The emptiness of this city. You feel it with every issue of the New Yorker—that piece of fiction about a family trip to the beach in 1973 simply too boring to finish, the glossily eroticized spreads of Swiss watches that are unfashionable by the time you’ve caught a glimpse. In every Sotheby’s auction where they theorize that Rembrandt himself probably painted only the nose on this particular portrait, apprentices responsible for the rest. At the seal show in the Central Park Zoo, these pathetic creatures squirming about for the amusement of mentally stifling families with no grasp of contraception—
Wait a minute.
Those seals are kissing!!
That is SO FUCKING CUTE!!
I LOVE SEALS! I LOVE ALL GOD’S CREATURES WE ARE MEANT TO LIVE IN HARMONY AND ONLY AT THIS MOMENT HAVE I REALIZED ALL THIS PERVADING MELANCHOLY WAS A SELF-INFLICTED WOUND THAT I NEED NOT
Hold on.
What the hell is that? Did that thing get all its face skin torn off somehow? UG. LEE. And it’s eating a twig it just pulled off its own butt.
What? How dare you! I didn’t evolve from this piece of shit! He’s crass! He’s a slave to his appetites! He—oh, well, that temper tantrum is something I might—and using a rock to masturbate…OK, fine! I’m no different from this brute. Are you happy?
Because I could not be more depressed. Again.
—Caligula
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