I think the city is finally strangling me. She’d smell other cities on my clothes and feign a half smile. The pine-scented country smell would get a sigh-laugh, the ocean the same. I always knew she was beautiful and I always told her that I knew she was beautiful. Her designy little skyline and her imperfection-in-all-the-best-ways. I met some people who were raised differently and didn’t understand her, always had to leave the room after being with her for too long. They were like republicans; raised differently but still undeniably wrong.

She knows that I don’t love downtown anymore and now she’s strangling me. Human shit on the sidewalks and the ostentatious fucking bike messengers. She knows I don’t love her anymore because I can’t even look at her without contempt creaping under my eyelashes. Contempt right up under my eyelashes where I used to shove the lust. I don’t even remember if I ever loved her or if she was just some concept I lusted after, blinded and ignoring the fat, bloated reality of her disgusting existence. Fuck nature and everything but this is obsurd. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt clean here.

I ran a marathon here once and it felt good. I tell people about it a lot because it’s one of those little middle class trinkets you can wear and show off and make small talk a little more substantial with. I fucking hate being a member of the middle class. Postmodernism sucks and so do you and there’s nothing you or I can do about it. When we used to get into trouble a lot, I loved the ghetto. You always knew you were fine in the ghetto. It was like international waters or something. Now I fucking hate seeing the lower class. Grow some postmodern self-consciousness for christ’s sake. The Struggle is such a fucking joke–grow up. When I ran through the city, I saw every pore and hair folicle. It was like kissing someone and realizing that maybe you should have both gotten up to brush your teeth. But the breath smell has this sweet lining because it’s the smell of kissing and not caring about other things. I fucking hate the upper class, too–but only out of pity and jealousy.

I would very much like for the city to brush her teeth at this point, but mostly I would like her to stop strangling me. I think I’m adicted to crack because I rubbed up against a wall on 14th and Mission. Plaque would be the poor people, gingivitus the rich, and the noose would be the middle class. A noose of white corded headphones and half-baked, over-rationalized ambition. How many fucking Honda Civic’s do we really need? I got the alloy wheels, the harley, yeah, the deep-Vs, the Nano–no, no, the 60 gig, I’m going away for the weekend, the wife, yeah, she’s doing better, echinacea, plasma, it’s a hybrid, biodiesel, valentine’s day is such a consumer holiday, I don’t even know why people celebrate it, god, the president is such a fucking hypocrite. Alcoholism is a problem. Smoking is cool. Vegans have an eating disorder. Phallic symbols are everywhere because long pointy shit is a pretty unavoidable design. Come up with another way to get something high in the air without taking up a lot of real estate.

She’s strangling me because I deserve it. I deserve it because I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe because I can’t get my tongue out of her mouth long enough to remember what she smelled like when she didn’t taste like Colgate. How can my life be all fucked up if there’s no one to blame? They were like republicans; raised differently but still undeniably wrong.