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Fuck is dead. 1 I bet you think this song is about you. Insofar as you participated in the process that would eventually lead to my negation, that much is true. But you probably won't feel bad enough to kill yourself, so it's probably about more than just "you." You've done some bad things in your time. White guilt. Sexual abuse. Emotional abuse. The times you called me "bitch." I'm tired of these ongoing contests of one-upsmanship. I jumped, I won. My love is bigger than your love. This is the end. I'm a saint, motherfucker, I'm a saint. Tell my mom I don't hate her. 2 I'm going to accidentally fall out of my window tomorrow afternoon at 3:30 PM, shortly after my scheduled massage with Josef. I will call my mother prior to taking my life. She may or may not speak to me about Betty Ford. I may or may not call my mother tomorrow afternoon. Is this skirt too revealing. This life, this life. Oh me. I read a book before I dropped out of college: the minute clicking of little wheels. Honeysuckle. The hotel potpourri is suffocating, nauseating. Read this like that too. 3 My limousine crashed in a tunnel in Paris while being chased by photographers that I hired to "sensationalize" the event and draw attention away from my "suicidal" intentions and the impending sense of doom that has lingered above my receding hairline for the past few months. The photographs will be received by the following individuals, exactly six days, six hours, and six seconds after my death: 1 Carly Simon If you are interested in covering the event or organizing a gallery exhibition of these photographs, please contact one of the above individuals. I have sent them all exactly one-tenth of my remaining fortune in an effort to encourage their complicity with the media and with art world, at large. If they do not cooperate, drive a limousine into their house and produce your own spectacle. |
copyright © 2002, The College
Hill Independent
last updated 11 22 02
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