| This website is sponsored by you. That's right: you. For
all the times your life has been invaded by commercially-motivated
"communication" as you drive by on the highway or hear a
snippet from someone's radio as you walk past or vegetate in front of
your television, blandly receiving every message coming over the
cable, taking it all in. As you read the newspaper, articles, ads,
all flash by, all the same, some ads forced (by the law made by the
government which Loves You) to emblazon "ADVERTISEMENT"
because chumps like you are too dazed to distinguish when someone is
being paid to lie from those other times when they're being paid to
This website is sponsored by the human inside your punished skull, knowing that it wants to wake up, to be alive and pay attention, but which is beat down every second by buy this, read this, eat this--we know what's good for you coming in through its ears and in through its eyes and in through its nose and which you fuck and suck like it was a teenage whore you had just kidnapped and whom you couldn't release and couldn't let anyone else know you had because then you would be punished, and punished hard, so you hope all the drugs you're giving her to keep her quiet and docile don't run out before you have to move her to another motel because you're skipping out on the bill at the old one and the manager is getting nosy, and she's getting into the groove and doesn't try to bite your cock anymore when you shove it into her lax jaw, she kind of digs the brainless stupor you keep her in with the thorazine your cousin gave you from his job as an orderly at the state hospital. But what you don't know, what you probably never will know, is that you are that drugged teenage whore and you're shoving that needle into your arm and pushing that plunger down every time you buy another Product, Product, Product, but you can't stop because That's All There Is.
This website is sponsored by that part of you which wants to burn that billboard, stone that TV weatherman, the ineluctable desire which makes you want to turn off the road and crash into the embankment just to see what happens, to experience something real for once, an authentic emotion, pain, doubt. But what you don't know yet is that it would be exactly the same, the same as TV, the same as that commercial for pain reliever. You'd be sitting there dying, legs broken, ribs cracked, blinded in one eye by a flying piece of rebar, in the other by the blood coming down from your forehead, thinking, I didn't have to do this, I'm not here, this isn't happening. It wouldn't work. Perhaps in the very last second you would wake up and wonder: why did I have to kill myself to realize that life is real?