January of 2013 was a simple time in Earth’s history.
Everyone has experienced firsthand that moment when an English teachers scorns: “Thank god! It was only a dream.” It’s both the easy way out of a creative writing story and the moment of great relief.
Beards are good. So are motorcycles and beer and booze generally. All these things make me feel like a man. Goddamn I love being a man. I wear pants, unless I don’t want to wear them, in which case I’m not wearing pants but I still feel like a man.
I frothed on eating the skin of chicken when I was a young pup. So salty and oily and delicious. But now…it's skin. It's a fucking organ. "I like to eat skin" sounds like a line out of a snuff film. To bite into someone’s skin is to pierce their persona, their image to the outside world, without which they would have so much less distinguishing features, so much less allure and general smoothness to behold.
The flame moves the soul to a waltz of spontaneity. Such was the tune echoing from Baker Beach, San Francisco, on the eve of the beginning of an annual movement of self-expression: the Burning Man.