Finders-Keepers Fear the Reapers.

prologue:

Old Business: What did her pussy ever do to you?

New Business: What didn't her pussy do to you?

Q: When does it end?

(dramatic pause, mild inertia)

A: Sometimes it never ends.

Autobiographical for once.

In a day spent mostly trying to download the Kim Kardashian sex tape, a thing of beauty emerges but a few hours after sundown.

*Expose The Nose*

I sit atop my dais, shivering in solitude, leafing through the "Harvester of Sorrow" issue of Vice Magazine (procured from the Williamsburg American Apparel store during a cracked out excursion with TimeMachine; very cute footsoldiers working there, ps).

Though the cover and pages are unreasonably weathered (stained with the joys, sorrows and general heroics of all that have passed through Shooting Gallery Studios in the past three or four weeks), this is the first time I've made an effort to actually read the thing. Flagged long before this little reenactment of the that now infamous Seinfeldian vignette. Natch.

I arrive at the Guitar Center advert/"Vice Guide to Bands" bit, taking the time to read the bit on Chromeo's gear tips, internally decrying the ubiquity of the Vice/American Apparel hipster-industrial complex, when what should I see but a bit of terror. The beautiful blonde mistake, straight from the belly of the beast, in the home my mother raised me in.

A first. Honest.

There it is, a twenty-bag of Devil's Dandruff, lying dead before me, completely empty, at once a disaster and a blessing. What would possess me to tuck away a decidedly empty bag of flash deep within a magazine? The world may never know. All that matters is that we're here now, so there's no point in leaving just yet, yeah?

Sit your ass down and have a drink. We've got a lot to catch up on, yeah? The Killer in me likes the frosted side, but the Automaton in me likes the Killer in me. Go figure.