The 21st century America is a very strange place. Beautiful, bountiful, but strange. It tells me, “I want your music in my catalogue as long as you agree that it’s not special, and I want your booty in my catalogue, as if it’s not special, either.” It wants me to be this way. It wants me to line up and lick the conveyor. It wants me to play ordinary. It wants me to march with the crowd and participate in the global sexual act that has been stripped of all magic.

Underlying emotion: No respect for me whatsoever.

What do I say? First, I have no words. Then I cry. I don’t like any of it. It’s counter-everything. It defeats my humanity, my dignity, and my sense of self. It’s a man (and woman) eating machine (I borrowed the line from Grace Jones).

Then I think and feel. Then I refuse to comply, even though my strongest argument is “what the fuck?”

And then I say, “YOU lick the conveyor, if you so like it. YOU participate in this absurd S&M circus show thrown by the blind children for the helpless children. YOU do it. I am going to go find myself a place where people respect me. And if you don’t have an organ to respect me, have a good life. I am going to be fine.”

Our culture breeds people who are missing a couple of screws upstairs and who are perpetually distracted… and everybody is so excited.

But ‘they’ can’t quantify me without putting me on my knees, and I respectfully decline the offer.

I am not going to kiss their glasses. They will have to kiss my arse or at least, let me be. Quantifying the soul is illegal.

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