I’m a Lover

Since I’m starting to see a worryingly thinning herd posting on the front page every time I log in here (no offense, everyone I’ve been quietly following for months), I thought I’d just preface the 500+ word encomium I have coming tomorrow afternoon somewhere else when I wake up sober and actually write it out in less plainspoken terms after recovering from this aged barley wine that I think I can finally admit to a celebrity crush on Cassie because fuck it, I’m a grown-ass man and I’ve been going without one for years. Also, it’s 2013 and this girl still rocks the side shave like it shouldn’t have been left with the Family Values crowd (you know who you were). I respect that. I also respect that she absorbs minimalism – she’s not Malevich, exactly, but maybe more Cage or Reinhardt or… No, I’m listening to "I’m a Lover" and "Numb" and demos that don’t have a rapper ruining them (seriously, fuck you Rawse and even an Australian flip-off to you too, Pusha) and I’m thinking something else. Red wedge beat back the whites, white on white, black square, keep pushing. Marinetti? No, not a Futurist per se, either – they hated women. This is something else. Anyone? Not De Kooning. Hmm. I’ll marinate on it over the next however long I’m asleep. Something that strikes me about Malevich is the strength of his jawline and the weak conviction of his post-Suprematist work. Can’t believe Cassie wound up with Diddy. Sort of regret the J-Lo thing not working out because age gaps in relationships make me uncomfortable, I think. If I start writing this thing now, it’s going to end in, "Cassie’s a minimalist and you motherfuckers can go to hell."

Probably a bad idea. Probably need to let it simmer. Probably need to not work 12-hour days in front of a computer screen absorbing jewelry descriptions and sunglasses specs, either. Probably helps in the bedroom though, am I right fellas? Ha ha goes the fake laughter written out, fuck outta here. I’m having another barley wine. If you don’t drink, I feel sorry for you, son; I got 99 problems but a snitch ain’t one. Let’s keep this among ourselves, shall we? Silently now, we both part ways and return to the ether: