UNFUCK THE FUCKNESS

“a bucket of honesty in oceans of meaningless clicks”

• "listen while you read"

Rock isn’t dead. Not really.
But the version we knew? That’s gone.
The one with stadium lights and guitars screaming so loud your ribs shook. That wasn’t the real thing anyway.
That was the ripple, the echo, the aftershock.
The real rock lived in the minds of the players—mid-solo, eyes closed, bodies gone, letting raw sound pour out like blood. I don’t feel lost. I’m not wandering in some existential fog.
I’m just… bored.
The kind of boredom that settles in your bones when you’ve tasted enough of the world to know what’s real—and see how little of it’s left.I think about that sometimes when I pass the village idiot.
He’s not an idiot, of course. That’s just what people call him.
He walks up and down the same stretch of road every day, muttering to himself, smiling at no one.
Half the time I drive past him, I think, “Maybe he’s the happiest man I’ve ever seen.” I lived in Boston once. Back in my mid-twenties.
Even then I noticed the echoes—the thinness of connection dressed up as intimacy.It was easy enough to get a blowjob.
But finding a woman who didn’t have trouble reaching orgasm? That was rare.I always imagined these clean-cut American guys staring down at their girlfriends after she’d swallowed and asking, dead serious, “How was I?”The image made me laugh and ache at the same time.My European background gave me a different way of moving in the world, I guess. I wasn’t there to collect notches on a bedpost. I was curious. I wanted to know these women—their stories, their uncles, their childhood dreams.
And somehow, that made me dangerous.They weren’t used to being seen like that.