Apocalypse Party

I wanted to get cornered at Friday night's party so I sidled up to the girl in the hat who said she was an "oversharer." I said "Tell me all your problems, spare me no details." Delineate the intricacies of your OK Cupid profile. I would have loved to listen to that kid explicate the plot of Red Dawn all night, in real time, give me a grueling play by play. I just felt desperate not to indulge myself in interiority.

There were still solo minutes spent staring at a blackened hog's head. I touched its eyelid. It was rock hard and crispy. Punks in pelts and fur hats with markered knuckles farting around a tiny fire, pumping the keg in the garage. Hesher guys with doofus glasses crouching around the coffee table. Staring at the wet black floor, at the couple making out against the wall, in the kitchen a guy slurping a long loose noodle of meat. "Dude, let's Lady-and-the-Tramp that!" Earlier the boy I was kissing with rolled off the floor mattress to go to Food Not Bombs so I was already feeling awkward.

What did that hatted girl mean? "Oversharing's" the only thing that's interesting, the only thing worth doing, making misery malleable, transforming Abjection into content, turning anger inside out. It's all adding up: Glob as an unfixed, messy mass, abjection as radical subject matter, writing the body. Everything I've read lately has discussed and/or colluded with this point: Kate Zambreno's "Heroines," Megan Milks' essay in Mildred Pierce #4 on Dodie Bellamy, Barf Manifesto, and the Bulimic text, Lies journal, "Zippermouth," "Domain Errors: Cyberfeminist Practices."

I wrote my outline for my Glob talk ("Fake Danger") last night and it looks totally insane.

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