Index rerum.

Only recently returned from six months in India. Reintegration period, currently.

If only I were bold enough, I'd give you some rather lengthy parenthetical note about my "impossible personality." I would at first shock you with my frankness then eventually win you over with my persuasive yet somehow charming self-deconstructions. I would finish this note with a self-congratulatory conclusion about my impressive ability to reason and the cold beauty of my logic. In the end, your emotional response would bind you so closely to my heart-rending circumstances, you wouldn't realize until later--until you finally got up to get that drink of water you were thinking about--that a small, warm tear was forming off the side of your eye. This realization would lead to an inevitably sincere reply involving some configuration of pathos not already posted by some other honest user.

The fact that I need you is obvious.

I don't know where I'll be in five years. I don't want to know right now. I'm excited to discover that for myself.

I've also been known to sling cocktails.

Also, trying to be this guy. Where can I find a Spongebob fitted?

"fuck your father, fuck his narratives, fuck his authority, and fuck his essential structures." I pretty much repeat this as a mantra in the mirror while brushing my teeth every morning.

Being contrarian. Deconstructing irony. Finding metaphors in everything. Weaving the universe into conversation. Hulk-smashing kyriarchy. Making fun of hipsters. Misplacing pens/lighters/umbrellas.

probably my boobs but some guys say i have really nice legs

I like artists, authors, philosophers, and other extraordinary people of the humanities like a little kid likes comic book heroes. Call them the champions of my pretentious reality.

I listen to a lot of music. If you're curious, ask me about it. We'll talk.

1) Trivial semantics
2) Conversations that turn meta
3) David Bowie
4) Hole-in-the-wall coffeeshops
5) Art school girls
6) Toxic, paralyzing, raped by psychic-Bedouins self-consciousness

David Foster Wallace (like, a lot), Marxist feminist dialectic, honne and tatemae, Tender Buttons, hermeneutics, flânerie, earnestness, girls with lovely lilting cadences, bokeh, Theory, obscenity, Saussure, foppish dandies, Candide, hip cynical transcendence of sentiment, formalism and aesthetics.

In a small cafe with a cappuccino, a good friend or two, and conversation.

These days, on my roof (or stoop, depending) with wine, a good friend or two, and conversation.

I prefer Byron to Wilde, Marivaux to Voltaire, T.S. to George, Beckett to Joyce, Satie to Debussy, Lane to Denby, Sentimental Education to Madame Bovary, Benjamin to Adorno, von Bayros to Beardsley, Pratchett to Adams, Gass to Gaddis, Barthelme to Barth, and Derrida to Foucault.

I spend most of my OKC time reflecting on the ways it allows us to deconstruct basic identity dialectics in observable thesis-antithesis-synthesis paradigms. Who do I think I am, who do I think you are, who do you think I am, who do I think you think you are, do you think about who I think you think you are? Who am I looking for, who are you looking for, are the people who I attract the kinds of people who I'm looking for or just the kinds of people my profile attracts? Is it better to alienate most of my audience to attract the minority I'm actually interested in dating? Does that minority exist in real life or just in the fevered dreams of underrated postmodern novelists? Are you that minority? Am I that minority to the minority I'm trying to attract? Why do I feel bitter when I look at these profiles, why don't you feel bitter, don't you know you should feel bitter? Am I being earnest, are you being earnest, should earnestness be a value here? Am I my own audience, am I writing for you, are you writing for me, are you your own audience? Can I trust someone who would trust me? Can I take you seriously if I've attracted you, can you take me seriously if you've attracted me?

only joking, of course. only joking. of course.

ps whenever 4'33" comes up on shuffle i listen to it all the way through.

There are so many beautiful people, so many Adonises, so many perfect figures. Beauty is homogenous, ubiquitous, dime-a-dozen. Aesthetics for its own sake gets boring. But people that elevate me, people that make me want to be better and smarter and faster -- well, I want to be around those people.

Please, elevate me.

If you've come this far, I'd like to meet you. If you're the self-consciously passionate type who's worried here and there that your life might be a "thoughtless accident" or something equally dismal, then it's already pretty certain that we're virtual soulmates and should make countless virtual babies until the internet itself dies of old age.

The lives well and interestingly-lived are inscrutable and backwards; one can only connect the dots in hindsight. If this is the story of your life, I already kind of love you.

Be cruel, degenerate, spiteful, dirty, whorish, foolhardy, drunk, sloppy, fiendish, superior, sarcastic, guttural, crass, inept, rank, indecisive, jealous, pushy, lolling, trigger-happy, destitute, disdainful, depressive, interior, childish, dishonest, paranoid, and come snarling -- but don't be nice, don't be normal. I'm not nice. I'm not normal.

xoxo gossip girl