fully realize that I present a number of identities
in the course of producing this epic chronicle of
early 21st century American life. There's the gaudy
misanthrope, parading his depth of humiliation in
front of you like a baboon's magenta asshole. There's
the aspiring cartoonist, vainly trotting out his tired
old jokes and chicken-scratching. There's the lazy,
fat corporate sell-out, nursing at the milky teat
of UGO until six every night. There's the happy, contented
faker, going home to his beautiful girlfriend as you
scrape at the fake walls of his misery. There's the
collector and logger of ephemera, with file cabinets
full of the insane rantings of street people and Pac-Man
bubble gum cards. I have so many names, so many different
faces leering at you, mocking you as you vainly attempt
to know me. Which one is true? Which one is real?
The real K. Thor Jensen is the fifth abortion my mother
could not afford. The real K. Thor Jensen is a clot
of tissue washing slowly down a drain. The real K.
Thor Jensen was dead a long time ago.