What the world doesn’t need is another novel so fuck me trying to write one. Novels are so last century. Like psychotherapy and CDs and Bjork and the notion that “after everything” one can still find happiness in life as a “charming failure” simply by sliding across the polyurethane surface of multi-cultural meaninglessness and absurdity the same way the finger of a potential customer slips across the glossy, “anti-design” designer book jacket that fits like an envelope around the novel—fingering the inside flap and eyeing the pretentious, "about the author" pic before moving along to the next strategically piled waste of trees.

I’d like to write something that’s a mix between a treatise, a tractatus and a living will.