Isis gave me a lap dance last nite. I nuzzled against her tattooed dolphins. And I realized, you know, that sometimes you’ve got to sell yourself in order to feel. To just say, hey, ok, I’m going to perform for you, I’m going to play this role in this game so that we can both get some enjoyment out of it. Let’s throw ourselves forward into the night and meet as masks on the other side. And you intellectual types who try to pretend like they something other than everything, it’s hard for you to let go of your identity, to let go of all this accumulated information about yourself, hours of mirror-time surveillance, replaying selected moments of your history and pasting them together so that you fit into this certain pattern of behavior, progress marked systematically by birthdays. But it’s all in the skin you know. When you are naked with another person, skin pressing together, are you yourself? You are something more, something less, something human. Something creature, breathing. This is your history, pores of skin sweating a deep musk, creating something new. Why do you feel the need to destroy this immersiveness with distance? Why do you watch yourself? You keep trying to keep everything inside, storing it all up like treasure for heaven, thinking that when the time comes you’ll be prepared. The time has already passed. You can’t wait to be saved. You’ve got to sell yourself in order to survive. Might as well enjoy it. Because you’ve got to sell yourself in order to feel. Noone’s gonna come to you and open you up. Noone’s gonna come to you and give you their heart. You’ve got to make deals to get past the pretense, you’ve got to agree to certain rules of the game. And the rules, honey, are this: we are what we don’t give each other. Hell, I’m selling out the system. I’m not gonna have anything left after this clearance. I’m not holding anything back. And who will be able to say, “This is what you are”? Because I’m yours. Because I’m everyone. Because I’m out there. And I’m enjoying myself.