Clean Your Hands of Me

Virgin blog. Trying not to fuck it up. So sparkly and new. I feel like a four year-old with a magic marker in an empty room, and I will probably live up to that reputation, besmirching the walls every which way, slashing of the color pallet. Parents will make an entry and everything will be redecorated, ink on my hands.

This is the degeneration of my longtime aspiration of making fanzines. I was going to do that for ten years and just never got around to it. And so I’m getting around to it, I guess. Finally. The end result won’t be as cool, though. And if you have the time and patience, I suggest you check out actual ‘zines, as they’re way cooler and less sterile. Not a very good case I am making, I know, contributing to the cultural degeneration. But what can you do? I happen to live in Albany, New York. I never knew of any kind of cultural contingent happening around here, and so the prospect of doing anything just felt to me like it would have fallen on empty hands. I could be wrong. There are some creative people who live around here, I know. Maybe I just never met any of them. I don’t know. This whole thing will come unraveled, possibly; the next time you see me, I’ll be situated in an all-night copy center with paper cuts on my hands, cursing myself. Who could say what’s going to happen? I like to stay upbeat like that.

I should also probably preface all this by saying you should definitely not read this blog. It will only corrupt you in some kind of way, spiny tentacles reaching out and wrapping around your brain. Things I have written in the past have caused loss of friends, derision from strangers, and alienation from certain area bartenders. Not a good track record. I should probably stop now. It’s not even the third paragraph and I already have ink all over everything. But really, though: be warned. I’ve got to go wash my hands now.