IMMORTALIZED STILLICIDE or the frozen spit whose shape induced an epiphany like Kekulé’s.

As one of the most social orthodontists in Valencia, I can say with acuity that this voluble blog, whose dilating domain of discourse reflects the author's uncanny cultivation, will warm--like the vortex of a Brazilian whore against my pulsing member--the hearts of all who shall espy it. My vocation, lest you forget, is to perfect the human smile.

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

I wish I were crazy. I am not. I am perfectly sane. Troubled, certainly. Off, maybe. But I'm cogent enough to realize I live in Valencia, 3000 miles away from my muse, and that the soothing hum of Magic Mountain, weed, HBO On Demand, the Sports Section, and pornography is really all I have in my life. It's not a girl I desire. I've got Jenny. As some of you may know, a vicious bacterial infection inundated my gums after my last periodontal procedure, and I think seeing me so unjustly ravaged inspired Jenny to return to me. So yes, it's not a girl I need. Nor a job. I'm completely content with only Jenny working. I guess I'm just disappointed with reality.

As most of you know, I'm the leading Jason Congdon scholar in the world. Not trying to brag or be funny here. Seriously, let's step back here. Very literally, I've dedicated far more of my life to Congdon Studies than any other person who has ever lived. I remember Harold Bloom once said that the most devastating thing about understanding Shakespeare so well is realizing how much can never be known. My old neighbor's friend's boss once attended a benefit where Stephen Hawking spoke. Hawking said, in a vein not unlike Bloom's, that with his theoretical knowledge came a great burden. Yes, he could understand the intricacies of a black hole in his head, but here on Earth, where we are all jailed, as it were, until we die, he was destined to never see, to never truly comprehend that entity to which he'd dedicated his life.

Sure, Dan Berger thinks about Congdon more than most people. And I'm sure Jason is often on the minds of some of his immediate family members. But I wake up at night impaled by the fact that I don't know which tooth in Congdon's mouth, which fucking tooth, gets brushed the most. I spend all afternoon daydreaming about starting an experimental high school with a rigorous academic curriculum whose chief thread is a dedication to a further understanding of Jason Congdon. My History class would focus less on the macro issues of politics and society and more on J.C's personal evolution. Tell me his development doesn't mirror Man's. To study Jason is to meet your inward self. English would be a little more wishy-washy as it always is. But tell me that the great works of our glorious tongue in no way pertain to the dedication, dysfunction, and self-obsession that Congdon exhibits. Tell me this and you admit at once your unseemly naiveté.

Fuck school. I dream a new world. A world where we only eat burritos, where shorts are always worn a little too late into fall, where shirts must be tucked in, businesses are only small, where Vegas only sets odds on events pertaining to the ammount of current being fed into the old ill wired, muted on Headline News, 15 inch TV from Costco, where young girls across the world memorize the provenance of every single hair on Congdon's sack, where the O.J. Simpson killings were notorious because of a former football Congdon killing a blonde Congdon and a Jewish Congdon with a kni-congdon in Brentwood, Congdon Congdon Congdon Congdon Congdon Congdon guac.

I have to stop writing about him. I know. I know. I'm becoming Eric. Congdon is my chess. I must stop. It's eating me alive, every second of my day dedicated to him. To Bulldog Burrito. To a life I'm not a part of. To a world I don't inhabit. But I can't stop, and my writing, my life, my life is suffering because of it. No one understands me anymore. This, this might be my last post. It needs to end here. It must. It's over. God, this meant a lot to me. But Goodbye.

I say this, and I mean it, and then...

And then I picture him...fuck you, fuck you for monopolizing my life, but I do, I picture him, I picture you, Jason...I picture you taking a break, walking out from the exposed postmodern kitchen and into the storage room, where there are tortillas and Mexicans with thin mustaches and...Virtual Boy--your favorite diversion since those days after junior college when you didn't know what the fuck you were going to do with your life. People said Virtual Boy sucked, that it was targeted toward really young kids, that it made people go blind. But for you, Virtual Boy has always been your one true love. The thing you've gone to every time you've felt miserable and alone. The thing you'll still have that gray day you decide you're done with fresh mex. Yes, I know all about it. I and your mother. I know she bought it for you. I found the receipt that time I paid that Serbian guy to break into her minivan. And I know how you feel, how alive you feel when you put your eyes into that machine and escape. Yes, I've read your journals. Yes, I can almost read your thoughts. To envision that 32-bit world of red enveloping you, your paws gripped to the guac covered controller--to see you at one with yourself is to know that in a life at once ceaseless and inadequate, I have refuge. I have you.


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