you the best, blondie

+dad language. foucault, we love you. dark and mystic, my

telephone number. purveyor of internets, my heterotopia,

my subjectivity, my surveilled, my history of sexuality.

“sometimes you gotta fuck the patriarchy” and better to

end with love of life—everyday is every art. who is beauty?

those who do not deny but stay present in othered. spaces

still haunt, daddy-man. some master-texter. a colonizing

narrative. write we body. never as bad as lacan, some mirror

stage, and even with all points, sharp. it’s insular. ruminating

is luxury. we know. sneaking in. only simulate with workerbee

and serial skiller. we privilege af. come and see. some pasts

with self-important narrative, ability to point finger, and

interventions. some recent detraction from all social practicality.

we don’t think our culture is better than yours. you know, of

course we do. care and respect for self will always outweigh

you, but think about a different voice saying that, some reaction

of less, some reaction of more—all dependence. call we semiotics+

+dads like to read tiqqun and take it way too for serious, like face value.

a token: some derogatory and painful experiment in essentialism. we

are consumpt. young thing, so are you. and. you the worst, oldie.+