Keep this in mind: A while ago I'd sent out an e-mail to my friends with this long article detailing how Jim Morrison had faked his own death and was living in Africa. While the article itself was a joke, I had actually researched it (read: I found two books at home that dealt with conspiracies (I only read the Jim Morrison bits (I like The Doors))).
The article was all properly referenced and it even had fragments of songs in between the paragraphs to support my arguments. And most importantly it was funny.
Now: We have a uni magazine called Cogito for which I try to contribute articles. The editor of said magazine is one Soon Van (better known as Sleeper). The theme for this edition was 'insanity.' The theme for the next edition is 'death.'
Understand: I am hideously and impossibly lazy. I thought to myself 'God, I'm sexy.' Then I touched myself a little. Then I thought 'I know, I can submit the Jim Morrison article for the next edition, after all it was funny and...my God, I am sexy'. Then I touched myself a little more.
When I went back and dug up the article and gave it the once over, two things stuck out in my mind:
1. I am sexy.
2. The article was hideously and impossibly pathetic. It wasn't in the least bit funny and I actually felt embarrassed that I had written it.
3. Very sexy.
Know this: When I wrote the article it was funny. This means that something (possibly myself) had changed. Fearing the worst I began to read over some of the other things I'd written. All of it was crap. I remember thinking this stuff was funny when I was writing it, but now it was just embarrassing. The way I figure it is that I get caught up in what I'm writing and I think it's the greatest thing ever when in fact, I should probably be raped by a large bald man, killed and then sterilized.
Listen: Nothing I write seems to have value five minutes after I've written it. I've just finished reading over this review and I'm kinda embarrassed by it. The bits about me being sexy are more than a little lame and if it isn't bad enough that I'm making horrible jokes, I've gone the brain doctor way and I've repeated them.
All apologies: Any normal person, upon realizing their shortcomings (and believe me I've cornered the market in shortcomings), would have deleted everything that they had written and given themselves a coffee enema just in case. Not I. It seems that like the irrepressible dodo, I refuse to be beaten. Oh well, I guess if you want to know what it's like to fellate a cat you can always read what I've written.
Reviewed on Tuesday, 24 September 2002