Hey. You. There. Reading this.

Go fuck yourself.

You strolled into this shithole you call a bookstore: either some snark-themed fagged-out place whose atmosphere is based on a random assortment of faux-obscure alt-paraphenelia; or, some major chain with all the Hot New Paperbacks (30% off with your Rewards Card) being fastidiously shelved by its dead-end employees: coke-nosed teens, bicurious divorcées, and post-Salinger wallflower wannabes trying desperately to convince themselves that books aren't dead.

Wake up. Books are dead. Words are dead. Language, communication, it's a whole new fucking monster and it's picking you apart, bit by byte.

There is no hope when someone can show you exactly what the world is supposed to look like so you don't have to bother imagining it for yourself.

But naive little you strolled into this shithole anyway, looking for something to make you feel again. Here, with words, you think maybe you can rediscover that old sensation, the nostalgic orgasm after you fuck an ex you haven't seen in years, the jack-off session after weeks of just not being able to find the time.

Those flashing pixels on your face, sure, they'll make you come. And you're used to it. You'll lean back in your chair afterwards, feel the beads of sweat on your face, wipe them off, and sigh with some semblance of satisfaction.

But you're tired of being just satisfied. You want more. Bombard your eyes with images long enough, and everything melts together into a cum puddle of half-assed ideas.

You strolled into this shithole in search of a book. The right words, in the right order. You want to someone to lead you from beginning to end and make you feel again.

You need to feel again.

Well, go fuck yourself.

Wake up. Books are dead. Words are dead. There is no hope in a world of deux ex machinas and laugh tracks.

There is nothing I could say that would unfuck you up. It is too late for you, for your kids and your siblings, for your husbands and wives and your fuck buddies, for your therapists, for your drug dealers and your pimps, for your hookers and your whores, for your politicians and your talking heads, it is too late for your lover, too late for your nemesis, too late for words to fix everything, to fix anything.

Seventy, sixty, maybe fifty years ago, words could make you feel something. But now, it's just:

Go fuck yourself.
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