When I tell a girl that I’m emulating Chuck Palahniuk,
there is a sort of noticeable cringe. A shiver not of pleasure but disdain.
Like Chuck did something really bad to her in her childhood.
There’s a ‘Catch 22′ of course, because
she’s all about details, but not devils.
She wants to know how well whatever activity bodes,
so that she can participate as well.
She’d love to write whole passages detailing joys
of tomorrow’s sun, in its splendor unchallengangeable.
Even if it rains she has a lot of instances within which
to witch just some kind of good soap.
They call me a racist, and I admit that.
They call me a spineless prawn, and I can withstand that too.
She says she doesn’t care about me anymore, and that is logical.
But when she asks to delve into ways of delving care logic,
That is not my strength.
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