Ah, rum, you make me write strange things:
I woke up this morning to find a bunch of pages kind of stuck to the side of my face with spittle. Yummy.
"Dear Dr. Sexenheimer,
Greetings from...
Who?
You fucking stole my fucking nume, you goddamn psycho cunt.
Remember that shit?
Sexenheimer. That's my fucking name. You get the fucking normal shit - I get the fucking fancy stuff, eh.
DO YOU EVEN REMEMBER THAT?
Look past fucken Rodriguez X.
Look past Joel.
That is not when I was born, you fuck.
Do you remember Jimmy the Bold?
If you've stolen Sexenheimer, I'm going to have to fucken regress madstylez.
Don't you remember me? Don't you remember standing in the shower when you were 16, and feeling me come forward - remember the feeling of looking through someone else's eyes?
Do you remember standing in that bathroom, two years late, blood dripping from your wrists, realising your grand master plan?
Lies. There was no blood, no cutting... I'm gone - you're back.
Maybe you were never there, Jimmy. I think you were... it's hard to say... I must have reached a level of soberity, or less-drunkedness at least, whereby the real Sexenheimer lost control... it was the blood lie - that's where I came back.
That's the awesome thing about my psuedonym, as opposed to the psuedonyms of others... it's a whole fucken personality, with all sorts of malicious intent.
How much of this is bullshit?
Who knows? Who cares?
I half believe it, but I'm not exactly a reliable source...
Fuck It All.
Leigh, Harriet, Courtney, Aster and I went to H's to watch some flick... I drank a whole bunch of rum...
and ended up outside smoking cigarettes with H + C. It was, in fact, my first cigarette.
Well, my first non-weed/non-cigar cigarette.
Is this a big step?
On the one hand, I'd always made a big deal about having never smoked a cigarette.
On the other hand, what the fuck? I've smoked that much pot, and a couple of cigards, it's not exactly true, is it?
Well, is it?
I went to the museum today. I found myself mysteriously sincerely interested in local culture... for some reason I have been seeking knowledge of late... maturity? Not likely.
I had a chat with Courtney while Harriet was getting another drink.
I told her that I had become everything that I hated, as far as being an ad-man was concerned. I must confess that this was a lie - it was Jimmy talking - perhaps?
Maybe it was truth?
I'd like to do more than sell day spas, fast cars, retro bars.
I'd like to do something with some redeeming social value... or if not that, something that would inspire someone else to do something with some redeeming social value.
I may have to settle for the latter... but is that even possible?
It depends...
MOTHERFUCKER
Fucking Catch 22... it hinges on me doing something of redeeming social value.
The train of thought that brings me to this conclusion:
Sid Vicious, my hard rocking dead junkie hero, has no redeeming social value.
Nevertheless, he inspires the fuck out of me.
If I do something of redeeming social value, it proves that people with none can inspire others to... which means that I could. But that makes it a moot point.
Whatever. Who cares?
Me - maybe.
Do I hate what I have become?
It's the first step on the road to the fulfillment of the less homicidal grand master plan.
Strewth. We come back to the start of this letter.
People say they feel like they must be different things to different people.
Foolishly, I've mixed the two in the pursuit of whatever it is I seek - love, fame, fortune...
Love should be the last one mentioned, but I want to appear sensitive.
Am I Sexenheimer? Am I Cam? Am I neither?
You know what it's like, this lack of mental certainty? It's like being a third culture kid again...
But who cares? Men and boys are dying overseas... my problems pale in comparison to the majority of people.
I shouldn't complain... my life is on track, more or less.
Will I publish this? I know I will... I have an emotional investment in it now. Why, though?
Good question.
The answers:
1. Fuck answers.
Who cares about my motivations? It's partly so I can read it later, partly so you will fall under my compelling spell - to what end?
World peace? Maybe.
The End.
Love,
Jimmy the Bold."
---------------------
Hahahaha, Oh, Cam, you lonely drunk.
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