conceit: that time is not linear, nor qualifiable, but a simple cloud of shed moments towards which one looks, if he were standing alone in a room, the curtains drawn, and the drawn blood vessels being some masterpiece inside him.