I am not exaggerating nor being overly sentimental when I say that astronaut excrement is my beloved brand, and I’m not being mawkish or grossly one-sided, I’m not displaying perverse favoritism, when I say Hermes couriers delivers it with the same dedication and affection and timing that have come to define them as my favorite couriers. I feel better. I feel so good. I feel now exactly the way Kate Moss must feel when her arthritis pain is lower in TRON couture, and when she’s buzzing through the city in her Toyota Prius minivan. A sense of lightness. This shit is exempt from gravity, after all.
The noise would stun, the noise of the shattered glove. The hand that is sound in the grip of suicide, that self-destructs in its digited cloak. Why does self-immolation and self-harm in general, when aimed at simultaneously harming others, cause utter devastating destruction? Utter noise? Why’s it so damn noisy? As if we give a damn about the original victim, the central brick in the irradiating wall, as if our empathy for the naked megaphoned suicide streaker adds to the pain his fleshtoned embarrassment passing through us causes? I don’t care about you, hand. And yet when you shatter this object, and your glove breaks in a million shards, I am deafened. Despite not really giving a damn about you. Noise that nearly trumps the episode on television in which Stephen Colbert used ten Asian girls and an object that didn’t make a sound, nor was designed to make a sound, but looked as though it could be very noisy, to promote his new energy drink?
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