I’m not going to say never; however, I am really failing to see the point of this blog. I’m having a lot of trouble seeing the point of anything.
I thought about writing a graphic novel about my surrealistically weird and brutal experience at International House Budapest. I decided that it was a bad idea. I’d end up paying thousands for an artist to illustrate the novel and spending a lot of time writing the novel and, if I were lucky, selling two copies. Unless something has been hyped and marketed the shit out of, no one cares about anything beyond his facebook circle and his bastard brood and his professional sports teams and his pornography that involves men jamming huge penises into the anuses of women who have hairless vulvas and artificial breasts that are bigger than their heads. You Americans are really weird and ignorant, and you don’t fucking care about anything beyond your pathetic little lives.
It is time for me, I think, to separate myself as much as possible from this world. To move on and, hopefully, some day, move as far away from you as possible. This world has nothing to offer me, and I certainly don’t have anything to offer it beyond inflicting as much damage as possible against the greedy asshole fucks whom I encounter at the poker table.
I wouldn’t be completely honest if I told you that my disengagement from this world does not cause me pain; however, it is a dull pain. I have very little attachment left to this world. As miserable and failed as my life has been, I wouldn’t want to be you. I am not being defensive when I say that you people (most of you) disgust me, and I am glad that I was never granted inclusion into your animal society, as the thought that I might’ve been one of you gives me the creeps.
I might be back. Who knows? Maybe next month, maybe next year. I’d like to thank the few loyal readers whom I’ve had over the years.