Fuck Raymond Pettibon, a real hero of mine, who self-published zines that he sold for $2.00 a piece and were so good that they ended up becoming art, displayed in glass cases in fancy galleries and on Sonic Youth album covers.

Fuck him for making me think I could do the same thing with blogs.

Fuck the life-sized drawings of naked men that hung in the studio space I shared with an actual artist two years ago. Fuck those throbbing cocks that I had no choice but to stare at as I smoked spliffs and typed random bullshit onto a laptop that I hoped would magically turn into a story.

Fuck my unconscious which was at that very moment working overtime to come up with the story of a girl named TRUEBOY, a story I would slowly start to tell to myself while I waited for the train or rode an elevator.

Fuck writing and fuck writers, and fuck this wacko dream that I have of becoming one.

Fuck TRUEBOY, who acts so tough but always lets me down.

Fuck Sterling Fassbinder, who refused to let me keep control of her, even though I was her creator.

Fuck Fitzcarraldo, who forces me to take control of my past by trying to understand it.

Fuck the New York scene, or what’s left of it as it hobbles along after the city’s most vibrant, creative and outrageous people were killed by AIDS in the 80s and 90s.

Fuck Sex in the City, Fuck Friends and Fuck Seinfeld for giving suburban automatons the idea to come back to the city.

Fuck the fascist Giuliani and everybody who sucked his cheesedick after 9/11 just because he did his job and didn’t lose his shit during press conferences. You might be getting 50K per speaking engagement, but the club scene won’t forget the raids you ordered that all but destroyed it. The uptown won’t forget the roving gangs of boys in blue that you sent to kill young black men who had the bad luck of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Fuck Bush, Cheney, Rove and the rest of the religious, homophobic Republicans who are dismantling our freedoms one by one and working to secure a second term by any means necessary.

Fuck Americans for being apathetic enough to let them.

Fuck the democrats, who have become a worthless caricature of a party without the balls or the spirit to make the coming presidential race even remotely interesting.

Fuck the so-called left, and their half-assed, uneducated notions about international affairs.

Fuck the Europeans, who get on their moral high-horse about the U.S. and Israel while only a couple of years ago they sat around and did nothing while yet another genocide occurred in the middle of their continent. Fuck them for all their bitching and moaning about American imperialism—quoting ideas they got from reading Michael Moore’s latest book, which, last time I checked, qualifies as an American product.

Fuck space and fuck Mars and anyone stupid enough to try and go there.

Fuck the internet and fuck email and fuck the wireless revolution and all those little, expensive devices that are the next status symbols in western culture’s never ending binge of material goods.

Fuck recycling and fuck not recycling.

Fuck cars and fuck bikes.

Fuck books and fuck movies and fuck blogs. All of them are boring as fuck.

Fuck Tony Pierce for taking himself so goddamn seriously because he’s linked half the goddamn blogosphere and, as a result, gets a thousand hits a day. So fucking what, you still can’t write.

Fuck BRANDTRUEBOY for fronting like it was written by three people and then coming clean just when things were getting interesting.

Fuck being a pussy and fuck selling out.

Fuck going to work and fuck going out. All you get is a headache either way.

Fuck girls and fuck boys, especially girls who call themselves boys.

Fuck water and fuck soda.

Fuck beats and fuck rhymes, they always leave me cold.

Fuck beef and fuck tofu. Accept the fact that you’re going to die, moron. Maybe even tonight.

And Fuck Pablo Picasso. He really was an asshole.

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