I was waiting in the Post Office the other day to pay some bills and get a parcel. It was the one with the Vargo art book. (Nipples harden and breath catches; goths will be goths...) In my backpack was Poison Elves #6, and from time to time I'd glimpse inside and smile knowingly. My coherent thinking consisted of the fact I was too grumpy and sleepy (I hate waking early in the morning) and that as soon as I was back home I would roll my body all over the pages of the art book. The only other trail of thought I could follow with some success consisted of a string of swearwords related to me working endless hours daily, and something immensely insulting concerning capitalism, money, responsibilities and adults. They feed people with success stories which mostly consist of somebody being able to buy whatever one wants. But what does one really need? Substitutes of happiness in the form of things amassed around one? A new mobile every three months? A happy family with two kids and a dog? (Personally, I would swap this anytime for a little talk with Mr Marilyn Manson; I have spotted a few surviving brain cells which I want to eradicate from existence. Meh.) Empty promises of fame with one's naked body as a passport? Where does this stop?
Capitalism, success stories and priorities my arse. Which is neither big nor hairy, but adequate for the needed statement.