This biography taunts you with its nakedness and you grind your teeth together as it pleads with you to fill in the blanks. And what it feels like is not unlike before the moment a small child contorts his face and is about to scream for the candy at the register. And what it sounds like is the whizzing of air right before the strap hits your hand.

Why are you here? Are you listening? Can you hear what I am saying?


The tension rises in and behind your occipital lobes and the blood rushes to paint your cheeks. Red is the color, the headache is in the mail and the aspirin sits, loaded in your hand like a gun at your hip.

I can't stand this.

Look at the red, red changes in the sky. You want to look away but you just can't bring yourself to do it can you punk?

Why?

Because when it comes down to it, this gimme gimme society of ours is missing something magical isn't it? Something so sexy and captivating that it doesn't have to sport a Prada handbag to prove anything to anyone. It's called mystery.

What's with the fascination with the echelon?

This is a gift. This is the part of the bio where you get angry, claw at your screen and take matters into your own hands and this is the part where you shift uncomfortably in your Staples brand office chair because wouldn't you know it, where it is worn out, is the exact spot where the padding doesn't meet your spine.

Only $49.99 what a steal!

This is where you write the damn thing yourself. Where you open your handy dandy program and voraciously begin to change the entire she-bang, the whole enchilada. Bob Ezrin doesn't have creative control, you do.

Hold the onions.

This feeling is not unlike a canis lupus tearing the meat clear off the bones of its prey. And it's not unlike pouring the entire bottle of bleach in the load to get at the stains. It must fall apart before it can be fixed. You smash the letters into the keypad. You are livid and you smell of a sickly sweet combination of testosterone and sweat. This is a monstrosity; you pull at your hair.

What's that word? Trick...trich-oh-till-o-mania something.

Your underwear are in a bunch, you missed the exit and there is no turning back now, so you delete this line.

And this one.
And this one.
And so on.
And so on.

The punctuation was all wrong anyway.

And so on.
Ad libitum.

You hear the voices in your head

G'head, knock yourself out kid. Write the fucking biography.

Later you can print it, frame it and treasure it.

Yes!

More voices?

You wonder to yourself how long you have been hearing those voices but you let it go because the no vacancy sign is lit and because this, this will be an eternal keepsake of the special moment in time when you chose to swim against conformity. And this will be that moment when you chose to use something that very few people still know how to access.

It's called imagination kids. Ain't it grand?

Maybe our hero is a banana-skin-smoking park ranger, working at a naughty nudist colony in Uganda who periodically ships knock-off bottles of crystal for extra bling to MTV sets in the good old US of A for all the pretty, pretty, disillusioned people because "nice work if you can get it." A ranger parading around in only a hat, who over the years has developed an unnatural fascination with bubble wrap and those little static electricity-charged Styrofoam S's. Or maybe, just maybe, he used to model bikinis for some obscure, fetish driven, hairy-backed porn website and the real shocker is that you were in a couple of those glossies.

Say cheese.

You can go on kidding yourself but the truth of the matter is, Mom's going to recognize you on the pop-up whilst surfing for online bargains any day now.

Oh the shame of it!

You breathe through your eyelids.

Get a grip on yourself man.

You align your yin with your yang and let your imagination soar--because when it comes down to it, the sky's the limit baby. The sky's the limit.

Juicy fruit is gonna move you. Chews so soft it gets right through you?

You take a good look around and smile to yourself with the sudden realization that all of this has the potential to be as freeing as Disney intended Willy to be. If only you'd allow yourself the luxury of savoring a moment, you could have a whale of a time.

Take a sniff. Pull it out. The taste is going to move you when you pop it in your mouth.

You don't want to run. You don't want to run.

The taste, the taste, the taste is gonna move you.

Dot. Dot. Dot.

It begins now. Write it.

You can finish the dishes after you finish up here. That's the good news and the sauce they serve with it is called no one will hold any of this against you.

This is insanity.

Maybe so, but I'm not writing it, you are.


(Im still in search of it...if anyone knows where to find it let me know pls) L